Every year we have Hurricanes in the area in which I live. Every year the storms rage, flood roads, and carry away access to electricity. We have to run a generator, which drinks gasoline like a whale, just to have energy to keep the food cold.

We’ve learned to speak to the wind and keep it back with our fervent prayers for peace.

When your backs against the wall and all of your ingenuity fails you, prayer becomes a very real-life line. Every time the storm comes, I wonder to myself, “Why can’t we be like the whale, who seems to be able to feel the surge rise and no matter how turbulent the sea becomes, he can sail?”

Phrases like: “There is nothing new under the sun,” disturb me because I feel I have so much left to learn and I don’t want to leave an explanation to supposition.

The passing of my daughter hurt so bad and because I am a man, I feel, as much as a whale does. Did you know that? Did you know a whale does not procreate like the fish, which passes over a nest of eggs and seemingly devises no connection with its surroundings? Where the fish lives on instinct, the whale lives on intent and determines its mate and with its shaft connects to the one who will carry his child.

 If a whale dies, the group mourns. As I am made to mourn now for my own.

I thought it was interesting, a whale is not to be confused with a fish-eyed being with a cold heart. It pulsates and deliberates. It challenges the storms that come and can hold them at bay.

“How much grit will it take to achieve the stamina of a whale, how deep will I have to immerse my memories of past failures before I can be assured of my worth?”  

@OrphanedAnnie blessed me today by holding me up in her prayers. She is a gorgeous fifty-three-year-old woman who sometimes feels she is not the best to give advice.

I could relate because since 2005, when the #MarchAgainstAutism began, I never thought to speak to anyone about it on twitter or any social media platform. I marched, sure, I joined the crowds and bellowed like those around me at the disgust of those who with fish-like minds, thought doing anything other than caring for a child “made,” sick by one vile attempt at “population-control,” and seeking a solution to the epidemic.

Instead of diving into neurological research, doctors encouraged families to abort, terminate, put up for adoption, foster care, anything but salvage.

No insurance was allowable.

Can you imagine, I am made to wonder how many ignored this whale in the room, when it came time to bury their loved ones, because the child was deemed DOA. No insurance company would approve to cover the cost of burial for an autistic child.

Twitter came about much later, so there is no mention of others that had to deal with a whale of an issue like an autistic child. It did run parallel with arguments of abortion. Interesting enough I have never heard of families justifying abortion under the guise of fear of giving birth to an autistic child; or because a child could be weak genetically. It is better to terminate pregnancy.  Is just not suggested or mentioned because when the child is born and is healthy it is not until the 6th month are vaccines induced. None go around giving 18 different medicines into one vial, claiming: government regulation; World Health Organization preventative by cocktail treatment.

In the case of my daughter, the doctors coerced all involved, despite my protest of such action and requests of “gradual vaccine,” induction. Coerced under the consoling of doctors who would say, “The vaccines are benign and not known to cause sickness, side effects occur in extreme cases, if the child is healthy and strong, the worse that can happen, is a mild fever, that can be combated if she stays hydrated. While her body “transitions.”

She was healthy, she did not overcome.     

The definition of Manga is very interesting to me.

  https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/star was not considered to be Manga, while,

https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/cruel was immediatly accepted by groups who have an ability to review works and come to an immdeiate decision as to what classifies as Manga.

It is an artistic style that I suppose is easy to confuse for other interpretations of inked productions but is appreently not easy to pass off in certian arenas.

I am the artist of both styles that have been presented and felt both where in the suitable for the world of Anime and Manga of asian origin, considering that is where the inking process originated from.

From my youth, my understanding properly inked productions, in the realm of illustration and story telling, came from Japanese writers, that and the  Philippines.

Over the course of my study of art and the modes of expression, I regret to say I have yet found a way to fuse this inked ideal into the African American culture. It is a dream of mine, but would it really be considered "Manga," if I told the stories of my youth from the inked representations of the Far East expression, it is a question I have been grappling with for a while and I am not sure how to really present the idea, or make it accpetable.

