My HUSBAND is beautiful inside and out I bet he reads my blog (not really sure he does) My Mother told us kids a story long ago Oh, yeah we were rich kids Mother said “if Our Dad had no money she would live on a riverbank with Dad” Yes, I still remember those twinkling eyes of blue and her red lipstick, diamonds on her hands. Mum always said the “truth” Dad treated her as his Queen She had it all, yet Mum didn’t have monetary thoughts. Even as a child (runt of the litter) my Mothers word’s still haunt me today Yes, as kids we were so blessed to have been born into a loving family where PEACE reined supreme Last night while my husband slept I watched over him smiling thinking about my Mother. Yes, she was so HAPPY AND I UNDERSTAND WHY I fell in love with my husband just like she did He loved her just the way she was Money is the root of evil. My husband is perfectly suited to me cause he places no importance on wealth or creed My husband moves like a visual panther always calm I would be anything or sleep anywhere he went just like my Mother I to am blessed just like my Mother Mothers always knows best 😁 Good night Hello you Here we go again
Watch the warning signs Someone inside perhaps retreats within themselves Silence is seen as escapism when in fact what happens inside a living being is our message from our gut really is the bodies way of reacting to lack of water, nourishment, surviving drought or famine inside all living matter fighting for survival. The role then is sent to the brainwaves simply GIVE UP.
WE ARE ALL FRAGILE NO ONE IS INVINCIBLE 🙁
Or maybe a sensitive Soul is mentally tired.
Mental illness has naught to do with giving up is a dangerous precursor to SUICIDE.
Animals, Humans, plants give up too. Why?
This Earth is Fragile we to are fragile
Every living being has this point called Fragility
We never know, what lays behind those eyes until the day we turn around to find another life LOST
Fragile– life is everyone’s responsibility.
Promises made at the moment, that are forfeited by the way perhaps unintended Promise’s never kept could destroy a life Scared, disappointed, anger, loss of dignity, loss of trust, loss of love, all are a precursor to an already FRAGILE Soul.
Thought for the day “When you make a promise — that is your word” You are only respected by your “Word”of promise you have made. Another Gentleman may say you are as good as your Word!
💥 Here at Dazzle the team intends to look at Broken Soul – SUICIDE — a subject we will all deal with around our lives with family, friends also with strangers who are FRAGILE.
EDITOR: DAZZLE This Category Blogging is not Medical advice or makes any claims pertaining to information in this chapter of Dazzled. You are invited to participate in this Category by sending your thoughts by email to the Central Office for consideration to publish here. Thank you and blessings 🕯
the peaceful silent majority do not count … Worth watching and remembering it is the violent who drive agendas, and there is not the slightest sign in any part of the Islamic world that it is changing. Be careful what you wish for NZ, and be sure that appeasement will not end up with exactly the opposite of that which we currently enjoy.
We need stand with integrity for our values, the fundamental rights of the individual over the state and group, not abrogate our western values due the action of one deranged individual.
I have always felt tension between judging an ideology based on the conduct of people I meet, versus the overall point and thrust of the ideology, and what exactly is the difference. I had never sorted the question, until now.
The argument in the video clip is the most powerful argument I have ever heard that exactly nails the issue.
The point, all history has had silent majorities, Nazi Germany, Communist Russia, communist China, several modern African states, and in several modern Arab states. It is NOT the silent majority that drives the political agenda, is the intense, committed and aggressive members of the ideology that ALWAYS drives the agenda. Typically, the committed are a small minority, often no more that 10% of the total population. Meaning the silent majority can be as high as 90% of the population. That means that interacting with the lovely people from the 90% is a trite and trivial event, since they have nothing to do with the thrust of the ideology. They do not count.
Further, the real danger is that if/when the ideology gets momentum, then those that are the ‘silent majority’, do not stand in its way, they will silently accept the aggression of their cultural brothers and sisters, sit back, and for example, do nothing while people are beheaded on TV. This will be especially prevalent where the ideology shared between the aggressors and extremists and the ‘silent majority’ is of thousands of year duration. Christianity has already seen the exact same thing, via the Inquisition. What is little understood, is how recent the Inquisition with the last people executed in its name was in 1886, and the committee in Rome that orchestrated the Inquisition only disbanded around 1955. It took the Catholic Church 700 years to give up on it push for political control in Christian western society. As estimated 10,000 people were executed over that 700 years, all in the name of God.
To be very specific, interacting with a NZ Muslim, they can/will be charming and gracious. But the thinking is very deeply embedded in their whole psyche, and if the ideology gained traction in NZ, they would not resist it to protect NZ way of life, they would follow the 1500 years of cultural immersion and follow the Islamic path. Watch for yourself, is Muslim demands for acceptance increasing and is the emotion and guilt surrounding it was a deranged white person who committed the murders, being applied to gain increased traction?
