Easter Message

Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.
Matthew 7:12

This message is simple in its context but can be extended as a perspective as a way of treating 'yourself'. You treat others in an empathetic manner and you give to them of your heart. This provides nutrition for those in need, and also in need of hope.

We recognize through events, the spoken word, and media, the needs of others. So we select what we can do to help. But sometimes we fail to recognize our own needs. Even when we give or help, we don't always feel fulfilled. 

We are all vulnerable. Our vulnerability can lead to nervousness and fear. This is why it is so important to not only 'put out' in social effort, but to 'share and receive'. Accept all as yourself, pray for all souls, and discriminate against no one. This does not just mean treating others as equals, it means hoping for them the complete freedom of unencumbered souls.

Love and Peace to all my friends.

DeaBeePea 3-26-16

I can honestly say I want nothing, besides happiness. And happiness cannot be asked for, it is earned. It is earned by exploring, dreaming and opening your ears, eyes and heart to amazement and wonderment. And by honesty. When you are honest you feel the joy of others opening their hearts to you. And you realize how wonderful people are. And you soon realize the value of time, and the importance of being thankful for those who donate theirs to yours. And accepting freedom as the ability to love and nourish and celebrate. And realizing that we are surrounded by unexplained miracles. And it seems that every day offers a new one. And the wonderment of being who you are, and why you like the things you do.
And the knowing that I love jazz, wine, old movies, oatmeal stout, log cabins, poetry, roaming rivers, regency cottages, and a gravy covered pork roasts. And also knowing I will never explain why. And the love of misfits...a strange development indeed. And the fact that I, in some way will be leaving myself, as I know myself, but will never really go away. And the miracle of children, who travel their own path, of weeds and flowers, and we never totally understand them, but we love them. And so I bid adieu, and wish happiness to all.

DBP 10-1-14


The body laid still and cold. No visible wounds. No visible abrasions. No apparent weapon. No sign of confrontation. Every object was quiet and motionless, almost sneering at the detective. The door to the garden was closed but slightly ajar. Curtains drawn. The desk, strangely barren. No papers, no instruments, not even a picture of his beautiful blond wife.

David S. Freud. 43. District Attorney. Appointed two years previously. Promised to clean up the mob. Madeline Freud currently in Virginia visiting mother. 

Medical officer Gordon Wellworth. Just arriving. Studies victim. Concludes same. Looks like heart attack, or possible poisoning. Cyclophosphamide? Cocaine over-dose? Suicide?

But why was he stretched out on the floor... doesn't fit. Makes it look more like murder. Strange.

Three quarter length tweed coat. Buttoned. All identification with him. Brief case standing near desk.

Looks like he was going somewhere. Where? 

Assistant D.A. Richard Colme. Cases the room. Opens drawers. Opens closet. Takes finger print samples. Draws conclusions. No way David would kill himself. Not the David he knew. 

Good marriage, two nice kids. At least, as far as he knew. Rest of house impeccably clean. Nothing out of place. No dust, and the windows were so clear you could almost walk through them. 

Re-entering room, Colme opens door wider. Previously hidden by partially closed door, was a cellarette. A large key declared its presence. Bronze. Bow skeleton. There was nothing in this house for that key, he was almost sure. 

The coroner knew the family well. He was asked about a possible source for the key. Nothing... apparently.

On the train, Madeline Freud was arriving at the Leesburg Station. She was gathering her belongings. It was late. Well after midnight. Her sickly mother would not be waiting up. Madeline would use the old guest house. She would not awaken her. It was a pretty, old regency cottage. Recently painted yellow to freshen it up. Dolores loved it. Especially the grand paneled oak door, that so majestically invited her in, with the turn of the bow skelton key.

DBP 10-6-14

The Paper and Pen Timeline of Fractured History

DBP 9-24-14

Google Dual Computer invented 300 B.C.

The long journeys afoot were saved by this dual computer, designed by William InTell.

Coated Acid Free Paper 100 B.C.