It was nice to find that some of my inked presentations for Inktober have gathered the attention of artists like https://www.deviantart.com/ilyaev who's piece https://www.deviantart.com/ilyaev/art/Gold-767424484 was an instant sensation with me.

There is no arguement that what she produces is Manga, related but it has an air of fine art and professionalism that has been used to raise the standard and accpetance of the genre.

There are Croatia that have enjoyed my latest piece presented for Inktober Day 11, as of this moment I can not quite say how they related to the piece but considering their love for mythgital-creatures, Naruto, and ItaAyu and the inital design of my illustration, they might have seen similarities that made the project relatable.

Mind you, I don't really pull much from the culture of Japan in my presentations because I am not from there. I am a comic lover or all kinds so I guess because I have been immersed so long in the world of illustration, some aspects of the that region emerges in my work.

Just an educated guess, really.  

I did a quick sketch of a man flowing down a river, to explain my thought on “Flowing,” just so I could spend more time understanding the expectations of the prompt word, #Cruel. 

After the news of the loss of my daughter, I was having trouble imagining or even wanting to think of a tragedy that could surpass it and to have it waiting for me at the end of this flowing river, along life’s, journey.

To be made to step out of the marsh of my past, to memorialize the memory of my daughter and the thousands affected just like her, from the incompetence of doctors and scientists who sought to bend the realities of proven doctrine, all in the name of human advancement.

 To finally forgive, in my heart, those who believed the over use of vaccines was for the good of mankind. With her passing that struggle is over. Twelve years of “blood-fueled,” rage, washed away in her shade.

To be able to finally allow the issue to rest, only to turn around or move forward into another trial, another test of human endurance.

I do believe this can be defined as cruel.

The “star-child,” of my mind, would like to believe my demons would give me rest. The Dream Weaver of my soul, knows better and prepares for the next blow.

Cruel is a world that takes the innocent and marks them as expendable. Cruel is the world that believes because I am a man, I have no right to feel anything, aside from rage. Denounce me a coward because I refuse to hold a sword around my daughter’s grave.

Cruel is the world that can send 116 satellites into space to study the patterns of human behavior, conduct 166 missions in the course of 60 years and can calculate from a desktop receiver that it takes 10 years to reach the edge of the solar system where radio waves need 4.5 hours to reach Earth; but can’t reverse the effects of “Mercury Compounds,” clogging a child’s brain. Choking her dreams.

Cruel is the thought that peace will only be held in the memory of her face.   

Some of the newest songs like Born to Die by Lana Del Ray, are used to promote the indifference to life’s trials and the use of our internal wills to surmount them.

I have always chosen not to argue the relevancy or the value of life with those set on mediocrity. Devising philosophies which seek to justify the constriction of the mind.

While I contemplate how I am to maximize the real power of the internet, an endless flow of information-entertainment-and enterprise at my fingertips and half the time I am afraid to really engage with anyone about my desires.

 My daughter dies and in truth I am not supposed to pause and remember the moments that have transpired to create this minute. I am supposed to flow into tomorrow without a thought of yesterday’s mistakes.

It is all so fleeting, isn’t?

My grandmother called me to give me her condolences and well wishes. She was angered by the cruelty of time and how we don’t share enough of it together. “Everyone is dying,” She claimed. She just survived the Hurricane Harvey of 2017, I am so thankful I was not there, it was as bad as the 2005 Katrina and people are still disenfranchised and sickly, according to my grandmother.

It is still hard for me to imagine that I was born in that swamp of a landscape that is Houston Texas and the Bayou’s of Wharton and Galveston Texas. They are always the last to receive assistance from the “do-gooders,” of the city, they like to watch the deluge flow down Interstate 59 and kids like me picked up the dregs.

Texas is a hot piece of real estate and the people from there are hot headed and have a mean temper, a lot of water under the bridge between me and Texas.

None of my family handle death well; they know it to be a part of life, it to be a hard pill to swallow, but they never knew how to let the pain wash over them and let things flow.