A test would be to ask any neighbour … which is the priority in life, Civil Law of NZ, or the law as directed by Allah? Anyone who does not say NZ civil law is a person to be wary of if they forced to make choices directly relating to the question. Like, silently accepting murder by Muslims extremists of 150 Christians in Nigeria.
Hope you choose to think … apply reason and not allow guilt and compassion drive decisions that we may later greatly regret.
Kipling, when all about you … Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too. Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!
To be put on the train and kissed and given my ticket, Then the station slid backward, the shops and the neon lighting, Reeling off in a drunken blur, with a whole pound note in my pocket And the holiday packed with Perhaps. It used to be very exciting.
The present and past were enough. I did not mind having my back To the engine. I sat like a spider and spun Time backward out of my guts – or rather my eyes – and the track Was a Now dwindling off to oblivion. I thought it was fun:
The telegraph poles slithered up in a sudden crescendo As we sliced the hill and scattered its grazing sheep; The days were a wheeling delirium that led without end to Nights when we plunged into roaring tunnels of sleep.
But now I am tired of the train. I have learned that one tree Is much like another, one hill the dead spit of the next I have seen tailing off behind all the various types of country Like a clock running down. I am bored and a little perplexed;
And weak with the effort of endless evacuation Of the long monotonous Now, the repetitive, tidy Officialdom of each siding, of each little station Labelled Monday, Tuesday – and goodness ! what happened to – Friday ?
And the maddening way the other passengers alter: The schoolgirl who goes to the Ladies’ comes back to her seat A lollipop blonde who leads you on to assault her, And you’ve just got her skirts round her waist and her pants round her feet
When you find yourself fumbling about the nightmare knees Of a pink hippopotamus with a permanent wave Who sends you for sandwiches and a couple of teas, But by then she has whiskers, no teeth and one foot in the grave.
I have lost my faith that the ticket tells where we are going. There are rumours the driver is mad – we are all being trucked To the abattoirs somewhere – the signals are jammed and unknowing We aim through the night full speed at a wrecked viaduct.
But I do not believe them. The future is rumour and drivel; Only the past is assured. From the observation car I stand looking back and watching the landscape shrivel, Wondering where we are going and just where the hell we are,
Remembering how I planned to break the journey, to drive My own car one day, to have choice in my hands and my foot upon power, To see through the trumpet throat of vertiginous perspective My urgent Now explode continually into flower,
To be the Eater of Time, a poet and not that sly Anus of mind the historian. It was so simple and plain To live by the sole, insatiable influx of the eye. But something went wrong with the plan: I am still on the train.
Even though sex is the driving force of life (someone once said that it’s hereditary: if your parents didn’t have sex, you won’t either), if you were to go through the books in your house, you’d rarely stumble upon a few pages of erotic fiction. Nabokov, Miller, or maybe Updike, Anaïs Nin or Catherine Millet.…
— Read on irevuo.art/2019/02/08/rule-of-writing-erotic-fiction/
Interestingly enough this Author
, Topic and Creator of this blog will have you glued to your chair. Enjoy ℹ️
I found this today hunting through my stashed away pictures tucked in a secret place where I collect memories of us.
Then it came to me out of the BLUE
REMEMBER that time I listened to gossip and repeated to you, oh! my life with my husband is tricky sometimes
He hugged me, cuddles, kisses and grooming, lead me to the bed sat me on the edge pulled up his velvet chair looked me squarely in the eyes, that’s when I listen, looking at those black eyes glistening
My heart loves to listen, cause he knows exactly why I love him just the way he is
It’s really hot tentsion between us, I know it’s Teaching time, breathlessly I watch every musscle, twitch and that mouth, oh, excitement in my body takes on in just how powerful he loves me. At this point I’m so vulnerable inside
” Truth will still be truth if not a single person believes it ”
Word’s of wisdom said by my Husband is so powerfully spoken when I watch his lips.
My husband is perfectly suited to me cause he knows exactly why I love him just the way he is when he’s COMFORTING me
There’s a mysterious man who lives in that strong moral principled man
Yes I am devoted to my Husband Sir 💙
( moral of this letter is never debate your husband, watch his face closely and feel his intense glaze looking like a Gladiator into your eyes hold is attention and he will melt, so will you. Enjoy these moments and learn)
Congratulations my Dear Freind for surviving those dark times of terror. The strength you found in the depth of anguish😔 isolation were harrowing. A journey faced by many poor Broken Souls that are unable to survive the darkest only seen in the depths beyond grief never to be back. This story uniquely defies the odds with deep outstanding of self. So proud to be a part of this journey back to the living a joyest life with loved ones. On and upwards we run hand in hand to the highest Peace 🕊🕊
71 miles per day? 3 tons of faeces per day evaporate without even a whiff ? Fake News ?
