FEATURED POST: MAKE AMERICA GREAT
Biology Class with Kurt Soldier
High school sophomore Kurt Soldier leads his biology classmates into a discussion about the paper he's written entitled, A Treatise on the Nature of Life.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Moms chose and gave us our names. Thinking ahead alphabetically-retardedly, she'll consider them repetitive invocations to God whenever our names are spoken, I presume.
Hair -ick was what Moms thought of holding the newborn in her arms. Eric has a penis, and Moms wants a daughter. Later I will have a notion Mom and Dad had a bet of some kind going, whether the first born would be a boy or a girl. Just a notion that never went anywhere, till now.
Grrr… egg hurry! was what Roman Catholic reared Moms thought of after her second child. I'm sure Mom and Dad would've quit with Gregory had he been a gurl (sic).
Kh– hurt!! is what Moms thought of after birthing her third male, and realizing a fourth will be necessary to bring her the daughter she wants. The anguish … .
Woe is me! is the sense within Moms when she brings a fourth male into the world. Ch–wrist-offer herp-all is really a mouthful, and I can only imagine something to do with her sister, one of my aunts having somehow lost one of her two hands. I'm in my late twenties and driving a taxi in New York, wondering what causes all this graffiti I see sprinkled on buildings and what not, and the first time I will spell and sound it out in my mind, K you are T, …, and now I know.
What a bunch of nonsense to be thinking about and including within the moments of the sixteen hours of your waking life, I thunk. But there are millions who thunk like this I realize.
Five, six years of age and Moms is still using rectal thermometers with me. It hurts. Really uncomfortable, so much so one day I just have to know what she's doing down there. I'll play War with the next door neighbors. I devise the notion that when you're dead you have to pull down your pants and stick your butt in the air. One of the boys I'm with has been shot, is now play-dead, and I pull down his pants like the rules say, and now I can see "it" on someone else – and I see what Moms is doing down there with me, and with my curiosity satisfied, that's it.
Decades later I'm to realize this day of War play in the woods must've not gone unnoticed, and like my sister with Down's syndrome, from this time forward to any and all who I will ever have the pleasure of their presence, family will make sure this person and everyone will know Kurt is a faggot who doesn't know he's a faggot, yet. I'm a congenital faggot, there'll be no escaping it if family is pressed to explain further this description of me.
Fourteen, fifteen years old and one Sunday morning my second oldest brother wants me to practice wrestling moves in the living room. Next thing I know he's sitting on top of me slapping his penis in my face. After a minute of this I free myself and first thing I do is kick him in the balls, hard. He goes limping off into the kitchen and I hear him talking with Dad for a moment. Moments later I listen as Dad says, raising his voice, "Oh, come on. It couldn't've hurt that much." Then waiting I am for Dad to come into the living room and ask why I kicked my brother in the balls, and after several minutes pass and no Dad, I call up the first kooky notions to mind that family is colluding to? trying to turn me into a faggot?
Weird. But no one is the worse for knowing, or not knowing. Especially I. Later probation reports to judges for pre-sentencing will undoubtedly state idiotic deviant psychology terms such as "latent repressed, regressed homosexual," congenital, schizoidal, sociopathic, schizophrenia of unknown origins. A judge did say to me I was an incorrigible drug offender, but given sixty years of academia without knowing the hallucinogenic quality of those molecules trickling into the bloodstream of everyone at puberty, what else could he say to me? Perhaps one of the many judges in County court could've called me in camera and simply told me like a man, "In case you didn't know, they're trying to turn you into a faggot, so knock it off with the criminal behavior, dude. Once they got you locked up in a clinical environment, they'll dose you with those girly chemicals every day you're in there." But a talking to like this would've only blown their cover, so it was never to happen.
Sure, I sent myself out on reconnaissance missions with my sister and during an evening while babysitting to try to make sense of what those feelings and thoughts are that are appearing out of nowhere. Each time there are no exasperation of sexual thought or feelings to augment and impel me to further what I am doing. What to do? I'll never become a practicing faggot.
With the clinical environment of home and with those hallucinogenic molecules the university crowd discovered trickling into the young females bloodstream at puberty and now being synthesized and given to me in foodstuffs at home, what was a young man to do? Succumb? Swallow my pride? Not I. Instead I'll conjure notions of putting baseball bat slaps to the heads of my brothers while they sleep, and let Moms find them dead in bed one morning.
