And I come to realize that it's times like this that you realize we worship a True Genius, you know? That our God, is a Genius. And a lot of times we forget this because we've figured out how to use so many things, these manmade fuels and fossil fuels and what not. And we forget about this Genius around us. I mean, who knows, maybe God even has more senses than the five that we have but we can't even imagine having another sense because we can't even think of there being another thing.

These colors in front of me, meeting all up in the rain and the sky. God somehow covers it up when there's no rain so you can't see the colors coming down to the earth. And somehow this sprinkler, when it hits me, it drenches my shirt. My shirt gets soaked and depending on what kind of fabric it is it soaks up more or less. It feels different on different textures, different kind of feeling on my shirt as compared to on my skin. 

And it makes a different noise depending on where it hits too. God the Creator of Noise. Imagine how long that would take. Depending on what I hit something with will make a different noise and depending on where I hit it with that thing will make a different noise. Depending on where I play on this guitar makes a different noise. It could be out of tune, it could be in tune, it could be slightly in tune. The Creator of Sound, the Creator, the Genius that we worship today—it's by the power of His love that we're able to enjoy all this that He gave to us. And He went out of His way to send His Son down to earth to die for us, to make amends for us, because we wouldn't ever be able to live to that level. So He sent His Son to die for us to get us to that level.

We're fortunate we serve a God who is a Genius. And we're very fortunate that that God is LOVE. It's by the power of His love that we have everything we have today.

This is taken from my audio journal which are mostly things I said at church on Sunday morning during worship. At least this one is. Hence, the random thought patterns and bad grammar at some point.

Abstract:

Julie Swann looks beyond the provision of a basic garden in care homes and encourages the design of a safe outdoor environment that stimulates all senses.  Most people enjoy gardens either actively
or passively, perhaps as a place to reflect, to reminisce, to contemplate or to simply to look out onto. A garden should be an integral, interesting part of a care home environment, no matter how small the area available.

For the full-text of this article please email: susan.jennings@lancashirecare.nhs.uk

Pallasmaa chooses Caravaggio's "Incredulity of Saint Thomas" as the cover to illustrate many of the arguments in the book. The doubtful Thomas would not belive his eyes until confirmed by touch, highlighting the weakness of the eye. this stands in contradiction to the belief dating back to the greks that the eye is the most noble and truthful of the senses.  Caravaggio also uses intense chiaroscuro, the contrast between light and dark.

sight vs other senses

peripheral vision (integrates with space) vs focused sight (creating spectators)

• how do things look from high above or deep inside, i.e., in different space scale
• how do things change in time, i.e., in a different time scale
• how do things look far away or how did they look in the past, i.e., in a different place or time
• how do things look in parallel potential worlds

Luckily we have tools that extend our senses, & allow us to see stuff that we cannot see with the senses we were born with.

Similarly, when developing a new visualization tool, e.g., software based, when it reflects things you cannot see/perceive in reality, it means that the tool is nothing less than a new sense, & whoever uses it is a more powerful being.

An even broader concept of vision includes abstraction & understanding, i.e., seeing how things work, what causes things &c.

Visualization can be very helpful for such vision, e,g,, a visual simulation can allow us to see things we cannot see & hence understand in any other way. especially when it comes to emergence & complex multi-agent systems (see more on this in the inspiring book by Mitch Reznick on StarLogo).

In business software, Business Intelligence visualizations can empower managers with senses that lets them see (become aware of) things they cannot see in any other ways. Using visual simulations BI applications can also provide the abstraction/understanding vision, on business flows / value streams, & undesired effects.

I was thinking "visual" visualizations, as in great infographics or 3d animated simulations, but hack, even the collection of stupid data records in information systems provide people vision that no sense has ever endowed them. I remember a manager of a company I worked with (which clearly was a genius manager - growing a small family shop to the world's 2nd largest vendor of plastic home furniture) who could look at a grid of colored data arriving from a mainframe system, & see things happening in his company as if he was looking at the green code rendering of the matrix. For example, he could look at a grid & say that some employee is stilling something in some business unit, & be right of course.

So what is visualization? It's both getting sensual inputs from various sensors, which we once wouldn't have dreamed about (getting the twits or flickr photos of the mars rover or of the summer vacation of a "friend" you actually never met), & also the processing of these inputs outside our brain to convey higher level abstraction & understanding of our world.

Which feeling is this?

Pelmanism is no secret science. 
Confidence and continued effort, combined with mental efficiency, are the way to success.
When you organize your time, and schedule the reading and course work, you can achieve the results.
They go on about why a system like the Pelman course is so important "in these days" - keep in mind this has been written about 100 years ago:

Quote from Chapter 1:

“One of the chief factors in developing mental inefficiency is the school. Wrong methods of teaching, wrong ideals of education, haste to attain results, had policy as seen in crowding the young mind with useless knowledge - these have a direct effect in the atrophy of the reasoning powers, especially as to the relation between cause and effect.”
“What is popularly known as the sense of the “why and wherefore” has no chance of development in the rush for acquiring information and the effort to remember it for examination purposes. Mental powers of every kind frequently suffer injury on account of faulty school curricula, and in no way is the injury more evident than in the stunting of creative powers. A large number of our students attribute their mind wandering, their defective memories, and their lack of originality, to the bad mental habits fostered by modern school methods.”