I was on the phone for two hours with my grandma, who I must remind you was too busy chasing the dollar, a man, and the dream of her own desires to worry about me.

As we talked on the phone, she went on and on about how much she always loved me and never believed anything of the horrible things they might have said about me. “We all tried for your daughter, and you did the best you could with what you had. It might not have ever been enough, but you knew hot to flow.”

 In my thirty years of living the woman, never said she loved me. My daughter dies, the very situation that caused strife in my young life and it seems as her birth, ended the wars we wage on hot tempered summer days, her death brought a cooling wind which reminds those willing to pay attention, that at some point we ought to just flow. I almost always feel callous in the suggestion; believing I must inform those who read my tales and are intrigued by my illustrated shorts that the fluidity in which I speak and craft my works is a testament to my flowing nature. Much to the annoyance of those that love me. It is virtually impossible to keep tabs on  a person insistent on forever moving to the next opportunity. Knowing if I had not I never would have such a wonderful life, pulsating with such excitement, my flowing ink has filled many tablets. If I keep living their will be more.

I have a friend that is from Slovenia that is a wood sprite and she did me a favor a few days ago. I had been sharing a few of my hurts and pains and how I was getting the raw deal in some business dealings, she laughs and says, “Why worry about what they think, stay here with me and let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.”

Yes indeed, let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.    

Day 8 of Inktober was dedicated to the star. Day 9 of Inktober is dedicated to something #Precious.

For a man like me, that is Freedom.

There is nothing more precious than freedom, from this idea is everything else possible. Yet to illustrate the possibilities of the delicate nature of the concept that is freedom and why it should be important to anyone is too much to cram into one panel, let alone one canvas.

So, we must shrink the scope into a more relatable image. A, “star,” is indeed precious, the night seems oppressive without the twinkle of light to guides one path.

 As I traveled as the, “lone chicken,” or “star-child,” or as an “exhausted artist,” my list of #precious items only increased.

The love from someone who understands my need to believe life did not begin or end in the 19th century. To find an organization or person who loves me enough to invest and sponsor my talent. Notice my words, “Sponsor,” not “control,” I seek advice, not dictation, employment, not tyranny.

Precious to me is the peace I’ve derived in the night from seven to nine o’clock in which I use the time to journal and illustrate what two dream weavers, loving each other would like.

My children are precious to me. My mother called me the other day to inform me that my daughter who was deemed autistic, died. A very painful experience for me.

My daughter had no control of her physical body, she could not ingest food without the aid of a G-tube. (Gastric By-pass Tubular System.) That protruded from her navel cavity. She died at twelve years of age. For twelve years her body was made immobilized by excess mercury around her brain stem, cutting off neurological function. Twelve years and no one knew how precious she was to me. Many believed because I was not in her life I had no understanding of her joys and pain, I was not emotionally attached, so I can speak of her and shed few tears. It is not so. I have nothing but rage against the minds that have caused such issues with vaccines cocktails of 18 different medicines in one vial and in the name of neurological science and the advancement of humankind, believe they are helping the world or saving lives by creating a tonic that sends a child; my child, into an epileptic seizure and blame a weak genetic code on her sickness.

They blame “weak genetics,” on a child who was mentally active, crying and demanding, vining for life, life being the most precious thing in the world, they blamed the diminishing of vibrance in a child’s eyes, they blamed “Fish eye’s” on weak genetics!

Now if it is true the eyes are the key to the soul, a signal of intelligence, my child lost her ability to relate her soul to the world. Her dreams remained locked behind ‘fish-eyes,’ for twelve years.

Her bowels ruptured upon her death and everything released her body, black as death.

“Oh, how I pray for the souls of men who care not for the souls needed to build our world! Educated fools who would inject a child 6 months on the planet with 18 different vaccines at one time as if the very air we breathe is so toxic, it is better to die than to be born to affect the world we live in for the better.”

Oh how precious is the time we hold here.  

   My mother when I was a child always told me we were “Star-Children.”

