I just started listening to Amy Winehouse. Her voice cut me deep. That’s it, the voice, trapped in a body in the wrong time. She would have thrived in the fifties, when record companies and managers covered up discretions and protected the investment. She would have been a chanteuse, sitting on a piano singing songs about love gone bad and loneliness. She was a star in 2011. She would have been a supernova in the fifties. Her albums were retro love songs. Rehab was that one cry all the damaged stars disguised by DUI, multiple marriages and an ocean of booze. She would have survived, damaged, but able to produce. I know this is selfish of me. I want to hear more.

Gave the cat an IQ test. Back up the short bus. I’ve got an animal who’s motivated by food, sleep and an unending search for  affection. She doesn’t learn, she just shows up and waits for something to happen. As I write this she’s fast asleep on the couch after spending the night on my bed. When she was bored with that she crouched in the spot where she caught a field mouse who decided to winter in the apartment.

Last post I had a list of fifteen thing the government could do for the populace, let’s look a Number 1. “A sense of unity and security.” We don’t have this. Politicians thrive on disunion. It feeds the monster. They’ve got to have a straw man so they can convince the voter that they’ll handle the threat. What we have to know; there is no enemy. He’s just another guy who lives down the street and belongs to a different political party and goes to a different church. He looks at you the same way. And neither knows why. The people who want your vote find out what you’re afraid of and exploit that. We should know better. It’s an ongoing game everybody who wanted to be in charge, except for Washington and Eisenhower, had someone in their closest circle who found interesting facts about the opponent or found a problem only his candidate could solve. We’re in the middle of an election year. The incumbent is explaining the economy as something that needs to be fixed only with his hand on the tiller. The opposition tells us that business experience will lead us out of the depression. They don’t have a clue, neither of them. It took a Gordian Knot of problems to get us where we are. A lot of the things were out of of our control. Others we did on our own. The fact is both parties are using the economic problems to divide the electorate. The voter has to look at the noise that is being generated and how much of it is facts. Not much, I’d bet. The solution will take time. It will require a search for a unifying ground. Then finding someone who can stand that ground and win out over the machine. If I find some alternatives I’ll post them. Don’t vote because there’s a new shiny candidate, just look at what they have to offer. File away what you think is needed.

The story: If you’ve been reading it you’ve noticed ther’e no dialogue. The story is happening and being created inside the mind of Ronald Fox. You’ll have to visit the Theatre of the Mind and include the background noise and voices that are in Ronald’s life. I know, the reader is supposed to follow the story and the writer is going to supply the atmosphere. There’s a reason for that. I want you to tell me what you hear and see as you go through the story. It’ll be between the two of us.

The story:

As the weeks passed and the stash of pills grew in his drawer Ronald Fox began to see things etched crystal clear. The women who he’d loved were beginning to smile at him, even the prim spokesmodel for a major furniture chain took a coquetteish turn when she knew he was watching. The newsreaders gave him knowing looks when a story the had to read had import hidden to the masses. He felt the urge to tell the therapist and the nurse about what he’d discovered. He didn’t, if they were giving him pills that made him behave, it was logical that they were part of the problem. He didn’t talk to other patients. They had their own problems to deal with. Sometimes a patient was deemed “cured” and released. But most of the time they were sent to wards where they were medicated into an inert state and tended by  a cadre of large men who bathed them and cleaned after them. Ronald Fox knew at some point he was bound for a secret ward. They knew he wouldn’t be cured. He was a killer, a thoght that was becoming fainter in his memory.

That’s all. If I go any further I’ll be forcing it.

And now a link. Check it out and think about what I said about finding alternatives:


Talk to me, pass it on, feed my unhealthy need for attention, give to a food bank.