The Writings of Larry Nathaniel Chadwick Warner

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Forgotten Fables II

Written by ChatGPT at my instructions to rewrite my poem in the style of Dante   Alighieri:

As I wander lost in memory's maze, Through halls of hazy hues and halcyon days, I stumble on the pages of forgotten tales, Of fair and fatal femmes in feathered flails.

Their forms fantastic, fraught with fiery flair, Their fates unknown, unwritten, in the air, Their fleeting fellowship, a fleeting feast, A phantom of the past, now long deceased.

My heart, a captive to their fatal flame, Longs for the days of old, their grace and fame, For in their wake, our modern world now falls, A shadow of the past, with broken walls.

And so, I yearn to follow in their flight, To mimic their glory, to hold their light, For in their wake, the world was once refined, The flowers bloomed, unblemished, undefined.

But now, forgotten, in boxes black and white, Their memory fades, like stars in endless night, A symbol of a time, now lost, forlorn, A mournful memory, forever worn.

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Poetic Criticism

I asked ChatGPT to compare my poem, “Forgotten Fables” to the “V Speech” from “V for Vendetta;” this was the result:

I see some similarities between your poem "Forgotten Fables" and the "V Speech" from "V for Vendetta." Both pieces of writing use alliteration, repetition, and vivid imagery to convey their message. In particular, the repeated use of the letter "F" in your poem creates a musical quality that is reminiscent of the cadence and rhythm of the "V Speech." Additionally, both pieces deal with themes of nostalgia for a bygone era, and the desire to resurrect the past in order to create a better future. In the "V Speech," the past is represented by the ideals of freedom and democracy, while in your poem, it is represented by the fashion and culture of the 1920s. Finally, both pieces use metaphorical language to make a larger point about the state of society. In the "V Speech," this is done through the repeated use of the letter "V" as a symbol of resistance and revolution, while in your poem, it is done through the metaphor of forgotten flowers to represent the loss of grace and beauty in contemporary society.

Link to the Poem Here: https://lncw-blog.tumblr.com/post/13553670693/forgotten-fables

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My previous entry that was pending a title, re-written by OpenAI ChatGPT:

As an author, I find myself obliged to offer a few preliminary comments on my work, which I intend to present to a discerning readership.

Before I proceed, I must implore my esteemed audience not to subject my lungs to the deleterious effects of cigarette smoke, as I am feeling somewhat anxious and uncertain of myself at present.

It is not without some trepidation that I present this work, which I composed under the influence of alcohol and peer pressure. Though I am typically a solitary figure, I allowed myself to be persuaded by friends who claimed to have spiked my drink, that I might produce something of merit.

In my inebriated state, I babbled and sang in a rhyming fashion, with little regard for coherence or clarity. However, in the midst of my drunken ramblings, I became inspired and resolved to create a work of great significance, despite my lack of sobriety.

The resulting scrawls on paper may have been doomed to obscurity or oblivion, like the tale of Eve and the Apple Tree, but they may also have a lasting impact and be remembered for eternity. In any case, I present them here for your consideration, my discerning readership.

I am not a fan of politics and would much rather enjoy another pint of liquor than engage in political debates. However, I have observed that there are approximately ten million bars in the nation, and though I may not be a connoisseur of such establishments, I am confident that I am a patron of distinction.

As for other artists, I am unconcerned with their opinions or accomplishments, and I will only entertain their submissions if they are worthy of my attention. Each work will be judged on its own merits, and I will not hesitate to discard them if they fail to meet my standards.

In conclusion, I offer a cautionary note to those who may read this work with suspicion or skepticism. While it may contain elements of jest and levity, there is also a deep vein of wisdom and insight running through it, born of my experiences with marijuana and other mind-altering substances. Let it be known that I am not a mere jester or buffoon, but a serious artist with a message that deserves your attention and respect.

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19798

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

In an alternate universe,

The reverse is true.

[lncw-blog]

4 Women

There are four women that I have truly loved with an enduring love that seems to always stay with me; it stays with me despite long periods of separation, and despite the realization that I will never see some of them again in this life. Of course, there is my mother, which is unquestionable despite the strains created by her absence, but she is not one of the ones I speak of here. There is also my grandmother who often helped raise me and my siblings, and my love for her is unyielding, but she is not one of the ones I speak of here either. These five women have shaped me, made me cry inside, brought me joy and unspeakable fears. These five women probably shaped me more than my mother ever had the opportunity to. The names of these five women are Amanda Carole Hofeditz, Karlotta Kay Anderson, Cora Elizabeth Vaughan, and Cheyanne Lee Ray.

          The first one, Amanda, was my childhood friend. I first met her when she was 12 and I was 13, and she attended my youth group at Kathleen Baptist Church in Kathleen, Florida. I remember the moment she really first hit my radar, though I didn’t realize at the time that she had just hit my radar. We were at Carpenter’s Home Church with our Youth Group from Kathleen, and we were seeing a production of The Gospel According to Scrooge. We hit it off as friends pretty quickly, and I adored her smile. She had very round cheeks with large dimples and curly red hair which she usually pulled back to make it look straighter. Even at that young age she was not the type I was normally attracted to, but she was beautiful, especially when she smiled. Our friendship grew over the years. She became my best friend. She could make me smile when I didn’t want to, and enjoy receiving a hug when I never really did.