Invented by the rehabilitated patients at the Babylon Hospital, some paper in wibbly colours.

First portable computer...IBM 5100 50 AD

The last of the compacts, before the more practical room size units.

386 computer system 220 AD

An early personal computer that cost the astronomical amount of 386 orichalcum.

Commodore 64 898 AD

Named in honour of the Commodores 64th gold record, Three Times a Hard Drive.

Fortran Monster

A proud device thattook up the entire 3rd floor of King Bytes Castle.

Word Processor 1450 AD

The concept of processing without computation seemed to simplify the communication process, which to many parents, stimulated the creativity of youth.

Ball Typewriter 1493 AD

This unit made everyone's head spin.

Etch a Sketch 1650 AD

Perhaps the greatest breakthrough in visual communication. Invented by Andres Cassagnes, who in the opinion of many was a lineographic knob.

Fortran 1820 AD

Invented by Karl P. Fortran who was quite a card.

Magic Marker 1826 AD

The ease of use, agility and brightness of image made this invention noteworthy. Invented by saxophonist Charlie Marker. Known as "Bird" because of the beak-like sharpness of the new point.

Ball Point 1867 AD

The inventers of this pen had a ball. Mr. Bic apparently liked the click.

Typewriter 1868 AD

This great invention was master-minded by Franz Xavier Wagner, not John Thomas Underwood. Underwood was the entrepreneur, who was known to get upset when he had difficulty using it, and would start cutting ribbons. The opening of this company henceforth was the start of the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

Fountain Pen 1888 AD

The inventor Peter Dipp, did experiments on this pen while sitting in a water fountain. He wanted it to be waterproof. He failed in two ways. It was not waterproof, and he drowned.

Steam driven calculator 1952 AD

Great creation, with many data institutes getting steamed over miscalculation.

Steam driven paper machine 1955 AD

This enabled the calculator to be hooked up to the paper-maker allowing instantaneous results of Grey Cup game. 

Commom Press 1960

Invented after continuousy pressing problems regarding early symptoms of arm pain suffered by Corporal Tunnel.

Water powered paper mill 1961

Inspired by realization that the Taj Mahal washrooms were using toilet tissue made from water forced from Charbagh.

Gutenberg Press 1963

Officially recognizing the stamp this new technology  would have on the literary world. 

Gutenberg Bible 1972

Many did not attend this book launch as on the same day the Whiskey-a Go-Go, America's first discotheque was opening in Los Angeles.

Diamond Sultra Print block 1980

Engraved and formed by the experienced craftsman, George Washington Carver.

Chinese Paper 1983 AD

Pre-cursor to Silk Road paper made from poppy stamen.

Silk Road paper 1985 AD

Invented by Mr. Wingwang after drinking beverage made from tree bark, hemp, and fish nets.

Quill Pen 1986

Invented by Barney Quill, before he was murdered by Lt. Manion.

Reed or "Takhti 2014 

Bahl Wrongpen created while watching the Flintstones.

DBP 9-24-14

Bix the Blasting Bullfrog

Bix was born in Davenport, Iowa in 1918...born in the muck of the Mississippi. He was a carefree child. He sang loudly and clearly, taking full advantage of his rather large vocal sacs. 

Bix dropped out of school, as the County Frog School cancelled the music program, the only thing that kept Bix in school at all. So he had time to be inventive, which resulted in the construction of a finely engineered reed trumpet. His compositions became the rage, including Neobratrachia Rag and Rhapsody in Green. His unique jazz style became known as Swamp Swing or Jumping Jazz. He heard the composition by William Harris, Bullfrog Blues, and created a new solo, which demonstrated his incredible cleft tonging techique. Louis Armstrong, a young chap from New Orleans could not match his improvisitional virtuosity.

He was quite a charmer too. His body was strong and stout, his eyes protruded with curiosity and imposition and his limbs were long and quick. No one was coloured like him either. He was a dappled brown but had extremely vivid patterns of bright green and yellow on his back. And when he blew his instrument, his cheeks expanded and shone a golden amber.