I didn't realize in my youth as much as I know today but at fifteen, sixteen to my nineteenth year of age the notion is generated: I have to get out of the house first chance I get. At nineteen I am out, and frequent the County jails too much.
One weekend morning I go into the kitchen and grab a box of cereal. Listening to my older brothers talking to Moms as I pour the milk into the cereal bowl, I hear Moms has that voice, and she's been crying, again. Many mornings Moms is up early reading at the kitchen table or doing something and one look tells you she's been crying …, for some reason. This early morning my brothers are trying to convince her there is no God.
"Just look at the trees," Moms is saying to them. I watch her standing at the picture window looking out into the backyard. "How did they get like that?" Years later I'm to realize my father has been making her do or he's doing "nasty" things to her in the bedroom, and this just doesn't sit well with her Roman Catholicism. I would've told her to leave the house were I asked, but no one has any solution. My niece Natalie told me my martial art brother Chris started pummeling my seventy-plus year old father when he first heard about it, this like years after my mother had died. She said it took both my brothers to pull Chris off Dad. No one has a solution to the problems in our family. Hundreds of thousands, millions of psychology students being churned out of Western universities the past five decades of my life and no one yet realizes the hallucinogenic quality of those molecules trickling into the bloodstream at puberty, only decades of word-salad from pathetic professors like Dan Dennett and Patricia Churchland.
On vacation with family and we're visiting the family of my Moms youngest sister Evelyn and uncle Art in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Just arrived at their house and not more than fifteen, twenty minutes of chewing the fat with my uncle, Dad, my three cousins, my brothers all hunkering at the kitchen table after the hour drive from Kalamazoo. Suddenly I listen to Aunt Evelyn's loud voice saying, "You're disgusting," and I turn from whomever to watch my aunt stepping up right beside and then past my father, looking at him while intoning in a louder voice for all to hear, "You're disgusting!" and she quickly steps out of the room. First thing my Moms did when we arrived was to inform her sister all the nasty my father has been doing to her, and the typical Roman Catholic response from my aunt was to heap public humiliation upon my father. My aunts response of Christian love only made matters worse. No one has words of wisdom for Moms. Moms is bugging out.
I'm surprised where they assigned me to work at Clinton Correctional Facility. Three and a half hours weekday mornings and afternoons I head on over to the pharmacy with full-time pharmacist Frank, part-time pharmacist and wife of a Clinton county judge Laurie, and secretary Sofia. Weekends, evenings are free time to read and contemplate passages in the Bible. I have no discussions with other fellow inmates with my Bible studies. Pensive silence from some inmates; parroted bible verses are the responses from others. I walk alone.
I have to ignore all these constant, blatant references towards subjects of sin, punishment, justification and righteousness. Paul is neurotic and bugs out on sin as if sin is the single most important aspect of God's nature. I'll gloss over and come back to them later I suppose. Because I did nothing to God. I didn't ask to be created, and simply stating matter-of-factly that I've "sinned" against God is an incredulous statement that one is somehow presuming to know the will, intentions, demeanor and purpose of God towards us, Its human creation. Paul was what he was, and his words and life are only words in a book to me now. But people today talk of the sin of Man to God as if past presumptions based on the thoughts of men written into the words of books almost three thousand years old must be true. Wow.
Passages of sin, justification by faith, blood of Jesus, etc., I gloss over and move on after the initial reading of them. I want to familiarize myself more with the structure of the bible and especially the culture, folkways, and norms of the times of Isaiah or Moses or Jesus as I read, to stoke and fuel my imagination. To engage my imagination with the realism of the times and the passages is what I want to do initially.
I have two categories where I'm placing the more notable biblical passages: events that happened and events that did not actually occur. Genesis and the story of creation did not happen as described, but the first verse of Genesis, "In the beginning God, …" is a very good seed-thought to set the theme for everything else that follows.
Formed maybe three thousand years ago, the book of Genesis is a collection of stories that were initially memorized by sages of the Jewish tribes, and spoken around campfires for generations until these oral traditions were set more or less in written form. These stories served a purpose I'll leave to the reader to imagine, and move on.