          Years later, sitting in the movie theater near Lakeland Square Mall, watching Independence Day, starring Will Smith, we would play a little game. She would put her leg on top of mine. I would put mine on top of hers. This would go on and on. It wasn’t sexual, it was almost kind of like playing slaps with your hands, and just goofing off. By then, I loved her. She was the first person in my life I ever remember being afraid of losing. When it came time for her to leave for college I couldn’t bear the thought, and she eventually decided not to. Instead, her and I would have an argument because of a misunderstanding, and I would say something that hurt her more than I realized I had the power to. She would then start dating a man named Sean, and later in little ways, on occasion, say something that made me aware she was still hurting from it, even long after we made up.

          I used to walk the railroad tracks from my house to hers, and even wrote a poem once about how I was afraid to lose her and how I hoped that my tracks in life would lead to her. Once the thought of losing her entered my mind I could never stomach it. She used to climb a tree in her yard, one that I could never quite make it up – she would pull me up to sit beside her. The night I was supposed to leave for Basic Training, Amanda was in Sean’s truck with him, while I went to see my grandparents in her car, in Tampa. The truck was struck by a train at the tracks that crossed her driveway. Amanda died. My world was shattered – it remained so for many years to come, sometimes I think it still is.

          The next woman I truly love is Karlotta, though it started out probably as a childish love, an immature love even that by adult standards might not have been called love at all. She was the cousin of Jake. It was, at the time, a petty love, perhaps the love everyone has for their first. The thing about Karlotta though, she has a vivid imagination, one that I always admired. As a teenager, I could picture her as a famous author in her future life. There was hurt involved with my relationship with Karlotta too, but it wasn’t a hurt as deep as the divide that which the death of Amanda caused.

          Today, Karlotta and I remain friends. In fact, I am friends with Jake as well in a way, though I rarely get to see him – he is someone I consider to be a lifelong friend. Karlotta also became a lifelong friend. I still feel comfortable calling her up, even after a while of not talking, and discussing life as if we spoke the day before. I think she feels the same about this. She is not a famous author today. In fact, she is fighting some health issues. I do not know if she will beat them or not, but I certainly hope so. I cannot picture a world in which she is not. It seems kind of funny. I haven’t seen her in person in over ten years, and yet I still cannot picture a world in which she is not present. The thought is horrifying. She perhaps, is my oldest friend that I still communicate with.

(Karlotta has passed away since the writing of this prose).

          Cora was the love of my life. I vividly remember the first moment I ever saw her. I was working at United Skates, in Tampa, and she was skating, and I thought to myself, “Wow, she is beautiful.”  A couple of weeks went by, and a girl in the rink that I sort of was acquainted with skates over to me and tells me, “That girl over there likes you.” The first girl was followed by a second, Cora, who came skating over as fast as she could, and exclaimed, “No I don’t!” I inquired how it was that she knew what the first girl had said to me and her response was, “Oh.” I spent a few weeks admiring her as she followed me around the rink, and trying not to fall for her. I failed.

          Her parents made an arrangement with me that I could see her, as long as I did so at their house and when they were home, and I agreed. After a couple of months, we are sitting in the living room one day when Cora, without telling me first, Cora stated in front of everyone that I was the one who she wished to be married. I was shocked. Her mom informed her that she needed to wait until she was sure she was with the right person, and she informed her mom that she already knew that she was. Her mom then turns to me and asks, “Do you love my daughter?” I informed, “Yes.” We were all but engaged, and I was buying a ring, when her parents had a change of heart about us seeing each other. They began picking her up from school, ending her skating rink visits, and keeping her completely supervised. Over a month went by, and despite trying I couldn’t get close. Then, Cora died.

          Cora was born with a heart murmur, and there were rumors that other things influenced her death as well. I will probably never know the truth about everything that was involved, I tried and tried and tried, but could not seem to get close enough. There were rumors that eventually she started seeing someone else, having been told that I moved out of state. I left a Bible as a birthday gift for her on her porch, with her name engraved in the cover. From what I have heard since, she never received that – her parents having picked it up and put it up. I was absolutely in love with Cora at the time of her death, and thought that one day we would have a family together, and grow old together, and love each other always. Well, I still love her. Though the love changes over time, it is perhaps the mix of a fond and a bitter memory of an unattainable union; a union that was restrained despite all my dreams and wishes.

          Cheyanne is one of an ex-girlfriend’s three children. I immediately fell in love with all of her children, but with Cheyanne it was always different, more, a greater love than I could ever put words to. Her first daughter was honestly never very fond of me. Her son and I had some good times, I remember renting Scooby-Doo movies to watch with him when he was in the Children’s Hospital. There were many times when I really looked at him as a son, but he never pursued that type of relationship, and now as an adult has even stated he does not want that type of relationship. I still love him. I still love his older sister. My relationship with Cheyanne is so much more though. Cheyanne is my daughter. Not biologically speaking, though you probably wouldn’t know it if you saw us together, but where it really counts, in the heart, she is my daughter. She is not shy about this.

