Other Senses, Other Places

I’ve often poked at my obsession, passion for music, and stated that my tolerance for listening to a piece of music – whether it be a song or an opera, Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach – frequently clashes with those who are around me.

Even though they make like the same piece, their saturation level is breached far earlier than mine, and leads them into madness, momentarily, where they beg me to stop playing the music, which of course, I find amusing and ignore – but not out of deliberate malice. I simply need the music to thoroughly drench, not only my Soul, but reach into the nucleus of every cell in my body.

Why? Why must it travel that far and so deeply?

Not sure.

But here are a couple of guesses and recent revelations …

There definitely is some sort of connection between here and there

Maybe there’s lots of work to do down there? Repairs, etc.

I have often thought of the Universe in terms of Music and Mathematics, keys and strokes, equations precisely put and held together, yet also lucid, malleable and infinitely variable. The ultimate Time and Space connection – where it seldom matters what time it is here (cause we’re lousy timekeepers) but there. 
That’s my theory.
Back to Earth …

While I still don’t know why it must travel that far inside of me, I recently realized, that when it gets there, it stays there, permanently.

Not only that –

But from there, it comes back to surface and manages to fill everything around me – it lives in the walls, both literally, and metaphorically. I can hear it. And that, luckily for me, means that I can listen to it until the very end, that I never have to play it again. It is the shield that protects me. Always.

No doubt, this may be hard for some to swallow.

But lots of things – far more sinister than this – are hard to swallow.

 

For example …

Notable exceptions … Such as …

WordPress, The Master Of Chaos, where everything crumbles instantaneously, just as it did when I tried to publish this piece.

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Health Care in America, Job Skills of a Muse, Politics, Newspapers – All Under One Umbrella!

Now that I’ve had the opportunity to recover somewhat from my chaotic year in Baltimore, which was punctuated with much more drama than ever interested me, I can reflect without swimming through the waters of hysteria and panic.

And, as frequently happens, I often begin a post after I have already written it, frequently expressed it to my muse first.

(Yes, I do have one.)

And even though we often think of a muse as some sort of Divine connection or Feminine energy, mine happens to be an ordinary male.
It was accidental.

What can I say?

We don’t choose these things. Rather, they choose us. And, the irony, here, of course? It is his ordinariness that highly appeals to my creativity.

I don’t feel I am ever talking down to him in any way – rather it’s where my ideas often flow more readily and without the intrusion of any psychic storms – even though I may be experiencing one during the time of composition.

With my muse, it’s more like bobbing on the Aegean – instead of struggling in the murky waters of the Atlantic, and trying to keep from getting swept under those waves.

That’s scary.

A muse should never frighten you.

So what are the essential job skills of a muse? Brevity, for one. But even more important than that is this:

 A muse is someone who simply listens but never judges.

So how can you go wrong with that? You can’t!

Of course, I don’t simply replicate the initial piece – instead, when I get over here, I tweak and edit it.
However, the muse covers several areas simultaneously and sometimes I start somewhere else, then come here, then end up there. There is this cyclical rhythm (any musician would understand it) where everything is connected – in one way or another.

So now, after this lengthy digression and discussion of the job skills of a muse, it’s time to cut and paste, what I had written earlier, in the comments section on The Guardian – that’s where I hang out.)


THE GUARDIAN

HEALTH CARE Costs, Services, Politics and Money. What’s wrong with this picture?

(Comment  of “heliosmou” in response to “Vladimir S” comment)

I had no problem whatsoever getting excellent and comprehensive emergency medical care when I was in Athens in 2010. I had to wait, of course. But it was worth it. And this, in a country that has been struggling to sustain an economy for some time now. 

Whereas, here, a visit to Johns Hopkins Emergency Center, earlier this summer during a massive heat wave that hit Baltimore – so intense that calls to 911 could not be handled, and you were greeted with a recording, citing the volume of calls, and to stay on the line, and someone would help you – yes, Johns Hopkins Emergency Center, apart from the main hospital, and bigger and better equipped than most “regular” hospitals, resulted in me being escorted by security to the exit. 
Why?

Because they couldn’t provide a diagnosis for what had happened to me. I had collapsed because of heat exhaustion and a migraine. Paramedics had to pull me from my car. Took 3 people to lift me from the gurney – ever hear of the phrase “dead weight?” – and they plopped me in chair. They checked my vitals, which were good, and then waited for me to revive from being in an air conditioned environment (approximately 3 hours) then told me I was ready to go!