The wedding at Cana in the book of John I place in the category of Happened. The main reason it is placed here is the following: not much difficulty for me to place Genesis in the category of Not Happened because I understand the context for how and why this book and the following ones came to be. All the books after Genesis are historical or in some way bolster the legitimacy of future social structures that developed within the Jewish community. I'm not too keen on where Jewish traditions and religious rituals were intended to lead humanity as time rolled forward. My focus and attention while reading the Bible in State's prison is to establish credence or falsehood to passages concerning the person called Jesus.
Miracles for instance. First readings of these passages where Jesus performs miracles are unbelievable. They did not happen. But the wedding at Cana is written almost as if a news reporter of their times had written it. Other passages in the New Testament are written similarly, as if they're just stating the facts, with or without fluff. And I wonder … .
I toy with the notion for why would anyone or group of people concoct what is known as the New Testament. Months pass and the best answer I could bring to myself is to usurp the Jewish religious authorities of the time. The Pharisees and Sadducees administering the Temple had deemed heretical a group of Jews and ostracized them to some caves at Qumran perhaps, and now this group of Jews have cleverly concocted all these letters and tomes … fifty, sixty perhaps ninety years after the important events in the life of Jesus have occurred? Odd. But with this reason I'll be able to tell myself why a verse or passage is too goofy to believe actually happened and to place it in the Not Happened category. If I find enough verses during my readings or if I find the one smoking gun I will eventually come away with my readings of the Bible, for as long as I live, and opine with good reason to anyone who asks that the Bible is a collection of mythological nonsense.
Why would any group of Jews consider plausible that the passages of the wedding at Cana would sway others? The intentions of these hypothetical disgruntled Jews are to delegitimize the Jewish religious authorities of the times by placing belief and faith with this other Jewish guy named Jesus …? by completely bogus thoughts and writings such as this passage where Mary said to Jesus, "They have no more wine" ? Who would seriously believe writing such a thought would be somewhat instrumental with everything else these guys are concocting to bring credence to the grand intention of wrecking the authority of Jewish religious authorities of the time? Because the passages of the wedding at Cana don't fit in the Did Not Happened category, they must've happened. Think about it: all the New Testament passages are simply a concoction, or they actually did happen. One or the other. Black and white, cut and dried; inside one category or not. No if, ands, or buts.
Those miracles of Jesus I read of so often though. I would be quite irrational to believe a guy who is said to have walked upon this earth as I myself has had the capacity to circumvent the laws of nature through his volition simply because so many people say so.
The events as described at the wedding at Cana happened? Jesus' first public miracle at thirty-plus years of age? Before I fall asleep in my prison cell, many evenings for months I want to drift off before full-tilt slumber kicks in and imagine being there with Mary and Jesus and the others at this wedding. I want to mingle around and …? whoa …! I'm a fly on the wall watching Mary and Jesus alone, sitting on the floor they are by the fire inside their clay mud structure called home. Jesus pours something into Mary's wooden cup (where is Joseph? is the fleeting, passing wonder) and Mary swallows from the cup before speaking to Jesus. I can't hear what is said between the two now …, Mary sits up and upon her haunches and placing her cup on the table, hands on her lap she faces Jesus and listens to him speaking passionately about something. Jesus stops talking and they're looking at each other for moments until Jesus smiles– it's more of a smirk, in actuality. I wish I had a mind to hook up and to understand whatever they're saying now.
So it goes.
…, to be continued.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
The Catholic Bible is a breath of fresh air from the past months of reading from the three or four Protestant Bibles I have in my cell. While I'm delving into and attempting to understand the mindset of the Protestant from the literature I'm reading, all the constant reference to sin, justification by faith, the blood of Jesus, … Mary must've had other children? … after giving this one Protestant topic some diligent time in research and thought, I am of the opinion Mary herself would not want other children. I put myself in Mary's predicament: Mary knows that this child growing in her womb was not conceived by porking, and she is humble, polite but obstinate with her responses towards Joseph during his times when sexual relief was wanting. Visions aside, Joseph does not know to fully appreciate the reality of the situation like Mary realizes the circumstances of the child she carries, and to delve into particulars of this subject further is for another time. But Mary is adamant and does not create other children to distract her attention away from Jesus. What attitudes would Mary or any woman develop over time "comparing" children spawned from a mere creation of God side by side with a child from the Creator Itself? Case closed, … to me :)
Several days after familiarizing myself with the NAB I stop referencing from Protestant Bibles, and more than less skim through any Protestant literature and articles from magazines. Protestant authors are bugging out on the same handful of concepts from the Bible and can't seem to find and then move on to other fresh topics to write about and bring to my attention. So it goes.
