Tuesday, January 12, 2016

This is Hobo Magic reporting....

Good Evening America,

As some of you two readers know, I've been cast to the lowest class of the persecuted. A transient hobo I became last December due to forces out of pure joy in their luck club, had a stacked deck which broke my tiny budget and home freed me to street life.
At first mobile hobo in my 97 Camry deluxe brandishing unsheepish license plate numbers 5150 for all who should be aware of it's truth in advertising clause, had a break down of battery power due to the use of radio power untimed with alternator recharge.
In a moment of glee, I lost both radio and drivability at a strip mall in Long Beach California, after an unpleasant visit to the Queen Mary, a boat not monarch, tossed my smart ass off the rocking replica.
Rushed to see if I had a car, A security guard lead me to a parking lot filled with bored patrons of patronizationalizm, seeped in auto loan self esteem programs, where I honestly claimed he would be able to differentiate my auto from the rest.
I had in an instance of true paper free, tree hugging, genius plotted my book in marker on my car. I also advertised a pentient for drug use, asking dealers to pull me over for samples.
Not any offers, but the phone number offered future business dealings. lol
Nobody does it like this bipolar american and unfortunately, I was stuck in a parking lot, broken window, anti-social self graffiti, and no music to soothe the vagrant volatility.
Yes, I sought the refuge of a bakery for nutrition, a pilates fitness establishment for phone charge and decided life on the strip mall circuit was for me.
Notably, no external bathrooms offered, I found my first night filling cups and bottles full of bipolar piss more acidic than average toxic excretions, I had to toss it or possibly soil my own car with the super charged contents. Yuk!
Ok, as this bipolar has learned the hard way, buzzkill light year is always on hand to deliver me to the precautionary poster child syndrome, dropping a careless eye, my passenger side was soaked in my yellow nemesis. But I tossed the stuff to the asphalt, predawn of the shopping, eating public's arrival time, and diluted with water, as not to cause a panic or simple disgusting facial expression.
You see life in street side view offers few choices for indoor elimination. I held, denied myself hydration, but had no other option than to deliver outdoor style.
Females must be daunted by this harrowing challenge, as there is the placement of pants vs. splatter, shoe vs. sock, stop and go, shy and dry, and finally the twat squat.
You gotta go, I am sorry, but I would have provided a port a potty, neutral clay litter, or scoopable people sized litter boxes. Or bathrooms filled with water closets, aka toilets, which flush this refuse to the ocean where we eat a fish sandwich and shit.
Or maybe some of the time it's a flush royal thrown event where it's vomit from a night of alcohol overconsumption and newly aligned prayers regarding cessation of the painful hanging on to the bowl. Not so tidy.
Luckily, I had an anal retentive background, potty training was a wicked timing game, and I played without actual results. I acted relieved and my mother was short on follow up, never knowing I could hardly put out.
Any who, the days of strip mall homesteading, came to a finale, as I took a very bent and pain ridden body to Chevron where coffee of an intense brew came to my drug free zone.
Before I knew what had hit me, I was acting intoxicated, and criminally free to do so. Not illegal drugs as had once been exploited by police and court, this was a morning beverage I only rarely partook of.
On this morning I took a par in the course of action incarnate.
My inhibition driven to the edge of sanity, began an eyeing of surroundings that were previously undetected by my naked eyes love for symmetry and beauty.
Then the sarcastic seemed to play out in physical language. I estimate I did all I could do to enjoy the morning, short of mocking the birds, which are cool people, I must say. They too were taken aback at my enjoyable, self depricating, humor driven attack on the world staged around me.
I broke all rules, staggered instead of walked, drank from a dog bowl in front of a pet store, fell helplessly into hedges, swore an oath of irresponsibility and entered my car from the roof in thru the window with no physical hardship.
I call it drunken master. I was physically timed comedic, ascerbic, and uncaring of reviews. Video cameras came out as no passer by was unassailed or unshaken by my performance.
However, businesses closed doors, cars veered as I jeered the richly luxuriated class of characters caught in their slippery reality of control.
Good laughs from middle age women, and young women too. Men seemed more concerned as to the possible clash with their male/sex driven priveledged agendas.
Can't stop a clown with caffeine and location acceptance enthusiasm.
Wherever, whenever, any time, coffee, tea and my heckle and jecklism, trademarks of the patently unruffled ridgeback.
Got media alerts, and u tube time, and out I came to claim my jumper cables were not working. But I was indeed in the heat of the moment. Hubba hubba.
Well, there was a moment of fountain posing, buddah would have loved the posture, throwing paper  bills into the water.
Up came the cop on top of my brand new attitude: so I made a run for it.
Hid my body, arm hanging out door with cigarette, until I was asked to come to papa and just talk.
No my talk had exceeded verbal limits, breaking sound barriers, and reefer, had I added it, would have left me laughing madly at myself, fulfilled in each cup of noodling.
Let me say the police were correct not to allow this driver moving faster than an auto manufacturers recommended speedometer levels, to drive.