He tried to use his buccal pumping to create a new underwater sound, but the flow of air struggled to permeate the murky, thick water of the bog.

Whenever he joined other musicians, he was acutely adept at musical symmetry, as his side-viewing eyes were able to pick every motif offered by his fellow musicians. The tympanic membrane of his external ears was ideal for the amazing metronomic rhythm of his progressive new jazz sound. 

Unfortuneately, poor Bix became known as much for his womanizing and drinking as his musicianship. The swamp water began to take it's toll on him, and the duration of his torpor got longer and longer. On the steamy hot evening of August 9, 1931, Bix was playing very loudy, annoying his amphibious friends. His bassist, the soon popular Rufus Ribbit, visited his room and found him shaking violently. His respiratory system refused him and he passed away, with two Mexican salamanders under the detached lily pad on which he lay. They were yielding bur-weed stems and shouting boisterously, faintly renditioning the words to Bix's new song "Skunk-Cabbage Jam". This was his final legacy.

DBP 8-16-14

My Summer Vacation (OR… A Summer “Christmas” Tale)

It was my holidays. July, many years ago. My wife and I decided to visit Santa at the North Pole. We had to get ourselves to a place where Santa and his loyal elks, could meet us, and take us the rest of the way.

My friend was kind enough to take us in his helicopter to Eureka. For those who are not aware of its location, it is on the east side of Axel Heiberg Island. He was able to get us there because he was able to re-fuel at Polaris, near Bathurst Island. Otherwise, Santa would have had to send his reindeer much further to pick us up.

I was not even aware that Santa's herd worked in the summer. There were only six, four of them were not his Christmas team. Donder and Blitzen did come, as he wanted two experienced deer to navigate and supervise. They did have to negotiate a pay increase, but Santa in his usual way, was able to work out a happy agreement sealed only with his good word and a Ho Ho Ho.

Rudolph has a large family and insists on spending the summers with his children. He likes to take them to Severnaya Zemlya.

They were right on time. We only had to wait an hour for them. While we waited, Gord, our pilot, let us stay warm in his vehicle and we had a touch of very strong coffee. It would be a while before we could enjoy our daily application of caffeine.

Upon arrival, we were met by Mrs. Claus. She was surprisingly svelte. Even though I did not say a word, she detected my epiphany.

"Oh, yes." she said. "I am getting much older. I go for a snowshoe every morning... I am off deer meat and I find that meditation keeps me from being frustrated, ambivalent and unmotivated. Mr. Claus prefers his old ways, although he has cut back on his drinking... a little."

I smiled, knowing that Mrs. Claus was going to be a very fun host. She insisted on us calling her Ahoop.

The first day was sunny and quite comfortable. Mrs. Claus was dressed in a tight-fitting green felt knickers and a sweat top made of a synthetic pine needle fabric. It was quite sporting. Instead of her hair atop her head, she had let it down and it tied with a cedar comb. Bordering on "funky" I thought.

Santa has been at toy factory number six, the furthest away, so up until now, we had not met him. My lovely spouse and I had lunch with the two of them, as well as with Zwarte Piet, Santa's loyal friend who mainly amuses the elves and scatters pepernoten, kruidnoten and strooigoed.

He was almost as jolly and gregarious as Santa, and might I add, a slight less moody.

Our lunch consisted primarily of a soup made of cloudberries. It was sweet and delicious. Our desert was primarily cakes and candies, as well as peppermint horehound cookies. We never managed to grow accustomed to them. Considering that caribou steaks were going to be a staple of our later meals, we were concerned for our well-being. there was no question that we would be joining Ahoof on her morning hikes.

The bark n' berry wine was quite delicious and I suspected that it was well above the twelve-or-so percent alcohol of which we are accustomed. Fetching water was quite a chore so it became our realization early on that we would remain somewhat inebriated throughout our vacation. The reindeer milk was rich and delicious, but in short supply, as reindeer can usually only produce about a cup or two a day. Mrs. Claus also liked using it for her sugar pies.