I asked the physician what happened to me … Medically? The physician could not specify anything in particular. So how do you know I am fit to leave, if you have no idea what happened to me? She skirted the question. You are not in any danger, she said. Well, how do you know I am not in any danger, since you have no idea what happened to me? –

At this point the physician and the nurse standing by her side, communicated with each, which I overheard. It was time to call Security, they said. But what if I get sick as soon as I leave the premises? Well, then you come back. Then what? Go through the same routine, where you cannot determine the cause of what happened, but plop me in a chair again, and release me with the same diagnosis of “Housing Problems?” (Never knew, by the way, that a “Housing Problem” was a medical diagnosis.) They said, all I had to do was step outside the Emergency Center – just one step was sufficient – and then step back in again, and I would be treated again. A merry-go-round? You want me to get on a merry-go-round?


The Johns Hopkins Emergency Center in Baltimore was built with money donated by some Sheik. It’s a state-of-the-art facility, but aside from that, a pretty lousy place to go for medical care.


Ironically, the other patients in the ER rooted for me. A Vietnam vet called me, “The Sargeant,” which is really funny, since I am adamantly opposed to war.


Incidentally, I weigh 105 lbs.


So is this the kind of medical care we are talking about here? If so, I am NOT impressed.


After that and a few other zingers in Baltimore, I promised myself, that IFI EVER need emergency care again, I would demand to be flown to CHICAGO, where I’m from, and where doctors actually take their profession seriously – not like the clowns at Hopkins.

Health Care in America, Job Skills of a Muse, Politics, Newspapers – All Under One Umbrella! (DRAFT)

(THIS IS EARLIER POST WHICH I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED … but hadn’t put up the title. Just another WordPress Quirk. You edit. It updates, but it ignores your title. Just love it!)

Now that I’ve had the opportunity to recover somewhat from my chaotic year in Baltimore, which was punctuated with much more drama than ever interested me, I can reflect without swimming through the waters of hysteria and panic.

And, as frequently happens, I often begin a post after I have already written it, frequently expressed it to my muse first.

(Yes, I do have one.)

And even though we often think of a muse as some sort of Divine connection or Feminine energy, mine happens to be an ordinary male.
It was accidental.

What can I say?

We don’t choose these things. Rather, they choose us. And, the irony, here, of course?  It is his ordinariness that highly appeals to my creativity.

I don’t feel I am ever talking down to him in any way – rather it’s where my ideas often flow more readily and without the intrusion of any psychic storms – even though I may be experiencing one during the time  of composition.

With my muse, it’s more like bobbing on the Aegean – instead of struggling in the murky waters of the Atlantic and trying to keep from getting swept under those waves.

That’s scary.

A muse should never frighten you.

So what are the essential skills of a muse?  Brevity, for one. But even more important than that is this:

 A muse is someone who simply listens but never judges.

So how can you go wrong with that? You can’t!

Of course, I don’t simply replicate the initial piece – instead, when I get over here, I tweak and edit it.

However, the muse covers several areas simultaneously and sometimes I start somewhere else, then come here, then end up there. There is this cyclical rhythm (any musician would understand it) where everything is connected – in one way or another.

So now, after this lengthy digression and discussion of the job skills of a muse, it’s time to cut and paste, what I had written earlier, in the comments section on The Guardian – that’s where I hang out.)

THE GUARDIAN

HEALTH CARE Costs, Services, Politics and Money. What’s wrong with this picture?

(Response of “heliosmou” to “Vladimir S” in the comments section in The Guardian. September 22, 2015)

I had no problem whatsoever getting excellent and comprehensive emergency medical care when I was in Athens in 2010. I had to wait, of course. But it was worth it. And this, in a country that has been struggling to sustain an economy for some time now. 

Whereas, here, a visit to Johns Hopkins Emergency Center, earlier this summer during a massive heat wave that hit Baltimore – so intense that calls to 911 could not be handled, and you were greeted with a recording, citing the volume of calls, and to stay on the line, and someone would help you – yes, Johns Hopkins Emergency Center, apart from the main hospital, and bigger and better equipped than most “regular” hospitals, resulted in me being escorted by security to the exit. 

Why?

Because they couldn’t provide a diagnosis for what had happened to me. I had collapsed because of heat exhaustion and a migraine. Paramedics had to pull me from my car. Took 3 people to lift me from the gurney – ever hear of the phrase “dead weight?” – and they plopped me in chair. They checked my vitals, which were good, and then waited for me to revive from being in an air conditioned environment (approximately 3 hours) then told me I was ready to go!