So, after a few pictures of the group hug nature, the laughs took off to downtown Long Beach
where I would learn of the bum's run course carefully crafted to consume all time, free, and block the clock into a frame of shame.
Hobo Magic, I now call myself, exploited the extended self satisfied, outward trending, to detonate a few mind feelds in the region, by offering unexplained gates and finally having a true moment of glory as my pants slipped to my ankles as I crossed the street.
Can't plan that stuff, just happens....lol
But these mercedes benzodiazipinion steering call em's headed straight at me insurance policy proof hit and run.
I jumped my feigned indignence into a safer slot, and police blotted me to the back of the car.
Later I would take a care free trip to safari hunting tranquilizing, slipping into a wrestless coma until the defiant, after coffee bitch emerged.
Where's my Car mutherfuckers?
I knew it was gone to the safety seeking, out of sight and mind if you don't crowd, and off to nuthouse visit, number whatever the record is now.
Being held by semi-groomed, demi gods of mental health, I resisted, spat food, then arrived my day to court side confession.
Charged with naked revelation, I simply told the judge the truth was the pants were too big, slipped down, but boxers remained. I did admit to thinking it was funny too.
Hence, the position became one of let the girl go be car free, roam alone to another destination. As security now operated in the strip mall home of the brave, I had to take my lesser status out of the arrogantia eating hole, no plan or money to allow for proper choosing.
Left to a righteous wronging of the Longer than wide beach of clubs for credit card, self aggrandized car owners, I would return to the cypress anaheim area to wander.
It took no more than a day of distress, and as I described, a lack of choice menu, devalued, depressed and devoid of hope, I moved to Starbucks and long lines of addicted coffee drinkers with auto mobile service driving thru.
Hell drug dealers of an ominous nature would never allow that kind of traffic, someone might get suspicious. LOl
I laughed my ass off, tasting, testing, and facebook frolic.
That is until the night of the first street performance plan I had enacted in my post debutante mindset.
"Yes, they will love my poetry recitations, humble pie eyes, they will love me and pour money into my milk bottle."
See previous post for the performance saved for the disgrace of me, by parrots at a store, hearing a message of distress.
Averting eyes from a fallen comrade? Unacceptable, was my tone.
Police came and tested for compliance, I adopted a submissive tone, passing with not flying colors, but brandished words for the money cloaked auto zoners.
Birds showed me the art of playing fun and frolic reminding me of a time I may have thought money was a true mark of character.
No more, as I know, it's been challenging, but I am suited for this deck of hall of shamers, listing my own improprieties first then leveling charge on those actively resisting their own dynamic of easy living.
My hardship was to grow, wherein I found myself shoveled out of a pharmacy without favorite calm and pander drugs, and into a full protest mode, curled into a ball under a blanket, laying on landscaped bark.
I planned a starvation end, no further contact planned with surroundings.
However, as a rule, I usually get no self pity in quantity as I was used to having it during my youth, and rain clouds gathered.
Dark clouds dropped buckets upon this slumbering suicide queen of hearts, until I was forced to dry my bark bed, or bite the bullet.
I headed for drug store overhang, and leaned against trash can for good measure.
I was asked to leave.
My anger began to boil as I ignored the authoritative terms to actually leave.
Sudden outburst, "Where do I go?"
Half cry, half direction request, all true human response.
Rejected from a trash can sitting position, suddenly a grubby hand reached for me, and hobo help had arrived.
"Do you want to go or not," the stranger demanded.
No options, I followed him to another building where we made camp under wet blankets, our body heat the only thing tolerable.
The weather went wild, wind swirling rain onto our new hobo union, until morning, when clouds scattered and chill wind winterized our radiators.
I had more than a homeless rescue, I argued quietly in my mind. Where is this going, was a future day planner functional overload.
Never been on foot, on streets, dodging hail and storm reservoirs seeking my resolve in it's wake.
I followed this man for days dumpster diving for recycled cans, collecting enough to keep me in cigarettes and small amounts of food.
I cried, but worse, I whined like a spoiled child.
He threatened to leave me, our union only days old, if I didn't curtail the self pity expressed in deeply felt defeat.
What was I to do?
Next, the bank stopped my access to the account due to identity issues, and I now had to live without the aid of a corrupt, criminally madcap income social security.
I would have to rely on hobos and passers by for financial and nutritional support.
My bathroom training edged now on borderline offensive marking. An alley cat style. Spray not spay.
This ends the days report from her own home free network of hobo hoodwinks a hood could think was wink, but dink again....
Your friend and Alliance for stop a lie ances, and truth be tolled, you will learn to love the marker game.
For now, I am working on books, Owner of a boner, guide to sexual cuntidishining, and The hedonists guide to the bipolar playing feild, offering an array of advice, and impossible possibilities lined to draw a sand wedge between you and dogged control freaks.
Head to your nearest store, buy a pack of smokes, and light up, tobacco junction is but a road to the smoking gun shop.
Love you, Laura

