Shell-shocked over Worlds Response to Israel

I’m always shell-shocked over how the world responds to Israel when it comes to self preservation. I mean, is it only a group of Americans that can see the over reacting and setting up of this ongoing crusade the world has over toppling Israel?

For example: It has been proven, beyond clarity (or beyond a doubt), so the United States Government says, and South Korea, that North Korea has torpedoed a military ship (an act of war), killing 46-soldiers. It has taken two-months to condemn North Korea, and the United Nations’ has yet to condom them, or point a finger at North Korea. Everything over that matter is in slow motion still.

Now let's look at Israel’s blocking of the so called, indorsed Hamas flotilla, convoy of freedom for food for Gaza, where they gathered a hand full of ships, and Turkish and Europeans to bust a Military blockade of Israel, after being warned a month in advance, pulse escorted by Israel ships, not to go beyond a point, and still remained in defiance, and less than nine hours after the incident that took nine lives, and wounded Israel soldiers, a reaction from the UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-Moon comes condemning Israel, acting as if he is shell-shocked over the matter, when in essence everybody knew what was the potential in the case. It leads me to believe he is no better than the North Korean dictatorship.

Why do we keep getting these UN Secretary-Generals in the UN, who is so biased? When they condemn Hamas it is with a little stick, when it is Israel, it is with a heavy bat.

Palestine Hamas, got what they wanted, an international headlines and sympathy from most of the world, at the expense of nine lives. The free Gaza Movement, IHH, run by Hamas has no Muslim brotherhood; there is only a means to an end. Yet they make believe they are of the same fiber and mindset.

The Century of Millions

The Century of Millions This is the era, the century of Millions, the 21st Century. When we talk, we talk in millions such as: the ship I just sailed on is six-million pounds. The moves nowadays cost between 1 and 100 million of dollars. We think of space in millions of miles, and our ancestors of being millions of years old. We want to make a million dollars in our lifetime, or perhaps in one check. We talk of millions of people in big cities, and millions of kilowatts to light that city up. And the armed forces of being a million or two strong. When you get three-million air miles you get a gift, when you get the Nobel Prize a million dollars, if it is not a million, it’s not worthy of talking about. The movie star gets $20-million per movie now, and the football player the same. Actually, by the mid half of the 21st century, I think it will be in billions, everything in billons. When I was a kid it was in thousands, and I suppose my grandfather saw life in hundreds. What will my grandchildren calculate life in, perhaps the trillions, our National Dept, is close to that now, perhaps by 2060, it will be normal to have a debt of such an enormous amount, if indeed we last that long.

The Suicide Way-house (a short story)

The Suicide Way-house (or, “Going On!”) “You can’t go back, no way, therefore you must go on, go on with pathetic eagerness, if you must, if that’s what it takes! But go on you must…” said Old Miss Wayfarer, giving the young woman a helpless look, a forever look on her face.

“I want to go back,” she said. “I left my little girl in the car all alone.”

Annabelle Hague had seemingly stumbled upon the wayside motel (the sign read although ‘Way-house’), how she came upon it, she didn’t know, and Old Miss Wayfarer boldly and frankly said, “Mercy, suicides can’t go back, you all seem to travel alone, and your little girl will be taken care of, don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine, they always are. They all want to go back when they get here. They’re all waiting to go back, how insane. So many of you folks stop here on your way, and I tell them like I’m telling you, you can’t go back, you can only go on, although sometimes the other ones commit suicide, to catch up with their loved ones, like you but that’s far and in-between, in all the time I’ve been here I’ve only seen a few like that. That’s the plain truth in a nutshell.”

Annabelle thought for a moment about what the old proprietress had said, “I can wait,” she told the old woman—“yes, that’s it, my daughter will catch up with me. I know she’ll want to join me, and when she comes she’ll have to know where I am, and if I go on, I’ll miss her, this is the first motel I’ve seen on the road. She’s just like me.”

“But you can see over by the hearth in the other room Mrs. Annabelle, I have a full house, please don’t ask to stay here and wait, just go on, that’s better for everybody.”

Annabelle had been looking over at the dozen or so guests, or perhaps by now they were residents, pacing to and fro from the hearth to the windows, looking into and out of the windows perhaps for their loved ones—their faces to appear, a glimpse into the future or beyond, and in the red hot flames of the fire—they looked. All having long hair, haggard looking, as if they’d been there for years. Annabelle had had a forlorn look on her face for a moment—when she had first arrive that is, but an all new expression had filled it now, hope!

“There, there now!” cried one of the voices by the hearth, she had looked into the fire, and thought she had seen a loved one.

“Perhaps now and then,” said the old lady, “they think they see a loved one, so they stick around the fire, or look out the windows, but I doubt they really do, but they all think they do, and they are afraid if they go on, they’ll never see them again. The seasons never change around here much, it’s seems always windy and cold.”

Truth or fiction, it didn’t matter to Annabelle what the old woman was saying, if there was hope, then that was better than nothing. Annabelle had formed a new composure, a new outlook, the old woman noticed, likened to all the others when they first heard someone say they saw some loved one from the past.

“Well,” said Annabelle, “it’s settled, I’m staying. If only for a little while, then I’ll go on, as you say I should, if you don’t mind.”

The old lady nodded her head ‘yes,’ knowing if she didn’t she’d be pestering her for eternity, although she was not please one bit, but once hope got a hold of the passerby’s, and they got to missing their loved ones, and regretted what they had done, there was no way of convincing them to go on, to go forward, they were in-between, and that is where most wanted to remain.

“Is there anything you’d like, Miss Annabelle?” she asked.

“Nah!” she said, as she hurriedly went to join the group pacing about the fireplace. No 707/ (11-01-2010)

The Night at the Bar (Una Noche en el Bar) [En English and Spanish]

English Version


A St. Paul, Minnesota, Neighbourhood Story


The Night at the Bar
(or, The Dive)

((Based on actual experiences of 1968) (a Chick Evens story))



The church steeple drifts off into the darkness. The trees in the adjacent cemetery, across Jackson Street, can only be seen by the fleeting headlights of cars. The mist whitens the trees. Everyone is at the corner bars, Bram’s or the Mount Airy. Chick Evens straightens up, takes out a cigarette, a light drizzle of rain fills the atmosphere, as he walks slowly up Sycamore Street, turns—sees the corner bars.

A few run-down busses pass him, but are soon lost, once they turn the corner—he noticed a few black faces on the bus, hateful, looking faces (perhaps it’s the times, he senses).

He hears voices coming from both bars, music is loud. He opens his eyes wider, leans his neck back, his belly is a little sour from the drunk he had the night before. A taxi goes by, stops in front of Bram’s, it looks like Nancy, David, Carol and Rockwater.

Now standing in-between the two doors of the Mt. Airy, he can hear the blind noisy street behind him. There are a few familiar faces in the bar, he notices looking over the western style, swinging doors. He thinks it would have been better had he come later—more people, but he’s here now. He heads for the bathroom, urinates and combs his hair, washes his face, he’s been drinking half the day, up at Jerry Hino’s house, a half-mile past the church (he had been playing cards with Jerry and his brother Jim, and Mike Gulf, and Betty—Jerry’s wife, had to feed the kids, so he decided to leave.)