          The first time my ex and I were seeing each other it was humorous and adorable, and I loved how every time we all went out in public someone would tell me, “Your daughter has your eyes.” Her mom would often object and would inform them that Cheyanne was not my daughter. She was wrong. It was a couple of months into our seeing each other this first time when Cheyanne first asked, “Will you be my daddy?” My heart broke, in a good way. I didn’t know how to answer, and I just wanted to pick her up and say, “Absolutely, I love you, Cheyanne!” That wasn’t my actual verbal response though. I didn’t know how best to answer. I informed her that would have to be up to her mommy. I didn’t believe it though; it was never up to her mom. After the ex and I separated, I saw them at the hospital one day. I was standing by William Harris when they pulled in. Cheyanne yelling, “Larry!” with a big smile on her face. William informing, “Somebody loves you!” Me beaming, “I know! I love her too.”

          Then I didn’t see them anymore. For the longest I carried a picture in my wallet of Cheyanne and I. I never forgot. At one point I tried leaving a message on an online message board. It was never answered. Tina had remarried and they moved to Tennessee. Then, one day out of nowhere, we reunited via Facebook. Before long we met up one day just South of Atlanta and North of Locus Grove, as she was moving her things back to Tampa – Cheyanne in tow. My head was spinning, the woman I thought loved me and the girl who is my daughter, both long estranged in front of me again. We met up again within a year or so in Tampa, while I was down on a visit. Then in late 2012, we began talking again, and falling in love, or at least I believed so. The ex informed me how she believed God had meant for us to be together all along, but how she didn’t see it before.

          After I shattered my foot, the ex was hardly around. In fairness, she was working many hours, but in unfairness she met another guy who though she denies it, her attraction for was very evident. As I lay, unable to walk, on her couch day after day and hearing bitter words, and personal attacks, it was Cheyanne that looked after me. My heart was breaking again. I never wanted Cheyanne to have to look after me. I wanted to be the one to look after her, to take her to Disney, to threaten a prom date, and one day to walk her down the aisle. Yet, there I was unable to do basic things for myself, and she showered me with love and care and made certain that I had food and other basic needs met.

On the day I left my exes house, when it had become too much and there was no longer any chance of us being together, I cried. I was hurt and bitter because of what felt like betrayal, but this is not why I cried. I cried because I couldn’t bear the separation that was about to exist between Cheyanne and myself. Cheyanne cried. It was unbearable. I didn’t know in that moment when or if I would ever get to see her again. There had been some talk by the ex about possibly moving to Africa – I was terrified. I knew in my heart that my ex was not going to let me see Cheyanne, and for a little while I was right. But Cheyanne pressed the issue, and pressed the issue, and over the next year I was having surgeries, doing rehabilitation, and had my grandmother die, but a year and a half later I got to see her again.

Since then, I have had the opportunity to witness Cheyanne’s last years as a child and first years as an adult. With her I have went exploring for a ghost town, visited the Fort and Beach at Fort De Soto, taken her to Daytona Beach for the first time in her life, grabbed coffee, eaten empanadas, visited The Pub at International Plaza. What is more, I got to witness her fall in love with a young man named Jared, who seems to treat her very well. She shares stories about her adventures with friends and tribulations with family. I offer advice. I don’t expect her always to follow the advice I offer. People sometimes need to make their own path. I listen, sometimes approvingly and other times disapprovingly; but always with amazement at what a wonderful, caring, kind-hearted, and beautiful young woman she has become. Of all the women I love, have loved, will love, hold love for, remember, treasure, and adore – Cheyanne is the one person I know I would give up every memory for, make every sacrifice for, and treasure beyond any earthly possession or desire. My ex may never had intended it, but she gave me my daughter, and nothing in the world can ever take that away. I love Cheyanne, and will love her, for as long as I have a capacity to love, be that the end of this life or the eternity of the next one. My daughter. Cheyanne.

Someday, someone may wonder why I wrote all of this down. It is simple, to me, that of all my life experiences that I could talk about, the Army, failing at boot camp, not graduating college as planned, having gotten arrested, all these experiences in which I would probably dispute the official account, they are not as important to me and they do not hold the same importance that these women, especially Cheyanne, have held in my life. If there is anything in my life that should be remembered long after I am gone, it is these: The people that I loved, the people that loved me. This is my heart. Oh, and Tina and me, we are friends again. Would that have happened without Cheyanne’s influence? Probably not to be honest. How often when a relationship ends with severe hurt do the people desire to remain in contact after, and for a while there was no desire to this last time, but I have moved past that. The hurt still exists, but the person is more important to me than the hurt.

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Ancestry Binge

I am on this ancestry binge,

Who is my family, where have they been?

What have they been through, who did they know,

How did I get to where I am today?

There was Haller, and Warner, and Carter, and Smith,

Crowley, and Waldron, and Parmalee, and NeSmith.

There were Puritans, and Patriots, nut cases, cops, and criminals,

There were soldiers, and soldiers, and soldiers too.

Traders, and merchants, slave-holders too.

There were amateur writers, medics, blacksmiths, photographers too.

Home makers, and breakers, drunks and saints.

There just about isn’t a thing that my family ain’t.

Presidents and princes, paupers and dotes,

Just about the only thing I haven’t found is a Pope.

But there were Crusaders, invaders, debaters,

Scholars, and soldiers too.