I never really took her seriously. It was like the time she told me we were related to Beyoncé, and not in the humanitarian sense but in the, one day I can knock on her house and ask for my share of the inheritance if she happens to die and leave something to family members.

  Just one of those things you hear and allow it to pass as fancy or a dream that will never be realized.

In my reflections I began to realize that she might have been right about the whole notion of being more than what the eye can perceive.  Today is a day dedicated to the notion of a “Star.” I am fascinated by the word, especially after a night such as mine, contemplating who or what will hold the world’s attention in rapture as the stars in heaven have always held an allure upon the minds of the prepubescent.

 It should be no trouble at all to remember a time when we all shined like a star.

( I went to church on Sunday and heard the oddest, yet no really, song used during the praise and worship service, Tyrese’s “Stay With Me.”) Then I came home and read about the rising star that is the Economists Magazine and their ideas of “Free Exchange,” analysis. In their Bartley, report they suggest, “individualism,” to be a weaker source of marketable security for businesses, believing “Co-leadership,” and “collective-intelligence,” works very well for them and others.

 There is no room for an over achiever or “rising star,” in their outfit. Especially one who seeks a Pulitzer Prize for their own creative relevance.

Though a lack of originality and creativity is attributed to “collective-intelligence,” they will hold firm to this process, claiming financial troubles arise when ‘administrations,’  become comfortable with zero spending and borrowing or rising resource utilization, not the lack of innovation.

As occurred in Japan in the 1990’s and the dot.com bust.

They claim the “strange position,” we found ourselves economically in America remains, and the oddest factor is that governments accept this, and the risk it entails, rather than try for something better.

I wonder if they asked our world leaders to, “Reach for the Stars,” would they listen?

With satellites and drones our government desires to police land and sea. They have yet been able to control and monitor the stars as they have, illegal, unreported, and unregulated, (IUU) boating activity. Global Fishing Watch monitors the ocean for 24 hours and 7 days a week. Making it harder for 55 countries to earn an honest living. To make these satellites worth the cost to operate them, many desire to track all boats continuously by which I am sure will be a job, designated to our new military force, the USSF.

Along with policing and monitoring our new systems will have to make way for Zblan fibers production with labels tagged “Made in Space.”

A dream since the 1970’s is about to be reality at the cost of 100bn; a space shuttle and a 3d printer. All for the sake of telecommunications, the cell-phone, and producing Fiber Optic Glass which has only been used in the numerous prisons and city zoos around the world to house, presumably innocent men and women and animals that take up too much wild life reserves space.  

As I contemplate this I am reminded that we must always shoot for the Stars, and wonder if my mother was not correct in suggesting that administrations can control land air and sea, but never will they keep the stars away from us, we are star-children.   

@SevenSeize was such an over achiver  (Posting a day ahead of scheldue) but I loved her presentation: https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/sevenseize/inktober-day-7-exhausted

Exhausted is todays word of the day and I feel a lot of the time I have come too far to ever feel even the slightest bit tired.

I really should not be so hard on myself, as I have been as of late. I mean it is really not my fault that the elders of my finite existence have little to no imagination and my prose or illustrative ability is lost on them.

 Very few of my guild have ever really sought to explain the positive aspects of the craft and when we do, unless the audience is willing to exercise their, “third eye,” then the conversation is all together a pointless one.

My hackles raise at the idea of being respected, appreciated, called upon to present more work and being given a real financial opportunity, only to be told by those that say they love me, that it’s not real, the internet is full of charlatans and to be asked, “What do I seek to gain from drawing, cartoon characters, with that rabble of degenerate minds?”

  My hand stiffens and crinkles, rips the canvas, in exhaustion.

For my inability to high jump above the standard of production and land upon the pad which would signify a cushion against barbs of an ancient mentality.

Do you want to know why the Time’s Magazine has not published a “special addition,” segment of the Greatest People of the 21 century?

 It’s really a sad notion and exhausting to consider. There is a complete refusal, an inability to witness talent placed before the masses and say three simple words, “I appreciate you.”

An African from Uganda came to visit me and I found him to be repugnant.