He comes out of the bathroom, his light jacket laid over his arm, his friend Allen is in one corner of the bar, he nods his head—I mean they both nod their heads for recognition of the other. Bill and his wife Judy are in a booth to his left, Bill had just come back from the war in Vietnam. John St. Clair is in another corner of the bar, his girlfriend, is by herself at the bar opposite him. Big Ace, close to six-foot six inches tall (the neighbourhood mannequin), no teeth, 210 pounds, ten-years everyone else’s senior, or thereabout, not all that bright, is sitting next to Doug, singing his weird song: “Twenty-four black birds baked in the pie,” then he forgets the rest of the verse, he always does, and goes into a humming episode, as if lost inside his own head—pert near dancing on his stool, pounding on the bar feet kicking.

Doug and Ace are sitting in the middle of the horseshoe shaped bar, like most everyone else, drinking beer, it would seem a beer fest was going on; but it’s really a normal every day thing, and on the weekends the only difference is they all get drunker. The bar is not much more than a dive: no, it is just that, a dive. Chick Evens feels a tinge lousy but knows with a few more beers he’ll not feel anything, anyway, that will fix him up. As he orders a beer, drinks it down, his headache disappears. He runs his hand over his forehead, as if to wipe the beer sweat off of it.

The worst thing for Evens is that he has spent all his money but a dollar, buying beer at Hino’s house. He is Not sure how he’ll get by tonight, but there is always someone to buy a fellow neighbourhood buddy a beer. He’s good for it he tells himself.

He hears Doug’s voice, far, far away—or so it seems, he’s dating Jackie, Evens’ old girlfriend. He now joins Bill and Judy, he knows he can borrow a few bucks from Bill if he has to, needs to. The side window has a light chunk of the moon showing, all around it is a dark sky, and he falls down—purposely, onto the soft cushion at the edge of the booth, by Judy.


This whole business of drinking night after night has made Evens thirsty. Bill notices Chick’s glass of beer is empty. Bill says—in a wholehearted way, “Come on let’s get another round,” he is smiling, waves the waitress over—

“As long as the glass is cold, and the beer is cold, I like it,” say Evens.

These two bars is a place for the neighbourhood boys to drink at, seemingly it always has been; they are drunks and they don’t even know it, at such a young age too. Chick is but nineteen-years old, Ace is twenty-nine, and Jackie is his age and Doug perhaps five years older, and Roger is Doug’s age, thereabouts. From the looks of things, should a bystander take note, the so called Donkeyland Neighbourhood Gang, so named by the police, the Cayuga Street neighbourhood, in essence, one would think they were all weaned from the cradle to the grave at these two bars, on beer.

Inside the Mt. Airy bar, is an inexorable dampness, greyness to it, it reeks (The Great Northern Railroad is down and under the Jackson Street Bridge, just outside the bar, you can hear the trains coming and going now and then. On the other side of the bridge are the warehouses). The jukebox is playing “I’m Sorry,” by Brenda Lee, it was playing something by Jack Scott, previously, and Elvis of course was played a half dozen times along with Rick Nelson, and the Beatles. Most all the males in the bar have their shirtsleeves rolled up, past their elbows. Some are chewing—whatever—a nosy veracious crowd, but more under control than Bram’s across the street—there, there is a pool table; some of the boys will shift bars later on, as will those in Bram’s.

The waitress is in her forties, has a shabby apron on, the Italian owner is her lover, he’s married, but after they close up the bar, she settles down in his office with him, they’ll not leave until close to three o’clock in the morning.
The jukebox goes louder, a few folks are dancing. The bar is filling up, with smoke, multicolour white to pale faces, Native American faces, copper colour faces, one Mexican, no blacks.


Armpits are starting to smell like fish, old rotting fish, Bill hands Evens his beer, Fran, the waitress, just brought it over.

“Shut the door,” a voice yells, “you’re leaving in the flies!”

That was Larry and his wife Jeannie who had come through the swinging doors. There’s an empty booth alongside Evens, they grab it, everyone shaking hands or hugging one another, as if they hadn’t seen one another for ages.

“Two bottles of beer,” says Larry, he likes bottle beer, as does his wife, she’s Native American, like Jackie her sister, and John St. Clair, their brother.

The neighbourhood factory, “Structural Steel,” its second shift is letting out now, and Jack T, and Dan the Crazy man (pleasingly plump), so he is known—are now walking thorough the bar, Jack is now going with one of Chick’s old girlfriends, a Mexican. Bunches of the neighbourhood boys still work at the factory, and most all of them have at one time or another. Old Charlie, even got Evens a job there once, and then Charlie retired, he was Mexican.

The more people in the bar, the more undecipherable the smell, it weakens the stomach, nauseates it.

“What a sickening job,” says a voice, it seems to come from the area John L and Karin are. John L, had travelled to California with Evens recently, as Jerry Hino had a year back, went to Omaha with Evens, and Ace’s brother Keith, had went to Seattle with him; all wanting to rush back to the neighbourhood but, Keith.

The only relief from the squeezing smells in the bar, is to leave the bar for fresh air, so, Evens picks himself up, excuses himself, he hears the collective voices, the motors and horns coming as he opens the bar doors, that faces Sycamore and Jackson Streets. His ears clear out all the deformed thick noises. His memory fades from all the prominent cheekbones, dead looking, red-eyed drunks, all those drowsy looking bodies, that had clustered around him, and everyone one else.

He lights up his 60th cigarette for the day. He sees the accumulated garbage along the side of the bar, in the street. The music from the bar jukebox mingles with the live band across the street. He sees Sonny playing the guitar (Sonny had taught him a thing or two about finger picking, in his younger days: and that’s not all that long ago. He also played for a short time with one of the national Rock and Roll bands)

The door to Bram’s is wide open, he can see his older brother Mike, drunker than a skunk, sitting at the bar—his elbows leaning on the bar, his back to him. He throws the butt onto the sidewalk, buries it under his heel. He had sucked it down to a half inch, a Lucky Strike.

He thinks: why don’t I leave, and never come back?

He thinks: I have dreams, other than drinking myself to death here in the two dives. I want to go to San Francisco. (But he really wants to travel the whole world, and get a college degree, and write poetry, and books but he doesn’t say this, because he’s from this neighbourhood and people would think he’s insane, and can such things really be possible? I mean, are these dreams not for the other person, not really for folks like him; but only time will tell. But perhaps he’s willing to wait, even if it takes a life time. He doesn’t know all this remember; only I do—now looking back.)

He watches the circle of foam from a pitcher of beer being carried to a table of five people at Bram’s. He sees an old man vomiting alongside the bar. He sees cars in the parking lot disappearing into the night of the gibbous moon.

He thinks: We’re all frightened to go away; constrained by our minds. Defeated before we’ve even tested life; and then we grow old. A thousand times we say: if only.

The music on the jukebox is playing a sad song, “Lonely Street,” by Rick Nelson. His world grows quiet, more intense—he looks inside the bar, stink, armpit smells, more beer being passed from one hand to another, garbage on the floor, smoke clouds are settling overhead like cobwebs throughout the bar, the same images every night—this weekend night.