Does this sound familiar? Have things really changed so little in all this time? 

This reminds me of the motto of my grammar school (it's in German: http://www.kieler-gelehrtenschule.de/main/index.php?Flash=0) where I studied ancient Latin and Greek.

Their motto was, and still is: "Non scholae, sed vitae discimus" -
"We don't learn for the school, but for life."

It couldn't be further from the truth. 

Back to Pelmanism: the learning is based on Psycho-synthesis, the integration of Feeling, Thought, and Will.

Feeling, or emotion, is the most fundamental of the psychological functions.

The feeling generates the energy which then needs to be supported by intelligence to lead to action. lntelligence cannot exist without memory. Memory is based on the three steps - impression, retention, recollection.

This is where the course work of Chapter 1 starts: 

Memory exercises, using all the senses: Seeing, hearing, taste, smell, and touch.

Also the recollection of memorized events, and of list of words, either read or heard.

And some physical activities: stretching, breathing, rubbing, followed by the recollection of the feelings.

The physical exercises have the purpose of integrating mind and body - "Healthy body, healthy mind".

I think the Pelman course looks quite promising to deliver the results it advocates. The language may be antiquated, but the contents feel right.
And if you are intrigued by the first quote, the one about school, and you have kids, I urge you to have a look into Pelmanism.
(There are other teachers around who teach the same thing in a more up-to-date style - and I am going to mention a few of them in my next blog.)

For now, let me finish this post with another quote:
“What you are today is due to what you were,
and what you did,
or neglected to do, in the years gone by.”
Go on and change it.

Until then,
Michael

The first time I can remember being like this was the fifth grade. One day, out of the clear blue sky, I felt compelled to write a poem. I'd written poems before for assignments, and I'm sure I'd written some for fun as well, but on this particular day, everything changed. It wasn't that I wanted to write a poem, it was that I needed to. My head was pounding and overflowing with something that could only be expressed when put onto paper. I tore into the page, with the fervor and relief of a mad scientist who had just perfected reanimation. It's ALIVE!

When I was finished, I handed the paper to my teacher and asked her to read it. I refused to show anyone else in the class---this matter was of too much importance and the only opinion I trusted was of the person who was getting paid to be there. I don't remember much of the poem, except that it was rather terrible. It started with the line "I see but I don't see". I went through hearing, smell, and taste in the same fashion. "But I feel" I wrote, extolling at great lengths what I felt, and how I felt, and why feeling is more important than all the other senses combined.

There are two major aspects of myself that I can trace back to that moment in my life: first, there's the fact that I am above all guided by my heart. Every action I take in my life is a direct result of what I feel, and what those feelings ask of me. Secondly, I discovered that I have words in me. Like a clock that can't turn off, my mind is always ticking. I'm full of funny phrases or witty quips or stories that no one wants to hear but I can't help telling them anyway. I have such an appreciation for diction and syntax, and I can't help but indulge in a healthy dose of hyperbole. I couldn't stop it if I wanted to, and I can't say I've ever had the desire. It would be unfair to go as far as to call them "voices" in my head, but when describing it to a friend once, she said "You have a Muse."  I was dumbfounded for a moment when she said this, but thinking about, I agreed. "You're right," I said, "I do have a  Muse."

I remember reading a news story about a musical prodigy. They think he might be the next Beethoven, even though he's still just a teenager. He plays the cello and can compose an entire symphony in like an hour, or something ridiculous like that. In the article, he was talking about how there's always music going on inside his head, and if he hadn't learned how to compose it on paper, it probably would have driven him crazy.

Now I would hardly call myself a genius or a prodigy, even though the words do have a nice ring. At the same time, I can understand what this kid goes through. Maybe my brain isn't deafened with words the way his is with music, but I can always find them when I need them and, more often than not, even when I don't. Sometimes I'll blurt them out or just write them on a page and store them away for years at a time. Regardless, I have words in me, and they're not going anywhere anytime soon. I kind of like it like that.

I do not know why I enjoy this scent so much other than the fact that I love the feeling of brand new shoes on my feet. I think over the years I have developed a Pavlovian response of some kind. After always smelling that fresh leather right before feeling the cushy comfort of the shoes on my feet, it has trained me to react with a positive feeling every time I get that first scent to hit my nose. It's a wonderful emotion though, I almost feel as high as I do after completing one of my long runs. It makes me as giddy and as excited as a kid in a candy shop. All because I know in about five seconds, after the box opens and that deep breath is taken in, my feet are going to be in a very happy place.

Today's Simplest Pleasure:

1.) New shoes, and the scents that go with them, are an appreciated indulgence to both the nostrils and the feet.

2.) Only buy shoes that fit well and feel great; your feet will thank you.