I'm reading the Bible most all my free time. There's alot to digest each Sunday afternoon, after returning from services from the Protestant and Catholic crowd. Magazines, pamphlets, … I'm familiarizing myself with the denominations and the dogmas of each.
The cause for any particular event in the minds of people two thousand years ago was based on a different set of criteria people employ today. The sages of past commanded the respect and the loyalty of the people for various reasons, and there are problems.
Paul, an educated rabbi one day placed a parchment sheet out in front of himself, picked up his reed instrument, dipped the reed in the ink bottle and began to place his "inspired" thoughts into words. To Titus Paul writes,
"It is imperative to silence them, as they are upsetting whole families by teaching for sordid gain what they should not. One of them, a prophet of their own, once said, “Cretans have always been liars, vicious beasts, and lazy gluttons." That testimony is true. Therefore, admonish them sharply, so that they may be sound in the faith, …" – Titus 1:12,13 NAB
The bold text is a quote from the sixth century Greek (Cretan) poet Epimenides, whom Paul has learned about. And Paul is misconstruing the logical implications of thought which Epimenides had intended to create in the minds of an audience who heard and read that sentence. Paul utilizes the Epimenides quote instead to denigrate Greeks, but Epimenides wrote that sentence intending an audience to consider the paradox of the claims in the statement. How could the statement be true or false if a Greek states all Greeks are liars? Six hundred years after Epimenides made that statement, the educated Paul knows all about why Epimenides wrote that paradoxical statement as a learning exercise for future students of rational thought. Is or was Paul literally "inspired" to twist and convolute that quote of Epimenides to then serve as the basis to denigrate the Greek community? Odd this quote from a saint they call Paul is … .
Family is seated at the dinner table. I am eight or nine years old. Moms asks and wants to know if either I or one of my two older or my one younger brothers done did do the scribbling of pen marks that disfigured the face of our Down syndrome sister's doll. After asking each of us no one admits to doing so, and so Dad "knows" that my two older brothers are old enough to know better than to do such a thing so the perpetrators were either my younger brother or I. Again when asked we both claim innocence, so my younger brother and I were lying to my father, thus we were grounded (no television) for a week, sent to our rooms after dinner, and then the both of us were summarily whipped ten, fifteen times with a belt. A couple days into our punishment of 1.) no television and 2.) to remain in our rooms after school, later at the dinner table Moms informs us Paul, a friend of ours next door had admitted to his Moms that he saw the doll in our yard, and that he had disfigured our sister's doll. Moms concludes this bit of info with the happy news that my brother and I can go out to play after dinner. Dad never says another word to any of us about the incident, and I'm too young to actually think thoughts one way or another about what happened. Years would pass before my oldest brother had me realize what I myself hadn't ever been able to put into words.
I'd just finish showering within the bathroom adjoined to my parents bedroom. Toweling myself dry, I open the sliding wooden door a few inches to let the steam out and then peek outside and listen to my oldest brother conversing with Dad directly outside from the door of the bathroom. Odd that the both of them are seated in chairs, and not more that a few feet from the door. Our Boy Scout troop is spending an approaching summer week camping out at Roger's Rock on Lake George, and Eric wants the station wagon for the entire week the troop will be up there. I'm catching the last of their talking:
"I'm not letting you have the car unless you promise you'll stop smoking," Dad is saying to my brother. My brother's response in unintelligible.
"Just give it a month. Try," my father continues. I've wrapped the towel around my waist and walk to my bedroom.
I'm sitting shotgun in the station wagon as my oldest brother drives up the driveway and stops at Val de Mar Drive. I watch him take a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and placing one in his mouth. He pushes to ignite the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
"I thought you promised Dad you weren't going to smoke?" I say with a chuckle. My brother turns the station wagon on to Carpenter Road, and when the cigarette lighter pops out he takes it out and lights up. He looks at me while placing the lighter back in the dashboard, and without a word shrugs his shoulders with a curl of lips towards me before putting his attention back on the road.
My father is deficient in the social skills department. He thinks and acts like he does know and understand people, but many times he doesn't. He should not command any sized military unit in a battle situation. I imagine him someone bullied and beaten up a lot as a kid, and now as an adult something is missing.
