Books for Everyone!

Late October 2022

Invitation to the Flu

An hour of sewing to the music of early Ray Price and the troubles of the world outside melt away!

Here’s a guy who asks so logically, albeit with a twang, why he’s been hurt and heart-broke by his sweetie because he did absolutely nothing to hurt her, nothing to deserve this wretched treatment, to be cast out and cast down like a nobody!

In fact, he treated her so good, he can’t believe she treated him so bad!

I don’t think he really expected an answer to any of these perfectly common-sensical, valid and lucid questions. The therapy was in the asking.

I am very happy that Ray grew into his mature voice in time for “For the Good Times.” His early vocalist years suffered thunderation from those hillbilly honky tonk songs that mostly everyone else in the country-western genre was singing, not as well, but with more broken-heart plaintive whining in front of the guitar section.

One tune on CD 1 of The Essential Ray Price is “Invitation to the Blues” — which I mis-heard as “Invitation to the Flu.”

It wasn’t till the song was over that I got up from my sewing table and double-checked the title.

It is entirely possible that my sense of hearing has been altered by the gone-for-broke invitation to whatever the Master Money Morons have still in store for the plebes, We the Peasants of The World.

I’m working diligently to complete My Shopping Quilt, a project whose fabric components I cut out during the winter of 2016. I then had to box up my world to sell my house, live in a rental house and await the construction of my Dream House. The Shopping Quilt came out of storage during the spring of 2021, and it’s been on the back-burner of my creative stove.

Writing novels and master-piecing sewing projects are a bit of a tag-team endeavour for me. I let go of one thread of creativity to thread the needle on another, and, before I knew it, the world outside became a very different place.

Resounding, drastically resounding developments in my nation have taken place since that long-ago year of 2016. One of the more obvious changes has occurred in the world of shopping: the retail life has been defenestrated (thrown out the window) by murky forces still scrambling to cash in on human misery.

It’s become a recurring pattern since 2008. I sew away, or write away, protecting myself until It goes away . . . until It happens again.

Maybe, this time, it’s the last time, for a long time. Those globalist dominoes that started falling in November 2016, they just keep meeting up with gravity and the physics of moral momentum.

Since 2020, and the uninvited invitation to the flu, entire sectors of the U.S. economy have been up-ended by forces beyond my control. I’m thankful for my own planning ahead, way ahead of wherever the Expert Forecasters hoped to lead consumers like myself.

Those Experts are highly paid idiots who roam from idiot-politician to idiot-politician, nation to nation, government to government, continent to continent. They’re continuously shopping for new unelected idiots who seek Political Stardom via some sort of con-man gimmick, a confidence-vote scheme that’s new and fresh, edgy, but not with too many edges; exciting, but not too excitable; and, above all, replete with hand gestures and facial poses that will resonate with The People.

The wannabe thespians and rock-stars all talk to one another in some sort of secret jackass-code, the jargon of the narcissist that means exactly the opposite of whatever they say.

Thus have the world of advertising and the world of shopping fatalistically collapsed amidst the covid-graft that’s left my acoustic receptors (ears) highly sensitive to any tone, note, noise, or vibration that might trick me into believing something not true.

Perhaps this survival skill is a marvelous adaptation of my learning style which is highly auditory. One need not assess reality primarily through sound, however, to comprehend that we’ve all been plastered with phonic garbage for years and years. 2020 was the hyper-sonic shift amidst the power-shills, an about-face that’s left the assets-ogres without any face.

Or maybe the power-shills are eyes without a face.

I never understood that ‘80s song, but I didn’t understand most ‘80s songs.

In 2014, I first sewed the Shopping Quilt for Dear Daughter-Scholar for Christmas. She packed it with her to return to Boston and continue her Classics Odyssey. I thereafter promised myself that I’d make a Shopping Quilt, in a different pattern since I very rarely repeat the same quilt twice.

In the current vernacular, I’ve “unpacked” the odyssey I’ve been on, since 2014, regarding the entire Shopping Shambles in the USA:

— Auto-delivery emails for perfume you just purchased are not a sign of the Globalists winning.

— Putting a jejune Hatchet Man in 10 Downing Street is not a sign of economic stability in a nation whose economy is now upside-down.

— The price of pumpkins (decorative, not for consumption) going through the Harvest Roof is not an indication of a [tiny] brief recession. And the cost of the canned pumpkin has also sky-rocketed.

— Thinking after acting is never an adult mental pattern. It’s the modus operandi of the mega-money people who thrive on those profit-making mistakes that the citizenry pay for in our modern world of non-leadership.

— The generational change from politician-hacks born in the 1960s has shifted, at warp speed, to politician-hacks born from 1980 onward. Which means that those tykes grew up with the blessings of the Reagan-Thatcher economy and the post-Cold War world that is presently crumbling down around them.

My Shopping Quilt started as a lark to speak, in whimsical materials, of fun times that have vanished from the wondrous world of women. This textile œuvre is now commemorative, celebratory of souvenirs that shall not recur. That invitation to the flu was a bottomless pit from which We, the Citizens, are climbing out.

Happy Hiking!