Psychic Friends Network

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychic# 

Certain generations develop a type of "groupthink" that transcends their immediate presence, to become indicative of a much deeper action taking place than that which it would openly appear to be. Because me and my classmates were forced into extraordinarily difficult life situations coupled with extreme stress, we had to communicate without exposing it to the very people supposed to protect us, our parents, who would retaliate any action they could perceive or stump as a threat while in their delusional states. I know it's as intense as it reads.

I have never (NEVER) met a GenX'er who was not physically, emotionally, mentally, and sometimes sexually, abused to the extreme. Under our parents bigger and often stronger hands, we had to make quick life-changing decisions "on the fly", though it is not something we wish to replicate in any other generation. Sanity and hindsight will do that to you. It left us to contemplate just what the fuck went wrong with the sick people around us, when we had the time and space to do so, which, for me and my friends, meant our successful escape to an away college, as a time period of such happiness and fulfillment that it ever marked in severe contrast those later times when we felt just as unfulfilled as we had during our entrapped childhoods.

We had been tasked, as children and teens, to heal every serious adult woe that existed including, but not limited to: alcoholism and addiction, sexual dysfunction, homosexuality, their media-touted "mid-life crisis", adultery, divorce, joblessness and homelessness, extreme over- and under-spending, bad healthcare systems and the medicated side effects of their genetic disorders like madness and dementia combined with schizophrenia and a bevy of scientifically complex mood/identity/personality disorders with a lack of available and appropriate treatments that threatened immediate bankruptcies, foreclosures, and debt, along with not-so-handy alternatives like debtor prisons and/or incarcerations (or foster care) through corruptly inept social services and justice departments. Like, everything that the world has to offer us as severely marginalized individuals.

As a really small generation, we found that our dire circumstances necessitated an unforeseen sophistication to our brief interactions, squeezed as we were by our parent's (and/or grandparents) acute paranoia, which meant that all of our household communiques were strictly monitored for any signs of advanced thought or problem-solving abilities that would conflict with an illness that took on biblical proportions, in direct contrast to our religious ethics. We were "wrong" for simply existing in the covering chaos that evil thrives in, susceptible as our families were to it, in their sicknesses. We became adept at "reading" our emotions well with just a glance or a look, which often only increased the paranoia of the less adept around us.

Survivors of bipolar families like ours often describe in alarming detail (to them, not us) the "rock-and-a-hard-place" space that the severely mentally ill impose on the people around them, as a boxed-in corner where you can either choose death or their abuse. I'm not kidding or using an arty metaphor, either. We had death-defying car rides with stoned drunks as children trapped in their back seats, or rocky water rides down spring-filled rivers that became ego-driven contests with parents hellbent on destruction in the face of our greater gifts that were designed for service but refused through wanton pride.

It's a hard thing to prove as a child, and even harder to describe without the evidence that our families would just as wantonly destroy, in fear of prosecution or exposure. That's how entrenched their untreated sickness became. They'd rather die or kill us, or at the very least hurt us badly, than admit to any wrong-doing or making of mistakes. It was an incredibly selfish and spoiled thing to do, and I remain aghast at my parent's immaturity, as I am in awe of our relative composure in the face of their extreme carelessness. I've been told that I am extremely "lucky" to be alive, but I know it's not luck. It's me, and my extraordinary band of "freaks" that you call "superheroes" or "X-Men", if and when the mood or the money strikes you. Try living it.

Shock to the Heart

Back in the day, we used to say lines from the old show "Sanford and Son" to each other that we had memorized by heart (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanford_and_Son), having heard the same lines over and over again, like our parents compulsive "jokes" that were often told in times of stress and/or drunkenness, when they didn't know how to fill in conversational spaces with other humans correctly. 

"Old Man Sanford" would clutch his heart in mock anguish to deliver the well-honed line to his son that he was "on his way home" to see "Ouisie", his wife who'd passed on already, because he was "havin' the big one" that was so often threatened on the show but never actually came about. Oh...so, it's just a lie, then. We kinda felt gypped by the lack of "sudden death" action on t.v., like the nonsense our hysterical parents would blab out loud that was even less funnier than the sitcom stuff repeated for years on t.v. Yeah, sure. I know this line.