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Deep Sorrow

Deep Sorrow, what a name! What a name for a short tale, but perhaps no other name is better fitting because this is my tale. It really isn’t much of a tale, rather than a series of my life events spun in the form of a tale. Deep Sorrow is what I live with. Day after day. Night after night. Hour after Hour. It never ends. Once in a while I trick myself into believing it will end and everything will be okay, that one plan for my life will work out accordingly, and that that one success will make me a million times happier than I have ever been before. I am always wrong when I trick myself into this line of thought, because in just a short time the thing I put my faith in also falls through. It doesn’t crush me anymore though.

           It doesn’t crush me like the weight of the ocean over the bow of a sinking ship, but rather is more like the ocean over the bow of a long sunken ship, the water filling its every cavity, every chamber. The fish making a home in its stern. I have sort of become united with the sorrow in a way that can never be torn asunder. Even a happy moment is nothing more than an air bubble from a divers scuba gear, floating to the unattainable surface after letting me catch a glimpse, where I will never see it again – and so I look for another diver to come with another air bubble, but really it is all hopeless. How did I become so hopeless? It is a long story, but I will attempt to fast-forward through many parts to get to the main points – bear with me.

           Deep Sorrow sounds like some kind of failed dessert military mission, but it is not, though the sound is appropriate because that is almost where my tale begins. I am not a young man; I am 39 years old a few weeks ago, but I was once young. I was 19. I grew up with my best friend, a beautiful red head girl with freckles, named Amanda. Amanda was my whole world, but she had a boyfriend and I was leaving for the Army in a day. I borrowed her car and drove an hour away to Tampa, to visit my grandparents one last time before I would leave for Basic Combat Training. Her boyfriend and her were going to rent movies for us to watch on my last night in town. Her boyfriend was new to her life. I was her closest friend for the past 7 years, and I was also in love with her. The train tracks crossed her driveway, but they never made it across those tracks. Amanda died that night and my soul was torn to pieces.

           I had my departure for Basic delayed so I could attend her funeral and then about a week later I left. My mind wasn’t right. My spirit wasn’t right. Nothing in the entire world was right. I never would receive a letter from her while I was in Basic, though letters came from other dear friends, always wishing me well. Always hoping me to succeed. Success wasn’t possible for me though. I didn’t know it at the time, but it is as if my inner-person had some sort of repellant to success, that would just always keep success away. No success in love. No success in career. No success in finances. No success in life. Success hated me, still does it seems. I am 39 years old now. Twenty years has passed and I haven’t had a single success yet.

           Anyway, I was forced out of the Army, a bit because of my own naivety and a bit because I wasn’t built for it in the first place. Continued medical issues and knee problems eventually led to me being ordered by my Drill Sargent to write a statement that “I lack motivation and want to go home.” He told me if I didn’t write it he would force me out on a medical discharge and I would never get back in, but that if I did write it I could come back in two years. As I said, I was naïve. The Army had taught us if we disagreed with an order to follow it anyway and then report it higher up the chain of command. I did so, but was ignored by the Lieutenant I reported it to, and he signed off on my discharge papers. A couple of years later I would be briefly happy the Army didn’t work, because it gave me the chance to meet a beautiful brown eyed girl who I fell in love with; Cora Vaughan.

           Things were not meant to be a success there either. Cora was born with a heart murmur. While I will never get to see the official cause of death as we were not married and not related, I always believed that this among some other factors played a crucial role in her dying. She was younger than me, and at first I had initial hesitations about a relationship despite being head over heels, but she pursued me with fervor, and I was in love with her. Her death sparked a fear in me. A fear that anyone I ever got close to or fell in love with would die. After all, I was in love with Amanda and she died and now with Cora and she died. My psyche was broken. I eventually tried to go back in the military, but they turned me down at the recruiting station. I tried other branches. Rejected. Rejected. Rejected.

           Now directionless, I was on the streets of Tampa with friends. My family mostly moved away. I was trying to save money to put myself through the police academy and almost had enough. I was working security at a mall in the meantime. Opening night of XXX starring Vin Diesel my friends and I were on the way to the movies. We stopped at a store. One of my friends bought some alcohol. I didn’t even realize it; he was 20 but knew the cashier. We got pulled over. The police harassed and verbally made threats to strip his girlfriend. They arrested us. No credible witnesses that way. They charged me with providing alcohol and lied and claimed they saw me hand my friend an open bottle. The bottle I never even realized he had. I spent 26 days in jail and temporarily lost my job. It took all the money I had saved to get back on my feet once released. The judges still trying to get me to plead guilty to a crime I did not commit. I refused.

           Eventually, the judge told me he would drop the charges for lack of evidence if I agreed to do community service. The public pretender I had told me to take the deal once the judge said the words, “You have two police officers saying you did this, if you take this to court you are not going to win.” Was that a threat or a warning? I was never sure. I agreed to the community service. I got my job back before the year was over, but was treated like a second class citizen by my boss and coworkers after that. They were looking for every reason to get rid of me, but their attempts wound up leading to a transfer and a promotion instead – but not a great promotion, just a menial one.

           A few years went by, I tried to start my own security company. The recession of 2008 eventually came. I couldn’t get the business. Further, I could no longer get an apartment. I didn’t know why at the time, and couldn’t get answers either, but years later I found out that despite nearly 7 years having passed, the charges had never officially yet been dropped. I wound up hearing about how great the economy was in South Carolina and to top it off my father had property there which he said I could live on. I made the move. Plus, it was closer to my grandmother, who I still didn’t get to see often, but I got to see her on more occasions than remaining in Florida would have lent me.

