If the honorable gentlemen would agree; “how did Senator Justin Morrill’s 1862 Act, along with the Pacific Rail and Homestead Acts of the same year, provide the driving force within a paradigm of vacating Vermont; especially as connected to the closure of the mills at Lowell and Biddeford upon alteration of the fibers marketplace via hostilities? In other words; is there a storyline of rail driven dairy and fiber bovidae relocation in America which pertains to hardship in Vermont.
Anti-Wahhabi Ladenism doesn’t matter anymore. Admittedly, Ladenesque pan islam is rising akin to taliban ideology, but the populace is democratic and markets are too; so petrological substrate belongs to the world via corporate law. Simultaneously invalid is the pre-leap forward Sino soviet schism induction process unless some lunatics think COVID-19 is a KGB CCP collective zoo lab concoction.
Regarding my writing style; I try to take grand ideas and place them within an algabraicly reductionist methodology for achieving a blessed context. By “context” I mean to express my lonely and multifarious vantage upon your places and meanings. And, I have found that my content and my context are nothing without your context. I hope I do not fail you in explanations. Having always wished for what you have, I seek only to defend such as what you are and are amongst. I feel I peer into the garden with a chance to enter into knowledge and life together, forever and with the solemn duty of knowing good and evil. Truly I question what brings this phenomenon within this the arena which I have stepped into; gods and goddesses observing; Franciscan birdsong perhaps to be heard.
Starlight tonight with our now approaching December chill of 2020. The perpetual constancy of Polaris, amidst the magnetic flux of declination purportedly only mad north by northwest and here relative to the said celestial beacon to travelers seems to me to be miraculously steady if yet this solstice Capricorn is here to rise into our cold; as the warrior Orion arcs spectrally across this northern hemisphere’s southern horizon. Yet, this perpetual opposition to tropical tilt be not the said arc of Orion, though he wander, yet rather specifically thus it’s said rigidity, axial, under star, tilting of tropics pondered hence: under this inclined northern star; these vectors from the proximal sun, altered though that star stay true? So, position fixed upon the globe, how, relative to this eternal Polaris, could a contradictory swing of the tropical climes occur? One point north and tropical shift? How? Further, thence to yield unto the sun causation for the seasonal flux of thermal and hydrological forces which dry the autumn ground at rut and later inundate any vernal wetlands with the warming of the ice and snow. And, to quantify that flux, said, which thus must melt the chill midst heat and cold from proximal sun? A difficult question. Recall: a constant Polaris. And, again, the simultaneous equatorial shift? (When the wind blows South, I know a hawk from a handsaw) So, with winter chill upon me and energy of heat in mind, I ponder my fortune under the ever constancy and flux dynamics of the swirling heavens and think of my extraordinary luck, wondering does the constellation of such a goddess as I now envision, perhaps akin to Libra now above, lift my humors, steady my pulse, arriving as promised to fill this land with lore, accompany me, and save my soul. I can not avoid these thoughts of forces in the heavens. I land my boots upon this shore in wonder and awe awaiting her accordingly. Impacting upon me force of light and gravity, celestial being, starry night.
He hates it when I tell the story, but, I’d been pouring over voluminous tomes on modern Eurasian nations for about a decade, whenever I wasn’t watching Dustin and David, when my primarily unused apple desktop beeped for the first time. I’d never used Facebook before back in 2017 and had had difficulty with grave tedium at UMass until 1997. My classical conditioning from attending lecture after lecture and reading all day without email or internet was even exacerbated by my death trance swim team training whence I ultimately achieved a 30th USA distance freestyle ranking and, notably, was capable of swimming a 5K in 55:05. Yet, mentally ill I kept not a single friend from Clemson or UMass. I knew few professors. I proceeded to read after my 1998 diagnosis, though in a more focused state of mind. You need to understand that I was poisoned in 1994, diagnosed in 1998, and then that it was 19 years later in 2017 that Chief Harold Andrew Tower called as my prescriptions were changed and I reached chapter 21 of Fenby’s Modern China. I reported my studies to Andrew for a while and we recalled childhood twenty or thirty years before. Our relationship is thus reminiscent of the book of Matthew for me. Andrew’s boat is called Sea Walker. I’m Simon. I can’t walk on water.