We had many wonderful evenings, many being surprisingly robust and festive. Zwarte Piet and Santa entertained us one evening. Zwarte played an ancient cornet and Santa to our astonishment played a stand-up bass. Their version of jingle bells was quite contemporary and their performance in my opinion could stand up to that of Fats Navarro and Ray Brown. Mrs. Claus was in bed by then, her baking enterprises requiring her to rise before the sun.

We all attended Church service, but the scheduling seemed sporadic. We were never sure of the time of day, but usually in the morning, that had followed a day of particularly hard work everyone including the elves would gather in a small chaple and do a silent prayer. This bethel, despite being diminutive, seemed to grow in size as you watched the dangling emblems, cascading from the rafters. There was a Wheel of Dharma, Nine-point Star, Christian Cross, Om, Star and Crescent, Star of David, Thor's hammer, Taijitu and many others, of whom's source I must declare ignornace. At the end of the prayer, a cup of mulled wine was left. As we left, Mrs. Claus sprinkled it with snow and nutmeg.

The Santa Claus library was quite substantial, and on days of inclement weather, it was a wonderful place to be. Occassionally the elves would drop by and do a little song and dance, giving us an intermission from our contemplative chapters. Santa particularly liked J. R. R. Tolkien's Letters From Father Christmas.

He asked us, "Remember the story of how the accident-prone Polar Bear climbed the North Pole and fell through the roof of our house into the dining-room? Tolky just about split his belly when I told him about it. I must admit, his literary working of the tale is almost as good as my original telling!"

We didn't have many mishaps during our week of near-fantasy, but one comical and fortunately not injurious event occurred. During our tour of the factories (which were vast and infinite in there clanging noises, pitter-patter-of little feet, and thud of boxes and giant parcels) we decided to help with the slinky makers. One of the elves, "Springy" had been working on them since 1945 and never tired of the chore. One would think that a machine would be necessary to test the tensility of the toy, as it had to be just right. But... "Springy" would hold it in his hand and "play" it like an accordian, and would quickly respond by saying... "Good-to-go" or "one-more-twist". As he handed me one that passed the test, for me to put it in the box, it slipped from my hand... or should I say jumped from my hand!

This magical bauble quickly hastened to the stairwell, and essayed a journey to the second floor. The elves being so pre-occupied, failed to see it as it went on its way. It found its way to another escalier and in its devilry, descended. The final path of its journey took it to the main entrance, where a hug wooden toggled door stood. Suddenly, Mrs. Claus opened this massive gate, and before she could navigate herself to safety, she tripped over the unsuspecting trinket. A large tray of rarely made lemonade crashed to its destination, leaving her on the floor, her eyes inches away from the curious beast. Everyone ran to her assistance, but in her glowing spirit, she said she was okay, got up by herself, and spoke. "I will have to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.".

I was amazed and befuddled at the consequences of what I thought was just a slight error in coordination. I apologized to Ahoop.

"Oh, never you mind. I was never fond of those silly little buggers anyways." We all laughed and Mrs. Claus smiled innocently.

On a drizzly morning, we were faced with going home. I felt badly about the reindeer having to take us to Eureka to meet our friend, on sush a horrible day. Blitzen was very reassuring and was proud be lightening fast, and courageous in a storm.

He chuckled to himself and said... "siwwy Rudolp. Ee wud nebber go out on day like dis."

All the elves were there along with Santa, Mrs. Claus and Zwarte... and our eyes welled as we could hear them singing So Long, Farewell... as our sleigh disappeared through the mizzly sky.

When we were home safe and sound, we opened a little gift that Mrs. Claus had placed in our hands. It was a Slinky... not just a Slinky, but THE Slinky. A note came with it.

"Hope the little bugger makes a fine pet."