Well, I thought, nothing ventured, etc.. It occurred to me that babysitting Mousey has given me grand occasion for embarking on unorthodox play, or at least play which painlessly introduces forms of music to a young child which in some adults of my acquaintance causes pained expressions and demands to turn the music down. Think Opera, and then think Rumpole and Glasgow Girl. They both concur that listening to Opera is akin to torturing cats in a back alley in the dead of night. Somehow, trying to develop an appreciation for such an art form in my delightful grand-daughter is such a deliciously subversive idea. Why, I can already imagine her as a teen-ager, playing deafeningly loud recordings of The Magic Flute, or The Tales of Hoffman whilst singing along in passable pitch and with great passion while her mother, Glasgow Girl, cowers in chagrin in the bathroom with the shower going full blast to drown out the wonderful music. Ooh, the delightful frisson of a possibility!

Mousey is used to me arriving with my purse and the black bag which she anticipates looking into to see what new thing I have brought to show her. On this particular day, it was loaded with long scarves that would completely swathe her little person and The Marriage of Figaro CD that I like to play and sing along to whenever I am alone at home. It doesn't matter whether the singer is a soprano, mezzo, tenor or baritone, I tackle all the songs with great vigour.  I like the idea of such power lurking in the depths of my black bag!

As soon as Mousey saw my black bag she made a grab for it, pulled the scarves out with flourish and immediately cast them aside, but brought the CD into the light and looked at me with a quizzical expression. "Pooh and Tigger?" she questioned.

"Oh, no." I said with a stage whisper. "It's Mozart. Just wait till you hear it."

"Yeah, just wait till I'm gone before you play it, " announced Glasgow Girl. "can't stand listening to that screechy stuff." She made hurried motions to put on her work shoes, kissed the Mouse, grabbed her purse and made her getaway.

I put the CD in the machine, grabbed a long scarf and dressed Mousey in it. Took her little pillow from her bedroom and tied it on top of my head with another scarf and brought the opossum mom hand-puppet and her baby into the living room. Possie, the mom, was my prop. The baby possum was the Mouse's. We sat on the floor and listened as the opening strains of the music wafted through the room.

Mousey immediately began to bob her head in time with the music. She tapped her toes. She moved the baby opossum toward Possey in my hand with mincing motions, very Mozartian and playful. When the first aria arrived, I mimed the song, lip-synching  and craning my neck and head with exaggerated drama toward Mousey and then toward Possie who I engaged in dramatic accompaniment. Keeping with the Music, the Mouse made rhythmic motions with her hand puppet and with her mouth.

We got up off the floor and danced around, weaving and flowing with the music; stepped with exaggerated care keeping with the crisp qaulity of sound. In the more melodic portions, we subsided onto the floor and kept the beat with the hand-puppets. Mousey is remarkable in that she shows great love of music and has a way of activating her little body with sound. At times, she listens with great acuteness, her brown button eyes take on a faraway look. She tilts her head as if she let the music inside it and it courses through  first her head, and then through the rest of her little body. Then she moves in automatic accord with the rising and falling sound. This is so magical to see, such an unselfconscious and honest response.

It was remarkable how long she was able to engage with the music, for the duration of the CD. She seemd to like the baritone passages which had a booming quality. During the soprano bits she became somewhat languid and danced around making gentle swooping movements with her arms. In moments of drama, she'd come up to me, bring her face close and lip-synch with emphasis punctuating with the baby opossum hand-puppet.

By the end of the recording, I was quite pooped out. Mousey was relaxed and alert. "Moosick finished," she said in her quiet voice. We lay on the floor with our feet propped on the seat of the couch and covered ourselves with our scarves. She had brought a book over and we read and talked quietly. The opossum puppets lay beside us, now forgotten, or temporarily put aside.

"Would you like me to leave you the music? So you can listen to it whenever you want?" I asked her after we had finished reading.

"Yes, pwease. I like it!" Mousey said with enthusiasm.

Mozart would be pleased, I like to think. He is continuing to delight yet another generation. What a pay-off for a composer - long life for his "moosick".

Okay. I’m finally going to share a secret with the world, something I’ve never actually told a soul. Ready?

I have...a super power.

No really. It's true. So stop laughing or doing that head bobbing thing with one corner of your lips pinched, as though I'm fruity and out of my mind. Noooo, I can’t fly—though that would totally rock—I can’t see dead people or scale tall buildings, and worst of all, I can’t “Wonder Twin Powers. ACTIVATE!!!” with anyone, but what I CAN do, is remember people to a freakish degree. I never forget people. I call it Social Photographic Memory, though that’s not quite what it is. Yes, I remember people I meet or sometimes even see just once, but beyond that, I can remember events, entire blocks of conversations word-for-word and things people tell me about themselves or their circumstances, especially if they’re unique. It’s all about people. I can’t find my misplaced debit card, historical junk in my brain or any mathematical solutions beyond Pre-Algebra. I CAN call up my Bio notes from college, but that’s only because I turned Dr. Spohn’s notes into song lyrics. Such things, most of which don’t benefit me at all to know, I will remember until the End of Days or unless Alzheimer’s or amnesia take my mind.

For that reason, I stopped grazing sports stats and I only read Box Scores if I miss a game because I retain all that info. I'd never play fantasy sports. My addiction buzzer sounds every time I consider it. I'd be obsessed with stats for sure. If I kept at it, with my innate pace and retention, I'd make an excellent radio sports announcer, but I have no plans to be one. Plus, I don't think listeners would take a female very seriously in that role. Not sure.