THE CARAVAN OF CRAP
Have you noticed their great shoes ? The media says they wear flip flops !
The Hondurans in the caravan, the 7,000 people walking north to America, where do they go to the bathroom?
And eat and sleep and store their clothes?
And how is it that after a week on the road they are clean and their hair and clothes are well kept?
How is any of this possible?
And why do these people, supposedly fleeing intolerable conditions in their homeland, carry little flags from their homeland and break into its national anthem when the TV cameras show up?
And speaking of which, for oppressed people, they all seem to be pretty well fed, well groomed and well dressed. Their hair is neat and newly cut, their clothes are clean and in good repair, and they are built like people who have had ample nutrition all their lives, being well developed and, many of them, overweight.
And none of them look dirty or unkempt, like they had been sleeping on the ground for the last week.
There’s just nothing in any of this that makes sense.
Supposedly, these several thousand people spontaneously decided to leave Honduras, walking north in a group, hoping to trek the length of gang-plagued Mexico and present themselves as refugees and prospective Democrats at the American border.
Which, again, makes no sense whatsoever.
And leaves a lot of big questions unanswered, and ignored by the press. Such as, who organized this? Who is paying for it? How have they covered 500 miles in a week?
Seriously. Any number of American “reporters” have walked beside a sympathetic walker and talked about how this particular woman and her children had trekked half a thousand miles over the last week or so.
That’s 71 miles a day.
The best soldiers through history have been able to march 25 miles a day.
How have 7,000 people been fed and watered? And how have they gone to the bathroom? If the average person across the world produces about a pound of solid waste a day, that means that these folks are somehow disposing of more than three tons of faeces each day.
That’s a heck of a lot of crap, even for a Central American roadway.
Provisioning such an army of people – the equivalent of 10 combat battalions in most of the world’s militaries – is a large task. Transporting and distributing the food and water necessary to keep those people moving is a massive chore which the press says nothing about.
The entire enterprise, as a spontaneous ad hoc event, is implausible.
As an orchestrated international attempt to influence an American election, it starts to make sense.
And ought to alarm us.
Unless it’s only Russians we don’t want screwing with our democracy.
Unfortunately, none of this has made the evening news. It’s almost as if the press, in whatever scheme is afoot, gladly accepts its role as propagandists to the American people.
Every story is sympathetic, as if an attempt to enlist viewers and readers in this caravan and the politics it symbolizes.
And so the story is not about an orchestrated attempt to manipulate electoral opinion and violate the borders and laws of the United States, it is about compassion and Trump and xenophobia and racism. It is the October surprise, it is the Blue Wave.
And it is all nonsense.
Because all of these people, if legitimate, have the ability to apply for American asylum in their own country – as do the residents of most nations of the world. We have consulates and embassies for a reason, and this is one of those reasons.
We also have laws and an oath of office for a reason.
Laws, so that “we the people” through our elected representatives clearly and systematically govern our society. Law is the means by which the people express and exercise their sovereignty. Disobedience to law is disobedience to the will of the people, it is the subverting of their sovereignty and franchise.
Breaking the law is denying you the vote. Your vote elects representatives – lets you pick the country’s direction – and the representatives write the law. If that law is ignored, your representation becomes meaningless.
You get screwed.
And the oath of office?
Members of Congress – even Democrats – swear an oath to “bear true faith and allegiance” to the Constitution, which establishes our system of laws and specifically charges the Congress with making the rules of naturalization and immigration.
Who comes across the border and under what conditions they can stay is a constitutional responsibility of the Congress. That is to be determined by a congressional vote, not by a Honduran mob.
Failure to insist on that – even for Democrats – is a violation of your congressman’s oath of office.
So there is not a Democrat or Republican response to this travelling army of invaders – there is only an American response.
And that is: Turn around and go home.
Because the law of the United States does not allow a mass entry like this. The law does not declare the borders open.
If Democrats and progressives don’t like that, they can try to change the law. If America’s progressives want open borders and believe all the world’s people have a right to live in the United States – as they say they do – then they should adjust immigration law accordingly.
But until then, if they are to keep their oaths of office, they must stand for the law and the border.
And they must tell their surrogates to turn around and go home.
This caravan does not shit. That’s what makes them so fast. Believe the caravan is legit and you have to believe Dr Ford was accosted by Kavanaugh.