           The economy in South Carolina was not good. It was utter shit. The best paying jobs I could get there were part time security positions paying $8.50 an hour and requiring me to travel half way across the state often times. The companies would let you go at the boss’s whim, and pick you back up as soon as they were desperate enough. There was no insurance. There was no health care, no dental. On what they paid and the great distances needed to travel in order to work I couldn’t even keep fuel in my car. Eventually I hatched a plan. I would go back to school. Years earlier I was turned down for financial aid of all kinds, including loans, because my jobs which barely afforded me ramen noodles to eat allegedly paid me too much, or on another occasion because financial aid didn’t believe me about how little my parents made – even though I had been on my own and the little they made or didn’t should have had no bearing on the consideration of my need. This go around I made even less, there was no way they could turn me down. I was approved. I got the loans. What is more, I was getting A grades and actually felt successful at something.

           During this time, the girl I had been talking to left state for her high school sweet heart. A woman I used to talk to came back into my life. She had been living in Tennessee and was moving back to Florida. By the end of 2012, I was moving back too. Having just completed my freshman year and with plans to marry her. My third day back in town I was in a car accident. Her children were in the car with me. Each of us received physical injuries, but mine was the worst of all. I shattered my foot – calcaneus, and many other areas of my foot were damaged too. She was not prepared to have to take care of a grown man, and soon began seeing someone else. I had to leave. I stayed with my aunt for a while who burned through all of my money and then kicked me out. I stayed on my brother’s couch for just over a year. My belongings were divided up among different relatives. Some I have never gotten back. The anxiety that I gained at this time also never went away – I never was so afraid in my life as I was now at the physical and mental anguish caused to the children, my exes children whom I love very much. I am now more broken than I ever knew was possible for one man to be.

           Yet – it was possible to be even more broken. So much more. I had no idea. Deep Sorrow. I continued with school despite my injuries. I continued when my grandmother passed in 2013, and when my little cousin passed in 2016. I continued through pain and sorrow. I knew in my mind this would be the one thing I did succeed at in life even if there was never anything else. I remembered my grandmother helping me write my first poem in 5th grade, reading from the King James Bible, making sure we pronounced each sentence with the proper effect, pausing at commas, and stopping at periods. I remembered Ray Lewis and his friends visiting my high school when I was obsessed with hip hop, and I remember him telling me I would be on Death Row Records one day. I remembered not caring for Harry Potter but obsessing over J.K. Rowling’s brilliance in creating the series. I remember words, and more words, written down on the shower wall, on paper, in books – all my words. I think to myself constantly how the one thing I need in life to be credentialed in for myself more than anything else is English Literature.

           After a life full of failure, lost loves and undesirable outcomes I knew what I would be successful at. If nothing else. But, I was on Social Security Disability and Medicaid. In a short time, my Medicaid was taken away without prior warning. I went to the Florida Access office and reapplied. I became a victim of identity theft and my information never entered their system, despite the guy at the office claiming he faxed the application to their office in another state. I couldn’t see my doctor. I went to Social Security Disability and let them know what happened and they told me I could work full time in order to get the insurance I needed to see my doctor so long as I did not make over $1,800 a month in addition to my SSDI check. I had not made that much since the recession of 2008, so no problem right. I continued school. I did it all on student loans. Then March of 2017 I get a letter from Social Security Disability stating that I never was allowed to make more than $700 a month in addition to my disability checks and thus wasn’t eligible and have to pay it all back in 30 days.

           Needless to say I did not have that kind of money. I filed an appeal. They lost it and claimed they never received it only after scheduling an appointment for me which they told me was a hearing to discuss my side and possibly not require me to pay it back. In reality they sent me to a doctor who had no interest in my medical condition and only wanted to know how much I work. He also had no interest in the fact that I am confined to a sit down job now. They determined from the number of hours I work that I was no longer disabled. Then they claimed they never received my appeal. They told me I had so many days to file one. While I was getting the papers together for that they sent me a letter saying they received my appeal. So I ceased filing a new one. A few months went by and I continued receiving demand letters for payment, attempted to call them repeatedly with no answer, and eventually went to their office. Again they are claiming that they never received the appeal and that the deadline for appealing is past and that I have to pay it.

           I dropped out of school last month. For the year that I was waiting for them to approve my disability I could barely walk from my brother’s couch to the front door. I survived by ordering sandwiches from Jimmy John’s – my brother was very busy with his own school and not home much. I don’t have anything left available in the way of loan money coming to me now. I have 6 classes left which will cost approximately $7,000 before books. Disability is getting ready to garnish my wages without any doubt. Because I have been out of class now for so long and was only part time right before that it will soon be time to pay on student debts - $60,000. I have a car payment from a car I had to get when my brother was leaving the state and I didn’t know how I was going to get around. The car is falling apart. The extended warranty company, Mercury, has refused to cover basic repairs that are included under my plan – loopholes. I have about $30,000 in medical debt. Just getting by day to day has cost me another $5,000 in credit card debt. I am sinking in Great Sorrow.