Here is a man that is a pastor of a church, who survived the destruction of Idi Amin, who drove their country into the ground. The man literally killed young boys who sought the education needed that would allow them to do more than plow a field with an aggie; and this African pastor comes to my home and asks me, “Why do our youth spend so much time on the internet, why don’t they learn a trade or skill, like carpentry?”

 In his country when the internet became available to the government and the average person, no one knew how to use it. Now all the youth know, yet the avenues of trade and production are only as advanced as the demand for one’s supply. Business 101.

Anyway, I don’t care if it is Africa or America, no one gets an education, achieves knowledge, a degree, a doctorate, to be made to slave away for $2 an hour, or $12 an hour for that matter.

The notion is purely exhausting and no respectable person would dare spill the drivel.

Here is an African that come to another country and asks for financial assistance and the youth that would be his supply for whatever venture capitalists plans he can envision but believes those on the interent are too worried about becoming “famous,” and to live like celebrities, that when the answer to financial prosperity, monetary freedom, retirement security, is in one’s own creative relevancy, they don’t believe it.

https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/creative-relevancy

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/battle-creative-relevancy-advent-voice/?published=t

If we refuse to accept this fact, I really fear for the state of the world in the 21 century.          

Today is a day dedicated to #Drooling. It’s rather a prompt word filled with hidden innuendoes, and thoughts, that occur from the word and I’d rather keep them to myself. I have come to feel it would be a waste of time to illustrate any NSFW’s.

 I recently received a letter from project managers of the server, speaking down on the franchise and deferring people from voting or supporting the artists.

 I may not agree with the views of the letter, but I am one artist and to draw more images of a sexual nature, will do nothing to achieve support. No matter how much people are found drooling at the showcases.

It becomes exhausting you know, to feel you are the only one who cares about the publications that made the weekends better than skip school days or holidays.

When I was a kid you could find me reading a whole volume of Excel Saga by  Shōnen Gahōsha, and drool over the power babes of the 80’s and 90’s. Eager for the day my own illustrations would inspire the youth to illustrate their dreams.

Due to the fact that I am aware, it is odd to find a man who loves women, has loved them since he was thirteen years old and has found many ways to illustrate them and not get bored. To see he entertains such a varied field of art and can be found drooling over Futas and Succubus. Of course I don’t find my guilty pleasures and indulgences in such stories to be any different than those who binge watch and drool over Grey’s Anatomy. Their were tones of programs that initiated drooling sessions when I was in college. True Blood,    Heather Graham’s vampire hunter series, Zane Novels.

Every time I think of Zane, I wonder what happened to her?

Did the continued invasion of editors upon her written material become too much and found her without an audience?

Anyway, we can say nineteen years has been dedicated to establishing a time frame for when Loco Art began. Ten years later I fell in love with Norah Jones. I was eleven and like many my age played video games, read comics, wrote my own books. Come to think of it, my time in New Jersey allowed me to fall in love with three very different but creative women around my age. Nina Valentine, Chamel Surfellow, Colleen Williams; Nina the Puritan, Chamel the Whore, Coleen the Goth.

Nina and I where fine together, except in all of our discussions we never kissed. Intellectually we were good for each other, but she had this way of making me feel unless I was willing to marry, I’d never score a kiss. Hard for a military brat that moves from place to place and never can call a place home for a year.

Because I was who I was, I had to tell her it would not workout. Needless to say, we never spoke about writing books anymore.

Chamel became a pleasant distraction, ensuring me that her desire to “put out,” would benefit us both and she would not hold anything against me, if I didn’t stay around.

I never did keep Chamel, fearing if she was so fine with a guy she only met once, what would she do if I was not around. Every time we met for the bus ride home and she allowed me to collect my share of coconuts and affection, I would slowly forget my misgivings or care about who else might have done the same.

None could touch me like Colleen Williams mind you.

She controlled my dreams and reality for two years. From 12 until I was 13, when ever she wanted me, she would only have to jingle the bell on her collar, and with joy would I appear to her. “Yes my mistress?”