Anyway, one reason I remember things so vividly is my aroused senses intertwine with images, people, objects and events, turning them into lasting memories, infusing them into my brain. I remember not just things from when I was five, I remember BEING five, which helps me so much as a writer. I can recall not just the events, but the emotions I felt, the smells in the room, tastes, textures, etc. during given occurrences.

For instance, they're both gone now, but my grandfather’s name was James and my grandmother referred to him as Jimmer. She was the ONLY one who ever called him that. And she always did. Never James or Jim, just Jimmer. I wasn’t even two, and I remember the first time I called him Grandpa Jimmer. Everyone in the kitchen, my aunt, my uncles, my parents, cracked up, bowling over and everything. I totally remember the wonderful feeling, the sense of pride and accomplishment, for making people laugh. From then on, he was Grandpa Jimmer to me, and every grandkid after me, and I strove to make people laugh. But unfortunately, people don’t always get my warped sense of humor or find me very funny, cuz in case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m a weird one, a definite freak.

Another reason why I have Social Photographic Memory—and this is my secret part—is because every person I come across gives me a…hmm…a sensory impression I’ll call it, that is unique to them. It’s difficult to describe so I’ve never even tried. In the split second I see someone, and every time, I detect this texture in a person’s soul that triggers an instant yet momentary emotional response. Some are dull, others vibrant.

Like whenever my husband walks into the room, I get a peace that's so soft, like a dryer-fresh towel, all smelling nice and feeling warm. My best friend from college = a teddy-bear warmth. And my best, best friend—shhh, don't tell—who I‘ve known since age eight = a sort of tiredness, droopy like a rag doll. Her choleric temperament is strong and in the mid-90’s, she did make me physically tired because I could never say a right thing. And now, that’s pretty much how she feels most days. Another friend = a zippy jolt. She loves to travel and is always on the go.

It can be linked to personality, interests, what a person's going through at the time I first see or meet them or how they’ll make me feel in the future. Things get blurry though when I meet a bunch of people at once, like at a party or something. I’m good at telling twins apart, although I can be tricked by crafty ones, who adopt each other's textures. Some guy who's guarded can be reminiscent of a stone wall or an onion, and even after I demolish the blockade or peel all the layers, he'll forever and always give me that same evanescent impression. I can instantly know some strange lady loves cats even if she’s not wearing a shirt proclaiming it because her impression is tied up with cats. Totally creepy I know—I get freaked out all the time when I gather enough info for the impression to make sense—but I'm hoping I can someday lend my super power to a character when that perfect plot match enters my brain. I've never heard of anyone else, fictional or not, possessing my offbeat...whatever-it-is...oh, super power, right.

You want your writing to be as distinctive as the sensory impressions people give me. It needs to stand out in a crowd, be unforgettable and expose the deepest parts of your soul. And this beautiful power you possess to make your mark is called voice. Writing voice is as individualized as, well, voice. Every person has their own way of speaking. Even identical twins have differences, revealing their inner selves through attitude, emotion, diction, pacing, tone, word choice.

When you write, your basic speaking voice should be emerging and spilling onto the pages, not Hemingway’s or John Grisham’s or your mom’s. Not that you should write exactly as you think or talk because you could be narrating from an evil POV or a sarcastic or unreliable one, or maybe you curse more than a work can stand. But your prose should contain your uniqueness and also be appropriate for your audience. Tell your story, poem or novel in the way only you can tell it. Voice is what I'm using to write this blog. It exposes so much about me, even if I never mentioned one personal thing. That's why writing on the whole feels so soul-baring. It is. It was pretty scary to hand my work over and have people read and critique it, but I took the bold step and just did it so I could improve.

Here are some things you can do to make sure your voice comes through in your writing.

∞ Relax and just write. Don’t concentrate too hard because it will stifle your voice. Just be free and go.

∞ Broaden your vocabulary. Learning new words all the time will give you a bigger reserve to draw from so your voice doesn’t become stale, so you’re not always falling back on the same crutch words and phrases.

∞ Know the basic writing pitfalls to avoid like misplaced modifiers, too many adverbs, adjectives, etc., so those glitches don’t muck up your prose.

∞ Break out of the clutches of cliché and search inside for some originality and zest.

∞ If grammar’s a weak point for you, get Elements of Style or a book like it to have handy when you hit a bump or have a question.

∞ Every voice has rhythm. Find your ebb and flow and boogie with it.

∞ Have confidence. Trust in your ability to tell the story.

∞ If your voice is eluding you or not sounding quite like the real you, shut out all outside influences so they don’t become infused in your work.

∞ Experiment with different voices, like an array of hats. Obviously from my blog, you can tell I look for the humor that’s all around me and don’t take certain things too seriously. But, I do take my writing seriously. And I use different voices for different mediums and audiences.

∞ Do writing exercises like free writing, random word stories or poems or write first thing in the morning. Work specifically at discovering voice.

∞ Use your emotion.

∞ Write with authenticity and integrity. Be true to yourself. Don't mimic.

∞ Don’t puff up your work or make it loftier than it should be.