It became symptomatic of the psychological distress we'd see in the world that was the response of someone who uses their medical condition(s) as a manipulative tool(s) to get out of work, or human discourse, church on Sunday, or family visits. For a people who felt bereft of power, my parents and their friends employed a handy toolkit for the insane that included veiled threats (and not-so-veiled threats) that they often combine(d) with violent cursing and escalating acts of physical violence, which, rather than convincing us to obey their demands, made us want to stay even further away from their trouble spots. For them, their sickness became weapons for gaining leverage in the home and at work, with varying degrees of effectiveness.

It was silly and wasteful, but so were/are our parents, accustomed as they were to an ever-booming economy fueled through the machines of war. We wanted something better. We wanted something more from them and society, and the world at large. We wanted actual communication over the trite tricks brought on by so much t.v. viewing for the compulsively-addicted brain, followed by periods of paranoid non-engagements that could last just as long as their patterned routines that they inserted in lieu of actual thought. We talked to each other as a social group, and we wanted to see real conversation brought back, egged on as it was by the "shock" tactics of our disc jockeys and talk show hosts. A lot of it was the same old bullshit, but occasionally we broke through the static with our own hard work. See? Repetition does bear results, and I can talk about it at length, too.  
How's that for power tripping?

Ill Communication

Do you remember when you and your brother were kids, and the two of you decided to flush one or two of your smaller toys down the toilet just to see what would happen, only to watch the water slowly rise to the top of a clogged toilet bowl in a growing panic, wondering what to do next, turning around to see your Mom standing in the bathroom doorway with a thin smile on her lips? Communication is like that; effectively done and it's almost like E.S.P. Well, how did you know what we were doin'? And then she'd say, "Because I have eyes in the back of my head", or even creepier, "Well, it was too quiet, so I knew you two were up to 'no good' because you're always so noisy!"

That's how my Bronx-born mama rolled: with eagle-eyed precision and harsh corrections. My parents weren't training us to be alright in your particular corner of the globe. They wanted us to be able to survive in the city and beyond, which means that you have to not die to win and that's not always easy, especially when the people around you are workin' all sorts of cons and scams: in degrees, mind you, but they get there step-by-step just like you do, through deliberate obfuscation, vagueness, and outright lies.

Like my mom, I know when the people in my family are sick, because they stop talking to me completely, as well as everyone else around them. I mean, we get nothing from them, and I can't tell you how disturbing that is, except if you know what I mean because you've lived through it, too. I've have sisters-in-law who have never sent me a card, or a letter, or an email, or an invite, or returned a phone call, and these are supposedly affluent white women who went to the best schools their families could afford. Nothing. You get nothing from them but their neurosis (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neurosis), and maybe some insults, if the wine is freely flowing.

Imagine if I spent all this time writing to you, telling you all about my life through a "ghost writer" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghostwriter) or an outside editor, because despite my years of education and experience, I still can't communicate what I want to say. That would be such an utter failure to me, I'm not sure I could stand it. I simply don't understand that level of selfishness, or the depth to that inability. How can someone earn a lot of money for houses and cars in multiple, but can't talk to someone as open as me? How can that be successful? 

And before we go on to that, I'm tellin' you that these women have had the same Catholic upbringing that I did, except with way more expensive bells-and-whistles built into their experiences, like fancy parochial school educations from birth. Do you know how much of a selfish, sick, unfeeling, hard person you have to be to watch someone like me and not care enough to help out? Think about it. 

Think about the inaction, ineptitude, incompetence, insensitivity, and utter lack of generosity you have as a physical therapist on the clock only (like my brother's wife), but never when your sick mother-in-law with Multiple Sclerosis needs it, especially between those Medicare "donut holes" in her coverage that occur each and every year? Besides sickness and badness, is there any other explanation for withholding all that your family gave to you for free? Because I've heard every excuse there is too many times to count.

We've been dug into this deep hole as a society, that we find harder and harder to climb out of, because of the gross inequality that comes from the over-acquisition of material goods over the better skill sets that should be part of the healing arts, including excellent communication. If you can't talk about what's wrong, you are it. There isn't any other place to go, or hide. It's you. You are the problem. The problem in your life and in this world is you, so you better start talking. I'd start today, if I were you. Cough it up! Get it out! That's the only way to get rid of it. If you can talk your way into money, you can talk to people about your sickness. Cut the fucking bullshit. It's time.