So far, only one news organization, Fox has sent an investigative reporter to one of these countries. She made the uncomfortable observation that over 1000 backpacks were new and all the same.
A GRAMMAR NAZI is for the most part someone older than you who says, “Look, sunshine, if you can’t be bothered paying attention to the small details in your sentences, why should anyone take seriously the issues you discuss in those same sentences?” After half a century of wrestling with the complexities of the English language, I fail to see how caring enough to want to get the grammar right can or should make someone an object of derision.
We lacked this nasty little term back in the day. Instead, we had teachers, lecturers, editors & sub-editors who were passionate about the language & tried to make sure we were too. None was scarier than the legendary H. G. Kippax AO, drama critic & Associate Editor of the SMH for many years.
H.G. was a grim, grey old man when I encountered him in 1973. He seemed at least 100, though Wikipedia tells me he was just over 50. He never smiled – not that anyone ever did in that gloomy fourth-floor corner of the old Fairfax building. Dark coats & cardigans predominated , the paintwork was grey-green & the woodwork thick with layers of ancient varnish. Many men looked as if they were walking out of their oncologist’s office having just heard the worst.
Every night around seven I’d edge into his office with a damp galley proof of the next day’s Letters page. Since this was the one page that lacked hard news, it would be fair to assume it would be the first finished. It was often the last. H.G. would labour for hours over his corrections, until the revised sheet looked like a kindergarten kid’s first efforts with a crayon. Sometimes every paragraph had an addition or excission. I counted 73 one night, though this was probably not the record.
H. G. Kippax had a particular fixation on the humble comma. His eye for a misplaced comma was terrifying to watch. At times he bordered on the obsessive. Nobody except H. G., it seemed, had any idea where the intrusive little brutes should go. He’d rewrite the editorial as well as correspondents’ letters. I raised an eyebrow once, unwisely. “Surely that’s a bit dodgy legally?” He glared across his enormous desk. “Dear boy, do you think for one moment I’m about to let other people dictate the Herald’s standards?”
Years later, as a teacher, I realised how hard it is to imbue a sense of how & where the various punctuational devices of English should be deployed. The language contains far too many rules & just as many exceptions. Unless you’ve been given a basic grounding early in your schooling, when rote learning is easiest, the guidelines can be overwhelming & too confusing for most. The easiest way, I found, was to let undergraduates use their common sense. “When you’re writing a long sentence,” I’d say, “read it out aloud. That point where you naturally pause is probably where a comma belongs, because it means the sentence is changing direction.”
(Semi-colons were a whole different kettle of worms. A prof. of mine at the U. of Windsor, when I was starting out as a teacher, responded to a query about plagiarism by chuckling, ‘Any time you encounter a first-year student who’s used a semi-colon correctly, you’re probably looking at someone who’s copied someone else’s work.’)
Since schools stopped teaching the basics, it’s become harder & harder to get students to understand that ‘Oh well, what does it matter – you know what I mean anyway, OK?’ is not much of an excuse. H.G.Kippax’s obsession with commas wasn’t all that bad, as obsessions go. If people don’t stand up for precision in language, soon enough none of us will be able to say exactly what it is we mean.
Cheers, folks. Hope this little diatribe hasn’t sent anyone into a coma. Or comma.
A man walks out to the street and catches a taxi just going by. He gets into the taxi, and the cabbie says, “Perfect timing. You’re just like Frank.”
Passenger : “Who?”
Cabbie : “Frank Feldman. He’s a guy who did everything right all the time. Like my coming along when you needed a cab; things happened like that to Frank Feldman every single time.”
Passenger : “There are always a few clouds over everybody.”
Cabbie : “Not Frank Feldman. He was a terrific athlete. He could have won the Grand-Slam at tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an opera baritone and danced like a Broadway star and you should have heard him play the piano. He was an amazing guy.”
Passenger : “Sounds like he was really something special.”
Cabbie : “There’s more. He had a memory like a computer. He remembered everybody’s birthday. He knew all about wine, which foods to order and which fork to eat them with. He could fix anything. Not like me. I change a fuse, and the whole street blacks out. But Frank Feldman could do everything right.”
Passenger : “Wow, what a guy!”
Cabbie : ‘He always knew the quickest way to go in traffic and avoid traffic jams. Not like me, I always seem to get stuck in them. But Frank, he never made a mistake, and he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel good. He would never answer her back even if she was in the wrong; and his clothing was always immaculate, shoes highly polished too. He was the perfect man! He never made a mistake. No one could ever measure up to Frank Feldman.”
Passenger : “How did you meet him?”
Cabbie : “I never actually met Frank. He died and I married his wife.