Friday, December 4, 2015

Buzzkill light year if not for the birds....

Left Anaheim Memorial Hospital 5 am after sleeping cramped on a vinyl sofa, better than the cold cement I'm used to.
Ready and nervous for my street performance event, I hardly slept a wink. And with benzodiazapine withdrawl in full effect, gnashed my teeth, and twiddled my toes most of the night.
Found out vending machines now take ATM cards, I enjoyed a couple soda pop and snacks. My bank card worked like a charm. No real poor people snatching fees included, all seemed to be Wells Fargo, in my decoder of bad events to come.
Going to Starbucks to land my phone on a groovy revival unit on their tables, I had the hospital staff summon a taxi. Not even sure yet what company she called, but they were there within a few minutes.
Had this big festive, anti-anxiety plan together to write signs in my sketchbook, and deliver a winning show of performance and community financial unity.
What a fantasy I had going on, that the city of Cypress, would accept this newly groomed at Ross dress for Less by a lovely, patient girl named Alana.
My hair was fantastically engineered by a humble but adept, hardworking asian woman. She took the crazy curl monster full of split bends, and carefully commandered my head dressing.
She washed my hair with car and longevity, giving this lonely traveler the feeling of another human being crafted for such a service.
OOoooh, aaaah, I tried to keep  my prattle trap shut, as she was professional and serious. Most Asian women born outside the land of the gabby salons, tend to be shy and willing to lie.
We were both surprised at how young each other looked.
"Clear consciences," I quipped.
I saw the result, and put up at $10 tip after a modest sum of $17 was expected.
She wanted no internet credit, as I offer the truth in advertising to deal to the finest quality, not Costco style, but simple craftsmanship and care, and real true selling points. Not a way to lure and hide a naughty defect, of both character and product/service itself.
So, five A.M. arrived and the hospital security guard reassured a restless actor things would go well.
Cab came and whisked me to the Starbucks and ducks a lucky drug dealership full of coffee potless, busy, cafeenders on Valley view and Lincoln.
The driver and I discussed my books, as an incident had occurred which brought me to the topic of my personal and universal sexual conditioning topic where I will explore our plight: The Owner of a Boner, it will be entitled. LOL
The rather thoughtful driver reflected some interesting atrocities we face, and we shared some info and interest in the subject.
The darkness still lingering, Starbucks oasis of light, approached and got my debit card ready for a transaction and tip.
The screen like a big screen TV was in the back seat, yet, still with no glasses and brain damage, (who would've thought) I couldn't see or operate the damn thing and my card was initially declined.
I knew with simple math and overdraft protection there should be no problem.
Suddenly the driver became concerned and he tried, and Declined again.
WTH? I thought this isn't good, I could feel the arrival of the Buzzkiller serial episodes with me. Nearly threw up as a happy performer is probably the better than a stage heckling the crowd. OH boy.
WEnt to Chevron and inexplicably their ATM wasn't working.
Driver questioned me as if to suggest I had purposely obtained a ride knowing I didn't have funds.
I squealed that was preposterous.
Apparently jaded, or stiffed one too many times, he told me to just leave.
I said I'd get with the bank and straighten the matter, but was pushed out with a heavy lack of trust and really hurt my feelings.
Shouldn't he notice my big morality chip on my shoulder, and truth telling fixations? lol
Went marching out of car and left my phone behind...
Hence no FB updates, as my G4 and I were satellites orbiting in different directions and there was no way to catch the irritated driver.
As tears began to pour down on the poor, I realized I had no cash either, which meant no coffee or communication.
I lost it completely. Oh yeah, big heaving sobs, gallons of fluid flowing from my eyes, I walked out of Starbucks and hid myself in between a store and a pillar. \
Cars drove by my emotionally discharging ass and none even looked concerned. I could hear the echo of my meltdown sounds coming off the walls.
I yelled at myself: No PITY, NO FEAR, NO anger and remembering my own rule of faith: Everything that can go right, will go right, even if it seems wrong.
Didn't exactly do much at that point.
Starbucks did not want me doing banking business on their busy coffee scheduling phone, but offered a call to a friend to pick me up (and probably deliver from their midst.)
I called, Tonto, former decade old friend of the Bipolar American, who antagonized me for two months and when I improperly stiffened and met her demeaning, demanding, words with improper protest, I was thrown out and she told me to basically lose her number. (And kept all my stuff, prescriptions, blanket, toothbrush etc. with no remorse.) Bitch....lol
I made an exacting call that I was penniless, no caffeending, and it was imperative if she was to see me ever again as a friend, that she come to my emotional rescue.
Have no idea if she even got out of bed that day.
So, I took my sobbing, freaking bones across the street to begin a pre-dawn begging session with busy commuters.
Yeah, that went well.
One young woman, student, beautiful caring eyes handed me a few one dollar bills before I even asked. I fell to the public sidewalk in front of my junior league college, Cypress College, in of course, Cypress. Dynamic.
