Have we lost all reason?

This morning I woke up to the headlines that the State of New York is now basically proclaiming the title of Infanticide Capitol of the World.

Wow, what a success to write to your grandchildren about. Er, wait, if they’re murdering innocents, you may not have any grandchildren. As a matter of fact, if you promote mass infanticide you may not have any children period.

I won’t apologize for my opinion that anyone and everyone who believes in and supports non-essential abortion on demand is a criminal; a murderer of the innocents. Those who profit from these murders are beyond redemption as humane people.

I’m not an innocent soul, I fathered a child out of wedlock when I was nineteen. That was back in the days when they only performed abortions in the very early stages of pregnancy by doing Dilation and Curettage (D&C) procedures:

D&C (Dilation and Curettage) Procedure: Surgery and Recovery

My child, a girl, was born and immediately given up for adoption by her mother; I had no say in the matter, nor was I allowed to see my biological daughter. I did learn, many years later that she was adopted by a wonderful couple who could have no children. They loved her from the first moment they met and, to the best of my knowledge, still do.

Now days, we don’t hear stories like this. What we do hear is how professional, for profit, infanticide factories murder the innocents for their body parts.

What has become of humanity in America?

What gives anyone the right to murder an innocent who may have the genetic makeup to do great things in our world? Perhaps another Einstein, Peter the Great, Michelangelo, Madame Curie, Rosa Parks or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Yes, or maybe a Hitler, Stalin, Caligula or Jack the Ripper; we don’t know, but can we take the risk?

Who will hear the cries of pain when the infant is torn from the mother’s womb? Who will hold that child close while he or she suffers the poison injected into his or her brain?

Is there a place on this earth for the discards known as “aborted fetuses?” Are they burned in crematoriums like the Jews, or thrown in pits like the Armenians? Are they thrown to the wild animals in the mountains the way Russians once did?

Who will mourn for the innocents? Who will answer their pleas of

“WHY?”

“WHAT DID I DO?”

“HELP ME MOMMY, IT HURT SO BAD!”

There are very few legitimate reasons for abortion, but thousand of reasons against it; each one, an innocent.

Have we, as humans who claim to care, lost all reason that we must punish the innocents for our failure to think, to care and to acknowledge our mistakes rather than bury them.

“Why mommy? What did I do?”

On Being Alone

I wonder how many people really know what it’s like to be utterly alone in our busy world?

I’m not talking about just having no close friends or family, I’m talking about having no one.

Imagine yourself moving to a large city where you know no one. All you have are your clothes on your back, a candy bar and a half bottle of warm water. Suddenly, everything you once knew is different; alien to what you thought. Even people you once thought friends, now seem to be strangers ignoring your silent pleas for help; some will, but most won’t help – you’ve become a leper.

You don’t know anything about where you are, nor do you know anyone to ask. You have been abruptly cast out of your home with no money, no food, very little clothing, no transportation, and the list of noes goes on until it comes to, where do I go to the bathroom? What do I use for toilet paper? How can I bathe? I have no toothpaste! Where can I lay down; be safe and out of the weather to sleep? Rather than looking through the store windows as you walk, you look down; searching for lost change, dropped jewelry, anything of value to buy you a hot meal, or even a hot cup of coffee.

Now repeat that feeling every day for the remainder of your life because this is the life of a homeless person who moves from one city block to another.

That’s the life of a homeless person; an experience I led for a while.

I find it tragic that when I hear someone say, “That woman is begging to can get money for dope!”

How do you know that; maybe it’s the sallow looking kid holding her hand that gave you a clue?

The flip side of the coin is the clean, groomed younger person standing by the freeway ramp with a sign that says; “Homeless, need help for food.”

 Is he lying? One might think so, but then perhaps he knows a gas station that has a bathroom where he can clean up before panhandling? We don’t know.

Whatever the case, being entirely alone with no one to turn to is the most horrifying experience we can experience. There is no age restriction for the homeless; you’re accepted whether you’re 105 or a newborn, but I feel those who suffer the worst may be the elderly who have no one to turn to for a hug, a chat and perhaps an I love you Grandma. The emptiness is unlike any feeling I’ve ever had, and I don’t know how to explain it. I pray no one else ever has to feel it.

Being alone is painful enough, but being homeless and lonely is life destroying.

Alone again.

