My Mother

is a bitch.

I suppose that’s where i get it from, although i choose not to direct it at my daughter, like she did with my older sisters her henchmen.  No, i wasn’t Cinderella, unless corporate america was my prince, rescuing me into self-sustainability at age 17. (That’s a scary analogy.)

Having lived through my childhood, I don’t even have to be around her anymore.

Its not that I don’t love her, i do deeply (if you know me, you know something like this would never be shallow); I suppose everyone loves their mother, right?

If only she wasn’t a Pretender (#fuqafukushima who has tym 4 that?), she’s really a very neat and interesting person, when she is being real — i DO remember that part from my early childhood on the farm. And i do, totally see how i am like her and am acutely aware of what I learned from her and use everyday in my life.

Peace, i hold onto that as my life preserver in a world deviant beyond my comprehension.  Peace is the place in my mind where all that is right empowers the work i do to change what is wrong.  Since one cannot change someone else, Pretenders do nothing but undercut the foundation of righteousness in me, in others around them and collectively.

And, i found out, after getting out into the world, I really don’t have to like her, so I don’t try. Because for me to try would require an acceptance she’s right. And, she rarely is, on the right side of what she taught me, anymore these days.

My dad once told me, don’t bother, she won’t change — i was still trying back then. He told me, find those who cherish your mind, that will empower you.  I took (and still take) his advice.

I sometimes think, what if she kept painting? I’d like to think if she did, maybe she would have more of her own thoughts, and wouldn’t watch so much 700 Club and Pat Robertson, and what came years later, Fox News.  Motherhood so twisted, her “mother’s day” message perfect pitch tuned to the song of the Police Union in Baltimore.

Yet, she is not alone. There is a large swath of Americans i don’t like.

If she was a random person on the street, i wouldn’t know to not like her and i would be, you know, common courtesy.  Yet after basic conversations about the weather or baseball, i would not engage further, as false humanity begins emerging at the most shallow of levels these days.

While we hold, fundamentally, the same values, i cannot apply the same deviant beliefs into reality as my mother does — that many people do, especially those i don’t like.

Pretenders, i call her and those like her.  Pretend Christians, Pretend Americans, Pretend Humans. Pretend Authority.  (Sometimes, i do refer to them as Zombies too.)

I pretend all the time.  I deliberately pretend to be different characters almost every day, it helps me to live with the Pretenders.

With my mom, i don’t pretend.  I could, and we maybe would even visit and chat like normal Pretenders do with one another, for me, that’s part of my job and not my real life — which is what life is supposed to be, especially with one’s mother.

Right now, the Pretender mother i have, embosses an ever expanding and increasingly acceptable police target on the back of her granddaughters’ heads with the Pretending she does with her compatriots in the real world.  #fuqoff is my general response to Pretenders like her. I say it with all the love in the cosmos only a real mother could understand.

Happy Mother’s Day exchange …


Global Police State Standdown. 

cc: my mothet

Black Lives Really Matter

This mother’s day weekend!

Nationwide actions with demands from all of us thanks to Black Lives Matter and Mothers For Justice who delivered to the Department of Justice, who received the People’s Grievances on a Saturday!!

Tomorrow. Million Moms March on Riverside. noon. Meet at the Library. #RememberTaishaMiller #OscarMorejon #BrendonGlenn #BlackLivesReallyMatter #occupyDID

Check out @DarakshanRaja’s Tweet:

Do U Ever Feel Like A Stalker?

you see, because sometimes I do, but I’m not, I just have to stay organized in the nano macro cosmos and positively, pleasurably and productively, and I’ve always used the internet and writing, i had a “blog” on the iNet when i had to input it as text in the code for my website. My mom read it. Which is good, because that’s who i write it for besides myself.

My parents read my diaries, our mail, my dad recorded our phone calls … Yes, I’m always playing to the audience, even if it’s just God Almighty himself. And, no, i can never dance like no one is watching, i know someone always is. Like my online writing. It was always easy for me to get my thoughts out in writing so that’s what i did. Just like i do now, only now I’ve got all these organizational tools and swype and oh my how fun are the words that just leap in my head.

I often lasso an idea someone else thought, like Word Press here and their design schemes, the structure of which probably evolving out of myspace and all those customizeable code generators (i sometimes so miss those nights), and so now i just express.

I wonder what my dead sister would say. I wonder if she’d say that 121st day in jail took the chip off my shoulder for good. I do know it made my soap box in a shape that would nicely fit in any ticket that would want to take me away.

In every facet of my human occupation as my daughter’s mom, i still share on the internet to talk to my mom and dad, mostly, yet more and more, i share so that, if she should ever so chose to read what i wrote or hear what i said or see what i did and still play the games of hide and seek, even if i go and can’t get back on that rocket ship, she can still play and #giggl with me, if even with a tear just as i do when i try to be as nice as possible, though i don’t know why. This planet is really quite mean. And #fuqafukushima stupid.

A rocket must have a round trip planned, just in case her threat to have grand babies and vow never to leave earth (she saw “interstellar”) is too longstanding for an impatient mother in prison on a planet where it can be so hard to breath. Day 121. Fuqrs.

if you ever want to meet me, the best thing to say first is, “hi. i met you on the internet,” then i know you more likely than not, mean me no harm. I’ll do the same, so you know it’s just me in 3D and, like on the iNet, we can only take the moment as it …….

comes cums appears loads downloads uploads emails tweets tags or merely happens to be right here publishing now, tag l8r.

still waiting

on google to return the money like i directed.

maybe i just need to go to the federal building down the street tomorrow and find out what to do to file a claim against them with the Federal Trade Commission, isn’t that who handles these things?  Oh, my, maybe I’ll wait until after I fix all that shit in Santa Monica.  Can you believe its been three months since I filed the claim and I’ve heard nothing.  I HATE writing letters — that’s what put me in jail the last time, and i shouldn’t have to.  my claim was simple and clear and they should just fix everything on the computer as if by magic.  “sgd,” as tony would say, “do i really have to press the keys on your keyboard for you too?!”