This bar is a can of worms, he tells himself, a brain twister, but he walks back inside: as if it was home; although he doesn’t say that, but if he listens to his second self, he’ll know the truth, and the truth is, it’s not home (although the devil would like him to think so), it’s just a dive, and that he will have to learn quick, because time is concentrated in the moment; and life is short at best: and dreams do come true, if you have a plan, prayer, and if you work it, and have patience.


No: 631 (12-11-2010)
Dedicated to the Donkeyland Gang

Spanish Version

(Versión en Español)

Una historia de San Pablo, Minnesota, USA

Una Noche en La Cantina

((Basado en experiencias reales de 1968) (una historia de Chick Evens))



El domo de la iglesia se pierde en la oscuridad, los árboles en el cementerio adyacente, cruzando la calle Jackson, solo pueden ser vistos por las fugaces luces de los carros. La neblina ha blanqueado los árboles. Todos están en la esquina de los bares, Bram y Mount Airy. Chick Evens se endereza, coge un cigarrillo, una brisa suave llena la atmósfera, mientras él sube lentamente la calle Sycamore, voltea y mira hacia la esquina donde están los bares.

Unos cuantos buses acelerados pasan por él, pero pronto se pierden una vez que voltean la esquina—él nota unas cuantas caras negras en el bus, caras que parecen mirar con odio (talvez sean los tiempos, él piensa)

Él escucha voces viniendo de ambos bares, la música está bien alta. Él abre sus ojos más, inclina su cuello hacia atrás, su estómago está un poco indigesto por la borrachera que tuvo anoche. Un taxi llega y se detiene en frente del bar Bram, parece que son Nancy, David, Carol y Rockwater.

Ahora parado en medio de las dos puertas del bar Mount Airy, él puede oír los continuos ruidos de la calle que está detrás de él. Él, mirando a través de las puertas de vaivén al estilo del oeste, nota que hay algunas caras conocidas en el bar; piensa que hubiera sido mejor venir más tarde cuando haya más gente, pero él ahora está aquí. Él se dirige al baño, se peina y se lava la cara, él ha estado bebiendo ya medio día, en la casa de Jerry Hino, a media milla de la iglesia (él estuvo jugando casino con Jerry y Jim (hermano de Jerry), también con Mike Gulf y Betty (esposa de Jerry) quien tenía que alimentar a sus hijos, por eso el decidió dejarlos)

Él sale del baño con su casaca sobre su brazo, su amigo Allen está en una de las esquinas del bar, él, al verlo, mueve su cabeza; es decir, ambos mueven sus cabezas en señal de reconocimiento del otro. Bill y su esposa Judy están en una butaca a su izquierda, Bill acaba de regresar de la Guerra de Vietnam. John St. Clair está en la otra esquina del bar, su enamorada está sola en la otra esquina. Big Ace, quien mide cerca de 2 metros (llamado el maniquí del barrio), no tiene dientes y pesa noventa y cinco kilos, es diez años mayor que todos, o algo por ahí, no es tan brillante, él está sentado cerca a Doug cantando su canción rara: “veinticuatro pájaros negros horneados en un pastel”, luego él se olvida del resto de la canción, como siempre lo hace, y continúa con el episodio de tarareos, como si perdido dentro de su propia cabeza, casi bailando en su banca, golpeando el piso con sus pies.

Doug y Ace están sentados en medio del asiento en forma de herraje del bar, como casi todos, bebiendo cerveza, parecería que una fiesta de cerveza estaba llevándose a cabo, pero en realidad es una cosa normal de todos los días, y la diferencia con los fines de semana, es que todos se embriagan más. El bar no es mucho más que una cantina, no, es exactamente eso, una cantina. Chick Evens se siente un poco mareado, pero él sabe que con un poco más de cerveza él se sentirá bien, de todas formas, eso lo pondrá bien. Mientras pide una cerveza, se lo toma todo y su dolor de cabeza desaparece. Él pasa su mano sobre su frente, como para secar el sudor de cerveza de éste.

La peor cosa para Evens es que se había gastado casi todo su dinero excepto por un dólar, comprando cerveza en la casa de Hino. Él no está seguro de cómo llegará por la noche, pero siempre hay alguien para comprarle una cerveza a un amigo del barrio. Él es bueno para eso, se dice a sí mismo.

Él oye la voz de Doug, lejos, muy lejos, o eso parece; Doug está saliendo con Jackie, la ex enamorada de Evens. Ahora se une a Bill y Judy, él sabe que puede prestarse unos cuantos dólares de Bill se llegara a necesitarlo. La ventana del lado muestra un poco de luz de luna, todo alrededor es un cielo oscuro, y él cae a propósito, en el suave sofá, al filo de la butaca, cerca de Judy.

Este asunto entero de beber noche tras noche hizo que Evens estuviera sediento. Bill se da cuenta que el vaso de Evens está vacío y dice, de una manera amigable y sincera, “Vamos, tomemos otra vuelta”, él sonríe mientras hace señas a la mesera para que se acerque.

“Mientras que el vaso esté frío, y la cerveza fría, me gusta”, dice Evens.

Estos dos bares son un lugar para que los muchachos del barrio beban, aparentemente siempre lo fue; ellos están tan borrachos que incluso no lo saben, a tan temprana edad también. Chick tiene sólo diecinueve años, Ace tiene veinte, Jackie es de su edad, y Doug talvez es cinco años mayor, y Roger, es de la edad de Doug, o aproximadamente. Por lo que parecen las cosas, si un espectador tomara nota, la tan llamada pandilla del barrio llamado la Tierra de los Burros, nombrado así por la policía al barrio de la calle Cayuga; es decir, uno pensaría que todos estaban acostumbrados a beber cerveza en estos dos bares, desde la cuna hasta la tumba.

Dentro del Bar Mount Airy, hay una humedad inevitable, es sombrío y apesta (El Gran Ferrocarril del Norte pasa debajo del Puente de la calle Jackson, justo afuera del bar, tú puedes oír a los trenes yendo y viniendo de vez en cuando. Al otro lado del puente están los depósitos). La caja musical está tocando “Lo siento” de Brenda Lee, previamente estuvo tocando algo de Jack Scott, y por supuesto, la música de Elvis fue tocada una media docena de veces junto con la de Rick Nelson y los Beatles. La mayoría de los hombres en el bar tienen dobladas las mangas de sus camisas por encima de sus codos. Algunos están masticando—cualquier cosa—una multitud bulliciosa, pero más en control que en el bar Bram, que está al frente de la calle—allí, allí hay una mesa de billar; algunos de los muchachos cambiarán de bar más tarde, así como aquellos del bar Bram lo harán.
La mesera tiene como cuarenta años y tiene puesto un gastado mandil; el dueño, un italiano, es su amante. Él está casado, pero luego que cierran el bar, ella se queda en su oficina con él y no salen hasta cerca de las tres de la mañana.

La caja musical suena más fuerte, algunos están bailando; el bar está llenándose con humo, hay caras multicolores desde blanco hasta pálidos, caras de indios americanos, caras de color de cobre, una mexicana, no hay negros.

Las axilas están empezando a apestar como a pescado, pescado podrido, Bill le alcanza a Evens una cerveza, Fran, la mesera, lo acaba de traer.