As a child, I spend a lot of my time alone, isolated from the rest of my family by the strict rules of my mother who believed in encapsulating in certain areas of her life. It was tough for me, especially when I started elementary school because I couldn’t bring any friends home which would have been great if someone had taught me how to make a friend. I did, in time, make one friend; his name was Henry, and he was my buddy.

In retrospect, I think Henry found me and took the effort to become my friends because he saw the loneliness. Today, thinking back on our friendship, I honestly think Henry was the first person I loved; not love in the physical sense, but the love of having someone care and caring in return. We met in the second grade, and during those years, we walked to school together, talked and collected glass containers for their deposit, but he never came to my house; he couldn’t because he was black and I was a strawberry-blonde white boy with freckles. But we were real friends. I lost track of him the summer of my fourth grade when my family moved from our apartment over our store on Franklin Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota to a house in Bloomington, Minnesota where I had to walk to school alone; alone, scared and lonely.

            It wasn’t too long after we moved that Henry and his family also moved. I don’t know where they relocated to, nor could I find out; I had lost Henry. Several years later, when I was working as an Emergency Room Orderly (we weren’t called ER techs back then) at Minneapolis General Hospital, a white lady came in with someone who was ill. She looked very familiar to me, but I couldn’t place where I knew her from. After her friend was taken into an exam room, she came over to me and said, “are you my honey boy?” There was only one person who ever called me “Honey Boy” and that was Henry’s mom because she said my hair looked like golden honey in the summer sun. I melted! I literally lost it. I put my arms around her and broke down, crying like a baby right in front of everyone. My charge nurse, Olive Lindbergh, took us into a private room and told me to take a break.

            The first thing Henry’s mom said to me before I could even ask, was “He’s gone, baby. Henry is with God now.” I almost fainted. (I’m not ashamed to say, that as I write this now, I am crying.) When I calmed down, she told me told me that Henry had tried to contact me by leaving notes at our store, but I never got any of them. He had wanted me to know where they were moving to and how to get in touch, but I never got them. Then, the summer of his eighteenth birthday, while sitting on the front stoop of their house, Henry died peacefully. His heart, the biggest heart I’ve ever known in my life, gave out. Henry had been born with a heart defect, but he never told me because he didn’t want me to pity him, he wanted me to be his friend.

            I stayed in touch with Henry’s mom and dad until they too left me to join Henry. That was when I really started to feel alone. I had no family support, nor good friends in my life. I had only me and a need to be with people. I went on in my life searching for a connection, a person who would be like Henry; kind, smart and always there for me; needless to say, I made a lot of tragic mistakes along the way. Now, I’m seventy-five years old and alone again, only this time it’s worse than ever before because I’m losing some of my survival abilities to cope with life in this day and age.

            I am alone again, and this time it’s different. (continued in “Loneliness”)

Thank you for your gift.

Just before Christmas, you left. You finished packing, took the couch and wide screen TV I bought you, and you left. Am I supposed to mourn?

After you were gone, your friend, the one you claim was going to commit suicide if you left, sent me a rather immature, nasty note filled with half-truths and outright lies about why you left. I laughed when I read the part about how you stopped this person from acting against me, because you left! Should I cry and wail because you left?

No, there are no tears to cry, nor recriminations to feel because you left me long ago.

You left me when you decided our home was your hotel room with the full maid service.

You left me when lied to me about going to college while I was working an extra job so you could.

You left me when you started drinking heavily and finding excuses for the damage and lack of maintenance for the three used cars I bought you so you could get to school.

You left me when you cheated and ended up with genital herpes.

You left me when the hundreds of dollars I spent to get you periodontal care so you wouldn’t lose you teeth, was wasted because you were too lazy to follow the dentist’s directions.

You left me when you decided you didn’t have to repay money I loaned you, even after you proclaimed on numerous occasions that you always pay your debts.

You left me when you decided your only responsibilities in our home was to sleep, shower, watch anime and other childish TV shows while making a mess in the kitchen which, of course, I always had to clean up.

You left me when you started coming home drunk, smelling of cigarettes and cheap cigars and, on occasion, your own puke, and wanting someone to cuddle you.

Worst of all, you left me when you refused to communicate without telling me lies.

There is more but it’s no longer of use to talk about them because you will probably never read this; you will simply say, “It was all his fault.”