Love  Ahoop

DeaBeePea 12-20-15

Control Alt Delete #2

Why am I a CAD? It is because sometimes I forget myself and try to CONTROL. Then part way through this futile exercise I realize that I am being found out! So what to do? I then ALTERNATE my method in coy. But soon I realize the error of my ways. Hence I DELETE my entire motive. And then progress starts in the way of encouragement and co-operation. CAD!

DeaBeePea 2-16-16


There are so many memories of those summer days. Being home from school meant many things. It was as if I had been given a free ticket to the world!

I would see people doing all the things I had missed during my days in school. So many things to learn, and questions to ask. Why did Mr. Parker leave for work at 9:30 every morning? What kind of a job could that be?

It was a time when the fathers were away. You could almost hear the mothers voicing ringing down our street. Sometimes calling, sometimes scolding. When our fathers came home (mine at 5:10 P.M. like clockwork) me and my friends all took deep sighs. We prayed that in some way or another that our behavior that day was "acceptable". Otherwise, we would get our comeuppance before dinner. If the situation was severe, father would say, "This is too much for me to deal with before dinner, Don't run away after dessert David."   

Fortunately I was not in trouble TOO often. But I will never forget the scolding I got for biting the girl from up the street. I grabbed her arm and took a chunk out of it. I was a mad dog! But after all, she was taking liberties with my valued dinky cars.

My parents tied me up downstairs to the support pole. Act like a dog, get treated like a dog. That was not NEARLY as bad as having to go to her home and apologize to her and her mother and father. I would have rather died at that moment.

After all these memorable thoughts, the one thing, somewhat strangely, that stands out is the infamous clang. Yes, a clang. 

From the descending hill there arose such a clatter. Kids and their mothers were running out on the street. Brandishing what appeared to be weapons.

Clang, clang, clang. It was almost deafening.

I witnessed my mother in a panic. Almost. Going through the cutlery drawer. Cling, clang, cling, clang. 

Out on the street she went, cleaver in hand.

A man, pushing a little trolley. A white shirt rolled up just past the elbows, a flat cap, and greasy overalls. He was shy, and said little or nothing. 

Scurr,,, rkkk... scurr... rkkk...

When he was finished he took a short bow and said what sounded like thank you. 

Oh, those wonderful moments... when the knife-sharpening man came. 

DeaBeePea 3-22-16


Texture speaks in original text. When the opportunity arises to run my (nervous) hands through beautiful tresses, smooth and voltaic charge my mind.
When my anxious teeth prepare to enter a slowly-baked tenderloin of pork, the beige juices and succulent ghetto create a magical mood of cribriform emotions, and thoughts of a river of rebirth trickling down my throat.
Putting on a shirt of voile... I am introduced to the sun and early morning silence, not with a thud, but with a gentle smile and kiss of acceptance.
And... the drinks that touch my lips and explore my tongue have a consistency that legitimates my being, as well as the meticulous care that went into the brewing and fermentation. A perfect cup of coffee does not clearly spell unconstrained liquid, nor the saccharine quality of molasses, but more the essence of a melted milky bean, being assisted by raindrops, a spate over my awaiting firth.
Wine is most sensitive, to my judgemental gauge. It's tensility must be impeccable. If it passes over me too quickly, the memories of grapes' divinity are soon forgotten. If too slowly, the delicacy soon turns to callousness. There should arise the fabric of a newly formed pool, teasing me with piquancy, and dancing in my mouth like fairies with translucent wings.
Disposition so essential, in our search for the sensuous, never under-estimating the feel in our sensory wheel.

DeaBeePea 3-22-16 


When accessing freedom and liberty I look at human laws versus natural laws. Being environmentally based in my thinking, I look at natural laws as the foundation of all laws. They require obedience and discipline. This guides us in the enaction of human laws.

Freedom from the compulsions of weakness and fear is an essential motivation, and is the forerunner to peace. Fear creates a “negative” freedom which disallows social harmony.

When we formulate policy, laws, and regulation they are guidelines to this harmony and are not meant to be oppressive, but they are often used for that purpose. So we have to remember that our policies are inclusive not exclusive.