Sobbing, now uncertain if I should entertain as I had no promise of food or shelter, or even a luxurious bus ride to the bank to attack the whole industry with a dry tongue chapped from all my complaining.
I pulled out the sketch book, and instead of those positively clever signs I fashioned while living my debut performance fantasy, I scrawled in ball point: HELP.
REally creative, but certainly fitting the fearful fit I was being served by the humble pie delivery service: Buzzkill lightyear, I growled, outloud in fact, is doing it again to me.
Boo hoo, I could not imagine a more pathetic polar on the side of the road, and in front of an educational institution putting secretaries and bottle washers into the workforce by the dozens.
FUCK THEM, I thought, which triggered the opposite reaction: Bipolar Rage and Raving.
Now, it went from help poor little polar cub, pay her cabby and redeem her tab, be it small but personally offensive.
While suddenly bursting into mother code of a loose tongue tied to it's post for too long, I realized, hell I owe money to almost everybody and everything I ever did/done/or served. Not a credit report I was willing to let slide either. Family, veterinarians, libraries, you name it, I let them suck it up.
Whoops, made me madder and more vulgar.
Luckily, it was still half dark, and the college vacant of ears, such as security.
I raged, and began writing signs like NEVER QUIT, Help the fallen human, and other weird stuff until suddenly with odds on buzzkill could provide, My pen ran out of ink and I was so poor I didn't have a spare.
I went nuts. Threw the pen to the streets, got all paranoid up, and began casting doubt on my stage of events.
Yelling, muddling through physical hostile effects, cars averted and hid from the mad woman, now clearly being seen in the predawn.
Yup, I'm a real sweety pie, with a mouth of a cobra, and the spit to go with it. I thought of putting up a flag, owning the sidewalk and selling it as my property.
Losing it, they call it.
I fell to my knees, clasped my hands in begging disgrace, when suddenly I heard a familiar sound. A FUCKING MACAW.
My Sky and her kin, are quite distinguishable, and this was from the parrot store caddy corner from the college.
The birds were signalling the mad woman just as my baby would do to me when mama left balance, for beast like ravings.
Whoops. Birds had heard and I knew in my heart I had to see them and discuss my plight.
I grabbed my now scattered belongings and body language lavished with hateful tones, I hit the strip mall and found a bunch of bewinged on lookers awoken by my words.
 Then the birds said NEVERMORE.
Not really, but they chided me a bit, and suddenly began the entertainment. The rolled on the bottom of cages, beeped, blurted and made me laugh and smile.
They came to my emotional rescue, these caged sages.
I expressed my discontent for their plight of caged living and lack of flight, but they all were trying to get my attention.
Before I knew it I was singing to them and laughing at their antics: Street performers one and all. LOL
My depression alleviating songs rang out of the anger throated, detonated, actress/author/songwriter/juggler/code talking vagrant.
My mood simply couldnt remain ugly with such beautiful spirits to cheer me up.
However, next door, some serious eyes peered out of the door as I rolled on the ground with them, showing them what coolness is when smoking cigarettes, pronounced them heroes who needed freedom from their sight restricting stack of metal and bars.
Yeah, we ministered to each others plight thru windows and security bars...Sick degrees of Separation I told them and that I shall come into the store and meet eyes with all of them once nine oclock had arrived. Sucks because we were a hoot and holler, gang of birds of a feather: Clipped and weathered was I too.
Philosophy for intellectually inclined parrots I guess. lol
I returned to my college front post and began a physical show only a diehard with a cast iron skill could foster.
Still feeling rejected, no one stopped to see just how clever I was.
I had picked up a spoon on the pavement and used it as a prop to show me eating dirt.
Guess the busy, possibly precaffeended crowd didn't get my gone with the wind jokes.
Tried to write them, but nobody gave a rats ass.
The ones with out tinted windows just seemed concerned.
Great start. Wow.
Then I used guilt, one sign read: Do you even have a heart left. Cold blood in your veins?
That pretty much got me back where I started, heckling the crowd from a stage.
Bright light came up and it just got embarassing as I was shockingly angry at everyone.
Then to show my massively amazing poetry recitation, I hit it with Edgar Allen Poe's the conquerer worm.
I thougth they must now see how clever and intellectual I am. They must notice my GPA status and worth.
Really, I was a child looking for some pudding or something. IDK. lol
Then bird sounds rang out again.
Another round of bird to human meltdown therapy.
U turn around back to the windows with awaiting birds. Big caustic, suddenly, feeling sad for the worlds lack of my version of compassion. Comparing my deeds as I crossed the hectic traffic.
A homeless man the day before I had bought cigarettes for, suddenly showed, and I hugged on him like he was evidence of the deficiency of everyone but me.
Yeah, that thinking gets little in the way of workable, growth, and character changing events. Delusion of diffusion, I went back to birds for advice and to suddenly write their story with a tear in my eye.
They could have given a shit about my nightmare awaking debut, they simply wanted their own kudos, and to see me smoke cigarettes.