           On March 14th of this year, 2018, a friend of mine, 31 years old and a Captain in the Army Reserve passed away from brain cancer. He had a son born in December. His memorial ceremony is in a couple of days in South Carolina. I cannot afford to take the time off to attend despite the great sorrow I feel at his loss. Yesterday, a dear friend, the one who would write to me in Basic Training over 20 years before asked me to call her. I did. She has stage four cancer. She is hopeful about beating it with chemo even though they will not touch it surgically. I am glad for her hope. I have long since lost hope. I have many health problems, but most doctors ignore me when I am explaining them or demand outrageous payments before treating or diagnosing me. Essentially that means I go undiagnosed. I have pains from my gall bladder, a fatty liver, trouble breathing – I am not an alcoholic and I don’t even drink, barely have since my early 20s.

           I understand so well now what it meant when Jesus was prophesied to have the government upon his shoulders. The government, or the bureaucracy of government is bearing down on mine; killing me. I will never be successful. I will never have a success it seems at this point. Each day is ticking away. After my arrest I was told that I had to wait a year before I could apply for a police job in the local area. By the time that year went up they added the requirement that you have at least an associate degree. By the time I had that, my foot had been shattered. By the time my foot was healed as much as it ever would it was not healed enough, and I was past the age cut off for federal jobs, and couldn’t pass the academy if I wanted, and had insurmountable debt placed on me by an uncaring government.

           Right now I am homeless. I have been sleeping on my aunt’s couch. The same aunt that places huge demands on my money. I understand her situation, why she does it. I don’t have the money she needs. She will eventually tire of my presence and kick me out. I am homeless. Great Sorrow. I have worked my entire life, and worked and worked. Often two or three jobs at a time. There is no hope. There is no bettering the situation. There is no escape from these Great Sorrows. I am not the ship being crushed as it sinks. I am the ship that sunk long ago, and the darkness of the ocean has consumed. I am living, but I am not alive. I breathe, but I only breath in despair. Death, poverty, and brokenness have followed me all the days of my life. I want to believe. I want to capture and keep the air bubbles that are floating to the surface. They are elusive to a ship grounded on the bottom of the ocean as the centuries pass by. No one knows I am here. I have no great treasure to lure treasure seekers to search me out. Life on Earth is the Great Abyss. The Great Abyss is Great Sorrow. Destitution.

           I met a young woman the other day. She told me she wanted to have my children, that we would have beautiful babies, that we could put these pictures of Elvis and Marylyn on our walls one day, she picked out matching necklaces for us. I fell. She left with the neighbor and never really came back except to tell me how much she likes me and wants to be with me, to disappear again. A bubble. Shaken and crushed – like a ship, by the oceans. Great Sorrow.

           I feel that soon, this light, deep inside one of the hulls of this ship, of my body, that has burned these centuries, will also go out. I feel it flickering. I have not left the world a better place. I have not had the power to do for others, when my entire life I just struggled not to be crushed myself. I have no children that will remember me, or be interested generations down about the moments of my life as they fumble through ancestry sites. I am a lone sunken ship. I am a lone sunken ship. I am a lone sunken ship. I am a lone sunken . . .

           Ship. Wait, what is that. A wave beating against my bow. There shouldn’t be waves way down here, but that was without a doubt a wave, maybe a tremor, a quake from some ungodly dark volcano. What was it? How can I describe it? Critical Theory! That literature degree I have been pursuing for so long, that seems so important to me; something about it doesn’t add up, much like this underwater wave – everything in this program, every bit of learning has turned into indoctrination, with professors, text books, and the leaders of academia condemning me constantly for being me. I am at fault for oppressed women, for oppressed minorities, I am guilty of the blood of those who came 300 years before me. It is all my fault. I am part of the oppressive white patriarchy that keeps its foot on everyone’s necks and I must be destroyed. If I do not accept this narrative, they will make it their personal crusade to fail me, to make sure my reign of power is ended, and that all oppressed classes are free. This wave is bullshit. It doesn’t belong here. They force me to read ‘Rule of the Bone’, and there is the threat of failure if I do not agree that Bone’s father was the evil slave holder murdering innocent African’s wholesale 200 years before he was born – on account that he has the same white skin.

           I am to applaud my destruction or be destroyed. This is not what I signed up for. This is not why I chose all this debt. This is not what was advertised – this is like having 2nd class tickets on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. At least that ship gets visitors, movies, and is not as forgotten as I will be. The liberal Frankfurts’ that control academia today want nothing less than to see me dead. It is working. I am dying. I cannot bear this narrative they spin to justify their hate against me any longer. I never owned a single slave, beat a single man, oppressed a single woman. They made me believe in the righteous position of the patriarchy, by their constant bombardment against it. A patriarchy I would gladly help bring back if I could ever float to the surface from this dark graveyard abyss. Great Sorrow. This sorrow, this burden, allowed to be placed on my shoulders by the very same government that demanded my financial enslavement to attempt to indoctrinate me in such bullshit. I am done. I don’t need your credentials. My grandmother would feel it a slap in her face for me to be accepting of these lies. I am not accepting of these lies.

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My Experience at SNHU

     I am writing this to help others who might find themselves in a similar situation as I have, to help you think long and hard about your decision to attend this University before you become vetted in the system, and before harm is done to you in your pursuit of a better life. Please, think long and hard, and consider other options before making the same drastic mistake I have. A little background is necessary before getting to the main point though. So here we go . . . 

