Right foot does not feel like it did…Sunday night?
Blissful Wizard had a higher THC ratio then recommended?
Date night sex was sooo…good. Monday should be the ‘layover’ flight to climaxing, again…on Tuesday?
I have my reasons for disliking Mondays. Mostly, incendiary thoughts and punitive puns that I have been getting away with for more years than I care to admit.
But Monday can have many meanings for many people. Take the Bob Geldof and Brenda Spencer! One would think these two…
Bob Geldof…Band-Aid, Live-Aid, political activist and all around…good guy
Brenda Spencer…arguably, America’s first…mass shooter. Or, perhaps, better put, America’s first High Profile, Homegrown…Wack-job, who just did not like Mondays!
**On Monday, Jan. 29, 1979, a journalist from The San Diego Union Tribune got the quote of a lifetime from 17-year-old Brenda Ann Spencer.
“I don’t like Mondays,” she said. “This livens up the day.”
The “this,” she had been referring to was the fact that she had just fired 30 rounds of ammunition into an elementary school, and was now barricaded inside her home.
A little before 8 a.m. that morning, children began to line up outside Grover Cleveland Elementary School in San Diego, California. They were waiting for their principal to open up the gates so they could head inside.
Across the street, Brenda Ann Spencer was watching them from her home, a ramshackle house filled with empty alcohol bottles and a single mattress she shared with her father. As the children lined up outside the gate, Spencer took out the Ruger 10/22 semi-automatic .22 caliber rifle that she’d gotten as a Christmas gift. Then, she aimed it out the window and began firing.
The principal of the school, Burton Wragg was killed as he was trying to help the kids through the gates. A custodian, Mike Suchar was killed trying to pull a student to safety.
With little or no collaboration, Bob and Brenda, had a bond. And, that bond became the most horrifyingly, disgusting, panic stricken day of the week…Monday
Say, Brenda, ‘Tell Me Why You Don’t Like Mondays!’
The silicon chip inside her head gets switched to overload. And nobody’s gonna go to school today. She’s going to make them stay home. And daddy doesn’t understand it.
He always said,
She is as good as gold.
And he can see no reason ’cause there are no reasons!
What reason do you need to be shown?
I don’t like Mondays! What other reason do you need to be shown?
The telex machine is kept so clean. And it types to a waiting world. Her mother feels so shocked. Father’s world is rocked! And their thoughts turn to their own little girl. Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen. No, it ain’t so neat to admit defeat. And all the playing has stopped in the playground now. She wants to play with the toys…awhile. And school is out early. Soon we will be learning the lesson today…
is how to die!
And then a bullhorn crackles and the captain tackles with the problems and the hows and the whys…
He can see no reason…No reason why…What reason does one need to die?
And, she says…she will speak her truth one more time..
Perhaps, this is what war will come to? Full circle and violent!
EACH YEAR IN EARLY MAY, the hills and towns of Bolivia erupt with violent fighting. The weapons are fists and stones. People die. And after a few days, everything goes back to normal.
This is tinku.
There may be no tourist attraction in the world quite like tinku, the ritual street battles practiced by some indigenous communities in the Bolivian Andes. Visitors return with reports of chaos and brutal warfare, fueled by homemade booze, in remote mountain villages.
That sort of uninsured… moodiness began thirty years ago.
The feel of the tired shag carpeting, as it lay beneath her side. The texture of the fake wood that held up her dresser. Had she known it was just a holding tank for pet fur; she would have vacuumed under it more often. As it was, she would need to make note of the chaotic, shedding that occurred under her bedroom furniture. She most definitely needs to take care of that issue, before, Gerald, witness the uncleanliness.
Remembering, now, at the ripe old age of, old age, Anne, knew fetal equaled, ‘misdeed’. Position equaled, leaving oneself open to suggestion. A suggestion that was not always wanted.
In the sun-room of the Needles Nursing Home, Anne often pondered,
‘What could it have been like for the children to see me like that? Curled in, closed off, sobbing but not allowing myself to cry. Hysterical but not willing to make it such a…nervous breakdown!
The abuse begin to turn a different sort of turn, approximately, three decades ago. When she promised herself, ‘I will know longer think of myself as, taken advantage of!’
That is when the cowering and the coward came into play. Though, still at the hand of her narcissistic husband, Anne began to behave differently.
No longer would she sit and judge, Gerald. No longer would she stand in the way of his ‘disciplining’ the children. Anne, slowly became an extension of Gerald’s long armed law. Neither a promoter or instigator. Nor, an encouragement or finger pointer.
The sun-room at this time of day, created beautiful crosses on the lavender walls. And, though the chapel, were down the hall. It was in this particular room of the aged home, Anne, felt less guilty.
It wasn’t easy being the midwife to hate. Being the eyes and ears of the Head of the House. Yet, when her role started to fall into place. Possibly in her later forties. It had been then that Anne accepted Gerald for all his faults. The kids seemed frightened but older and able to head out on their own, soon. And, worrying less about the abuse, made her full-time job, off sight, more enjoyable.
‘How did her son feel when Gerald threatened to kill him? Chasing him into the backyard with fist curled, and leather belt readied and willing.
What did her youngest daughter think when Gerald pushed Anne so hard into the stonewall surrounding the driveway? An impact so forceful she had a slight black and blue under her eye and swollen shoulder for about a week.
Why the giving up to give in?
The children had their issues. But, what further damage would she; Anne, have created, had she antagonized, Gerald, further with tears and reprimanding?
As the roll call for four o’clock supper echoed the nearly vacant halls, Anne began to rise. Aching from new old pains. Slightly miffed that her younger daughter had not called to inquire of Anne’s health status. In need of, morphine for the many debilitating illnesses that had nudged Anne’s doctor into placing her at the Home.
Anne gave up all current thought of the past. As she always did. Assuming that the past was just the past. Rehashing old wounds did no good. It was…
far easier on everyone to just forgive and forget.
B.W.S from the adult-child’s perspective:
Many battered women stay in abusive relationships.
Many making excuses or minimizing your partner’s behavior
Many have low self-esteem
Many are traditionalist, believing in family unity and feminine sex-role stereotypes
Many accept responsibility for the batterer’s actions
Many feel that rocking the boat will make the abuse worse
will not live long enough to enjoy Anne’s sun-room!
TheCertifiablyTRUERavingsOfASectionedPhilosopher: Don't be afraid to think you might be a little 'crazy'. Who isn't? Check out some of my visualized poems here: https://www.instagram.com/maxismaddened/