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16 June 2022

Patience and Reality

This morning, I awoke with a remarkable affirmation:

I have to take a more patient realistic approach to life.

I informed Dear Husband of that need of mine. He asked, “So then I no longer have to say:

I guess there’s no sense in me telling you to cool down first?

That quote hails from the marvelous dialogue of the classic Howard Hawks film of 1959 — “Rio Bravo”. This question is addressed to John T. Chance, the sheriff portrayed by John Wayne. The inimitable voice of Dean Martin poses the question. Martin plays the character of Dude, the town drunk and sudden deputy, regarding the murder of the best friend of Chance.

Dude asks Chance about how the entrance to the saloon — to catch the killer — shall unfold. The entire exchange goes as follows:

Dude: How are you going in?

Chance: Right through the door – if he comes out, you can have him.

Dude: I guess there is no sense in me telling you to cool down first.

Chance: No there isn’t.

Dude: I thought so.

My dear dear spouse has claimed, often, over the course of many years, that he’s been duty-bound put into the position of Dude, trying to restrain John Wayne-Me from going headlong through the front door of a situation that needs “addressing.”

Most of the time, the situation did need quick action, an urgent re-write of reality. Sometimes, however, the patient, realistic approach to life is the only one that is gonna work to solve the problem. And I am one who profoundly respects, appreciates, and savors What Works to Solve the Problem.

It used to be that the professionals among us, we individuals who have assiduously trained ourselves to become proficiently skilled, in a métier, we could go about our business, our WORK, without too much interference or intrusion from the non-professionals. We weren’t yet hand-cuffed — too markedly — by stupid silly rules, regulations, laws, fiats, decrees, and pompous-ass provisos, most of them unconstitutional, all of them profiting the politicians.

Those days are over.

Presently, the game board of work is tilted entirely against the Producers, and toward the Non-Producers: the politicians and the bureaucrats. They’ve got no marketable skills; ergo, they chose those parasitic “professions”. Those parasites are now clinging to life, frantically, desperately, hysterically sucking the blood of whoever and whatever is left on that game board.

The game board of work has become nearly overturned against the game board of life. The current Monopoly game is an illegitimate, crooked, cock-eyed Presidential Regime that is cocksure in its sheer stupidity, drunk on power, pills, booze, big pharma, and whatever else props up these losers in their cesspool of corruption, amorality, and appalling apathy toward the majority of Americans:

the Producers.

More and more and more of the Producers, be they the workers in the oil business, the medical profession, the dentistry field, the teaching industry, geotechnical engineers, hairdressers, barbers, truck drivers, landscapers, carpenters, the construction trades, farmers, the people who do nails for a living — whoever labors to produce something of worth and value — they’ve had to ratchet back their productivity to play possum.

A smaller percentage of those Americans was forced to do so during the Great Recession. A much larger percentage has been compelled to take on this survival posture within the past few years. Whoever is left to nose-dive into self-protection had better do it quickly. Time is running out on grabbing a piece of the possum-territory.

Time is at a premium. The Red Tape is rising. The number of Tax-Paid Propagandists in the Oval Office (the real one, not the pathetic, phoney, pretend Doll House One) — is in the 100s, and increasing by the inflationary week.

I’ve had to live in that guise of playing possum during various junctures of my life. I’ve hoped, and prayed, that such a pass would not come again, for me, for my family, for anyone undeserving of persecution by the lazy and shiftless in power.

How unrealistic.

A muscle grows stronger through use, repeated use, and timely rest in between the exertion. Strength, of all kinds, is achieved through that patient realistic approach to life. We the Patriots, we’re looking at an endurance test, not a sprint toward the end of this attempted destruction of our nation.

I’ve never been a sprinter; my body is not built that way. Slow and steady has always won the race for me. These next few years are not a race, but a passage through patience, a mission in acceptance of things that I basically do not want to have to accept.

My heroine Camille in THE DAWN comments that, sometimes, what God sends to us does not come wrapped up, with a bow.

I need to listen to my heroine, and be just a bit more heroic.

Writers have justifiably been accused of writing it, not doing it. I’ve always aimed to not be that type of writer, and, with my instinctive John-Wayne reflexive action toward a crisis, or merely a problem, I do not believe that I am.

Writing my way to patience is not how I’m gonna get it done. I’ve got projects galore in my new house, in my new life in that house. Amidst all of that activity, however, contemplation and prayer are my guideposts to tomorrow.

And tomorrow arrives, with patience, not from busting through the front door of today.