I started to come out of the cloudy part of the mind storming the castle of hassle and harassment, and just fucking played. Much to the concern of others now occupying this strip mall.
Tried to not look crazy, but yet, the birds insisted upon my bobbing my head and beeping. Surely these people knew I had to do these things...(or did they)
I grabbed my stuff headed back to the beggar corner of my public property event and found security and the Cypress police looking on.
Oh Shit, I thought well here we go back to the looney bin or even just shackled and tackled.
They let me finish my last stanza of my amazingly repetitive poetry recitations, then approached.
Sit on the grass they demanded.
I said, that is the college grass, that sidewalk, I own it.
But I knew if I pursued this farce of an argument we were gonna be taking a ride, in front of all the onlookers who were previously castigated by a delightfully speedy, angry lip quipping.
I submitted.
Put your hands on your knees and keep them there,  they instructed for the second time in two weeks.
During my tirade two weeks prior, not a performance, a diatribe against the world, I couldn't keep my hands on my knees.
I confessed to them it must be something passive aggressive, as I analyzed my lack of focus. ( probably right as police delighted with their presence and impounding of me and my vehicles regularly over the years)
This time, I kept those damn hands clutching my knee caps as embarassment became overwhelming. How could I this clever artist and actor be demeaned in front of this cheap, greedy, self centered crowd.
The cops, all four of them (no swat team for the fly this time, or fire trucks and ambulances which usually arrived concurrently) gently questioned me. Each asking the same: Do you want to hurt yourself or anyone else.
No, I sheepishly answered with some question as to whether I was being true or not, but yet, scared to see my own intentions and agenda.
They patted me down, asked what and where I was staying and doing.
Gotta get money to get my car back and get home to Weldon and make a new start.
Next question: how?
IDK, I creeked out with sudden burst of tears.
Need to go to hospital again, and the regular check up.
They offered no money as I explained of my hunger, no money, darkened reputation put on by cabby...I had eaten chips and soda, I was hardly starving for god sake, but my drama queen continued.
They just told me the school was in fear, the community probably equally disturbed, and they said, "just move it on the other side of the street and try your luck there."
Cool, I passed the police are you insane test. Hands still on knees, but only on one knee as I proposed to myself I looked my stylish with two hands on one knee.
(really we should all visit the mental ward which is my thought processes....)
I then gave up and went back to the birds who were excited I was back. The owner came in and close the security gate barrier and we could see each other more clearly. I spoke of Sky and her antics, and drug use, and they seemed to listen.
The patient but busy owner let me in b4 opening, and the place went fucking wild. Birds of all kinds, words, sound effects, emotional personal expression, burst out: I was shocked  it was like a royal homecoming. The owner couldn't settle their need to be attended by me, and subsequent sound of the sqawk of rebel parrots.
We were one.
Healed by the first eye contact, I could see and feel their pain filled cramped cages, and visual obscurity, and we really got it on. I went to each, trying not to leave even a flighty finch out of my visit up close.
I offered my hair and some groomed me, and touched them and never did they show aggression as I had on the streets of Cypress.
The owner was uncomfortable but afforded me the time to commune with the likes of Maxwell who was small and colorful, but also trying to speak to me. He had a verbal train on his own track. I can't hear the little birds as well as the defeaning, articulations of macaws, but I put my ear to the cage and picked up such phrases as "thank you." Polite.
But he seemed disappointed I couldn't auditorilly collect the messages and repeat them. What intense eye contact we all made. Amazing.
Then I heard the familiar verbal command of a blue and gold macaw being held in the back, kenneled as owners were doing something and bird needed some extra safe confinement, I guess.
Blue and Gold is same, looked just like Sky, but wasn't my baby.
Had a needy demanding look like my little Earp too. Got me all sadded up, missing my baby, being cared for by my sister who has an actual home, not living the life of pedestrian poorhouse bipolar.
Never to be forgotten what happened there. I don't know how to even describe it, words are poor too, poor symbols for real spiritual gathering.
I left telling them General Macarthur like, "I shall return." I guess to buy them all and have a wickedly noisy home life on the streets. Hey they could live in the trees me in the park.
WEnt to Ross dress for less, that almost closed as I approached seeking lost items and sympathy probably.
Leftover bag in hand, I was told by a customer of a homeless shelter, Baptist Church quite a ways from that intersection.
I had no other choice, use my $2 left for a bus to then have to walk many miles to reach a possible haven for the home free, lets call me, us.
Hardly a bus rider, I could barely figure out how to get off the damn thing, get the door to open, as the whole bus load yelled instructions at me.
Now for the long walk to something possibly, but not confirmed, to be of help. Hungry, penniless, I cried again barely started my journey a rest stop, and sobs.