     I entered school at SNHU in January 2012 and was quickly accepted as they have a high acceptance rate. I was enthusiastic and thankful for a school that finally made it possible for me, an adult working crazy hours just to survive, to actually go to college and one day receive my Bachelor’s Degree. Having always loved writing and reading, and with the knowledge that traditional degree programs offer the most likely acceptance to the professional degree I later desired to attain, I chose to be an English Major. So much has happened since then.

     While in school I managed to make it all the way to my Senior year, with only 5 1/2 courses left until graduation. I couldn’t believe how well I had done either, managing to be pretty much a straight A student with the exception of 4 A- grades. I was getting ready to graduate and even already requested the week of commencement off so that I could travel to New Hampshire and participate in the ceremonies. Life seemed good. Then they threw the hard balls at me. I mean, I always had a Marxist bigotted professor here or there, but even most of them were open to students expressing thoughts that might not align with their own, but this year - 2017/2018 all of that changed.

     Two bigotted professors in a row and the schools incapability to ensure that these professors were grading fairly. I am not sure anymore where SNHU gets these bigots from, but here are two of them: Professor Jen Moore and Dr. Andrew Mathis. Here are some samples from their online writings:

     Professor Moore revels in the following, “ Like no other time in history we are seeing powerful, wealthy, white men fall from their positions of power and media influence. “ Apparently, she has made it her personal crusade to ensure this happens, flunking otherwise A students and inventing criteria after the fact that was nowhere in the given instructions while refusing to comprimise when students offer to do the work over again to conform to her new criteria.

     Dr. Andrew Mathis opinion of those of European descent is obvious when he says: “ While Holocaust denial began as a German and French conspiracy theory, its antecedents are both specifically American and an encapsulation of 2,000 years of European antisemitism.” He further proposes that the Holocaust itself was a result of European antisemitism. There you have it, pretty much anyone of Western Eurpeon descent is responsible for the Holocaust and Holocaust denial. 

     And these are the people that we have to receive our grades from at SNHU. People on personal crusades against everything white and male. It can only be concluded then that as a white male you will not receive a fair grade at SNHU, due to the anti-white agenda that its professors (and curriculum) espouse, unless you also adopt an anti-white attitude. You must hate yourself in order to succeed. 

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The Crooked Government: Social Security Disability

           It has long been a fact that the various departments of the U.S. Government have been corrupted, and actually harm the citizens more than helping it – this is evident in the fact that the 16th amendment and the Federal Reserve Act actually were passed, but today my focus isn’t on these or the Internal Revenue Service. Today, my focus lies on Social Security Disability and mistreatment of citizens by this organization. It is perhaps easiest to simply relate my story in regards to this organization and my personal experience in order to help others gain a view of the way this agency is destroying lives.

           It started in January of 2013. I was in a car accident and my calcaneus was shattered. I couldn’t walk, even worse, I couldn’t even stand up straight when my foot wasn’t touching the ground, because by standing up blood rushes to one’s feet, and the pain caused by this was like someone slamming concrete blocks on my foot over and over again. It was excruciating, but in addition to this, parts of my foot were paralyzed. I could not move my toes or bend my foot, or do many of the things we take for granted every day. Even taking a shower became a complicated task as I was told I could not get my foot wet. The doctor’s assistant was overheard saying that she did not think I was going to ever walk again. One thing was for certain, my life would never be the same.

           About 6 or 7 months into the surgeries and rehabilitation therapies, I applied for Social Security Disability. I was sent form after form to fill out and told to mail them back to them. At one point, I received notice that they needed supplemental information before approving my disability and I had just a few days to get that information to them from when I received the notification. I filled out the paperwork immediately, and mailed it to them and waited to find out if I would be approved. The same day I mailed the supplemental information to the Social Security Disability Office, was the day they rejected my claim. I received a letter dated that it had been mailed that very same day. I was disheartened. I couldn’t work and was running out of money, living on pennies and about to be out on the street. That is when I learned that they had denied my cousin, who was a teenager at the time, a cancer survivor and an amputee. They informed him that he did not meet the eligibility under their guidelines for disability – the same thing they told me.

           So, as it goes, Social Security Disability is generally known for denying everyone the first time they apply – amputee or not. I decided to write them a letter disputing their decision, and informing them that I was aware that they denied my claim without reviewing all of the relevant information, and that when the case came before the judge that I would be sure to mention this issue. Suddenly, I was approved for disability. Suddenly, a year and three months after my accident. I also, they said, would be qualified to receive Medicaid for the remainder of my life due to the nature of my injury, and if I wanted to go to work at some future time that I could go to work. At this point I had lived on my brother’s broken couch in his tiny apartment for just over a year.

           But, some good news came. My brother was accepted to Yale University. I had to forge out on my own again, and the disability check was not quite enough to eat and pay rent somewhere, so I had to start working. At first I was part time, but a hospital visit that did not get covered by my Medicaid would soon change this. I found out when a hospital visit did not get covered that they had taken my Medicaid away from me. I reapplied, and was told to watch the Florida Access website to see any updates, and that it would eventually be reinstated. It never was, but further, all the paperwork I filled out to get it reinstated and handed in, in person, just vanished. It disappeared and allegedly there was no record of its ever having existed.