“Cierra la puerta”, una voz grita, “¡estás dejando entrar a las moscas!”

Eran Larry y su esposa Jeannie que entraron por la puerta vaivén. Hay un sitio vacío al lado de Evens, ellos lo agarran, todos se dan la mano o se abrazan unos a otro, como si no se hubieran visto por años.

“Dos botellas de cerveza”, dice Larry, a él le gusta la cerveza en botella, como también le gusta a su esposa, ella es una americana india, al igual que su hermana Jackie, y John St. Clair, su hermano.

La fábrica del barrio, “Acero Estructural”, está dejando salir a su segundo turno ahora, y Jack T y Dan “El Loco” (un gordito), o así se le conoce, están ahora atravesando el bar. Jack ahora está saliendo con una de las ex enamoradas de Chick, una mejicana. Un montón de los muchachos del barrio todavía trabajan en la fábrica, y la mayoría lo hizo alguna vez. El viejo Charlie, incluso le consiguió a Evens un trabajo allí, y luego Charlie se jubiló, él era un mejicano.

Cuanto más gente en el bar, más difícil de descifrar el olor, éste debilita el estómago, lo enferma.

“Qué trabajo tan asqueroso”, dice una voz, ésta parece venir de donde están John L y Karin. John L recientemente había viajado a California con Evens, como Jerry Junior lo hizo un año atrás, yendo a Omaha con Evens, y el hermano de Ace, Keith, había ido a Seattle con él; todos, menos keith, querían volver apresuradamente a su barrio.

La única liberación del pesado olor del bar, es dejar el bar para tomar aire fresco; así, Evens se levanta, se disculpa y sale, él oye las voces colectivas, los motores y bocinas que entran mientras las puertas del bar que dan a las calles Sycamore y Jackson, se abren. Sus oídos dejan de escuchar esos ruidos fuertes deformados. De su memoria se esfuman todas las mejillas prominentes, miradas de muerte, borrachos con ojos rojos, todos esos cuerpos adormilados, que se aglomeraron alrededor de él, y de todos los demás.

Él enciende su cigarrillo número sesenta del día y observa la basura acumulada al costado del bar y en la calle. La música de la caja musical del bar se mezcla con la música en vivo de la banda que está al frente del bar. Él ve a Sonny tocando la guitarra (Sonny, en sus años jóvenes, le enseñó algo de cómo tocar las cuerdas; y eso no es mucho tiempo atrás. Él también tocó por poco tiempo en una de las bandas nacionales de Rock and Roll).

La puerta del bar Bram está abierta ampliamente, él puede ver a su hermano mayor, Mike, más borracho que una cuba, sentado en el bar de espaldas a él, con sus codos recostados. Él arroja el pucho del cigarrillo en la acera y lo aplasta bajo sus talones. Él ha estado fumado un Lucky Strike, hasta dejarlo en un centímetro.
Él piensa: ¿Por qué no me voy de aquí para nunca volver?

Él piensa: tengo sueños, no sólo tomar hasta morir aquí en estas dos cantinas. Quiero ir a San Francisco (pero él realmente quiere viajar por el mundo entero, y obtener una carrera, y escribir poesías y libros, pero él no lo dice, porque él es de este barrio y la gente pensaría que él está loco; y esas cosas, ¿realmente pueden ser posibles? Digo, son estos sueños para otras personas, no realmente para gente como él; pero sólo el tiempo lo dirá. Pero talvez él está dispuesto a esperar, incluso si esto toma toda una vida. Él no sabe todo esto, recuerda, que sólo yo lo sé—ahora que miro atrás)

Él mira al círculo de espuma de una jarra de cerveza que estaba siendo llevada a una mesa de cinco personas en el bar Bram. Él nota a un anciano vomitando al lado del bar, también ve carros en el estacionamiento que desaparecen en la noche de una luna luminosa.

Él piensa: todos tenemos miedo de irnos lejos, estamos condicionados por nuestras mentes, vencidos incluso antes de haber probado vida, y luego nos envejecemos. Miles de veces decimos; si sólo…

La caja musical está tocando una canción triste, “Calle Solitaria” por Rick Nelson. Su mundo crece tranquilo, más intenso. Él mira dentro del bar, éste apesta, hay olor de axilas y más cerveza que pasan de una mano a la otra, hay basura en el piso y las nubes de humo se amontonan por todo el techo del bar como telarañas, las mismas imágenes de esta noche de fin de semana, son todas las noches.

Este bar es una lata de gusanos, se dice a sí mismo, es un cerebro huracanado; pero vuelve a entrar, como si fuera su casa, aunque él no dice eso, pero si él escuchara a su subconsciente, él sabría la verdad, y la verdad es que no es su casa (aunque al demonio le gustaría que lo piense así), es sólo una cantina, y eso él lo tendrá que aprender rápidamente, porque el tiempo está concentrado en el momento; y la vida a lo mejor es corta, y los sueños sí se hacen realidad, si tienes un plan, rezas, y lo llevas a cabo, y tienes paciencia.


No: 631 (11 de diciembre del 2010)
Dedicado a la pandilla de la “Tierra de los Burros”

Letter to the Haitians

Letter to the Haitians
(In Poetic Prose, for the Haitians)

And I heard what the angel said, when he left heaven:

“I am the punisher God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”

And I heard in heaven, a voice says: “Can the blind lead the blind?” and I think he meant that the Haitians have not sought out Godly leaders. “And shall they not all fall into the ditch?” and I think he meant, Haiti has been in that very ditch a very long time “…The disciple is not above his master…cast out first the grin (the smile, the defiance, the arrogance towards the Lord) from the eye and then you see clearly, and then you will see clearly the dirt, that bothers it. Can a bad tree grow good fruit? And a corrupt people expect Godly things?” And I think he meant: are you listening Haiti? For are you not known the world over for your sins, your corruption, and your Voodoo gods? Did not God turn his face from New York City, on September 11, 2001 for America’s disloyalty to God? “I have sent you good men to bring you good treasures, out of the abundance of my heart, but you continue to do evil, blasphemy.” I think he meant, he has sent Christians to preach the Gospel, and food organizations to feed you, and others, yet even they will in time get weary, for there is many things in his warehouse He can send Haiti like He told Job; if indeed, Haiti is stubborn, and needs more pain: perhaps an earthquake, and a great storm and cholera, are just among a few plagues He has in his storeroom, who’s to say, I do know, those he loves the most, he punishes the most to get them back in line “And why call on me to save you when you go to your false gods. Those gods can show you nothing; you are like people who build their homes in quicksand, what do you expect? From evil you want to be well to do more evil, and when your house falls to ruin you wonder why. Go your way and tell your family these things you’ve heard, and you will see the people cleansed, the poor raised. Tell the deaf to listen, the blind to see,” I think he is implying, He has not found so great a faith among the many as he’d like, for they have offended their Creator; and he will leave you as you are, shaken with the wind in the wilderness, and naked…

Dlsiluk (11-13-2010)

Cro-Magnon (a new era, a new story)

Cro-Magnon
(A New Era, a New Story)






By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet, Laureate







The Present:

Falling into a Dream
(Lee Maverick)




