Candid Corvid Productions

Did I mention that I lost my glasses?

They must have slipped out of their case when I leaned over and they were in a smaller pocket of a different jacket I began wearing.

What I have left are tiny pince nez of a heavier prescription that were once my mother’s.

No help, there.

Or, I have the ones I am currently using, which my father bought me 5 years ago in the summer of my “breaking free” in 2016.

Yeah, well, they fell a while ago – and guess where they landed?

Exactly dead center on the lenses, over where my eye holes look forward.

Yep.

So, I am typing anything I care about while dodging and angling to see around these scratches blurring and fogging.

I can only partially see through tiny patch-swaths of clarity around the edges.

No, I don’t have $15 to replace them.

AA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

And, have I mentioned what a feck-ing pain it is to type quickly on my phone and look back on my work, only to see intelligent scripture left in a swath of visual garble?

Which bright bastards decided to eliminate my beloved, textural feedback system of actual click buttons?!

I want to disassemble all their beloved functionality for a day – or how about whenever they really need it in moments of precious inspiration – over and over and over again..

Would they then get the message while consumed by their vexation to restore my keyboard to me?

I’ve missed mine – or rather, they don’t seem to appear, unless I create them.

I’ve seen them show up all around me, without other people even trying.

And they have turned and walked right up to these chances, which open right up and welcome them.

I guess you have to be sleepwalking for them to come to you.

And another person has to be sleepwalking, heading toward you if it’s a chance for loving.

It explains why real connection has been fleeting.

I mean, if media is advertising a smorgasboard with “all you can eat,” there’s pressure to drop whatever you’ve found “easily” and move onto the “next best thing.”

Or else, you “aren’t living.”

And this ageist society has new angles developing to regulate me into while trying to suppress and swallow me.

Did you know pupular medical practice is reverting to age-shaming women again in their 30’s, claiming upon conception they are now having a geriatric pregnancy?

What about someone my age who is still healthy and productive?

70 years old would now be actual geriatric pregnancy!

Since when did it become again mainstream to force women to produce in their 20’s?

Oh, that’s right: current media is cornering their target market as “the favored and chosen ones.”

Keep them happy and egos stroked, and those of us who know better are dumped by the wayside.

We won’t fall for marketing gimmicks and manipulation, and we fight to uphold the morals media hype is dissolving.

Get rid of knowledge and free will by psychological manipulation, and you gain control over more impressionable minds with mouths gaping wide open for higher percentage consuming.

I worry now that I’ve turned 50.

I can feel the machine gnashing its teeth, wanting to categorize and consign me – either for profit or discrediting.

It wants to take my identity and pin me to a wall: “You will be this or that – welcome to your fall!”

i just climbed out of my 40’s, which honestly were the hardest to break out of as circumstances tried to damage me.

It’s been almost worse than my childhood in negative impressing

When you are a child, you have no control.

But, if you look at adults around you, there’s hope that as you grow, you can gain it.

When you are an “adult,” “it’s supposed to be different.”

Damage from fighting for the right to live, breathe, and be free of others’ projections can be crippling when the adult mind is forced back into a child’s helplessness.

I swear.

I just want to shout, ” SEE ME FOR WHO I REALLY AM – YOU IDIOTS!”

To the world, to the people around me, and to the mechanistic capitalism investors busy churning our lives into nonsense.

Hey, I’m just asking for the space to be have and express my Identity.

Last night, I had a bad dream.

The kind where sickly goo coats your insides, keeping you attached to the sensation and feeling bound to it when you wake, afraid to return to sleep.

Are you proud of yourself, sleep spectre? That you only exist and flourish by preying upon others where they feel weak?

Why don’t you try a new line of work, where you are actually helping people. Then, you would be welcomed to return – likely more frequently!

I am irritated at the presumptuousness of the older man who attempted to break in through my window, against my will, pushing his agenda to “treat me right” (not what he said in his malice).

Just because I voice my thoughts does not mean I am a willing victim. Don’t tell me you like it that way – take a hike! Get a better “profession.”

I guess I am struggling to clear out old garbage messaging. I’ve heard that if you repeat positivity with clear intention, it can become your new programming.

There are only a few guys on this planet, likely, that I could sync up with properly and have a fulfilling life with.

Don’t take it personally, Mr. Stalker: you don’t need to force your beliefs on me.

There’s someone better for you, too.

Yesteray, I had asked Guidance to help me think of additional income sourcing which could be immediate.

This morning, I dreamed about a previous housecleaning client owing me payment, and that I could get more money, since she had more for me to do.

So, I then spent the day aiming to get my housecleaning business going here – even to getting 100 cards printed.

But, when I told my youngest about this – determined to keep doing things to help and make him proud of me – he pointed out my “disconnect.”

Housecleaning is not healthy for me. It puts me in a bad state, mentally and emotionally, and causes the pain within to flare up and go into reinjury.

After he went to work, I spent time undoing all of my ads.

He had reminded me that I had promised myself to never put myself through that, again.

Because I have witnessed and experienced atrocities, it becomes difficult to not lock onto perceived outcomes in data streams’ constantly shifting and realignment.

I have been the target of violent brutality, which was due to someone’s repressed, then expressed, acting out from others’ past injustices put upon them.

I have experienced hope of financial security shattered repeatedly when reliant upon other people’s business whims.

I have received the punishment when others have not accepted their personal accountability. I have had to pay that bill that gets forwarded to the next victim.