So it goes.
The Protestant bible literalists simply need a talking to. They have a contention with the radio-carbon dating methods of geologists and physicists, and stand on a stage in room of people claiming the Grand Canyon was scratched into the earth by the fingers of God …, one day.
"In the beginning, when God …" Very poignant very first words of the Old Testament, because it's an acknowledgment of the existence of some type of Creative Entity. To myself at this time it is the genetic code for life that is the handiwork and a fingerprint of Its existence, and that It is deliberately hiding Itself from our human presence. The question that should become forefront in the minds of the literalists of today is how did It do something, and through scientific investigation the answers.
The lineage of Mary and Joseph is traced back to Adam and Eve. I look at my naked body in the mirror and within the confines of mind I ask myself (and to whatever may also be listening now) why would God one day choose to create the perfect man Adam with non-functioning appendages of the female nipple on his chest? The Creator could have left them off, and It could have made them functional, but It chose to create Adam and all males thereafter with nipples that do not function.
Exhausting all avenues of thought to bring resolve results in a single conclusion: there was no first male and female who called themselves Adam and Eve. What worked in the past does not today.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Events in my life were crucial towards the development of the following theology. I could have read all the books in all the libraries and heard every lecture in every university and still not have gleaned the particulars necessary to understand and then discover. Couple the events of my life with twenty-plus months of focused reading while contemplating the events within particular Old and New Testaments passages and I am now able to present to myself and the reader of this tome a more than less rational perspective of the will, intentions, and demeanor of the Creator in regards to Its purpose for creating all that is within the universe as we know it. Not a small accomplishment, if I do say so myself.
I like the conjunctive word Hanscyrus. I thought of the word after watching this Ted Talk. The Hanscyrus theology concludes as such: the Creator seeks to know and understand the concept of Love, because It wants to transform Itself while in concert towards the creation of another entity equal to and similar to Itself with which It can then love and be truly loved in return. Its human creation is an important focal point where It is keen to begin to realize and thus understand the qualities within the entity or entities of Love It wants to impart to Its partner.
From kindergarten to high school no matter the subject every Western student is indoctrinated with attitudes of "why this happened is because of this," and "if I do this then that will probably happen," cause and effect relationships.
Similar to a Western astronomer who observes the events surrounding the blackhole to infer its nature and qualities, certain aspects of creation lead towards not trivial inferences of the nature of the Creator; inferences made always with a degree of probability determining the sense of certainty as to the validity of the statement. I will venture and build my thoughts within the realm of what is known by the senses, and tending to shy from introducing hypotheticals.
Since I was knee-high, to family I was the faggot who didn't know he was a faggot …, yet. This is what family members told anyone and everyone everywhere I went as I grew up. Nineteen, twenty years old and the realization is slowly dawning on me, until one day I can avoid the realization to myself no longer.
I had been given a weekend furlough from Hudson Correctional facility. I climb inside the Dodge Dart Swinger; Moms is driving.
"Mom, I think they're putting chemicals in my food," is the first thing I say while Moms navigates the car around the parking lot to the main gate. I'm pulling up my socks …? maybe? I'm doing something while expecting her to respond with a question to clarify further what I just said, such as, what are you talking about? Chemicals? and as I settle myself into the seat of the car it took about ten seconds after she answered me for the blood to drain from my body. I felt like I'd just been stabbed in the chest, and I felt like I was about to die. I'll never forget the words.
"Oh, Kurt," she says. "They would never do that. You know they could get into so much trouble they got caught doing that." The hour drive was in silence. I had thoughts of swinging my fist around once or twice to her face … while she drove … .
I thought afterwards I should've said something else, to change the subject, because Moms now and for all time forward acts more and more unfriendly, and nasty, … yeah, because she now knows I know, too. I didn't think to play dumb.
Moving farther away from home after my first bid brought no resolve. I now have thoughts to kill, and it's sad.
I'm at State prison as a parole violator; second time around. Wow. If I keep my mind occupied the time will go fast, and this time after my release I'll move farther away from my back-stabbing family. Nothing I do works.
I'll begin with an introductory question for one to ponder for a spell, why did the Creator create the dinosaurs?