The Present
(2016-2020 AD)


The once beautiful starry sky, had merged with black strips mixed with blood red, his eyes were trying to adjust to it all, Lee Maverick (so he called himself)(looking in a broken mirror on the ground, at his appearance. He was middle aged, had been up this point, well kept, nearly all muscle, perhaps 7% fat, close to six foot tall, not as clean shaven as he’d prefer, his hair no longer trimmed, a bit disheveled yet he stood out, he was handsome, not intimidating), a professional tourist, he couldn’t make out much from all the debris scattered all about, and it was dark, dim-grey—yet it was early afternoon, a cloud had closed up the sun, pert near all of the sun’s rays, and there was bone chilling winds coming from the Anarchic, plants and fish from the ocean laying all about. As he had woken up from the rumble that flattened his hotel: an earthquake had taken place, the planet seemed to have wobbled off its axis for a moment also, the crust of the earth seemed to have shifted and recoiled back. He looked about, he could make out the Whitecap Mountains of Tierra del Fuego; he was visiting Ushuaia, a charming city at the end of South America when it happened. This stretch of the mountains, ended at Cape Horn. Everything, the world over, everything looked bleak and inhospitable—this past week, yet he kept to his travels. He had to find a place to stay now, to keep out of the snows, winds and chill, he remembered the old prison that was built in 1902, he had been to Ushuaia before, it was the only structure holding solid ground that he could see, on the upper part of the small city, everything else was demolished.
There was nothing that man could not imagine, that hadn’t taken place that week, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, warfare (with intercontinental missiles pointed at every city over one million population)—everyone knew the war was coming, they just didn’t know when, and nobody was spared its overall destruction. It was a global standoff that had a ripple effect that had taken place—nobody backed down this time—Some folks even talked of aliens being involved, and there were rumors of a new world leader on the rise: it was the new so called World Order, that caused 2.5 billion people to be killed, so he heard over the radio—and the threat was not over, another 600,000 were expected to die from disease, and cholera, starvation, and wounds, etc, all the after-effects of war, its trauma. Perhaps he survived only because he was a tourist, had he been home—back in Minnesota, he’d be dead; theoretically no joke.
Marino the Mayor of the city saw him wandering about and waved, he stood still while he approached. “Follow me,” he said. They walked to the prison (during the first half of the 20th Century, the prison was used for repeated offenders, hard criminals, likened to Devil’s Island, where escape was near impossible, and where would one go if one had? You were at the end of the world), down one of the corridors the two men went, in silence, to one of the side rooms; in the room were several young women, a fire in the middle of the room, a window allowing the smoke to escape, two women were drawing and writing on the wall, in one of the corners, they turned around to see who had entered, the tall one said, “Were just writing to let people know we were here in case—you know what I mean,” and she turned about and continued while the other shorter woman had a piece of white chalk, and she drew lines around her hand, leaving an imprint on the wall. The other four or five women, young women, sat around the fire in the centre, a mattress to one side with a rope tied from one side of the large prison enclosure (or room), used to hold several men at one time, and a blanket, was thrown over that, blocking the vision of the mattress; some fish was being cooked, it looked as if they had gone back to the days of Cro-Magnon, “It starts here,” he said, “wait a minute,” furthermore, he added, “You must impregnate all those you can, even if there is a genetic change because of the forthcoming fallout, who’s to say, what will become of us, if we don’t prepare? This is the only way we’ll survive, if they are all with child the strongest will survive, even if only one.”
The girl called Sandra kept her eye on Lee Maverick; she was wearing a Navy blue skirt, that went only to her knees, a white blouse, she looked seventeen, Lee thought, and moved about as if to attract him with her body, and smile, she was cute, a little pretty, “How does she look?” questioned the Mayor, handing Lee the key to the room…
“She looks fine,” said Lee.
She arranged everything as she knelt down by Lee, carefully taking one item of her close off at a time and placing her close neatly to the side. The last item she put under his pillow. Behind her in the room, the other girls were waiting, and they had selected Tamarind to be next.
“Do you have any idea how to do what we are going to do?” asked Lee Maverick.



Sandra, of Ushuaia




She lay down beside him, naked. “Where do these come from?” she asked; feeling the weight of it, measuring its enormous circumference with her fingers.
“Don’t ask me, Miss Sandra,” said Lee, staring at her rounded and hard breasts, as she stared at him, saying “It looks like it just can’t be helped.”
Sandra turned her back to Lee, looked around the blanket, she could see through the window, it was getting darker, it got dark quick these days, and she disliked the dark because—invariably because she cold no longer evade it.
When she opened her eyes, she held her eyelids open as long as she could—she wished she was asleep, she stretched out her legs, she wanted to curse the times, she shouted at Lee, “Is that all you can find to do!” She did not look at Lee. Lee slid down and over the mattress, the blanket over their legs, were hanging over the mattress on the cold floor. Perspiration began to trickle down her neck as soon as he stopped.
“I’m not going to tell a lie about this,” she said, “but I hate it,” she told Lee, and Lee just sat on his knees and merely looked, “The baby will be mine,” she said, “I am her mother,” she added, “There is no reason why you should pretend not to be sentient about his, continue please.” She didn’t want to say that, or think, but she wondered how such tings happened. She made him happy now, and thereafter Lee fell into a long sleep, and started dreaming, as Sandra got up…


Interlude


Neanderthals the Neanderthals (33,000 BC to 22,000 BC), brains one-fifth larger than humans, taller than the average human perhaps six feet five inches, and a lot stronger than the Cro-Magnons, actually, in comparison, quite intimidating, they were all muscle; perhaps smarter again than the Cro-Magnons, whom were puny in comparison, and had they not acquired their genetic makeup from the Neanderthals through interbreeding, they perhaps never would have been considered nor selected for a higher position in the: natural selection, category (it would seem in retrospect, something went wrong back there, back then, perhaps this story will shed some light on the matter—not always is the strongest looking and smartest acting, the chosen one).


Stone tools and weapons


(The Neanderthal roamed from Western and Central Europe, to the Balkans into Ukraine, and into Siberia, all the way back to Gibraltar, all across the Mediterranean to Israel, 100,000 BC, leaving behind his skulls, and jaw bones, grinding stone tools, and weapons, for man to find, when man emerged from whom he once was into full official homo sapiens. He was the brute of the bunch, interbreeding took place, with not only Cro-Magnons, but with humans, those of the higher race, at 8700 BC, thereafter appeared a third species of man, as there would appear in 4500 BC, a supernatural species of man. But the Neanderthal, as cruel and crude, as he was, he did not have the predisposition for homosexuality, nor was it a genetic factor, it is a leaned behavior, one that would be taught by the Watchers in due time. The Watchers (or aliens), would become quite infamous for their raw sex with animals, and men, and take the wives and daughters of men within their domain, and impregnate them at will. This new kind of species produced the legendary giants called the Titans. Ones the Greeks would immolate with their preference of sex take into interest men with men, and of course their homosexuality deserts, and within the Greek Isles, lesbianism would prosper likewise.)