I have seen decisions being made, that if I could somehow counter, might avert a future disaster.

Interacting with others can leave me quivering for the bravery I daily exhibit, when I no longer feel confident.

I just get up, dress up, and show up – hoping for the best – and choking on having to accept that it might not happen.

Ehem.

Can I get a chaser with that, please?

(Hand raised to summon the waiter.)

His father was a great strategist: a renowned warrior from The Days of Glory.

But, because he died when the boy was too young to learn from him, the child was cast adrift in a broken society.

The woman he met in his wandering saw the truth buried within him.

She tried with her heart, mind, and spirit to call it forth to help save him.

But, his hardships made him fight her and suppress it.

I’ve wanted to inspire others to come out of their shells and embrace the creative beauty waiting to emerge from inside them.

I’ve wanted to represent a vision that anyone can overcome difficulties if they believe in their heart they’ve the right to challenge them.

I’ve wanted to have my life’s choices show how far I’ve come – the ground gained and pride won, even though I’m still struggling.

I’m learning that maybe “conflict” might happen every day, and that I don’t have to associate it with thoughts like “it shouldn’t.”

Self analysis is productive, but self criticism is destructive.

Giving our efforts another chance to succeed, no matter perceived prior “failures,” is what keeps us adapting and overcoming.

Modesty, while being valiant, remains key.

I could feel that it was tragic I was marrying him, but Spirit sent rain and a rainbow on the day. And somehow. It felt right to do it.

The rain gave a chance for my mother to lend kindness and inclusiveness by letting me borrow her nice, velvet jacket to keep me warm over my silver-glint wedding dress.

Our second child could be seen by my mounding belly, and our eldest of nearly four years old looked so proud and dapper in the rented outfit as our ring bearer.

I’ve since lost our wedding certificate from that blessed day of subtle lighting, which accented through the mini chapel’s beautiful, stained glass windows.

It was as if the whole world’s activity had muted to give space for our progression.

Putting the ring on him was awkward – and inside, embarrassing: it did not slide easily onto his finger. In fact, it was as if his flesh was resisting.

I decided to let him put it on himself in front of everyone, as we played it off – joking. This symbolized to me that he was entering our agreement of his own free will and choice.

I knew that I was doomed to someday leave him.

He couldn’t be mine without his own voice.

An elaborate refoldable landscape that circulated water running downhill, then back into the unit to come out again.

I had to adjust the rocks and fabric to minimize spray at the bottom end from when the water hit that with too much force and not enough gradual bend.

Sweet-scented orchid-type flowers mixed with other unique, hand-sized exotic plants were preserved, moist and viable, in their shipment package.

I put them into a low water, ceramic container about the size of a cup, just enough to keep roots nourished, with the help of an enthusiastic delivery lady.

There were more items in various decorated envelopes of Oriental, gold accented, metalic-flake nuance waiting for me to explore.

Someone had put in a lot of time and energy to promote good feelings that they were thinking of me.

Feeling engaged in the process and appreciated, I saved the best for last: the personal note addressed to me.

There were many parts I had yet to unwrap: small packages of creative thoughtfulness.

But, I awoke from the dream before I could learn who sent them, and their intention.

I accidentally added a “woman” to my Facebook from overseas who claimed to be 28 years old.

“She” immediately began asking me about my age, if I still had sex, and did I want to have sex with “her?”

Let’s get one thing straight: 50 is the new 30, baby.

Secondly, we can’t have sex remotely and be effective.

But, most important of all, I usually don’t add men from “her” country to my profile, out of respect for Hadith.

So, the fact “she” pushed for “relations” made me suspect it was a man.

Just because I am American does not mean I lack propriety nor morality.

Why are repressed societies so hung up on fantasies of lesbians?

Their brash pursuit completely bypasses their religion’s precepts of respecting other humans.

The days have shortened.

Nights are long and black, with hours stretching before morning.

I recognize patterns – but the rhythm is different as I’m driven into action.

It takes time, patience, investment, and endurance to grow one’s own business.

The panic to get a job – any job – to help cover expenses combines with memories of past follies.

You cannot just enter – then exit – without a cost.

“Hey, man.

These things need to be taken seriously.

What’s out there doesn’t play by the same rules we do.

They’ll grab on – take a hold of you.

I only travel there when I have to – and only along the border, when I need safe passage from one “real” realm to another.

Heed my warning.”

She had a fellow peer who was a recovering healer whom she encouraged to get back into “the swing of things.”

However, she decided she would not let this friend work on her because her friend was even more empathic – and wide-open-receptive to spiritual things.

The trail blazer knew by now that something was attached to her. That it was drawn forward when she let her guard down, or when she was exhausted.

It had the nack for playing on others’ perceptions. She could sit back, not participate, and just watch as people projected onto her – if she wanted to.

Maybe it was some sort of untamed gift for her using. But, who in their right mind would want to mess with an insatiable genie?

She could sometimes feel that it was from the blackest core, filled with hatred’s envy – just waiting. It frightened her to think that it might ever be able to use her as a tool.

Her immune system felt constantly fatigued, as if its presence was always feeding, depleting energy as her cells fought to keep it from infiltrating.

She couldn’t allow her friend to access it: it would take advantage of weakness.

Ignorant anger targeting her throughout her life’s growing was the reward for her taking on the Satanic curse – meant for her mother.