∞ Say aloud what you want to write before putting it down and see if it sounds like your true self. You can use a tape recorder for assistance. Or write it first and then read it aloud. Check for continuity and ask yourself if it sounds like you.

∞ Think positively. Published or not, consider yourself a true writer, seizing your passion, honing your craft, living your dream.

Voice can’t be enhanced, borrowed, copied or sharpened; it must be found. It is your ultimate super power, your best tool to reel readers in and turn them into fans. Make a lasting impression, and you can only do that when you tap into that inner you and reveal that to readers. When you find your true voice, your writing will sparkle and be a wonderful reflection of you. Then you'll be able to turn your voice into a brand. You can do it. Let the quest begin.

[Oh. And keep my secret on the down low. Thanks. I don't want the masses hounding me to find out what impressions I get. Sometimes words can't adequately describe anyway.]

~Signing off and sending out cyber hugs.

Through traveling I developed a new understanding of lifestyle- and by that I mean not the material 'stuffs' we surround ourselves with, but the luxuries of human rights which are so readily taken for granted, even by myself. The freedom of having a personal identity, and the capability of crafting my own creative image gives me more wealth than dollars and cents ever could. Traveling to Kathmandu provided perspective on Asia, living in another country, and life in the developing world. Moving throughout Nepal showed me the immense luxury of the Kathmandu metropolis, which offers equality, social justice, and (superficially) any food your tummy could long for.

Experientially this all offers more than I could have dreamt, and Kathmandu has its own pockets of comfort. My neighborhood in Thapathali is full of kites hanging in the sky, children playing, the scent of spices roasting in mustard oil, uniformed children walking to school, men pushing bicycles of produce shouting, and small metal bells waking God up in the morning. The woman I buy samosas from can set her watch by my 10:30 visits, and the fruit man knows I want two kilos of mango. He helps me find the ripest few. At night the dogs bark like mad, but the monsoon showers quiet their cries. Creating a paste of basmati rice, black dal, saag and daikon pickle, my fingers know just how to scoop up a bite and pop it into my mouth. My feet have learned new shortcuts between the houses and my nose knows whether the woman next door is frying timmur, jimbu, or cumin.

More than the external senses of this place, my heart has found a space in those of others. The people I have met here have shown me endless hospitality, humor, and love. Although I came into their life with an expiration date, these people I am so proud to call my friends, accepted me without apprehension or self-consciousness. Rather than guarding their heart from the foreigner who already had one foot back in America, they welcomed me into their homes and lives.

Kathmandu has offered perspective in so many ways it's difficult to understand how this experience will change me. JB asked me last night at our final going-away dinner what I will remember about Nepal, and how I will be different from this experience. Integrating Nepal into my American life will have to wait until I return to the states, but the values of welcoming, opening, and sharing a vulnerable heart with strangers who become friends is something I will never forget.

It’s not pretty, but it’s always helping me to discover things. In its own funky way, it reminds me to pay attention to things I’m usually too busy – and going too fast – to notice.

During the week, the truck sits in a sunny spot by the garage. I have a window screen laid between the dash and seatbacks and dry peppers and tomatoes in it. They’re great seasonings in the depth of winter. As a bonus, the inside of the truck smells great. (see note below.)

The Dakota is more than 20 years old, and shows it, with maybe more than its share of dings, rust, and rattles. It has a v-shaped dent in the top of the tailgate a time when I was showing off my skill at driving in reverse.

When I was younger, I used to name my vehicles. My old Desoto was Hernando, of course. A ‘53 Chevy was Fat Albert, a lima-bean-green ‘54 Plymouth wagon was The Tank, and a Chrysler wagon was Walter, after Walter Cronkite (it’s a long story.) I had a ’63 Chevy wagon for awhile, but one day, both back wheels broke off when I hit the brakes. Never mind what I called it then.

I don’t name them anymore, but at the urging of my friend Tristan, who is 12, The Truck is now Dakota.

When he’s been sitting for awhile, Dakota blows oil smoke like a mosquito fogger for a mile or so before he settles down, so a valve job would be a good idea, but it will have to wait.

Dakota has two-wheel drive, nothing fancy, even when it was new. Manual shift, no A/C., a little chrome trim, but not much.

About the only nod to the silly modern habit of sissyfying trucks into odd hybrids of utility and luxury is blue velour upholstery, which now smells of an amalgam of dried peppers, spilled coffee, mildew, and god knows what else.

My neighbors used to kid me about how much manure I hauled in when I started my garden. I explained that I was a newspaper reporter, and so had an endless supply of it, usually supplied during elections.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without Dakota.

Never mind the utility…Dakota brought me back in touch with some things I had not realized I was missing.

I noticed it the first summer. I had the windows open as I chugged along a back road on my way somewhere, keeping my speed down to 35 or 40, simply because it was the weekend and I wasn’t going to hurry anywhere.

I drove past a cluster of Sweet Olive shrubs in full bloom and was hit by that knock-you-to-your-knees sweetness, like honeysuckle on steroids. It made me realize that as fine as A/C is, it does tend to seal us away from the world as it is.