I asked the physician what happened to me … Medically? The physician could not specify anything in particular. So how do you know I am fit to leave, if you have no idea what happened to me? She skirted the question. You are not in any danger, she said. Well, how do you know I am not in any danger, since you have no idea what happened to me? –

At this point the physician and the nurse standing by her side, communicated with each, which I overheard. It was time to call Security, they said. But what if I get sick as soon as I leave the premises?  Well, then you come back. Then what? Go through the same routine, where you cannot determine the cause of what happened, but plop me in a chair again, and release me with the same diagnosis of “Housing Problems?” (Never knew, by the way, that a “Housing Problem” was a medical diagnosis.) They said, all I had to do was step outside the Emergency Center – just one step was sufficient – and then step back in again, and I would be treated again. A merry-go-round? You want me to get on a merry-go-round?

The Johns Hopkins Emergency Center in Baltimore was built with money donated by some Sheik. It’s a state-of-the-art facility, but aside from that, a pretty lousy place to go for medical care.

Ironically, the other patients in the ER rooted for me.  A Vietnam vet called me, “The Sargeant,” which is really funny, since I am adamantly opposed to war.

Incidentally, I weigh 105 lbs.

So is this the kind of medical care we are talking about here? If so, I am NOT impressed.

After that and a few other zingers in Baltimore, I promised myself, that IFI EVER need emergency care again, I would demand to be flown to CHICAGO, where I’m from, and where doctors actually take their profession seriously – not like the clowns at Hopkins.

Images of Language and Incongruity Floating In My Head While Moaning and Groaning About WordPress

This is gonna be short. 

  • And that’s because – Fucking WordPress!!!  What is wrong with you guys. New version is just dandy when it grants you a visit otherwise you’re back doing the old shit again, typing each tag without spellcheck – OMG!  What a chore…

And now you’ve fucked up the most important page!  The super duper versions paper, which we compose on, and you’ve totally destroyed the basic formatting, where you have no idea how many times you have to hit return before you get that extra space you want in there, between paragraphs!
So, as demonstrated above, I can easily use bullet formatting or numeric, but I am no longer able to slide into paragraphs, and it is so fucking annoying!

What kind of Brains are developing these, these – I don’t even know what to call them!
(Personally I think they’re all missing a few screws.)

All very nice, of course, affable, but totally daffy when it comes to basic organizational thinking and, and what? Visualization system is inoperable?

URGENT:  

The Eyes of an Aesthete Wanted

On the other hand, if this is an example of how someone who may have Schizophrenia, for example, works, well, that’s another subject altogether. 

But why do we still need two versions of the Statistics?  Neither is much improved. So make a decision

Throw one in the trash, already!
Seeing the actual word italicized, however, is a whole lot better than than seeing words buried under HTML script. 

So that is an improvement. 
Congratulations, WordPress!

Bravo.
(Sorry. 

That just wouldn’t stay in any longer.)

Ever since I did the update, I’ve been wanting to put this down on paper, but something else always managed to shove it below the pile, where it finally said …
No more of this!
I will no longer be a wallflower!

                     THE END

Bunny Rabbits And The Church Across The Street From Me

It’s Easter on a busy street.

Cars come and go, blaring music, or not.
But one would ever know there is a church across the street from me.

Attached to the other buildings on the block, it’s radically different architecture, blends in with its neighbors.

The Artist and his dog live next to the church in a building just like it (except for colors, shape and height.)

It’s a busy spot on the street.

The lights go on at night
When gatherings occur
And feelings of love and God are shared.
A warm spot for the soul.

But today!
Today is Easter.

The industrial strength restaurant diner door lists hours of service and other stuff.
The door is swung open.
People, coming and going.
Matriarchs and angelic children
Pure of heart and soul – appear.

But they are slow.
And late.
They are always late.
Never on time.

The building could be a bloc from Mondrian …

But anyway.

The only reason I know today is Easter is because a sales person from Nordstrom’s accidentally mentioned it.

“Good thing you came today” she said. We’re closed tomorrow.”

“You are?
Why?”

“It’s Easter.”

“Oh.
Bunny rabbits.
Stuff like that.
Okay.
Thanks, again!”

The Abysmal Truth About Rockville

You can get from here to Rockville in 45 minutes. Straight down I-95 South. In other words … Not far.

So do you ever hear of Dylan making a run to Rockville when he’s playing Baltimore?

Or anyone else for that matter?

“Intentionally Offending Someone” (What does that mean?)

I often come across titles whose subject matter often remains a mystery to me.

That happened with “Married To The Mob”
That title drove me crazy.

What the fuck was I thinking about!

So here we are again.
With one of those gems –
For an endless source of amusement.

INTENTIONALLY OFFENDING SOMEONE

How do you intentionally offend someone?

Are you civilized about it?

Um.
Pardon?
You have a snot hanging from your nose. (Just wanted to let you know.)

What do you do?

You tell me the truth.