Lee Maverick in a state of Dreaming





The Cave



The Neanderthal man



In a cave-walled room, two Cro-Magnons were drawing pictures on the cave wall, the room was packed with observing young people in their teens, all casually watching, as if they were attending something new, unusual, instead of the dry old looks from their predecessors (the Neanderthals) of not being able to adjust to change, resistant to change. The two teachers were now showing how to draw the action of the animals, in curved lines, even a tinge of perspective—that is: angles and vantage points, scribble lines on white. The young Cro-Magnons stood slumped with sagged shoulders, as they stood in a half circled group.
Squatting in the back of the room, the old ruler with a horde of aging and dying out male Neanderthals, a few young male Neanderthals, and several young females around them, all quite sexually active as was the nature of their kind, perhaps three fold compared to their successors (and behind them, a few old chimps staring silently, holding onto their toes with their fingers), the old leader was now pointing his finger in the air, implying to the younger Cro-Magnons, and his older horde, he didn’t like the changing of times. That he wanted to go back, if not remain in the old way of life—the old lifestyle they had all known—were familiar with, his brain not being able to be activated to accept this change of behavior, a closed and fearful mind to a new and opening future, an era at its beginning.
The youngest of the group, those were the half-breeds, the Neanderthals and the Cro-Magnons who had similar genes—these were the ones feeling surprised, that the older ones did not accept the new ways, or could not accept them—the new tools they invented and now the two Cro-Magnons drawing the pictures on the cave wall, concluded in a small way times had change, and perhaps more to come, but to two Cro-Magnons, allowed the old ones to remain isolated from the changing times—if that is what they wished, to promote social harmony, and group cohesion. They knew these knew controversial ideas, now to be conventional ideas, would be in a short while the whole group’s way of thinking, and familiar once the old generation died out.
The old generation perhaps didn’t agree with the people—not in particular because of the drawings, although they were part of the issue—nor even the new tools they made, but because they saw recklessness about the Cro-Magnons behavior, their ways: why did they drive herds of animals off cliffs, to kill many for a few to eat? And now their behavior was causing—seemingly causing—the extinction of a number of species.
They didn’t know, the Cro-Magnons did not know, and surely the Neanderthals, didn’t, the new gene that appeared to have fallen in place within the Cro-Magnons, was in essence creating stability and would lead to the making of civilizations, conventional, hence, like it or not, the conservative gene was now in place, yet the audience sat silent in the back of the cave, stunned by the art work, the changing of the times. Finally the leader—we shall call him—Nas Oinotna out of reason, he was the warrior, right or wrong, he would have rather been left in the wild, but said in his own way (and I shall modify it in plain English)
“You Tall One, all this is what?”
And this would start the first debate on change.
“We need to leave our handprints, so our kind will know we were!” said the tall one of the two teachers.
“Tall One, that’s terrible!”
“If we don’t, it is suicide for our kind!”
“I don’t remember it,” the old man said, he had forgotten what the issue was, but the Tall One, he replied, “It might be considered a reminder for your children what your hands looked like, and what the animals looked like when there were more kinds of animals—when you area long dead.”
Now there were groans in the book of the room.
“Argh!” said one of the people behind the Nas Oinotna.
“What’s wrong will telling those after us, we were?” said the Short One, standing by the tall one.
“Nobody really wants to trouble themselves with such foolishness; we’re all rugged individuals, who want to think of ourselves as part of nature, not separate from it,” said Nas. The old Neanderthal had a hard time trying to focus on the material at hand. It might have seemed, had anyone had knowledge of genetics, Nas’ frontal cortex, could not activate because it could not find within the brain, a gene to activate the action of straight and divisive ideas, new issues that might lead to future harmony, he did not have a warm flush to his appearance. Actually the young ones now standing about were showing a preference for the teachers thinking of becoming like him, like them. Not even given the respect of looking back at the elders; completely in agreement with the new thinking, a new stability for them—perhaps something leading to something bigger.
It was a fact, pert near all the host had been of one mind, until the integration—how this all came about they didn’t know, but in truth, everyone does want to fit in, and so the old ones, silently agreed, to stop their complaints for change, this all was something exciting and desirable for the young ones.
“All right,” said Nas “let it be as you wish, even if it is not so good.”
The one behind Nas, the one that said “Argh,” and we now shall call him ‘Agro’ for short, said frowning, holding up his right hand, “Back up, this is the way you want to live, no us,” embracing the shoulder of Nas, “You can’t make us belong to this new kind of thinking!” And although Nas wanted to agree and say that, he didn’t and for a good reason, he knew he was old, who would feed him, and Agro, was not young or old, and could feed himself for many years yet.
“I don’t want to fit in, I don’t want to be like everyone, I want to stand out, and I want to fight, argue…!” He felt safer by expressing his opinion, and Nas felt nearly everyone else didn’t agree with him, but he was still a good person, and he felt good by saying what he had to say, it made Nas uncomfortable not saying what he felt.
Agro, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the entrance of the cave, “I go, I think the way I think. No new surprises, no distress. In the world out there, nothing is changing, in here everything is. In here everyone wants to be comfortable, warm, happy, and friendly.” And his conversation babble on a while longer, just repeating in circles the same conversation (because of a limited vocabulary), until there were several others standing by him, a furious rebellion was taking place, in the end, Agro left with half the Neanderthals.

Only time would tell if this would turn out to be a genetic disorder, meaning, had all the Neanderthals left, perhaps there would not be a genetic anomaly in this scenario: it was this group that left, who no longer felt, desired to join the majority, conceivable this wasn’t a disorder, but the Neanderthals would die out, and this gene would be carried forward, and in future time have to be harnessed. These rebels were not of the like mined people, a potential genetic disorder, in time—so it would be called, from the people who felt independence from the surrounding majority, was in it, to be considered pathological behavior. Perhaps put into the category of compulsive behavior, surely not positive behavior. Of course this was a time sociability was not the norm, standards had not yet come into place, and although getting along was a necessity, it was not always the case, and surely in due time, extinction of the race would take place, in both species if one or the other didn’t change..
And so it became.


One Year Later


The old warrior died, a year later, after that meeting, no one knew what of, but he spiked a fever of over 105, and had there been a doctor on hand, he might have said there was a multiple organ system failure, he was sick for several days. This was in a way, a shattering experience for the group, he was the elder, and he had cared for the young ones, beloved by them, perhaps shown now more than before, as often it is. He was during those last months a little ray of sunshine, whenever he came into the cave. Somehow he felt he had to take the risk of being more a part of the group, than being head of the group, if that was what they wanted. They wanted a new life, how then could he deny them the chance, so he told himself, and he put his hands onto the wall, and the Tall One, painted around his fingers and hand, and they told the old man, “We are sending this handprint to the future, people will see it, what does that tell you?”
Nas, sighed. And soon after that event, his liver shut down, his body swelled, turned into a gray color. And he stopped breathing. It took him days to die. They gave him a moment of silence.
This was—for the most part—a most hazardous and pioneer stage for mankind, an era that had to be passed; an outrageous era indeed, but a courageous time in the undocumented scriptures of humankind, a time individuals had to take risks, like the Tall One, and all the rules from the past were broken. As the Tall One thought, ‘What greater punishment would his sons and daughters face, had he not drawn those first pictures on the cave walls,’ it now would lead into ethical rules. Perhaps he saw in the old man’s eyes, pain and hope; whatever the case, he would not stand in judgment of him that was for sure, not like Agro was. Agro had created the concept of: them and us. Although with the old man gone, the cave was now quiet.