Bikers and walkers flew by the tearful trekking into the unknown fearfully, not faithfully, me. Wow, I was so dissappointed they didn't pick me up like a lost infant and take me to the orphanage.
Kept going, then dropped on the lawn in front of Knotts Berry farm.
Suddenly a lad appeared next to me, with a back pack claiming to be going to the same place, but unaware of its real properties. He claimed to have to panhandle, and had his marijuana stolen. Bummer about the pot, I selfishly thought, as one hit would have bit into my still heckling the rich luxury car drivers, and employed road workers.
Noel, led me down the street kept asking me questions and keeping my mind of my smoking hot feet, affectatively arched down appearance, until we kept reaching milestones along the way.
With no water available, he gave me gum to milk some saliva onto my chapped tongue and lips. I surfaced enough foamy liquid and took my thyroid pill, like someone who wanted to live...well sorta, you know the story. Hatin' it here. lol
I couldn't complain to a young man in a worse position than I.
Then in the distance, blind as a bat I am, I could detect a Wells Fargo Bank.
Oh, shit, verbal warfare words began to back up in my throat. I told Noel, stay put, I'm roasting bankers, we will have food. I'm not sure I was kidding.
Got in the front doors, but tension rose, as my English, male sounding personality slipped in the lip socket before I could get a button, zipper of something over the enraged quipper. The shrill quill of my demands of explanation probably were audible to most of Buena Park.
Manager and reps held together to fend off this offensive, tired, pain ridden, revenge seeking woman.
"If you don't stop talking like that you're going to have to leave," I was warned by a young man, muscley and in shape to toss this battle trap out the door.
They made some calls, I drank water like a pole vaulter, or whatever, and we found out they put a hold on the card to protect me from fraud.
I scorched back about the cabby, my phone less ness, loss of book material, etc...
They offered no apology. "It works now."
I grabbed my own face as if to protect them from a responsive bite.
You need to find the cab and the phone.
They hardly felt the need to even help. "it works now, go get something to eat."
Jesus, H, Christ, I burned Catholic vulgarities as they directed me to Tmobile to have them help me.
Yeah, we got more on this shit.
T-mobile did indeed help, but certainly didn't have to. A crew of delightfully sympathetic, and technologically advanced 20 somethings googled for me, as we had to figure out even which cab company picked me up.
Yes, it's always complicated, as it was today to...but I digress.
These lovely people, and customers gathered with possible solutions, and now maybe I can identify the company and try to find my phone.
Kind of bitter toward cabby, but will pay as long as phone comes home. I now am more pushing back at this buzz killer stalker of mine. lol Murphy or whoever.
New law in town, Faith.
Noel instructed we keep heading for the church and not get 25 cent corn dogs from weinershnitzel as I had impractically suggested.
"You need your money for other things, let's keep going."
We were practically 50 yards from the church, but the currents of food cooking on the wind was driving me mad.
He was right, If I am to get my car and dignity back, I need to humble foul grumbling and get there.
We arrived and the guard dog wanted to eat me, immediately.
Oh those intuitive animals: Angry crazy woman approaching, bite her sorry ass.
Lucky the chain didn't quite reach, and now more aware of my emotional distressed out, I realized dog knew better. But hey, don't bite me. I heckled the dog as I ate jewish rye bread offered for the bread loving poor people.
No butter, I quipped. Then a few rounds of blasphemy, delicately hidden behind hate, I found a dollar in my pocket. An extra I didn't know I had.
I saw a vending machine with 7up, my sin of the flesh, carbonated, teeth destroying soda pop.
I bought a can and sat with my friend talking about how I shouldn't talk anymore. Yum, the soda tamed the beast, best left back in Cypress, and I fell to the ground on my blanket.
Friends, busses don't attend all roadways, theres a lot of walking on the homeless circuit, lot's of lugging things in back packs, which luckily I was smart to buy.
Anyway, I got treated to a home style cooked meal, and some amazing eyes which met with mine. Yeah, they wondered if I was a Brit, or if I'd ever shut up, but treated me as I was just being me, with no more need to sample my sad story everywhere, as we are all in this same shape and boat.
Anyway, family and friends, I still persist and pursue the goal of retrieving the 5150 mobeel and coming home to Navajo ave. in Weldon to plant a Stake with a new flag: Bipolar Cuntry be aware I"m protecting my one citizen from more damage: me.
Want my macaw to come home so it's all work and luggage from here.
Got no benzos for the comforts of withdrawl, and short of funds, got a little bit of shit and waiting for a good hit. Fell to low, as there is no methamphetamine faster than me, but it kills the pain.
I'm on old traveler in training, but I as the sign said, NEVER GIVE UP.
Love you guys, gotta go, as i am buying all the used books in front of the library. Told them I'll be back with my car to pick them up. Unreal synchroncity going on here. Donate books to all who aid this weary, bleary bipolar on her way back up the record of truth.
I'm no BS kids, I"m TS, the shit.
Watch for me, gotta find the phone....lol
Riding busses is fun, get to see great people.
Thanks to all, don't worry, the world appears to be leaning my way. Buzz a bee, have and hive my orders in order of, oh hell, lol, I'm working it kids.....Love to All, Laura