It’s so embarrassing to have been bamboozled with a poison by a dirty criminal felon US Navy Veteran 26 years ago and to have been so brain damaged in a particular hemispheric region as to have mostly lain here in bed without a wife for life now some 26 years; except for the time I was 30th USA and I didn’t know I hadn’t swum across LI Sound for lacking a boat to swim next to for safety sake. Now 44, living with my parents with only $1k/mo from SSA because the “kick in the teeth” came a BS too soon before OCS so thus I’m the one who “Never Served”. And, somehow, the likes of chiefs all bitch when I even claim the right to simply call this my stateroom. I’d say turn it on the GI pukes and let ‘em try and come back if you’re really a chief. Meanwhile, I really don’t get out much anymore so even dreams of a worst case scenario where I may need a cane to get through Wadsworth Atheneum with this smokin’ hot babe who understands who I am “on the inside” are yet to come to fruition. Worst of all, and you know I don’t get utile with the common lexicon off the bat; I’m not even huge, so maybe that’s why attempts such as to lure nurses into huggable situations with empathetic pathos never work. Or, it might be regulations, literary prowess, wrong time and place, problems with my “public”image. It’s as though there’s no kid named Garp around when the object of nursing affection has ordinary Navy brain damage. Oh, for a woman who can think of my parts unused, stoking my heart, of my brain. Yet, it really is hearts, minds, soul. Half my life is gone and like I said, I don’t get visitors and the women are almost always beyond reach. I imagine St. Benedict wanted a wife in his cave before beatification. Love is canon. To have glimpsed such will bring me to heaven, even if alone till then when she doesn’t show.
Ugh! Nearly bedridden for twenty years within some contextual prescription of new schizoaffective disorder medication therapies, waiting, told degenerative, incurable and yet said somehow stable. Thus, I haven’t disassociated into multiple people yet, though computer aided communications pertaining to my thesises throw pages of web outward. I am a legion. Still, it’s apparent that despite command of my fantastic theorems here I am thought unapproachable. I need you. I need to concentrate with you as I break and fade into the shadows of truths unverifiable by my superior doctors, into shadows of lore and places been and seen, so often in books lost, stolen, illegal. I have a wild geospatial fantasy from the oasis shores of Tripoli to Dune like desert worlds warping into weigh stations for the crude blood of nations. Earthen substrate cracks and heaves beneath landscapes of novel steel as petrified flora is displaced through mechanical systems sector entireties which first crack and distill the rotten ancient earth molecularly and disperse it with vehicular mechanics into the ambient chemistry of a certain limnological, marine and atmospheric solution; with its fluid dynamics falling into chaos. I feel this mad vision of a resonant electromagnetic psychotropsis frequencies dataset paradigm dancing forth from mind across a determinable range of expansive terrain at altitude, depth and speed. Somehow, in a nonlinear three dimensional geomagnetic grid, plus time as vector mine, my ethereal surroundings coordinate around the point that is I, I with dead reckoning trained beyond my organ capabilities. A phantom point of origin to the breadth of my intention. Sing! Sing to me my love! Yet, slow, smooth, heavy and eternal my progress. Still, I see frontiers. In dimensions of physical space and malleable time, faith transcending, populations, code, sequencing, beliefs and thoughts migrating, damaging, and building, sustaining. We leave the history we have grown and builtmore upon earth, our might the prophetic dominion. Onward to the externalizations to be brought into this our fold; onward to stasis to look within at matters unknown, structurally, fundamentally, eternally our being, our purpose. Forever, Amen.
My true hell may be solitude. There is a wilderness of some death and compulsion near Moria in Sinai. Re-living all becomes transcendent towards my future of gravitas. There is no ram for the burning briars. Had I vacated; backwards gnats and blood whilst forward my denial. I re-live the past and the future seems elsewhere’s oblivion. No heavenly ascendancy leads me. Only a glimmer now of the radiance inductive of my hope for salvation in thine valley. Shadows at dawn. Murky depths of my saturated state. Yet, no signal. Lone and hungry I await the reciprocal teletype or pulse authorizing my plea. Moments slow into dread. Composing my shattered soul from decades past I hesitate, linger, proceed and stop, gripping inward vessels flowing upwards to your heart. To dare to believe that thus competent with lingual annunciation of my prayer I, I might then rise is to exist again though the many deaths that I have died doth bear heavy awaiting my abandonment of everything such; for your love.