The Cro-Magnon
The New Gene



The Tall One, something took place within his grandchild, a single strand of DNA, and with a more condensed structure, showed up, unavailable to the normal cell. Why did it change, or how did it come about. Perhaps the someway everything comes about. Had someone had access to inject new cells into him? Of course not, but it happened nonetheless, and it was bound to be important, and The Tall One, saw something in all this. We may fill in the gaps later, but from the standing point of the Tall One, mankind as he knew it, could smile on the future, “I, uh…” he commented to his little grandson, he had inherited his changes, plus, something had taken place within his grandchild’s system, it was as if a gene had switched off to enhance the working of another gene itself, that then separated itself from those genes around it.
How was all this possible? It was like there had been a hidden force above the clouds, struck with boredom and wanting mankind to reach a certain stage faster, so they could come down and play longer, a certain species, race perhaps, thinking early man was no more than pet. Thus, they were home-rearing the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnons, to a more intelligential species, to have a greater capacity to become more than a mere human primate, beyond the chimpanzee stage, they had now mastered one-hundred words, what was long in coming, was now coming faster and faster (perhaps something lost, now regained). Indeed, his grandchild would need more stimulation then he, and become the guardian, and heir of something grander in the scheme of things.
The grandchild had begun talking early on, taken out of that old solitary confinement state that lasted year after year after year and he quickly learned his one-hundred word vocabulary, and started naming others things, to build that vocabulary to 150-words.
At first it was an observation, now it was a reality. One of the things The Tall One had learned from his grandson was ‘self awareness’ he recognized himself, in the reflection of water, it was a mirror, as the boy had pointed out one early morning, splashing water and looking and splashing and then the Tall One wanted to see what exactly he was looking at, only to find out, he was looking at himself. And it seemed to him, that was exactly that. And now he gave him a specific name, Owl, for he stared into nothingness, like an owl on a branch, but the boy was always thinking.


Owl’s Manual


The Tall One had died, and Owl was now a full grown person, he had built his vocabulary to five-hundred words, he had trouble with verb tenses, but he had nobody to teach him, he repeated his new words—and his kind grew stronger in linguistics, and there was of course no one to say he was in error. Owl’s assistant, his helper in teaching his kind symbols and language, he called Rove, because he had found him wondering in the open plains, brought him home, he had been of the tribe that branched out from the long dead, Agro—he seemed to have a different dialect, but was aware of many things, as someone had taught him on the side, the things the Tall One, was teaching his horde, with it, one might have even thought, Rove, was a transgenic, a hybrid, from those aliens behind the clouds, he was sharper than Owl, and Owl was amazed at the promptness he could put things together. Would the teacher soon be taught by the student? Man was developing and his genetic pool was enlarging at the same time.
There were these splits that were taking place, and very rapidly, not over millions of year either as one might expect, these genetic differences were evolving rapidly, in hereditary terms, perhaps within a ten-thousand year period, realizing ordinary such changes would take longer, but sexual preference can and did produce rapid genetic change; that is to say, from one stage to the other for humanity’s sake; between the Chimps or apes, and the Neanderthal, and perhaps the same between the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon (in a like manner, it would seem once looked at closely, and perhaps more sensed than understood: the world, the earth I mean and all living things on the earth and the earth itself or the planet, shares an fundamental agreement with all life around them, we are all more polarized—to one another than we think, genetically and nature wise. And this sharing goes back thousands of years. )


Interlude


If you could have talked to Rove, who would become in time the wise leader of both sects, his home had been near the Black Sea, and Owl’s from the French European side, and if you could read his symbolism on those cave walls, it all would have given you a familiar story, one they lived—but could not express fully, that their ancestors roamed these areas 24,000 BC, ten-thousand years before them, and lived a very long time in rock shelters, they might admit they were homo sapiens in the making and Neanderthals of the past; but they’d had preferred to be called, early humans, that it took a long while to get to this stage perhaps because of the infections and battles they had with one another, this, trouble with fused vertebrae in their necks, coming from traumatic injuries, and the adult females lived with skull fractures, and perhaps a little mental retardation. Owl, and Rove, was learning they would never live to tell their story, so they handed it down to their children, put it on the walls, and in creating tools and weapons. There structure was similar to Metazoans (animals in general), and if one was to push it, perhaps not much different than humans and aliens, you know, those beings behind the clouds—whatever, and whomever they were, and whatever they were doing, and maybe they were working on experiments, who’s to say, a little genetic narrowing in regions in addition to regions that explicitly code for protein, and if one could regulate these, modify them, use as a pattern in creating a smarter species—it would help evolution out—push it forward at an excessive speed.
The question comes up, or may come up, or perhaps did come up at this juncture if indeed there were these beings behind the clouds, if they really were trying to produce, or enhance the human species, could they hybridize to be made human-zee. In other words, could they put on the shell of the human body, to live in breathe-breathing, oxygen world like humans, especially, if they themselves could live thousands of years? Were they trying this? Trying to create a better human being and then insert their genes directly into them, or into an embryo, that would produce a child like them. Beings that could not have children: a dying race?



Rove’s Legacy


So now they had communication, and a tinge of language, the genes of speech were intact, and the voice box had been for a very long time, simply inactive. All this seemed to be happening over night, someone knew something, and Rove knew someone knew this something he didn’t know about him and his race, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he looked in the sky a lot, saw things that looked suspicious—what he didn’t know was that some genes are activated environmentally inside of humans, which activate other genes when activated, thus the worm remains a worm, yet is not all that different genetically than man; put a different way, there are multiple coding sequences involved. But he knew somebody was up yonder, looking down, but who could it be, and what were they up to?



Saber-tooth Tiger



Owl had grown very old, and all those before him had died, now walking outside his cave, a saber-toothed tiger, leaped—seemingly out of nowhere—leaped upon him, bit his head off, chewed his flesh as he kicked about, and Rove could hear the crunching of bones.
The natural world was still alive, hungry, although the attacks were less frequent and the large cats no longer roamed freely like they had at one time—some fifteen-thousand years prior (an end of another age), leaving in the memory of all (genetically perhaps) that they brought man to his knees, at which time, mankind came to the edge of extinction (perhaps 2000-of his species left)—long, long ago—but for the most part, they were normal attacks still.


The Legend &
Legacy (The Great Gap)



Advance: starlight: a man can see by starlight, just as well as by moonlight, if he takes the time and now man was about to experience this: that is, a change in light, a change, perhaps a transgenic change, the idea was to introduce a new trait, not that anyone in particular wanted it to happen, but now was the time for it to happen if indeed it was going to take place at all. Environmental conditions were changing. This was to be the new image for mankind, a richer one perhaps, and more critical, more reliable; consequently, new genes would flow through the new now generations, and into darkness this new intelligence would take this new opportunity, to advance: and with the old Neanderthal and new cultivated intellectual genes, a more crude and cultureless people came about, drifted deeper into the labyrinth of ruin. Evils became ingrained over time, saturated the earth’s environment.