Your homework: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Communication

Share the Project

http://www.arcofrockland.org/

Do you remember that homework assignment from your elementary school days called "Show and Tell"? You chose an object from home, brought it to class, and then you got up in front of the entire class and your teacher to deliver an impromptu speech about it. For most of us, it was our first real experience with speaking in front of a crowd, and a nerve-wracking one at that. What to choose? What to say?! You spent your free time thinking about it, and then on the day of your speech, you second-guessed yourself all the way to the front of the classroom by fretting over each minute that passed by on the classroom's big clock, while another classmate did the talking. It actually does a lot of important tasks for human brains, organs that operate at their peak efficiency through utilizing all the advanced arts that are necessary for human communication.

It was the same thing for me in college. I took "Public Speaking" because it was required for all S.U.N.Y. school attendees, and then I "graduated" on to much harder skill sets, like talking about the projects I made all by myself at the world's premier art and design school. Bullshitting people you don't really care about for a good grade is an easy trick for most of us to pull off, but to be emotionally invested from your labors enough that you actually care about what you've made, and you want it to be well-received unanimously, is par excellence. A lot of people with some technical abilities do enough that passes off as skills people pay for, but a lot of the time, it's work we don't want to do ourselves because it's boring or dirty.

That's where we pick it up: you at the end of your rope, because you fear getting your hands really dirty, or because you're afraid of the risk that comes with those of us who are brave enough to fail in public without even trying. It means you're strong enough to survive a loss(es), so much so, you can visibly pick yourself up from the floor in front of a huge crowd, dust yourself off, heal, learn from your experience, and then get pissed off enough to do it better than next time. Some of us even publish the results. My father always told me that failure is essential to success, because it's true. If you win every single time you try something, then you aren't trying hard enough. Really brave warriors go out on a limb that can break at any time because that's where the sweetest, rarest fruit always is. So what if you fall down? Who hasn't?!

People afraid to fail in front of others are easily controlled through their visible fears. They're those athletes who illegally dose to have a secret edge over their opponents because deep down (or not so deep), they know they aren't good enough to succeed without rigging the contest to their advantage. They're the type of scumbag managers in your daily business who use access to your computer over a secure network to block or track your every move every chance they get, because they know they aren't good enough to be in your position of importance at a company. They're cowards, and cowardly people lie, cheat, and steal all the fucking time because they know they'd suck without you, their high performing muthfucka, to pick up their slack, and there's a lot of that to be had in this world.

I don't trust people who haven't been banged up enough by life because they're too afraid to live it. If you don't have war stories about your epic adventures (with some cool scars to show for your hard work), then you haven't lived enough, because you're too busy sitting on your fat ass peeking out from between lace curtains, like a punk ass bitch in your lazy cushy suburban home, passing judgement on those of us who love life enough to take risks, by taking a fall or two on our asses out in public. Ain't nuthin' but a thang to me, yo. In fact, in my chosen sport of MMA, we don't have "perfect" records (none of us do, really. Not one single athlete), because it isn't a fixed game like some of the shadier sports. There's no such thing as a "perfect" win in our world, because Samurai's accept that they are, like life, imperfect.

It can be jarring for fans of other sports that play dirty through drug use openly ignored, and/or with the assistance of funding from illicit gansta money to front their operation. Whachoo mean he lost? Whaaa....?! They can't even comprehend, because they've learned through a twisted game to expect a fake impression of perfection that's not real because it's a cheat. Some sports are choreographed for a narrative outcome like pro wrestling is, with it's funny over-acting and hammy role-playing, but make no mistake about it: when Brock Lesnar fought in the MMA, he fought a real fucking sport with skill sets so profound, it blows the minds of people who try it. There are just too many mathematical outcomes to predict statistically, and so our sport reflects the genius mentality of people who understand concepts like "hard" and "difficult to achieve" really well, because it's the life they live everyday: a tough game with the odds stacked so much against you, you can't help but draw on a crowd of admiring supporters.