Like most other things, driving with the windows open in the country can be a mixed blessing. Sure, there are flowers and new-mown hay, burning leaves, somebody grilling steak, rain on the road. But there is also the sinus-slapping odor of aged manure being spread over a field, or a week-dead deer, a furbearing zeppelin, buggy and bloated, hooves heavenward in the gutter.

And the sounds…the high chirp and trill of a redwing, crunch of tires on gravel, peeping of peepers in the spring and buzz saw singing of cicadas in the summer, the faraway stutter of a John Deere tractor, the sticky hiss of my tires on hot tar, rusty chirr of crickets, whirr of grasshoppers, cries of hawks, and the inelegant gronk of the graceful heron, all punctuated by thunder, the lowing of cattle, and snatches of bird song and squirrels scolding the world.

Sometimes, I’ll even pull over and shut down the engine, and just listen. Listening is something Dakota reminded me to do.

I’ve used it to haul furniture, field stone, gravel, sand, soil, mulch and manure. While hauling manure, I learned that it is good practice to close the truck’s back window, as the air currents tend to blow whatever is being hauled into the cab. Flying manure was not something I would stand in line to experience again.

And you thought education had to be expensive.
=========.
Note: Drying veggies in the truck was an idea I got from Val Webb of Mobile, Alabama. She writes The Illustrated Garden blogsite normally at www.ghostrabbitgarden.blogspot.com, which is temporarily on hiatus. Check it out.
==============================.

© 2007 Marsh Creek Media,
Gettysburg, Pa.
“Burger to Go” is a product of me and my company, Marsh Creek Media and, as such, I am solely responsible for its content.
Check out the two “Burger to Go” blogsites:
http://burger2go.wordpress.com/
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I walked out of the room and slammed the door, after grabbing and twisting her nipple and saying through gritted teeth, “you will fucking learn before this night is over”. She has begged to be my subservient, nasty little whore and she must be trained properly.

I knew what had to be done. First, she had to wait. Then, she must learn that the five senses are a key to ultimate pleasure, smell, taste, sound, sight and touch, in that order. Every sense is powerful. Not just touch. Is she the best suck and fuck I’ve ever had? Absolutely. Is she willing to do anything I ask sexually? Yes. She’ll take my cock ANYWHERE I put it including her tight ass that makes her scream from the pain. She’ll fuck someone else while I watch when I command her to, man or woman. She’ll even keep a web cam on her all day as I work so I can watch her as she chats online, has phone sex and makes herself cum.

She gets it to that point. But she doesn’t get that being kept may also mean that she knows how to drive her master to ultimate ecstasy by going beyond just doing what she is told. When she is told to innovate, create and MAKE me feel something I’ve never felt, she must utilize the senses.

So that is exactly what I must to do her.

About an hour later, I make my way back to the bedroom with necessary supplies. As I approach the door I hear her in tears. I open the door and she jumps, immediately stopping the tears. “Is that you sir?” she whimpers. I do not respond. On the dresser I start to set out my supplies that I will be using over the next few hours. She tries to get me to interact, “I’m so fucking wet! Please, destroy my dirty cunt!” My silence continues. And it will until it’s time to utilize the sense of sound or hearing.

First up is smell. I approach the bed and to make sure she is not tempted to keep talking or to taste anything that I put in front of her nose, I gag her by tying a gag around her head.

I start simple and run a rose under nose after she has calmed down from being gagged. Lightly I touch her nose to give her an indication that she must breathe deep and smell because I refuse to say a word at this point. I follow the rose by a cinnamon stick, vanilla bean, a very hot sauce and then finally, the cologne she loves the most on me. Her breathing and groans through the gag made it evident that she started to figure out that I was taking her on a journey with the different smells.

I remove gag from mouth as we move to the next sense, taste. My plan here was start bland, build to salty, then hot and finally sweet while trying to mix textures and consistency. I start by dripping drops of water from above onto her lips, into her mouth and on her tongue, making her wiggle her body as each drop splashes over her face. Followed by drops of wine which makes her lick her lips and arch her back and neck up for more. Next was a large dill pickle both for the sour and salt of it and for the size. I dragged it over her lips and she knew what it was immediately as she opened up and I sort of fucked her mouth with it before she took a small bite. Next was a pepporcini, which is a hot pepper but not nearly as a hot as a jalepeno. She bit it and whimpered, spitting some out, begging for water or something else to get rid of the heat.

I waited a moment before pushing a cracker into her mouth that she ate feverishly to try and get rid of the heat. I ended with some drips of honey on her lip and tongue, followed by a small piece of chocolate.

Just as she finished I hit the remote and turned up a wild range and mix of music and sounds, from calming rainforest to intense tribal music to thrashing rock and hardcore hip hop. As I sit back in my chair, mixing and changing the music and sounds, I watch her closely. Her wrists and ankles are red. She can’t help but move, sometimes tugging to try and get out. Sometimes begging me, screaming or crying for me to fuck her. I put in a CD of people having sex, fulfilling fetishes and fantasies and I could see the wet spot growing on the bed. Over some of the sounds of fucking and orgasms I finally spoke: “All of this is for you to learn my little bitch. You must know how each sense makes you feel and react so you too can make sure that your master’s senses are fulfilled completely.”