Fortress and Citadel of the East


There was now to be, a great disturbance, a king from the east, had started a legend, of a man who talked to the clouds, and the man in the clouds, talked back, and rumor said, he was in the lands of where the roots of the old Sumerian kings once ruled, and he sent out men to find this place, yet he could not, this was King Dadasig, of the second dynasty of Kish, who ruled 201-years. The population during those far-off days, let’s say, at about 8700 BC, was perhaps close to one million, a thousand years more, at 7200 BC, Jordon would boast 120,000 population, and at the Great Flood between 4500 to 3600 BC, perhaps nine-million. But at this juncture what was taking place was this: a new form of human had been created, one that showed all the signs of a highly intellectual individual, one that walked in harmony with nature and its creator, talked to the animals. In a location (now, Iraq), no one could find, yet it would seem in their own backyard. And then it came to pass, this location became desolate, and the two who came out of it, the female and the male, split up for 130-years, and she gave birth to a new generation, and so did he, and so did their offspring, thus, a new hybrid of human was in the makings, what took place outside of that location, produced inside those early humans, a master gene, that would in time, enhance every embryo on earth. It would be, the legacy of those two humans, yet there was a pure bloodline also. This was the legend that the king was after, and its legacy, he could never quite put his finger on.


But as time went on:


The Watchers
And the Giants
(or those behind the Clouds)


There came also a time—thereafter, when this gene pool was again infected—a few more thousand years down the road, when those beings behind those clouds came down to earth, genetically put on flesh: how they did this is still in question, and mingled with earth’s inhabitants—cohabitating with the human females. This produced deformed beings, half human, and half supernatural, giants, and animalistic looking creatures, they even mingled with animals: aliens in flesh. If we were to look at historical documents, we could proceed to review the books of Enoch, read the old scriptures of Gilgamesh, go to the land known as the Plateau of Bashan, where King Og, once ruled the last of the Rephaim, and its Giants. To each legend, if one looks deep enough, he or she will find where the truth resides. Giant human bones have been found, so this is no mystery, and aliens seem not to be so far fetched nowadays, it’s all unfolding in front of us, no more of the hush, hush dilemma that it once was. We seemingly just can’t put the finger on anything, although our focus is getting better. But whatever the case, these beings infected again the inhabitants of earth, and the earth rejected this, and that fellow, who did all the talking from the clouds, was no longer talking to anymore to anybody other than a few select prior to His Great Flood, which was soon to take place, that wiped out nearly the whole human race, although there were those that were left—of what nature I don’t know, but left for what, to perhaps show those who came from the loins of Noah, and King Og, humanity was taking a new turn.





Pre Adamic
(They were who they were)


The split between the old Neanderthal and the new Neanderthal, came about 90,000 BC (which produced today’s modern homo sapiens), as the Cro-Magnons came into existence between 27, 000 to 23,000 BC, whereupon, another split took place. But if we were to go back to the Pre Adamic age, the age where another race came to its end, and at that point gave birth to the Neanderthal, that would put the face of man, back onto the earth—oh, not like it was, but similar, we must go back to perhaps 600,000 to 350,000 BC, who’s to really say. But something took place back then, something nobody has been able to explain completely, total. But had you talked to those walls, picked up those bones, listened to the legends, you might have come up with, the truth, and perhaps it went something like this: somewhere in the past man had built a kingdom, perhaps pleural, it was the Pre Adamic age, actually, it was just before that age, because after that age, is when a degeneration took place among the living beings on earth, a collapse, which produced the Neanderthal. Before this, the brain of man was much larger, as we see in the Neanderthal vs. modern man.


The Mask and the Sword


There were kings of the earth back in those long forgotten days, 241,198 BC, the first being Alulim, then Alagar, and Enmeenluanna, and there was a great flood in those days, and kingship was send down form on high, a being that was light, and controlled half the solar system, thus, he controlled earth, until he tried to take control of the Universe, and then all the kings that were before him, and after him were cursed, into morbid despondencies, to roam the earth in hopelessness. Death was not yet created, as we know it; and those who did die physically, lived in an invisible mist, and called ghosts, until, the great Gap, the legacy.



The Present:

Awakening from the Dream
(Lee Maverick)





Tamarind, of Ushuaia



When Lee Maverick woke up from his sleeping and dreaming mode, he stood up, Sandra had left, and he saw Tamarind coming around the corner of the blanket, swinging her purse, her cheeks were chilled from the outside winds, likened to red apples. Over her shoulder her girlfriend, Sandra stood and smiled, Tamarind said with a smile, “You’ve been sleeping for several hours,” her face was flushed, and a few of the other girls were pacing as if they were on a cow path in the large room. “I was afraid to wake you up,” she said, she even looked younger than Sandra. Now Sandra was walking slowly backwards. The whole world seemed to be caving in on Lee, and for that matter, everyone, and here he was having sex, and about to have more with everyone around the fire in the center of the room.
No one tried to stop Tamarind; you could hear the winds coming in from the west, for the Tierra Del Forgo Mountains, down into the Drake Passage, and Cape Horn. He didn’t know what Tamarind was going to do, she came to him slowly, as he laid back down, she jumped over him, he pushed the blanket aside, and she was certain she could hear his heart beating, she was a bit frightened, not quite knowing what to do, but trying to pretend she did.
His breath was becoming slower she noticed, as he rose and fell, her body trembling, as was her lips, but then it all stopped.
“Please don’t keep your body so rigid,” said Lee Maverick to her.
She continued looking at him wile he tried to make love to her, trying to think of something to tell her. “I’ve got to be with you,” she said, “I know that,” clutching the mattress tightly.”
“Should I stop?” he asked.
“No, I can’t let you do that,” she replied. She turned her head as if to look around the blanket covering both of them, hanging over a rope in the big room, to see if any of her girlfriends were watching, and said nothing as there was a deepening feeling inside of her.
“Actually, I have been waiting for several hours thinking about this,” she released her hands staring at Lee, into the darkness of the room, “I know this will be short, but I want to remember it, please kiss me.”
“Please,” she begged, “please,” but Lee Maverick had already been kissing her; she was lost into the ecstasy of the moment. She was running swiftly with her feelings. Lee could force her to stop, it was for humanity, this event was taking place, but why stop he told himself, if he didn’t he wouldn’t know what to say to her. And he did not mind so much the pleasure, even if it was simply immediate-gratification, and no more than that.



End



And God said to Enoch, “Write all this down, all you have seen in your visions, all human history, for a remembrance!” And Enoch did as he was told, he wrote this all down in 365 books, and told the story of mankind from his beginning to its end, in detail, and that was that. And these books are kept in a secret place, for future reference.




No: 712 (11-08, 9, & 10-2010)

Fargo-Moorhead (Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Fargo-Moorhead

(Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Author Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., who used to visit the Fargo-Moorhead area quite often in the 1980s, remembers when he published his first book, and the Fargo-Moored Sunday Forum, did a little announcement on the book, 1982:

From his Biography: "The Other Doork" by, Dennis Siluk, his first book:

“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”—The Sunday ForumFargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]

The author now has published his 45th book, "Stone Heap of the Wildcat" at bn. com; Amazon.com; abe.com and most all internet book dealers.

By Rosa Penaloza