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

The Street perfomer wants her car....

Dear Supporters of this bipolar American,
I'm currently trekking thru Cypress in search of the funds to recover my impounded car, which you will find a pix of on the right side of this blog:
AKA, the 5150 mobeel.
My long road from ragged jagged points to lows of a nadir I be, the car, a white camry with my book, The chronicles of the Bipolar Reporter etched in the paint is being held hostage for a grand or two by now, as it was not acceptable to the rich and preposterous of Long Beach on NOv. 3 where it broke down.
I consumed a large cup of coffee and began my riff raff, as I am just that, dancing, feigning intoxication, and dancing for a crowd of cheery, shocked on lookers.
It seems my latent,  not latex, rubber stampers, talents are appearing one by one, to my own amazement. I juggle, dance, speak in code and rap like a black man.
Yes, it's what I have and will use on the public right of way to possibly, not panhandle, oh no, that would be illegal, but slyly without harassment, ask for help to obtain my car/book mobeel and return to Weldon, where my home sits in ruins.
Awaiting my administering this beleaguered home contained one mad elder abuse tracker, reporter who traced the culprits of murder, greed and mayhem until the courts finally agreed and gave:::::Probation.
Yes, they got white collar hot am I under, thunderstruck, I myself served 8 months for a tiny bag of methamphetamine which I truthfully directed the police to find.
Thank you California for Proposition 47, which unfortunately was a bit late, but sound of mind, you changed the charges from felony to miss duh meaner.
Now, down to sacks of clothes, a haircut, a hernia from carrying my leftover thanksgiving belongings, missing my bi polar meds, I'm heading for street performance.
Let me explain:
They towed  my car to impound where it is over a thousand dollars for this aged, disabled, garbled fool to retrieve.
But, aye captain, heres the rub: now they sell it for pennies on the dollar and put the balance of some extraordinairy mathematical terror on my CREDIT REPORT>
IOU, good people I did not pay, my family whom I did not properly care for, BUT NO to the impound your dog, cause I want my car.
NOBODY but I the dues you owe my righteous in your face nation, should drive this automobile.
I lived in it with my fallen hero, BOXER, RIP, Dukeskywalter, the golden paw of reckoning, who died while I was incarcerated in Lerdo for my honest tell tale heart.
My bird, SKy, blue and gold macaw, spent time in the rolling roost, and her hero name, Skyette Earp, has been taken from my care and car home, leaving behind plumage, droppiings, and seeds.
This is my hope and dream: To return to my vanquished home in my automobile, dignified, vindicated and ready to start over.
Sidewalks are Public right of way, I"lll serve up ;the best Charlie Chaplin, no harass meant (wink wink cadilacky villa) hoping for help in a dinero, espressed in beans coffee, or you know what I'm saying.
LOve to all. Wish me Luck. I*"ll keep you updated on FAce book, take a look. this lemon is needing aid.  FAllendarity and GROUP HUGS MUTHERFUCKERS>>>
(with the best of intentions I do curse this madness)
LOve to all, hardworking, schooling, sweethearts......LAurA HART YOUR Servant BPA

Friday, June 12, 2015

Out of Lerdo jail- casualties of war UPDATE

After 8 months of incarceration I was released last week to a world that changed completely.
Rest in peace Dad and Walter, my two supporters. Walter aka dukeskywalter has been part of both business and pleasure. Always by my side, the boxer lost his life to cancer.
My father, a bi polar american who lived the way of the great fathers, died 4 days into my lock down. One of the last things he did was put money on my books.
Because he and I came to terms that I wanted Nothing other than to know my origin of existence. How could I be in a world with no fair play? Good intentions are up hill wind in your face. But I'm sure when I say there must be freedom for all.
Not my dads bag, he just wanted me to be safe, the rest of the world be damned.
Not me.
Kern county sheriff's arrested me Oct. 23, 2014, and spit me back out, charges dropped, on June 4, of this year.
It's much different out here now, it was an ordeal to be in jail with no ability to reach the people I love and who love me, without money and assistance.
August 29th and I'm still trying to understand all that I have to process as being shoved behind walls, only to languish everyday in a dark, dank tank somewhere on the outskirts of Bakersfield.
I must tell you putting people or any other life form in a place where it is meant to be crushed, demeaned, and practically useless takes some serious reflection abou-t what we mean to this world.
Most in the jail, pre trial, but previously judged before the whole system then kicked to the curb with no acknowledgement when it's all over.
Sad seeing so many young people, locked up for being poor, not able to afford bail, no individual representation, and not much hope that after the whole put on ice capades is over that anything will change.
I was amongst those judged to be a Problem to society. Yeah, I would say I am a problem to any system that considers harming those most oppressed, scapegoating young people with the cause of the blight out in our current social structure.
I'll get around to telling you, I put up a fight while I was in there. A fight for my right to a life not overtaken, judged, insulted, by those who write laws that make criminals as a consequence.
I was offended.
I am offended, not just for me, for everyone who has to suffer this system.
There is always something you can do. In the tiny cell, with the scant attention from guards, the food stuffs offered to simply keep us alive, there was a growling and it came from me.
It hurt to feel the brow beating everyday from middle class workers who "guarded us" or transferred one time human resources, now only bodies needing to be in certain places, fed to live, and healed only if the injury was obvious.
Me, it made my blood boil, and a watched pot does boil over and in the most unexpected ways.
I will make an effort to tell the story of my arrest, my protest, my passion to overcome the situation, and the humor it takes to make it happen.
Stay safe and awake and I'll be back.
Yours....The BiPolar American

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Possible Probable and observable

oh yes, I have written some seriously outroundish or off the grid of what is acceptable.
I review my own posts and even gasp at the statements I make.
Part of this blog is to trace my own shifting paradigms and allowing for free flowing thoughts.
I've found some way to live in my world and that is to recognize the difficulty in cultivating a safe truth, observed but undefined.
Keeping my sanity organized is really easy, keeping the world control over truth is a miserable task.
so, when reading I offer you possibilities and probabilities based on my observations.
phew! What have I seen? Lol
Enjoy this blog which is intended to leap and bounce, but with only the truth as a launch pad.
I'm telling you there is an abundance to talk about.
We can laugh as I write out the last month.

What's holding me down

I've already reported that Buzzkill Lightyear has a Woody for me, as each time I get that engine of fun purring, some improbable incident occurs....oh the police don't like my dancing and driving, or in the street.
My ideas, which clearly don't follow average form, are swatted, ignored or many times plagarized.
So, I'm tired of the struggle, so I think I'll now enjoy the struggle. Lol
I know there's weird in my wiring, but I will bring on the Laura, truth in advertising.
its a mess socially to make big, fast changes, but that's what I've done.
lonely, yeah, but for my own personal growth I learn from my grip on a reality that invites my input.
earnestly I begin the quest for a bi polar American collective creative output.
and if you don't hear from me here on the blog, I'm out recruiting for the future projects and people. .