I move onto the bed and lean in right next to her ear and begin to whisper, “The feeling of my cock sliding over every inch of your body is coming baby. The feeling of my cock slapping your nipples and your face is coming. The feeling of my cock wrecking that tight pussy and ass of yours is coming. And your cum exploding out of you, all over my cock is too baby.

For sight, I would torture to a level that does not just make her squirm, but makes her mad. But the bad little bitch has no choice. You see, I had made a call while I left her. That call was to a close friend of mine, who is more than willing to do anything for me. Nia is 5’4”, 38dd, 26, 34… a full figured, gorgeous black woman with the smoothest, wettest pink pussy I’ve ever fucked.

By the time I removed her blindfold, I remained alone with her in the room and as she adjusted her eyes, breathing heavy and almost mad from being tied up so long, she focused her eyes and saw me standing up on the bed above her, completely naked and rock hard. As I throw the blindfold, she moans and begs me even more for me to take her then and there. I run one hand down over my cock as I stand high above her and stroke it, one foot on either side of her torso.

After a few minutes I reach down and proper her head up on a pillow. “Okay baby, come on in!” I yell out and I watch my slave’s eyes pop out. In walks Nia, completely naked as well. I had asked her to be worked up by the time I called her in. I wanted her wet and aching for me to fuck her right in front of my slave.

I stayed on the bed and extended my hand to Nia as she approached the bed and helped her up. Wasting no more time to take advantage of the sight/visual part of all this, I positioned her, standing on either side of my bitch’s head, grabbing the head board and bending at the waist. I stand behind her. And even though my little bitch was begging, yelling, even screaming at times, Nia and I remained perfectly quiet. I grabbed Nia’s beautiful black ass and slide my cock up and down along the crack of her ass. She reaches down with one hand and grabs my cock from underneath, pushing my cock head against her hot pussy.

With one, long, deep thrust I shove every inch of my long, thick shaft into her from behind. As she throws her head back, she remains quiet…both us do (as hard as that is to do!) as I begin to fuck her hard, deep and fast. The only sounds are me slapping up against her from behind, the bed creaking and shaking and my little whore screaming and crying. Nia’s pussy juices dripped from her and me down onto the whore.

After hours of torture and pleasure, it was time to finally indulge touch. Nia and I worked our way down off the bed. I gave Nia a strap-on and I decided the teasing was over. Bitch was going to have to learn a hard lesson now. We both grabbed the slave, untied her feet and her hands, handling her, which wasn’t hard because she was spent. I laid Nia down flat on her back and forced my little servant down on her huge fake cock, shoving her soaked and throbbing cunt down hard onto it. She easily took it all and almost collapsed flat onto Nia and began gyrating her hips, almost immediately cumming.

I got on my knees behind her and got my cock head even more wet with her juices and cum, mixing with Nia’s. I spread her ass cheeks wide and began to pry my huge cock into her tight ass while Nia’s fake cock fills her pussy. She screams in pain, ecstasy and relief as I bury every inch slowly into her ass. She sits still on Nia’s dildo as I reach up and push her head down hard against Nia, forcing them to kiss. As they do, she relaxes her ass a little more and with about half my cock buried in her ass, I DRIVE the rest in HARD, burying all of my shaft making her squeal into Nia’s mouth. Nia begins to push her hips up, fucking that pussy from underneath as I hold still deep inside her ass. She cums again. She reaches back to try and hit me, but I grab both of her wrists and pin them behind her back as I start to fuck that ass. Tearing it open, driving in and out of tight hole, making her scream with every thrust through a voice that is disappearing very fast.

She cums again. Her body convulsing by this pounding double-fuck she is getting.

Nia and I stop. Yanking the bitch off and throwing her down to the floor. As Nia removes her strap-on, she straddles her face, a knee on either side of her head, pushing her cum drenches cunt onto her mouth while she grabs her hair. I stand before Nia and as she sucks my cock, tasting the little whore’s ass on me. I walk around and kneel beneath her legs, and spread them wide, pinning them up so they touch Nia while she grinds on her face. With one long thrust I drive my cock into her pussy and pound it hard and fast. She cums again. Nia cums all over her face and in her mouth.

And now my turn. Nia scoots back so she is straddling the tore up slave’s tits. I kneel over her face with my back to Nia. Nia reaches around and strokes my cock, shoving into the bitches mouth. Pushing it in, making her gag as she strokes it. I lean forward onto my hands as I hover her mouth and face. Getting a hand job from Nia from behind as I fuck her throat. My cock explodes, jerking gobs of cum, one load after the other, filling her throat as she gags and can’t breath. Almost making her sick as it oozes out of the sides of her mouth, down her face. I pull it out to rub it all over face, humiliating her even more. Smacking my wet cock all over her face.

Nia and I get up and leave. The little servant lay there, cum drenched, sweaty, sore with no voice…just shaking. Violated and taught a few lessons. Or at least we’ll find that out next time.

There is something very comforting in darkness. It is soft, kind, void of expectation.

Darkness is the place where we are that which we really are.

When we stand naked and alone in the dark, there are no pretenses, no illusions, nothing to distract us. It wraps us in our own insignificance and holds us like a quiet baby.