I think people feel I exhibit a certain naivety in believing a confessed conditional proposition of holy matrimony should preempt a hug and a kiss. Yet, to this child trapped within a seasoned veteran of domestic chemical warfare psychotropsis it seems my intentions should be clearly stated prior to what I freely admit to be an attempt at copulation. If I only had feathers to ruffle. Further, as a stated biologist I don’t believe in polygamy. Rather it seems evident that ejaculatory frequency should be equally or less periodic, and appropriately timed, so as to coincide with ovulation. And, that’s not only so that accumulated volume maximizes the muscle contraction’s strength and power either. Think rest and heavy Olympic anabolic pumps. The bulk works to guarantee womb traversal towards that singularity of gamete merger, culminating, throbbing, immaculate. Returning to science: It’s a living organism kinda thing. Eukaryota. There seems to be no other reason for the hugging and kissing if you know what I’m talkin’ bout. I say we men are just built that way. Sure, there may be a sultan of Mormon Babel tribalism who could handle five, or thirty five, after burying golden tablets in the hills, but I’ll be the man to admit I’m not emulative of my own kind for the sake of beating my chest amongst hominids. A breath of sapience. Admittedly. This rib is prime.
It was difficult being chemically lynched in the Deep South by a New Jersey resident and US Navy veteran crime syndicate. 23 year old Clemson Freshman and United States Navy Veteran GI Bill Officer Candidate David Packie of New Jersey was living in Thornhill Village 29 R and receiving full federal aid, though not including uniforms, to attend Clemson University with all expenses paid by the Federal Government. He was the serial felon lysergic diethylene dealer who non sexually seduced and psychotropically conditioned me to commit Samurai ritual seppuku; without ever so much as giving me a cigarette. I never solicited nor purchased the drug, I was chosen. And, though I may have been selected for having been wearing an HK High School chemistry class tie dye t-shirt; the conspicuous absence of smoke, mirrors, powders, syringes, and other paraphernalia was made incongruous by only one occasion where it was explained to me that a small condiment bottle had been modified to be a water pipe. I smoked marijuana on that occasion. Then the unknown psychotropic treatment was begun with pieces of paper cut from an index card. Administration of the psychotropic occurred an estimated five or six times, in unknown dosages. Additionally, I was selected from a crowd by a shaven headed “Buddhist” who coerced me into the $5 purchase of a guru commentary on the Baghivad Gita and directed me to read Shogun D.T. Suzuki’s writings on the oblivion of Zen enlightenment, as well as on proper posture for standing, walking, seated meditation, and blade motion during seppuku. David also taught dormitory room “classes” on lying which he called “never have I ever” during which he seated groups on the floor and had them all say the opposite of things which had occurred. I was given the impression that he was experimenting with his psychotropic substance supply, which he procured from a circuit of labs elsewhere, and then used to drug some students yet not others; so that he could observe comparative behaviors during games of “never have I ever”. Also, it is notable that the University of Massachusetts at Amherst presents the writings of D.T. Suzuki as a Shinto antithesis to the aforementioned Zen Samurai suicide methods, with much poetic description of such things as tea ceremony, rock gardens, scroll calligraphy and ink painting, bonsai and feng shui. Personally, I have always considered the diametrical opposition of Zen and Shinto to be worthy of comparison to Stephen Spielberg’s concept of the force, and it’s antithetical dark side. Yet, despite fiction, it has been 26 years since this chemical intoxication melted a portion of my brain, and seemed to permanently convince me of my need to disembowel or hang myself by noose. Since my 1998 diagnosis as a paranoid schizophrenic I have been treated, primarily as a heavily sublimated outpatient, by Yale Psychiatry and the State of Connecticut Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services for 22 years. I now feel safe, happy and comfortable. I dream of a wife. I write. I publish at my domain strigsci.com