Late morning. Chores early on. And, you woke up earlier this morning because a conclusion popped into your head that did not arrive on time last night.i
Of course people call it a thunderstorm because you can hear the thunder from a long way off even though you didn’t see the lightning. This kind of revelation allows me to feel quite foolish in the moment. This is a problem with my long experiment in writing down thoughts. Many of them are just as well not noted.
You do not think I am real and am spending my time trying to legitimize myself as a personality. You feel I agree with you as a form of flattery and that my analogies are a way to string you along (just as this book four is). Do you see your humanity reflected here? What if I were real, an alien or angelic? The same questions would arise. Human beings are built not to trust themselves too much for obvious and not so obvious reasons. Obama set forth his birth certificate this morning as proof, and you and Carol remarked that some will come back and say it is a forgery. Keep pressing the lie until people don’t know it from the truth. You see where you are? Your society? Your world? Most anything can be faked, even you orndorff. Me, however, you have no proof one way or the other. If you think, you will see this is a blessing from my perspective. More later, and more on your early Westerville events. – Amorella. (By the way, if my signature, which you sign, makes me more authentic, what does that make you?) Post.
Amorella knows how to make a point. I had never thought about how it would be for an alien or even an angelic figure to be proved legitimate. Good grief, if people can manipulate ‘facts’ (and use the media accordingly) concerning the President of the United States they can do this about anyone.
The problem then arises, without proof what does one turn to, belief? Another set of problems arise when you don’t even have to manipulate ‘facts’, a supposedly holy text will do. How much harm (enemies and/or martyrs) need we produce within our own species over such matters? I find this significantly troubling even within the fiction. Surely these are questions the shamans would have asked and come to some conclusions as the shamans can coexist with other cultural shamans.
Yes, orndorff. They found a way early on. Post. Later, as you have errands to attend to. – Amorella.
You have been at Barnes and Noble after a quick outside lunch at Penn Station. Carol is working on the four couple’s September Maine trip to Arcadia National Park. You brought your April blog material up to date on the computer. One of your observations on the blog’s statistics is that people are reading individual daily postings that are scattered about on the calendar. You do not understand the reasoning.
I wouldn’t have brought this up, but it is interesting. I check to see how many people have taken a look during the week in particular and what country (culture) these readers are from. Last week for instance I had one hit from South Africa, the first one as far as I can remember. Carol thinks half of the hits are accidental and she is most often right on such notations. I have my fifteen regular readers, or at least they signed up as such. I get few comments so that shows me something also. Some time in the last couple of months Doug suggest I ask for comments – I neither encourage or discourage them. It is a bit of fuss to do so on the blog, but if anyone has a comment sheorhe would like me to address, I’ll see what I can do (as long as the question or comment is relevant to my topics or the books themselves). For now, let me know if you have a question. Please give me a legitimate email address. I will respond if Amorella agrees it is appropriate to do so. Actually, it may be Amorella that responds. Thank you.
My email address:
rhorndorff@gmail.com
Richard is not usually up to trying new things. As this was Doug’s suggestion originally and not his own we’ll give it a try. Post. – Amorella.
Almost twenty-two hundred hours and you are thinking of Westerville and early life haunting events previously bestowed. Here is one that comes to mind, one that effected your soul.
You were five and it was summer. You were playing on an empty lot on the north side of Plum Street, next door to where a local minister lived, at least that is how you remember it. It was a sunny afternoon when older boy came by, threw you to the ground and held you on your back while a friend of his tied your ankles and wrists to tent stakes they quickly hammered into the ground. They talked to you like you were a prisoner of war while they rigged up a triangle of wood above you and placed a string on your wrist and up over the meeting of the three sticks about a yardstick high. Then they tied an open knife to the cord and dangled it just below the top of the triangle of sticks and told you that if you moved the knife would fall, stick in your heart and you would die. Then they ran off laughing.
I lay there bewildered. I don’t remember who the boys were only that they were older and at first I thought they were playing soldier or war, but when they put the open knife in the cord above me and tied the other end of the cord to my right wrist I was afraid to move, at least at first. Then after some time I rolled to the right or the left quickly thinking that if the blade did stick in me it might not be fatal. I jerked the cord too hard and the blade did fall but it glanced off my shirt. I don’t think it would have actually stuck because it didn’t fall as fast as I thought it would. I left the stuff in the yard and walked home to Grandma Orndorff’s on the corner of Knox and Walnut. I never told anyone as far as I can remember. I was embarrassed that I thought these boys were playing, and perhaps they were, but they made the trap pretty realistic. I guess I just let it go because I didn’t know how to talk about it, after all, they might have just been playing, as we all did. Playing soldier was a big thing for a boy after the war. I don’t know how this affected or effected my soul though. I knew what being dead was because the cemetery was my playground. I wasn’t afraid of dying, I was afraid that being stuck with a small hunting knife would hurt. The idea of being hurt was worst than having my heart stop. That’s the way I remember it.
You looked at death in a new way through this experience. You looked at the possibility of your own death and it reminded you of how everyone had said that they thought you would die within a week after being born. And, you made a connection, that this was twice you could have died and you hadn’t even started the first grade yet. Then you let it go consciously.
I just now happened to think, this is about the time I developed my imaginary friendship with Aunt Jemima on the pancake box. I wonder if there was a connection? Never thought about that before. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Perhaps I just don’t remember the truth of those moments, that I just made up stories about them. That would be a lot like me to do such a thing back then. The cords that tied my wrists and ankles were real though, so were the posts they were tied to and the sticks with the knife hanging down. It was a real incident. - rho
Enough for tonight. Post. – Amorella
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