The dark part of a painting gives value to the image. The darkness of a night sky enhances the luminous quality of stars. 

Darkness is the place that cultivates the seeds of change, the womb of creativity. It is the secret shelter where we escape from the noise of mirrors and the glaring imagery of florescent interaction.

Some folks are afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone, afraid of dying. Darkness can also be a primal harbor to fears. It is the unknown, the not-yet-born. The place where we feel out of control, where we can not see "what's out there" or look at our own hands. 

Darkness requests surrender.

When we surrender to darkness, it can bring us to our senses, enhance our awareness of our vulnerable existence and inspire us to reach for the light of balance.

I am thankful for darkness.

Desire at the end was a malady, a madness or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where it pleased me and passed on. I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character...

I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art....I altered the minds of men and the colours of things....I treated art as the supreme reality, and life as a mere mode of fiction....I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me...I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a flaneur, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with smaller natures and meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in search of new sensations...

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Bunnyblu's response:
So where am I in this scheme of things? And where are you, my beloved Gazelle? Nay not in reflection of each other for that too has passed, but in reflection of our inner selves? Are we not, then, in our different ways, spendhtrift of our own geniuses? And now... tired... 
Forgive me... of nothing to forgive... yet forgive me my dear...

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, 
By each let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 
Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, 
And some when they are old; 
Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 
Some with the hands of Gold: 
The kindest use a knife, because 
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, 
Some sell, and others buy; 
Some do the deed with many tears, 
And some without a sigh: 
For each man kills the thing he loves, 
Yet each man does not die.

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A response from Bunnyblu:

And so, my love, beloved gentle dove
How did I die, thence may I ask?
By kiss or sword were I thus pierced
As little bunny breathed her last?

人間が外界のものを捉えるとき、もっとも影響するのは視覚である。
目をつむると日常生活がそれまで行えていたようにできないことを言うまでも無く、明らかである。
味覚は物を食べるときのみ、聴覚は周囲の雰囲気を分かりたいときや人と話すとき、触覚は何かと触れるときに使う。
嗅覚は聴覚と同じような感じであるね。

今日買い物に行ったとき、リネンウォーターを買って、アロマの香りを嗅いだ。
リネンウォーターはVanilla, Orange Blossom, Lavender, Rose, Jasmineがあった。
どれを買おうか迷って香りを嗅いだ。
そのときにフラッシュバックされた思い出があった。
そう、あれはジャスミンの香り。1年ほど前の非常に楽しかった思い出である。
ここでラベンダーだったら、「時をかける少女」なのだけど(笑)
アロマコーナーに行ったときも、同じくそれが思い出された。
幾つかの混合で、何の香りだったか嗅ぎ分けることはできなかったのだけれど。

このことで思い出されたのが、人間の記憶。
嗅覚が人の記憶に強く関与する、ということ。
だから香水ってのは今でもあるし、aroma therapyなんてのも存在するのです。
なぜか、と言われれば、嗅覚は原始的な感覚だから。
嗅覚は嗅神経によって脳へと伝えられる。*
脳(大脳)は大脳辺縁系と大脳新皮質の2種類があり、大脳辺縁系は原始的な、大脳新皮質は高等な記憶に関与している。
大脳新皮質が大きいのがヒトの特徴であることはご存知だろう。大脳辺縁系があってこその大脳新皮質であり、嗅覚は大脳辺縁系が司っている。
つまり、嗅覚は側頭葉の嗅覚野、海馬、扁桃体、視床下部に投射している。
記憶に強く関与する海馬と関係していることから嗅覚、てのは大事である。
だから、実務的には香りをうまく使うべき。

次に、CAMK(熊本市現代美術館)に行ったときに感じたこと。"memoria"という展覧会を見た。
CAMK補正が入るのは仕方ないとしても、これは良かった。
久々に良いのに行った感じである。
どんな感じだったか、と言われたらちゃんとした表現があるはずだけど、そこを言葉で表したくない。
昔の熊本の展覧会の写真、記事などに始まり、廃屋の写真、設計図、図書館の写真、鏡、造形物、砂絵だったり。
素晴らしいの一言。
久々に来たからかもしれませんがね。

この展示会がよかったのは、切り替えがうまい展示法にある。
床は落ち着いた木の色で、照明は基本的には黄色みのかかった暖かい色。
明るいコーナーがあったら、次は照明の落とされた空間。
メリハリは効いてるし、なにせその照明の色と作品がマッチしている。
視覚に訴えることの重要性。ヒトは見かけで90%決まるとかナントカいう本があるけど、ま、視覚って大事だよね。
ここで展示されてた作品の中に無声のフィルムがあったけど、これがまた黒基調でいいんだわ。無論、周りは黒ですよ。
私以外にその展示を見ている人がいなかったから、聞く音はエアコンの音だけ。
たまりません。

五感、特にその中でも視覚と嗅覚をうまく使おうと思った。
第六感が有るとか無いとか人は言うけど、私は間違いなく存在すると思う。

*嗅覚は嗅神経(I)によって、視覚は視神経(II)によって、味覚は顔面神経(VII)と舌咽神経(IX)によって、聴覚は内耳神経(VIII)によって、触覚は様々な神経によって脳へと伝えられる。