So I say this, to you, and those like you, thank you for your gift of leaving. It means more and more to me every day to know I tried, and you failed.

I AM ME, IT’S ALL I CAN BE.

IN WANT I DID DISCOVER,

FIXED TRUTH HAD COME TO ME.

MY SEARCH SUSTAINED BY PAIN,

DEAR LABOR MEANT TO BE.

SEEKING TRUTH, I OFTEN FLOUNDERED,

INNER VISION BLIND TO FATE.

SELF-LOATHING’S HEAVY BURDEN,

BORN DOWN BY PRIMAL HATE.

ONCE THOUGHTS OF SELF DESTRUCTION,

BROUGHT ME TO LIFE’S DOOR.

THERE FACED BY SELF-WORTH CHOICE,

MY LIFE JOURNEY IN LAST SEASON.

PASSION TO EXPLOIT SORROW,

DID YIELD TO TIME OF REASON.

NOW I STAND BEFORE YOU,

A MAN TRIED IN FIRES OF TIME,

NEITHER PERFECT NOR SPECIAL AM I.

AWAITING DEATH’S TOLL TO CHIME.

LET ALL WHO ASK REMEMBER,

TO CHALLENGE THOUGHTS OF FEAR,

FOR EACH MUST LEARN AS I DID,

TO ALWAYS KEEP MIND CLEAR.

FOR I AM WHO I AM,

IMPERFECT AS I MAY BE.

I AM WHO I AM,

PERHAPS YOU ARE LIKE ME.

What have we become?

Requirements to become a Senator in the United States Senate.*

The Constitution sets three qualifications for service in the U..S. Senate:

  1. Age (Minimum of thirty years old)

2. U.S. Citizenship (At least nine years)

3. Residency in the state a senator represents at the time of the election.

The details of these qualifications were hammered out by the Constitution’s framers during the Constitutional Convention in 1787. https://www.senate.gov/senators/qualifications_termsofservice.htm

Frankly, I think the framers should have done a lot more hammering on this. For instances, there is no requirement for the ability to read, write or even speak American English. Nothing said about having any form of criminal background or foreign allegiances which are in conflict with the American agenda(s). How about drug tests, tax records or traffic tickets for that matter.

There are no requirements other than the three mentioned, to become a powerful person in our government. No skills, knowledge, experience or other useful training or abilities needed I guess.

Terms or service:

Article I, section 3 of the Constitution requires the Senate to be divided into three classes for purposes of elections. Senators are elected to six-year terms, and every two years the members of one class–approximately one-third of the senators–face election or reelection.

Oath of Office:

The Constitution does not provide an oath of office for members of Congress, but specifies only that they “shall be bound by Oath of Affirmation to support this constitution.” The Oath of Affirmation that one-third of the Senate recites every two years is a product of the 1860s, drafted by Civil War-era members intent on ensnaring traitors. The oath-taking, however, dates back to the First Congress in 1789. The first oath served the Senate for nearly three-quarters of a century. The current oath, in use since 1884, is a milder version of the oath adopted in 1862.
https://www.senate.gov/senators/qualifications_termsofservice.htm


Note: “Inspired by British precedents, delegates to the 1787 Constitutional Convention set membership requirements for both the House of Representatives and the Senate. These requirements included age, citizenship and residential qualifications. The delegates specifically left out property ownership and religious requirements. While British law of the time banned anyone born outside England, Ireland or Scotland from sitting in Parliament, the newness of the American colonies, and the fact that nearly everyone at the time came from somewhere else, necessitated the looser residential and citizenship limitations for the U.S. Congress.” https://www.reference.com/government-politics/qualifications-becoming-u-s-senator-fa906092922b7ae4

Impressive, right? Here we the criteria for someone to be in control of our country and our future! Makes me shudders, but does explain the presence of some of the current members of our Congress.

Is it any wonder, that the so many of the Democrat monarchists are attacking President Trump for his policies and decisions? My God people, his hair has more qualifications than many Senators and Representatives currently in office. He’s a poker player playing against a table of childish playground bullies, none of which offers any abilities or skills that even come even close to my Algebra skills, and I flunked it.

If we are to survive as an independent nation, we must address and amend our requirements for our potential employees in our Congress. We must outline the skills and abilities needed to bring American back into the realm of a fair and honest sovereign nation independent of foreign interference.