And so it is with my charitable endeavors and active daily service to y'all. I do it because I love it, and I trained for it because I'm the best at it. But there are tons of fuck-ups. I don't have the money to operate a closed system of my own, so I "copy and paste" shit on some old fuckin' computer at the library, because it sucks too much to interact with my better (and older) plug-and-play Mac technology. I call them "Work-Arounds" that are essential to any "real world" type of living: those life situations that reflect the poorer thinking of the people around you who are too blind or dumb (or both) to put real money where it actually belongs. And so you see broken links with dead video uploads and missing photos (stuff I could never do for you at your rich white man's company without aggressive public censure in meetings or firing), because I'm operating under war-like conditions that accurately reflect the angst that I write to you about almost daily, on absolutely no budget whatsoever, because that's what the sick people around me choose in their deluded fantasies: a deliberately purposeful impoverishment that's my accurate lifelong reality.

I tell you this today, in this season of gratitude and thanks, because I don't ever want you to get it twisted with me, and because I care enough to commit my ideas and passion to you on this century's version of "paper" that is semi-permanent in this new digital age. This is my version of "Show and Tell" for you, because I care enough to humble myself by sharing broken work that is still better than any rich white muthfucka's gamed version that's aided and assisted by a thousand other people in support to just him and his goals (usually staffed with lots cheap women and other minority folk), who prop him up look like "Mr. Big Stuff", because he doesn't have the talent or the heart to fail publicly like I do. I want you to be clear about that moving forward, as we go forward on this enterprise that you support with your time and attention.

http://rocklandsample.org/

So, when you come across some joke of a "celebrity" who's puffed up with artificially padded social media accounts that are bought and paid for by advertisers and promoters (unlike yours, maybe), I don't want you to have any doubts about who they fuck they are, or how they got there. They're usually pumped up way beyond their actual skill sets, because most of them don't hold up to scrutiny up close and personal like I do, makeup-free on the daily and going on age 46, baby. That means no weirdo surgeries, no hidden cosmetic procedures behind closed doors, no airbrushing beyond all expectations tied to reality, no surreal overly moneyed shit to throw you off your game by bankrupting your pocketbook in service to someone else. I AM the real deal. Are you tho'? And why not, miss?

Because in my world, part of our "bragging rights" goes towards proud, prominently displayed post-fight photos that show you how we are never really injury-free from this life we battle through daily, smiling back at you through temporarily banged-up faces that show our hard-won war wounds, just like the bad-ass muthfuckas you know we are. I don't want you to be thrown by these supposed low numbers you think you see online, just like the too big ones represented by the false premise that some fat-ass porn star has got it all over you, because you care about teachin' yo kids right from wrong on the cheap, like my new friend Jeanne Newman does. Who the fuck are you compared to her, a woman who has devoted her entire life to public service through teaching and annual Thanksgiving dinners for her people? Just who the fuck are you, anyway? Because you ain't nuthin' to me.

You best be believin' that, because that's what time it is: only 350 followers on your page, or that many likes on your charitable site, or a paltry show of "thumbs-up" on your giving photo today? Oh hell, no. What the fuck is that, anyway?! Gone, baby. It's gone, gone, gone that-a-way. You are what's "it" to me. That's what's up. Same thing for my man Barnaby and his service to our beloved ARC friends, here in town (Hey, there Kevin! Mommy says "hi" and gives you big warm hugs all the time:), now takin' his act on the road to Massachusetts, armed with one of my lil' black stickers for prove positive of our unification. You know I do that, too! You think these people are unknown to me? Fuck y'all, then. You're a rock star to me in my world, baby. Don't think this false "divide-and-conquer" shit where you have to sweat it out alone on an isolated pocket is unknown to me as a strategy to keep you down. 

They're that afraid of us, my friends, because we are that strong and that good. Believe it. Believe in me. Believe. We've just grown out-of-bounds by one more person today, my friends. Yeah! That's it! We've grown by one, and now my wolf-pack is more full for it. Haha!

http://sharetheproject.org/20-2/

This one's for you today, Ms. Jeanne Newman! 

Thanks for all that you do daily. We see you!

https://www.facebook.com/sharetheproject/timeline

STARING IS RUDE

http://www.myvoicetshirts.com/

Children are really weird. They need to be taught how to live well or they won't, because people have some of the largest brains within the animal community. For that level of complexity, learning is the key to our understanding, and knowledge solves almost every problem we have as human beings. It is with this in mind that I've observed that the subject of appropriate eye contact needs to be addressed once again, because humans have forgotten what it means as a form of communication for our species.