We also have to accept the reality that, within reason, if we are not a part of the solution, than we are a part of the problem. A major reason for deviant behavior is the lack of social values. If the rules are fair, and each individual has equal rights to pursue happiness than the less fortunate individual can have avenues of hope. We unfortunately have an economically stratified society, which makes it a challenge for the individual citizen to practice the democratic rights that allow him/her to participate in the betterment of social institutions. But we must try!

I like the Buddhist definition of liberty which implies tolerance on an egalitarian basis.

DeaBeePea 6-13-16

Son of a Gun

My father was a pistol, and my mother a rifle. They were an odd pair. Mixed marriage was unheard of at the time. Many guns thought that this relationship would trigger severe problems. My parents wanted to muzzle these guns. But my father said, "Just hold the stock and be strong."
I am a strange gun. I do have a large magazine, so many think I look like mother. However, I have a short barrel, which gives me a stoutness, similar to my dad.
The most unusual thing however, is that my cylinder release was born in a permanently sealed condition. So even if you put a bullet in me, I wouldn't be able to shoot. I have lived with scorn for many years, and I feel really badly about it, because it made things for mom and dad even worse. At first I got very depressed, but soon I realized that I must get a grip.
Looking through my sight I began to see the world differently. Having an empty chamber, or having one with dormant bullets, gave me a sense of worth. The gun of peace. What a neat thing that became.
Once mixed marriage became more common and acceptable, a number of years before, I began to socialize with this burgeoning community of guns. We decided never to be called weapons. That was an insult. We formed a chamber and promoted our idea of a new role for guns. For those in our campaign who did have trigger releases and functioning hammers, we inserted the with love bullets. When fired, these pellets would break open and spray a harmless dust that when landing on hatred and fear, would cause them to dissolve.
I have never been prouder. We are the NPGA. (National Peace-Gun Association).

DeaBeePea 6-14-16

Word Definition:

GINGER: a young woman, sometimes appearing on 1960's style sitcoms, who usually portrays a brash elegance and coquettish sexuality, tends to be sweet and spicy, with a golden-red ambience, and the tendency to walk in cautious steps, but also with enterprising courage. Can also be a rather jazzy and cheek to cheek dance partner.

DeaBeePea 6-26-16

The End

When this beautifully embroidered coupling of words, which are never meant to be apart, appear, embossed on the screen, the meeting of minds takes place.

The extremities of the limit are tested. Our intellect and empathy begin to tell a new story. If no tale emerges, then I assume that the author of this lengthy parable has failed. The only true and successful "the end" is one that sprinkles magic dust that takes us into a new reality where past, present and future are one and the same and our conclusions decorate our lives as if there is a brand new beginning. If we walk away self-assured and feeling an affinity of blankness then the cinematic two hours we have spent has been wasted. Only can we smile of our episode if we feel we have been walking through a garden of maturity and also sprouting life.

"The End" ... yes, one might delight in thoughts of Death, but the intrinsic message is that it is a chapter. In many cases the first, in others, one of the middle, but never the last. Whether a Hitchcock cessation, a Welles culmination or a Capra conclusion, the on-off determination is a continuance, a river looking for a mouth, and a frustrated but inspired mind looking for a reason to laugh, cry, and especially both.

DeaBeeP)ea 11-15-17

Remembrance Thoughts

It seems, at least for me, more than ever, that Remembrance Day inspires so many things. Not just Veterans, celebrating courage, and as well looking at War with a suspecting eye, but simply remembering and looking at our past, and the paths we have taken. As a person approaching "official" seniorhood, I feel a peace never felt before... and Happiness... which I can't really define.

I think it is a stronger sense of hope. Knowing how many people have made a difference in my life, and how we all have the ability to make that difference. Simply saying "way to go", being encouraging, hugging and understanding. There is not a great need for blatant action, but by just being there and sending the message that you care, can be a powerful catalyst. Whether or not your God is a god, or gods or something else, we have been given this amazing capacity to learn and grow by being humble and sometimes silent.