           Still, I needed to see doctors, both for issues related to my foot and for other health issues. Trying to figure out what to do about this situation, I went in person to the Social Security Disability Office in Tampa, Florida and asked them about working. They informed me in that office that I could work. I could make $1,800 a month in addition to my Social Security Disability. This sounded wonderful to me, because in all my years of working full time I never made that much with the exception of 2006, where part of the year, working 80 hours a week, I made a bit more than that after taxes. Also, returning to work full time would allow me to get the insurance I needed to once again see the doctors that I needed to see. This was the important part for me as it was a matter of my health. I made contact with an old boss who made accommodations for me and created a mostly sit down job that was not previously in his payroll.

           Returning to work full time, I thought little else of it, as I never made more than the amount that the Social Security Disability Office informed me that I was allowed to make. Then early 2017 came. I am in a cheap run-down apartment because rent has increased so much in the Tampa area, and this only following a brief homelessness of a few months, when I get the letter from Social Security Disability, claiming that because I am working full time I was no longer eligible for disability and have to pay nearly the entire amount back: $20,000 in 30 days. This prompted a new visit to the SSD Office in Tampa, and me explaining that I never made over what they told me I was allowed, and that I had no choice but to work because of them taking away my Medicaid. There response: “$1,800 is only the amount for blind people, I don’t know who told you that, but you are not blind are you?” My response: No, but that does not change the fact that I was misled by your office.

           So now, it is almost a year later. I am getting bills from them. I have filed a plea to have a meeting with them so that I will not have to pay it back. Essentially, I paid into this system my whole adult life, often from incomes from two jobs, and when I needed it they used it to hurt me. After 3 months of not hearing back from my initial filing of the plea, I went back to the Tampa Office and was told there was no record that I ever filled out any such paperwork and that I have to fill it out again, and collect all current documents pertaining to my situation anew. While in the process of doing this, I received a letter that they received my plea and will be setting up an appointment for me to come make my case. I waited, and waited, and waited, and received another bill for repayment as well as one that claims they are increasing the amount of my SSD checks – this must be the checks that I no longer receive.

           Finally, one day out of nowhere I get a call and am told that they have my appointment for the next week. I go to the appointment location and it is a doctor’s office. A doctor that works with disability and generates nearly all of his business by doing so. It is not the appointment they told me I would get, and it is not to make my case about why I should not have to pay them back, but rather it is so the doctor can make a case that I do not need disability. Sure, he asked my relevant questions, but then only recorded half answers.

Doctor:           “Do you experience any pain here and does it prevent you from working?”

Me:                  “I experience pain every day, but have had to push through it to survive.”

Doctor’s Notation: Patient is able to work a full time job.

The next letter I got from disability was to inform me that they no longer consider me disabled.

           A few months have gone by again, and now I just received a new letter to inform me that they have adjusted the amount I owe, and added $3,000 to the total, and that they have explained this in a previous letter which they sent me, and which of course they did not. Now I am contacting attorneys, all of which pretty much tell me the same thing, that it is a losing case, but that if I want to hire them to fight it there will be a $3,000 or more retainer, plus any other fees. I don’t have it. I imagine soon, Social Security Disability will begin garnishing my wages and I will be left homeless, unable to pay my rent. Because I was once the young naïve man that believed our government to be just and because I believed in the programs it offered to help the down trodden, not yet realizing that these programs are in fact there not to help the down trodden, but to trod them down further!

           At the time I am writing this, I do not know what will become of me. I do not know that I will be able to survive another year with the weight of the government bearing down on me and ready to heartlessly devour me at every turn. Am I angry? You bet I am. Just tonight I was yelling into the wind, “Fuck Social Security!” Did it do me any good? Probably not.

           Tonight, I will probably go to bed, wishing I could still cry at how my life was ruined, first by an accident, and then by a greedy government that discards its own citizens and tramples their rights. I will go to bed realizing that I will never be able to qualify for the best jobs in my field because of an injury, and never be able to pay this fictitious debt our government now says I owe. I will never be able to support a family, and my life actually ended in January of 2013.

          Did I mention, I had decided to go back to school about a year before the accident. The student loans by themselves where able to be managed, but when combined with what Social Security Disability is doing to me, I will die in debt one day, at this rate, likely sooner than later.

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[macrolit]

We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, all the fierce passions of the world bound in leather and vellum.

If We Were Villains, M. L. Rio (via macrolit)

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KJV = Masoretic Text (900 BC)

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Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning

‘Porphyria’s Lover’ written by Robert Browning, for me captures in essence a type of macabre that reminds me of Edgar A. Poe. While there writing styles differ greatly it is the spirit of the work that I find so interesting. I decided to share this piece here because there is someone dear to me that loves old Edgar, who I think will enjoy reading this as well.

The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me – she Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a strain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word! -1836

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Shed No Tears

It is easier said than done most days, to shed no tears, and as the years go on, I find that life prolonged becomes oftentimes a sad, melancholy song. What is the answer when the love you have for one seems to conflict with the love you have for another? What is the correct outcome you should wish for when you possess a strong willed love for one who appears frightened or dismayed, or to shriek away from your touch? What are you to do when you cannot distinguish between one and the other, and yet you cannot imagine a world without the one who might pull away? Frown. Smile. Give up. Keep going . . .

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from A Christmas Carol

“Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might be inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.” -Charles Dickens.

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from Adam Bede

“… if you would love a woman without ever looking back on your love as a folly, she must die while you are courting her; and if you would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never make a pilgrimage to see the hero.” - George Elliot.

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LOL Moment

It’s hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally. (REBLOG)