Think I'm exaggerating for effect? Just ask my older brother about his kids and their fancy rich white kid school in poncy Connecticut: the problem with greeting adults correctly became so bad, that his kid's school had to put it back on the curriculum, just like in the days of old, when your kid came home from school with a note pinned to his shirt about his behavioral abnormalities. Could be worse; we were told horror tales about physical abuse and public shaming, like raps on the knuckles with a ruler, or sitting in a corner on a stool while wearing a big ole dunce cap. Want us to bring that back? No? Okay, great.

Then let's go over it again. When, say, a new human moves into your neighborhood, it is customary to signal that you understand an event has occurred by looking at said human straight in their eyes, smiling, and introducing oneself, handshake or no. Same thing with students at school: when your child enters a classroom, it is customary for them to show respect to their teacher (who is a very powerful and well-educated authority figure in our communities) by smiling and saying "Hello, Ms.______." Oh, and that underline I typed in the previous sentence means that you fill in the blank with the name of your kid's teacher, dumb-ass.

Yeah, that's what my brother told me: the dysfunctional rich kids in his kid's school were so unaccustomed to greeting humans through eye contact and name recognition (because nannies change often, and their parents care more about their stupid fucking corporate jobs than noticing their kids, because they have that all-important flight to catch for yet another dull business trip), they stopped knowing how to enter a room with people in it. That's right, fellow Americans: our children have forgotten how to greet, speak, talk, and make eye contact with other humans. Where do you think they'll go from there? Nowhere.

Same thing with me walking down a street I've walked for years, in a county I went to school in, also for many years: people seem to not understand that gawking at beauty makes them look like the dumbest, craziest piece of shit I will never ever want to meet. You fucked up by gawking at me, ass-hats, like I'm a fucking piece of furniture, or a brightly-colored painting that's your special shiny object to peruse. 

Today, for instance, the fucking douche-bag guys of Rockland County who like to stalk decided that they would only drive by me in cars and SUV's with tinted windows, because their fucking retarded behavior is so bad, I make fun of them obviously rubbernecking at me when they drive past, by imitating their slack-jawed yokel faces. You fucking dick! So original..stalk the beautiful girl. It's like getting a date by harassing women walking by a construction site, which I like to turn around by catcalling beer-bellied, hard-hatted losers in response. It's awesome! They're so scared of me.

So, to re-cap, let's go over the list once again, for the Special Needs and Special Ed sections, who may or may not need a helmet to participate in daily life. You failed: eye contact, greeting other humans properly, introductions as a customary way of greeting other people, smiling and/or nodding to indicate that you are aware of other life forms in your immediate environs, as well as many other basic forms of human communication. Your child has no shot at life because of your obvious failures at becoming a decent human being. Oh, and by the way: staring is still considered rude in this century, fuck ups. Learn something today, you dumb fuck! I friggin' hate rude people.

 https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=staring+is+rude

Spoils of War

http://voc.tv/1jOnjUT

I watch and read a lot of content that isn't specifically designed for me, nor catered to my particular demographic, because it's part of my job to stay au courant of pop culture trends. Like my former job description as an Art Director in Adult Trade book cover design ("You can't judge a book by its' cover" for the umpteenth time. Haha...yes, you can, and you certainly should. That's why we invest so much into it upfront as our most important marketing material: to create enough visual interest on a bookshelf for you to pick it up and want to explore further, because we actually really fucking care about the books we make. But I digress, shit-heel...), people think my job is one thing over the actual reality of it: to be an expert who accurately judges and assesses any type of creative content, in whatever form it takes, in any language or country, on any device, for any audience. 

It's actually a lot harder than it sounds or looks, because you're big hit bestseller may, in reality, be a totally trite and highly repetitive piece of derivative shit for me; one that's almost exclusively driven by slavishly current marketing trends, which is a really bad sign in creative businesses, because if you can't come up with original ideas consistently, you're done. It means some asshole middle manager who is a big nobody has sapped your talent and then gets the pathetic joy of discarding you like you're a used car battery, which is the worst thing that can happen to any artist. You are no longer relevant culturally because you've lost your platform.

