Books for Everyone!

Early November 2022

The Last Place

This evening, I asked Dear Webmaster to get the folder for the Shopping Quilt dramatic reading and start work on it. It took him quite a while to find it on my laptop. I”d forgotten to take that folder out of my Future Posts folder to display on the desktop screen.

My Webmaster informed me that he doesn’t just go into my digital files and folders. I replied that there’s nothing that I’m hiding in there.

My computer would be the last place to look for anything secretive!

My preference for the Unplugged Life is longstanding. It didn’t just begin with the bashing in of citizens’ doors by the FBI in the USA, and the police-state abrogation of constitutional rights by government thugs. Being an Enemy of the State nowadays consists of protecting your child, your family, your property, your private business, any business that’s not Their Business.

Most unfortunately, I long ago experienced similar hideous experiences of being snooped on, by blood relatives, starting with a mother who liked to look through my dresser drawers when I was at school. I might have purposely placed a racy paperback into a lower sweater drawer, but, then again, it might have been an oversight on my part.

Oversight meant something else, back then, during those halcyon days when all a person had to guard against was the invasion of privacy by a parent without conscience and, consequently, without boundaries. That woman truly did earn my nickname for her, Hitler, but then I was accused of causing loud, very loud discord in stating that truth.

The truth is not typically borne well by intolerant people.

I seem to always be doing something provocative without realizing that the act is provocative at the time of its quite potent performance. Last week, I had to briefly visit a medical office. Since I reside in the Managed-Care Blob Fascist Corporate State of California, I headed, with extreme tolerance, straight to the Mask Dispenser before attempting to enter the voluminous empty waiting room.

My eyes were drawn to the lively colorful mask, with little pictures, that was stacked at the bottom of the tiered reliquary. I placed the mind-control device carefully on the lower half of my face, since the last time I was expected to perform this worthless routine, I put the mask on upside-down and inside-out. The Brunhilda standing guard duty at the strongbox severely chastised me. She thought that I was mocking her, but I really wasn’t.

This time, I even pinched the nose bridge of the paper diaper, but the Receptionist spotted me. She raced from behind her plexiglass encampment to rant:

“I just re-filled those masks in the top level!”

I quietly set down the kiddie-mask, which she grabbed for toxic waste, and I carefully applied the Adult Version.

There are days when I contemplate what these Karens will do if The Mask ever leaves their world of puffed-up pomposity over other people. I suppose a new fear will get exploited for political and monetary gain. If one million people are heading off a cliff, and one person heads in the opposite direction, he, or she, must not feel the least bit stupid, or alarmed, or doubtful of the rightness of being right, and sane. The last place one should look for wisdom is in a crowd of people.

The other night, I read about the rather frightening fate of a professional journalist, one of the 10 or 12 left in the USA, a country quickly becoming Banana Land. This investigative reporter has moved to a safe house after quitting his corporate-media job for “personal reasons”, as in:


Corruption and entrenched power go hand-in-hand with the lethal use of force against citizens who believe their nation is the last place where a thug-ocracy could take place. Twenty years ago, I gave up on suburban women in America waking up. I’d been surrounded by too many stupid, selfish mothers, handing their children over to the Public Schools to raise them.

A new generation of women has arisen to reclaim the art of mothering, a disciplined and devoted act of humility that’s intermixed with a lovely killer instinct. The mother bears of America are showing up, and I, for one, for all, am thrilled at the sight of women, real women, protecting their young, their old, their nation.

The last place any hate-filled freak wants to be is between the Mother Bear and her cub.