…, to be continued - Sunday, April 16, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Springtime. Two months before the end of my first prison bid, I'm standing waiting for my door to open along this top-floor tier of the cellblock. Evening meal …, and with my elbows on the bars, fingers will comfortably lock my hands around my neck, and I patiently, pensively watch the rain water pour down drops of large drips from the long, tall window ten yards in front of me.
My drugstore burglary days are over. I was a short haired, clean-cut looking, scrappy, skinny kid of seventeen when I committed my first of twelve-successful, the-last-two-I-got-popped-for drugstores. And only several days after the thrill of accomplishment from the first one had settled the notion would always remain, that I cannot be doing these for the rest of my life. Someday, for some reason I have to stop before I get caught and …? upset the apple cart.
I never became psychologically or physically addicted is why I went all the way up to fourteen. I could go for six, seven weeks with the occasional cannabis buzz but then one day see another easy ds somewhere, and to realize the amount of quality euphorics to be had, and this thought was too difficult to say no to. A simple early morning act coupled with the realization of the acquisition of thousands of quality euphorics was what was addicting. I could empathize with the Ray Liotta character who thought he could remain a life-long gangster in the movie, Goodfellas, but I also knew that someday I should stop myself from these criminal acts. The more times I do one, the more chance of getting caught, I know.
The perfect crime is a crime where the victim doesn't even realize a wrong has been committed. The longer one can keep the victim from realizing, the more perfect the crime. Knowing this and I know I'm a fairly two-bit, sloppy but cool type of …? dude.
"Places to go. People to see. Things to do." I'm reminiscing about events as I watch the rainfall. Good times. Only good times. There is a reason why Federal Law prohibits dispensing without prescription, and I was careful to whom and when I did allow others on rare occasion to indulge with my euphorics. My conscience is clear, … and it's over.
I saw Janet for the first time six months ago. The prettiest "thing" this side of the Mississippi River. Nice thoughts waking up to that face. So freaking pretty, she was … .
As I stand I speak the words in silence to myself, more so to listen to myself speaking the reality of the situation, as if unbelievable the reality of what I was and was doing in the past will only be memory.
"I'm never doing another drugstore again." One could coil and snap their fingers is how fast my mind conjured the next words spoken and heard with that same voice I had just used.
"You're not leaving till you're done." Tetrahydrocannabinol is a fat-soluble molecule, and perhaps one of those molecules just got released within the bullyish, sardonic quarters of my brain and triggered another hallucinogenic thought to mind, … the thought is odd, strikes me funny.
I read the Bible occasionally; kept my mind occupied during my first prison bid. During my second bid I'll study it with my keen, 139 IQ point mind, with my very well critical mind. This day standing at the cell door the command I'll speak to myself with my own volition is flippant and jocular. The rain has picked up intensity, and the sky has darkened for a moment this spring day of May.
"Jesus, if you're for real? make the rain stop, … right now."
I know the verses chiding those two thousand years ago who were asking Jesus for a miracle, and here I am today doing the same. What's next for me? Maybe a year from now I'll spend a few months talking in tongues just to see what happens around me. Kooky religious thoughts I'm planting in my head, and I snicker to myself after closing my eyes, placing my forehead in the crook of my arm. For a few long moments I'm thinking nothing …, eventually to hear a bird chirping. I open my eyes, pick my head up. Outside the rain has stopped. Sunbeams of light reflect off open window panes of glass. Water drops falling through the air are becoming small, and less and less frequent.
'Bats in the belfry,' is the sense that comes to mind. 'Just coincidence.' It's freakin' springtime. April showers bring May flowers, 'ya know? I close my eyes and place my forehead upon my arm, again. I stay like this for (if I recollect correctly) not more than ten, fifteen; twenty seconds to hear within the darkness of my mind, the rain falling outside. I pick my head up and watch the rain falling down …? falling fairly fast and furious again. Falling down fairly well to make me think that the rain had indeed stopped, like I had asked, and only too soon to start up again.
Four months after being released I was rearrested and sent to Clinton. The rain falling episode was more a coincidence and didn't convince me, convict me of my status with the Creator until I wrote those initial literal drafts and then to realize the Cartesian graphs while I was residing in various facilities during my second bid. Nowadays, I wouldn't trade places with anyone. Dan Aykroyd and Jim Belushi were only goofing. But nothing and no one today could convince me otherwise: I'm on a mission of God.
Next blog post will venture into aspects of my heretical theology: why Jesus couldn't just stand on his head to take away "the sins of the world."