With that in mind, I always try to let my friends at the library know what I'm checking out as part of my job, and what I really like, because part of their job as librarians (who are some of the most important people in our audience to market to) is knowing my preferences and suggesting materials to me as recommendations, then talk to me intelligently about it (but really, you, not me, because I already know). We publish almost exclusively to libraries at times, in special Library Editions; maybe large print books for the blind or vision-impaired, or perhaps books designed to handle the rougher climate of a public library's bookshelf by using tougher binding materials manufactured just for them. They know me and my audience here, because I've published books just for them at certain times, or oversaw it as a supervisor at some point in time in my long career.

That's why I read the "Twihard" series to my great displeasure: because my weirdo aunt who is emotionally stuck at 14, due to the severity of her mental disabilities and impairments, desperately wants me to believe that I am just like her, through this obviously fake Christmas "gift" (because hoarders use objects to express their feelings for people....ugh): I'm permanently stuck on stupid with some "hot" vamps involved, just like her. Uh, great. It's a series, right? And so I read the entire series as part of my professional follow-though routine, and because it also became a wildly popular movie series of some of the worst tripe I've even seen marketed to teens, which really pisses me off. And the books really suck, too. Bad writing.

So, when I check out some white men war movies, it's always attached with the caveat that this content may or may not be marketed for me, which is fine, because I'm a grown up, and we might also have the added bonus of making fun of some really bad art at the check-out counter, because librarians are people, too! I digest way too much content that is throwaway junk, but that's no different than any other day for me: it's for you, kid, and not for me. Mommy has very few needs. And so it happened that I saw a string of war movies recently, representing different types of people (loosely drawn from the facts), in the form of wacky expensive movie fiction, which is problematic for a realist like me. If it's tied to actual human beings who exist(ed), then great; my job just got easier by cutting out the rich white man to go directly to the source. Moms also don't need puppet shows that are stand-ins for real people, kids!

"Unbroken" was about some small town guinea who was picked on for being Italian (yeah, me, too), which got him angry enough for his brother to use as an energy in the white man Olympics, in front of Nazi's who yearned to be the purest whitest people ever....uh oh, Dago Boy is in real trouble. And then he is: all of his fancy Olympian skills become fodder for some mentally ill jerk-off who wants to channel his homoerotic energy into breaking an American Olympian cleaning up shit in a Japanese prison camp. Tough guinea wins (we usually do), but he never gets the apology he wants by the mad rich Jap who heads for the hills in embarrassment after the war. Boohoo, bro. No guts, no glory. We women know boys find war games really fucking fun. Would you want to grind sawdust into the scant remains of the flour that you have on ration, while your children starve slowly in front of you? No?! And that was one of the easier WWII scenarios women had, back in the day. You don't want to know about the rest: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unbroken_%28film%29.

"Lone Survivor" is better: this tough muthafuckin' white boy (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Luttrell) pulls through champion-style, too, but with a broken back and a new foreign friend. I like that he manages to rise above the spoils of a typical war by bonding with the villagers who hid him from the enemy, because they realize that the nasty war tribes around them are totally fucking nuts, regardless of nationality, and they would just as easily kill them as that broke-back white boy, because they're right. People are driven mad by war, because video games with real targets (like pregnant women and their nursing children) are really fucking hard to kill, even if you know that they are human smart bombs sent to rip you to shreds. Do you want want to be the person flicking the switch to that electric chair, you monster? (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monster%27s_Ball)

I know I'm a great warrior who would totally fucking kill you in a knock-down, drag-out battle to the death for survival, but it's a rare thing to have a fair fight, when the righteous wins over evil. What do you do when the sands shift under your feet? Or, how can I be a good guy when I just blew the head off of a defenseless woman? That's the kind of thing that stays with you, man, and sometimes it kills you back at home, where another type of war rages: the one that plays inside your shell-shocked and highly concussed skull, which is what this white boy played in this fucking war movie about how war may turn even your new war friend into a foe, in a heartbeat: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Sniper.