“Dream Weaver, we’d like to know, considering you’re a man, what would you desire to fulfill your dreams, the Puritan: who will only love you when no one else is looking. The whore: who will love you and everyone else. The Goth: who will love you with chains of pleasure that not only keep you connected but teach well the lesson of pleasure received amidst one’s pain?”

I allowed the goth to capture my virginity, along with my imagination for two years. We entertained one another all for the sake of love.

I never did ask about a fourth option; due to being unaware such an option existed: To be loved by another Dream Weaver like me. What a pleasure indeed.   All one can do is drool.

My inability to dispel the arguments against the economical credibility of my talent and the art of illustration is not because I am chicken.

I’ve been the “lone chicken,” in this argument for fifteen years.

I don’t go around waiting for the sky to fall, but I have gotten used to the idea that this “guilty,” pleasure, this “hobby,” that has given me so many wonderful moments of peace from the burden of being a man who must hear from his peers or those older, how much money they make from the trades or doctorates they spent three years to earn. I must sit in on dinners and hear about Bitcoin investments that have gone no where but are sure to, “rise,” very soon.

  I entertain people who have believed the only real definition that is suited to a “man,” is one who gleans fields, mulls around in the septic tanks, is a butler, chauffer, valets, city bus driver, tire manufacture, pipe cutter, landscaper, beasts of burden who are made to look down until they are too old to matter to the visions of tomorrow.

I spit at the thought, but I am not chicken.

Never did mind laymen’s work, I am a large man, built like an ox. It is presumed that because I am 6’0’’ tall, one hundred and eighty pounds and have broad shoulders and a wide back, my sole lot in life is to be a pack mule.

Then one day, this “lone chicken,” decided to travel cross country and work for hire. No time for “art,” love, books, degrees, promotions, impressions, resumes (that fail), sweets that make us fat, high collar conversation, or my favorite pass time of those not disenfranchised, celebrating holidays with loved ones.

 Seven years of travel, refusing to deal with people who believe the end justifies the means, or poverty is solely a state of mind.

One philosophy opens doors to pimps and prostitutes, the other seeks to hold one hostage, by ball and chain to an occupation a degree from a university did not aid me in securing.

Stop me if you have heard this before.

A thousand miles have I “the lone chicken,” traveled alone and I guess after all of my cogitations, I am willing to suffer the ill manners of people if it means I don’t have to be alone anymore.

So, I listen to them at my dinner table and when the pretty face comes along to share a worm or two with me, I suffer her endless questions as to why I would rather illustrate than invest my time and effort and hard earned money in Bitcoin.

It is certainly not because I am chicken.  

This fourth day of Inktober is prompted by the word "Spell."

Now many of us associate this idea with superficial beliefs of spells being solely prescribed to occult artisans and though they have made a profession of the language that is a "spell," or charm.

I dare say a Spell is a word in which commands life, dictates a preconceived action and is "satisfied," dependent on the user of the diction.

I have been told I am moody, easily offended and too violent. All of which is not true. There is a difference between wrath and indignation. One is allowable by the heavens and the other arrives from the temptation of meddling spirits.

Some have suggested I am bipolar, again not true. Those that say it are the same people who will see me about to eat a slice of pie and suggest I don't need any food because I am getting fat and should share with those in need and feel good about the sacrifice.

Pardon me while I burst.

Again, spells are merely words used to control a situation, or person.

For instance, I know of people who don't read like I do. They don't find joy in the craft of weaving stories from the moments of where we've been to perceive where we are going. While they work aimlessly from sun up to sun down, the looks on their faces suggest I am wrong to use three hours of the day and three solid hours of the night to record my dreams and illustrate them. (From my youth, it has been asked, in hopes of deterring my passion for inked expression, “What money can be made from your efforts?”)

  From my youth I’ve been made to react much like the little witch with her pet dragon, who was denied her yearly desire of solitude and pumpkin pie.

“Pardon me while I burst.”

  I suppose I have such little patience with people and how they verbally address me because of my understanding of the power of words and how they are used to control people.