No personal offense to Ms. Ortiz, but the kid at the local Schnuck’s (yep, it’s a family owned market) has more knowledge, experience and savvy that

she would gain in a dozen terms in office. He has powerful tools at his disposal such as his logical thinking, honest dealings and ability to see beyond the BS factor. His H.S. GPA is 4.0 and he can recite the Constitution without making a mistake. Is he qualified to be a leader in our country? I say, more so than Ortiz, Schumer, and Pelosi combined.

We need to amend our Constitution and modernize the requirements we needed to be a member of our Congress. We need term limits, not just to bring in fresh new ideas and leadership, but to increase the level of logic and intellect in our employees aka Senators and Representatives.

We must also define and enact strict rules against fraud committed by potential and actual members of our Congress. Here I speak to those candidates who run for office with one party then switch allegiance to another after being elected. That is fraud, plain and simple.

All candidates must have a working knowledge of our Constitution, Bill of Rights and how our government and be most transparent and productive.

Last, but definitely not the least, is the need for improved paths to the removal of our Congressional employees if needed. There must be established and enforced rules of conduct that, if ignored, will bring down the immediate wrath of the voters via a special committee of voters appointed to hear and judge the accused(s). We must demand an end to the practices of our Congressional employees judging and disciplining themselves; giving themselves raises and perks, and using taxpayer funds to buy themselves out of self-made problems.

We, the American voters and taxpayers must understand that those we elect are our employees, not nobility of a self-made monarchistic agenda.

*Stay tuned for my opinion on the House of Representatives.

Love is not a commodity!

Anyone who truly knows me knows that I reach out to people in need of help and friendship. I know, it’s a selfish and narcissistic way of gaining pride in myself, but I’m cool with it. The important part is that I mean no harm.

A little over ten years ago someone reached out to me for help, and I gave it. At first it was a mutual loneliness and need that brought us together in a romantic way but that ended pretty rapidly, but I refused to give up on the person who, I thought was worth fighting for.

When I was growing up, there were three words I never recall my parents or brothers ever saying. Those words became, at least for me, alien and undefinable. I never learned what saying “I Love You” meant.

I must admit here that there were other issues of my childhood that caused psychological trauma, which I acted out later in life, but never did I intentionally hurt anyone but myself.

In time, as I grew older, I learned how to say “I Love You” but I was never sure if I felt it because I honestly didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. When someone said “I Love You” to me, I felt like an empty shell, not knowing what to say.

Now that I’m in my mid-seventies and perking along like an old freight train, I realize that throughout my life. I was actually showing people that I love them by caring for and about them. Which brings me back to my little friend.

Did I love this person? In my own way of caring, sharing and being there when someone was needed. I housed, fed, clothed and even tried to get this person started on an education at a two community college, but nothing worked to motivated. Shopping, for clothes at least worked, as did travel but education, nope, went to school everyday spending each one either in the cafeteria, library or off campus somewhere. Hell, I even bought a car just for this purpose, it got ruined. I learned that there’s nothing wrong with the oil in the car if there is no oil in the car, but of course it was checked regularly.

It was about this time that my parental instincts kicked in; I didn’t want this person to have the poor life I had, so I decided not to say good-by; my mistake, but an honest one.

Now, ten years later, after thousands of dollars, three cars, a wasted two years of education, numerous jobs, doctor bills, dentist bills, clothing, dealing with an alcohol and drug problem (neither of which are mine), treatment for an incurable STD, and other medical issues, (also not mine), I get dumped because I’m not affectionate, and don’t say I love you.

There is much more to this story I won’t go into but I will say that I have had my faults to, none of which compare, but faults none-the-less.

The problem being, I began to think that love, like the material things, was becoming a commodity. I want you to do this for me because you won’t say you love me. If you loved me, truly loved me, you’d hold me whenever I want and in whatever way I want. I’ll be nice and friendly if we can go eat at this expensive place tonight.

Although not all comments were so explicit, most did present themselves as terms of a negotiation rather than mere requests.

Now, I’m alone, my Christmas gift was the closing of the door. No thank you for everything; no sorry things didn’t work out and no Happy New Year and no goodbye, just the closing of the door. However, in retrospect, that was my Christmas gift but not from who one might imagine. The gift was from myself to myself; a gift of knowledge that love, true love is not a commodity.