Not so glamorous anymore, is it? These actors don't go home to nurse you through the after-effects of your war-induced illness, bro. I do that for you, people in social services do that for you, but this fucking celebrity gets to breeze through a photo op at the local VA, drop a check, and he is gone, gone, gone, girl. Then, the really bad movie starts to play in your head, once again...where will Hollywood be? Nowhere in sight. That's the true spoils of any given war; money you don't get and will never see, while you heart-breakingly watch (by yourself) your son or daughter struggle through yet another series of tremors that the Veteran's supposed benefits package just ran out on, and G-d forbid that they get their hands on that kitchen knife before you do. Who will be there in that room with you? 

Here's a wild guess: it won't be a Bradley Cooper type of actor. The man who helps you pick up the pieces later on will be your real friends, family, neighbors, and community activists. That's who you owe, and that's who I work for everyday, because that's who I am: your friendly fucking neighborhood war hero. But, like, so not with the actual PTSD that's so dramatic on camera, dude. That's, like, totally not cool, you know? Pay me, yo! I'll throw you a real party, man, with no weird gold statues that don't mean jack-shit, either. I promise ;)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Iraq_War_films

The Handprint

The Handprint  (Pearl River, May 2015).

In certain lights, a mysterious handprint is clearly visible on the door that opens from the studio's kitchen to the living area. From my futon, I can see that it's the size of a man's hand. It's strangely comforting, like a "good" ghost turning on the lights for you before you enter a room (if you believe in that sort of thing), or a benevolent, helpful robot (like Rosie from "The Jetson's") that has fresh coffee and homemade donuts ready for you every morning. 

http://net.indra.com/~dheyser/rockart.html

I've had this feeling before, and it is a deeply spiritual experience, not unlike looking at a picture of an ancient cave dweller's hand through the sands of time. There's a link between he and I that transcends time and space. We connect through this old house as humans who were (and are) here. 

We will always have this space to enter into, as people who have shared and bonded through a particular set of circumstances that ties us to this place forever more. Do you know what I mean? It's way metaphysical. Enjoy the cooler weather today, New York.

Reading

Ah, that "Q" is perfection. Well done!

I've been a reader for so long, I don't actually remember when I couldn't read. I know I was a very early reader, about 2 or 3 years old, and so was my oldest brother. My mother said he taught himself to read The New York Times so he could check the Mets score, and that certainly may be true. 

I know I attended a pre-K reading class for toddlers at the local library, because I begged my parents to take me to school so I could read, and that was the closest they could find to nursery school before 
I went to an actual school, during the brief year we lived in rural Pennsylvania after leaving the city, before settling down in the Hudson River region.

Discovery and a new chapter.

It's hard for me to describe an experience I do so fluently; it's almost a subconscious thing at this point. I take in information so quickly visually, that I see things way before the lay person can. I've likened in to being an expert swimmer dipping and swirling through the clearest, warmest tropical waters (and I am that, too). Reading is a feeling so sensuous and fluid, few hobbies can replicate that kind of pleasure for me, and I know the same is true for other hardcore readers. 
We occasionally speak between nose dives.

Oh, I've designed flaps like this before.

Few hobbies create the kind of erudition and experience that bibliophiles have, with the exceptions of medical fields and clergy. 
We empathize immediately with the writer, because as soon as we read words, we're right there with the author. Some of us are so adept at it, we work at it professionally through publishing and media. Unlike a purely visual artist, I am also a writer and reader: the harmonious blend of a variety of highly skilled sets that transcend majors taught at the leading universities.

Lots of decorative elements and ink coverage. Some gaps in typesetting.

And so it is that I can talk with ease to an advanced physicist at their level, because I read their words when I design books for the students majoring in their curriculum. I sing along perfectly to Ella Fitzgerald while I riff through a series of graphics that vibe off one another, like a flutist times himself to a jazz pianist, either in the planned syncopation of an orchestration or the more advanced styling of an abstract expressionist who goes off on a tangent. 

To find someone who can follow along like that is the rarest of the rare, and just like the books we collect, so too are the odd ducks of the creative world who finally find their intellectual homes within the great literary houses of the world: those weird combinations of dancer, musician, photographer, model, writer, reader, designer, engineer, artist, and muse, because we are all of those things, and so much more. Open a book, and come find us. We'll be there between the vanilla-scented pages of a hundred year old volume and the near-constant flickering of a computer screen. See you soon.