When the little witch was called “fat,” and promised security of an “acceptable,” appearance by ignoring herself and giving to others; though weak in it’s execution, this has been a formidable method to create the eating disorders, such as Bulimia, Anorexia, Obesity, Eimeria, or Acid Reflux; all of which could have been avoided if we avoid those who exude manic depression behavior of an overly judgmental and  “controlling,” person.

 It should be noted that one can’t dispel such poisons of the mind, which affect the body, until they become aware, with the use of the “third eye,” of how such spells begin to erode the very real person.

Words used to weaken, demoralize, centralize, or control, from my youth, have been, burned, cut, sucked into a box, or through great effort, and what many have demonized into a category of narcissism, erased from my mind, in moments of reflection and tranquility.

  Having to return to this mode of thought every time someone has a foul thing to say about me is draining. Instead I try to carry my own sense of self-worth as a jewel or ornament around my neck. Of course, such vibrance brings forth entities that have no form until they are named.

 Jealousy, Envy, Strife, Condescension, Patronization, Emasculation.

The worse being the latter.

I am a man and have found it to be the woman’s curse, the moment she is not given flattering words or uplifted and praised, she will begin to cast spells of the mind that begin with the following,

“You’re not as handsome as you used to be. Years ago, your stomach was flat and now at thirty you have a paunch and your balding.”

None of which is true, but because your still attractive to others and you still desire her, she seeks to give you reason to charm her. Envy, springs from her mouth and you’ve not said a word, as you enjoy your meal after a hard day’s work, yet she continues to speak and disturb your appetite, enough, until there is Strife.

You are aware that it will hurt her, more than anything, if you stop eating what she provides for you.

Backing away from the table, excusing yourself, politely, she is made to ask, “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to finish your meal?”

As if she was not just attacking your middle-aged paunch.

There is no need to say it, but the satisfaction is inches from your lips, “I am fat, remember.

Pardon me while I burst into flames.”

Condescension and Patronization dance into the room. As she utters the next spell.

“You called yourself fat, I did not say a word, all I said was your developing a paunch and I don’t find you as attractive as I used to.”

Right around the corner Emasculation sits and waits to drive home the finishing blow to the conversation, “It is immature of you to leave the table, or to become angry, or say anything, because I suggested you have a paunch, are aging, not as attractive, and when I look at you, I can see your belly. I’d hate to have you at forty-five with a belly so far gone it hits the door before you do and you can’t get your man-hood to rise anymore.”

Pardon me while I burst!

Yes, my friends’ words are no more than spells cast to create our very real world and for years I’ve fought very hard to get people around me to realize, if you don’t want bad things to happen in your life, then speak positively, plan deliberately and verbalize the greatness you can perceive with your, “Third eye.”

That fictional vision you don’t believe in.   

Now this very same duo, the woman who causes her hard-working lover to burst into flames, used words to create love. Three words from time to time to be exact.   Namely after the flames die down you will find them whispering, “I love you.”

They have an affect on a man you know. To the point he will not care that only a heart beat ago, she was denying him food in order to save him from the lack of sex-appeal, libido, and the manifestation of a glutenous nature that overcomes all of us during these excessively merry seasons.

When we hear a spell sung, we call it enchantment.

When we see a spell spun we call it Magic.

(For lack of a more inclusive term, or just an inability to escape traditional and comfortable ideas.)

I don’t really have any handy, though I kind of should; I am contemplating if I can interchange a “Spell,” for a “Blessing,” or words of encouragement?

If this thought is allowed and developed a common place, in all the puff and smoke we kind of forget all many need are words of encouragement.

Well I can’t speak for everyone but certainly for my own experiences. With those prompted to cast bad feelings on those they love, in order to feel better about themselves.

To add salt to injury, I find the pretty ones that cause all the trouble, I suppose the spell of allure never works without a fair amount of vibrance; and my pride would never permit me to allow an unattractive woman to project negativity upon me. Not without so much as correcting her.

Some would call that chicken.