The departmentalized (NO) conservatives "thinkers" advancing war, suffer the most serious disorder. The loath that some ill-people project must be countered by other specialist in various non-politico's theft-circles.

Any medical doctor who did not tell the ill-patient (nation world) they suffer a terminal disease, would not be worth the winter-salt GIVEN to get their family through a harsh, cruel, and miserable winter.

The word 'HEALTH' belongs to a family of words. Consider where the neocons are NOT leading us: Please! not leading to heal, to be made whole, to become wholesome, hale, hallow, and holy.

I am never sure if I wander in my mind off the subject. The body, mind, and inner spirit/soul is a terrible thing to waste.

I'm writing near the shore. Years ago, I purchased a beautiful piece of land. I was viewing NS as an opportunity to be a steward of Land. Also: On ocassion, maybe a family getaways for children, grandchildren, and special guest. We creatures need to find an opportunity for retreats. It is isolated. It calms a dis-eased mind and aids to heal a general rest-lessness, confusion, and personal sense of disorder. I just 'tend' by escaping, walking the seashore, visiting a few neighbors that I've known since the early eighties. Reunion. But then I go home to where my roots and homestead Place is...

...You can love. Love is big. Love is vast. Love once, and ya' get hooked?

A interconnected feel of a distant community is here. It's a sorta' holy

Communion.

_

I bought a bottle of blueberry juice to share with some other groceries. The former "owner" who sold the old grand pappy's seashor homestread was a broke Vietnam Veteran. He needed to impress a lawyer who dressed to a 'T' and wished to have access to America's lands of oppoetunity. She was an alien and John was thinking half'nuts...Any sober person could see?

The land was a 'steal' for me, but it was a fair deal at the time. I'd not sell it. I'd raise ducks and sell double-yoke eggs door to door first. It is way way and waves crash, waters murmur. Gurgle. It's too priceless. Now off the subject? Probally.

My mind flashed back last evening to a memory. I woke from sleep after the Harvest Moon with a deep groan. Gads- Baca ain't here. I'd not bring a dumb steel-pot-hat flopper! Hush.

John Baca (apologies to Medal of Honor recipient Baca) has one of those MOH awards any journalist would prize like a Pulitzer. Nixon and him (trivia) share the same birthday and now Nixon, who bestowed the award, is dead as a rusty doornail.

Following me? Nah!

I remember the poem, 'Courage' by Anne Sexton. She grew up in comfortable surroundings. She was a fashion model, beautiful, but prone to deep bouts of depression, and a few attempts at suicide. Her therapist suggested she write. (To Bedlam and Part Way) and (The Death Notebook). Her life was one of sorrow. One day after lunch with a old friend, Anne Sexton, left the motor of her car-engine running in the garage and the lady died. Sad. Why? Tragic.

I re-call this to say "Why miss a future beautiful day?" It is too personal of a topic for some. People repress. But 'stuff' will percolate upward and demand tocome forth. And I hope no one ever despairs from psychic-wounds that seem to have no cure. I believe that is why my mind meanders here like a Iranian land mind? ptsd? ya' sure enough know ya' got it bad some days. fer certain. darn tootin'...Who ain't got it with maniacks in the baby buggy running the world? gads. lost? i hope not.

John Baca flopped a steel pot helmit on a grenade that landed next to me on a day DOD Laird flew into Saigon to do 1970's propoganda. A steel pot will shatter like a blown away straw conical hat. As a result (I not complaining. My point is to share a truth) I'll limp some days, miss my skinny fibula, and reflect upon former combatants I was lured into a filthy war with. We share a (blood) brotherhood. I woke remembering the Bacca belly all blown up. I asked, "Baca, You hit bad?" He gurgled a sound similiar to the bay's low-tide water surging over beautiful seashore speckled rocks.

O, a fibula only may support 2% of the body weight, so-says the doc. Okay. I also got called 'stupid' in the second grade and was placed back into the First Grade to repeat it! The grade was for "slow-learner' class (dimwits). So what! I loved the less fancy clothes the 'poor' friends I had wore. The white shirt one wore, for several days in a row, mind you, looked yellow from rural maganese in the pump-well's H20. I was labled chubby and a "poor" bad-speller. My friend Smelly was called, derogatorily, sometimes Rusty. Dirty shirt. not Chertoff.

Keep shirts on in the library? okay. Now, back to Anne's poem,

'Courage'..." (Google if you want to read the entire)

It is in the small thing we see it.

The childs first step, an awesome earthquake.

...

When you were called crybaby

or poor or fatty or crazy

and made you a alien

you drank their acid

and concealed it.

Later,

if you faced the death of bombs and bullets

you did not do it with a banner,

you did it with only a hat

to cover your heart...

...

My time is up on the Internet. No bomb other humans.

We are inter-connected. The neocon is too loathsome.