Day two of continuous coverage of this latest murderous false flag operation that, no doubt, achieved multiple purposes, only some of which are obvious, and distracted us from the dramatic, slow motion disintegration of the world’s utterly unjust financial system while providing lots of opportunities to feel sorry for others while fearing for our lives.
Here’s an interesting take on it:
I sit here at the dining room table, having escorted his wheelchair and her walker “the long way around” (outside, down the sidewalk, around from side to front of building) back from breakfast. We passed a coin-operated newspaper container, its screaming headlines: “MIDNIGHT MURDER!!!”
I glance up every so often from writing this to see more talking heads, circling shots of the giant movie complex, stories of victims . . .
While down in the cafe the old ones sit calmly, eating, some of them talking to their table-mates, others quiet, far-off, barely breathing, their frail, arthritic, transparent-skinned hands limp on laps, waiting, waiting.
About two weeks ago, before sister Kristin got the nighttime caregivers in place (8 p.m. to 8 am.), some of my brothers and sisters and a brother-in-law had spent nights here themselves. This was when Dad was in one of his periodic descents into what appears to be lingering bronchitis — and death? We never know.
My brother-in-law John asked Mom during one of those endless nights, “What does it feel like inside you?” And she responded, “Waiting, waiting.”
This morning, she’s planted in her big chair again. So is he. Amazingly enough, after big breakfasts, within minutes they’re once again asleep. I’m the only one who witnesses the continuous muted “movie massacre” coverage on FOX news.
Thinking about all this in my little bed nest one floor above them in Room 325 last night, how we all live in multiple realities, and how at this age, 69, I’m finally able to “keep them all straight,” or maybe I should say, allow each of them its space while recognizing when and when not to jump realities, blend dimensions, let one bleed into another or, and especially, not force feed anything to anyone they are not either ready for or don’t want to hear about! No more fighting. No more needing to be right, or first, or special.
For example, we don’t talk about the massacre. My point of view is at least three galaxies away from Dad’s. Even if he wasn’t deaf, we couldn’t talk about this because I literally live in a much larger multiplicity of understanding and experience than he does, despite his advanced age (96). All my life, I’ve kept on growing, evolving, unfolding. With the motto, “Do what I’m most afraid of” (for that is my edge), “and try not to make the same mistake twice,” I’ve been leaping off cliffs of various heights, daring myself to fail, gulping in great swatches of the unknown — all as food.
He did not. As he said to me this morning, “I had too much responsibility to take risks.” And you know, that was interesting. That remark stopped me in my internal tracks. He saw his role as provider for our large family, and he determined to stay within that role. What interests me here is that he told me that this morning, as we were eating our muffins, and that I took it in.
What interests me even more is that he, apparently, had made that a conscious choice in his life, and that I needed to recognize its validity. YES. I do. I do. Thank you, Dad.
What prompted that remark was our talk at breakfast about the time he and Mom and I had been sitting on a hillside near Sun Valley where they used to live. This must have been at least thirty years ago. We had taken a trail up there, and sat across from Baldy Mountain, the ski resort. This was an unusual excursion for Mom, as she was not at all athletic.
She sat there, entranced by how high up we were, and I think a bit giddy at what she had accomplished by hiking up above the beautiful valley. All of a sudden, she turned to me, and said, “I want to go hang gliding. I’ve never gone, and Dad won’t go with me. Will you?”
Well, of course!
So we did! That very afternoon. Swallowing his own trepidation, Dad drove us down to the airport and she and I flew up in the sky with the area’s most experienced female hang glider pilot, a young woman who proceeded to fly by Baldy Mountain so close that we found out later, she had broken all the rules.
This morning, she looked at me across the table in the cafe, and pronounced: “I loved IT.”
Here they are, not too many years ago, still up and about:
And here’s part of the family they spawned, on Mom’s 90th birthday.
I feel so very very fortunate — to be folded within such a large, vivid family.
Just glanced up again. Muted “movie massacre” still on the screen.
As I sit here, I also hear Dad’s oxygen machine, always on, droning in and out its reassuring rhythm.
And I hear Dad’s cough, briefly waking him, over and over again.
He just said, while asleep, “The problem doesn’t exist anymore.”
I think about the two nighttime caregivers I’ve met so far. Both from Kenya. Both black as night. And as beautiful. Young, shining round womanly faces exuding concern, competence and reassurance. When I arrive in the morning today, the folks are happy. Dad slept all night!
I think about all the men and women who are growing older without the amenities that my parents can afford. Without the nurses bringing them their meds. Without the meals provided, the laundry done, the bed made. Without family. Dying invisible deaths, untended, lonely, driven by poverty and despair into depression and death.
But then death. What is death? As Bill Hicks says, remember, remember, the whole thing, is “just a ride.”
Just a ride in the sky.
I glance up and out . . .
Yep. Just a movie. This one little movie in this one little apartment in Seattle, that one on the streets and hospitals and jail of Aurora, Colorado, the one lived by my puppy Shadow and his caregiver Jim back in heat-soaked Bloomington Indiana, the movies lived in all the nicks and crannies of this world unknown to each other and yet all so very human, with the same feelings, the same rush of exaltation, the same trough of despair. Here we are, whirling around the Sun while looking down towards Earth, trading stuff back and forth, trying out identities, checking our bodies for signs of age, or skin cancer, or attractiveness, walking barefoot or shod on ground more or less transformed by human ingenuity into concrete, gravel, carpet, garbage patches, permaculture gardens — and all the while, loving, loving, even when we think we’re hating and fearing, all the while breathing the same air, drinking the same water, our hearts beating in tune with Earth’s song, her place in the starry firmament, her joyous whirling dance into the great beyond.