So on this day I am both sad and happy, sad for those I never met, sad for those I met and lost, sad for those who met but never appreciated but most of all happy for my honest, fascinating and playful friends, families that stretch our boundaries and juxtaposed feelings that make every day confusing, fun, beguiling, and heart-warming.

Every day, regardless of its epithet is a version of Thanksgiving.

DeaBeePea 11-17-17

Understanding Sleep

Sleep is a state of mind and body. I am not sure whose mind or whose body, but considering that it is a state of altered consciousness, I assume it applies to me. The level of sensory activity depends on how sensible you are. And without getting too personal, you might be ruled out, but we won’t get personal.
The inhibition of this sensory activity might be a factor of where you are inhabited. If you live in a small square room, you are more likely to be inhibited and people are less likely to visit you. And as far as voluntary muscles are concerned, my muscles seldom volunteer for anything, so unless you are an athlete you might fall into the same category, and falling is also a factor depending on the amount of intoxicating beverage contained within you inhabitance. Then of course, we are referring to the comatose state, which also requires little visitation, because of course, you wouldn’t know what the hell is going on.
The reduced tendency to react to stimuli may or may not be considered a good thing. It can be referred to as rest, or in some cases, avoidance. If for example, if her name is Gertrude, and she is a nagging pain-in-the-ass, my lethargy is a damn good thing. If her name is Cocoa and she is voluptuous and loving, I could regret my state of stillness, but I am going off topic here.
Of course, we can be rescued by the dream, which is the catalyst of fantasy. But once again, I am going off topic.
Being what they call anabolic, restores the immune system, of which I have an immunity too, as well as Gertrude, but that’s another story. It also helps us to establish mood, regain memory and cognitive performance. I do not recall ever establishing mood or cognitive performance, but I do have some friends who could give you a more accurate assessment of my performance, Gertrude excluded.
I did not know that I had an inner clock. This circadian time-piece, I believe is located in the upper vortex of the sensory strip of the cerebrum, I think, is quite alarming. Depending on how you set it, or if you know how to set it, could have an effect on your mood and energy level, and could also make you late for work, or extremely early. If you don’t work, then not only do you not need a circadian clock, you don’t need sleep at all.
Regarding problems with sleep, there are many somnias, in fact I know many Sonyas, but once again, I am getting off topic.

Thank you... Wake up you dummy!

David Bruce Patterson 1-21-18

This brilliant essay is inspired by the unforgettable work of Robert Benchley 1889-1945

State of the World

Despite what appears to be a crisis in terms of world peace, I can say with confidence that peace is just around the corner. I cannot precisely say what corner, or where that corner is, but I do feel its presence.

Political revolution is a factor of both over-production, underproduction and reproduction. This implies a value debasement, or possibly just a basement, of which many of us live. This causes depression which is in need of mental stimuli which requires imagination, motivation, or most importantly whiskey. Whiskey production, although I do not have the statistics in front of me, is possibly portrayed by understanding the ratio between gross national product, gross inflation, gross deflation, gross poverty, gross wealth or in general, grossness.

It seems that also, world peace is influenced by the existence of war. It seems that peace is threatened by war. To impede the growth of war I feel that arms reduction is necessary, but that could lead to leg reduction, head reduction and sexual organ reduction which once again creates climactic change. The warming of temperatures has no direct correlation to whiskey production, but it is known that Scotland is a country inclined towards agriculture fermentation, as discontent with the European Union indeed, ferments.

In summation, the peace that is around the corner can only be achieved if someone bothers to go around the corner to find out what the hell is going on. And it won't be me. I am too busy. So I ask anyone out there who has been there, or who actually lives there now, please let us know where you are and we can figure out this peace thing.

Thank you... Rest in Peace

David Bruce Patterson 1-21-18

This brilliant essay is inspired by the unforgettable work of Robert Benchley 1889-1945

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