Monday, September 1, 2014

The Pet Report: Walter and Sky

Walter, the Boxer and my service dog, best friend, has survived another round of cancer. He had a second tumor over his last one. It grew so fast I could hardly make an appointment before he had a baseball hanging off his side.

It has been part of our family healing process taking place. I say family, as Walter is my partner, my side kick--we argue, we sleep in the same bed, he has his own pillow. We are ruled though by the chief of the house: The Macaw.

Walt battles cancer, I battle poverty and--oh everything, lol, and Sky has laid two unfertilized eggs.

Amazing things have happened, she has apparently instructions of how to do this: tear up a bath towel and shredded peices spread around her nest which is her car carrying cage. Lay two eggs out the same port as shoots the poop.

Lay on the eggs in such a way they don't break. (I know I would roll over on them, I couldn't do it. Probably harder than it looks.)

Keep them warm and safe*

As the asterisk indicates, there is obviously a variety of things that could be considered unsafe in the world. lol In our neck of the woods that is a broad category.

Though Walter has proven for six years he is trustworthy, shows much restraint, enduring parrot abuse for years, but is now a trespasser in his own house.

Maternal macaw has taken over our lives.

Walt and I began playing our boxing game shortly after the surgery, and we were basically told to take our rough housing outside. SKy came out of the nest, wings spread, thinking Walt and I were really fighting.

Honestly I'm surprised we weren't taken by the ear and escorted from the room.

Though there's not much chance there will be chicks, it doesn't matter, as she has grown into a mama because of this experience.

She's disappointed, but I tell her what a great mother she is to all of us. Walter and I are very much part of this change. We hear her talking to the eggs. I even hear her using some of my stuff with the egg chat at night. "love you" just about brings tears to my eyes.

But we have gleaned some new productive changes: Pooping in the potty.

I noticed she does NOT poop in her nest. Interesting that she sees to it to crap all over my stuff, house and car, but not a stain in her house. ??? Not sure how to interpret this.

So, That is when I take her from her housewife existence to the bathroom where she drops her load.

She has control of this. Now I've proved it.

I told her, "now we can live anywhere, with anyone."

If she continues and I encourage this very helpful behavior, it will change her status to welcome visitor and not poop machine.

Costs were high to get Walter surgery, and with my money maker of an occupation, I'll be put in debtors prison soon, but he and every other animal deserve proper care and pain management.

There is still no vet insurance that makes a difference, I suggested : O'Paw ma care, and maybe at least a look the way of how tough it is to care for our animals friends. Jerry Brown saw fit to take away money from animal shelters and even discount euthenasia practices which are not humane or simply compassionate.

Walter, Sky and I will be back and up sooner than later. And because of their lessons and love, I roll out of bed and roll my blogs over any thing that would not appreciate the loving nature, healing friendship, of creatures such as my two partners for a better world.

High Light these words Muther Fuckers! Not my links

I just found my blog loaded with new LINKS attached to some words in my posts.


 High light these words: FUCK YOU. And make the link to anyone who invades anyone's blog, making me or them look complicit.

Letting you know I"m going to make sure this is addressed. I apologize, do not use any of these high lighted hijacked hijinx.

Laura Hart: The OWNER

Sunday, August 17, 2014

USA: the collection agency

From the "Mental" files case:

Affixed to poverty

The majority of people on fixed incomes and minimum wage employment are the targets of new and exploitive business practices obviously promoted by the government.

Those with fixed incomes cannot escape the lack of increase regardless of the sky high price increases simply to live.

It used to be banks such as Well's Fargo, would allow an interest free advance on electronic payday accounts.

Recently, Wells Fargo stopped this practice as it certainly didn't serve them to have to help the already bleeding class of fixed and lower income.

But a new predator business looms waiting for an emergency where they will take a large fee and some interest just to get a pay check ahead.

So, banks are removing the free helpful service and putting it into the craw of those who prey upon those who have no other choices.

And within a short time, the loans begin to add up and the person is now behind in all other payments. Duh you coudn't afford it before, now with charges and interest it's a spiral down hill into the land of the debt collection industry.

We are wasting human resources, and financially torturing the disabled, retired, mentally ill- all those who are considered lucky to get anything.

They are getting it all right and people are ruined for life. Loans on cars, this is another way to get all of the valuable belongings. And to keep these people from rising above their age, sex, disability or mental capacity.


And this begins the great rise of the debt collection industry ready to jump on those who any 2nd grade math student could figure is in constant jeapordy.

Also no support for the recipients, but no protection from the government.

More Soon....

Friday, August 1, 2014

One thing never changes....

As I reflect back over a tumultuous lifetime on record, meaning I can remember or think I do anyway, I sometimes fall into this pit, rut, or nut up thinking about my current status.

Is it too hot?

Should I shower?

What will I eat?

What does that cost?

Then and as if I suddenly understand I could care less about these necessary evils, and the only thing keeping me ticking is that I feel at some point I will be able to carefully, considerately, compassionately deliver my message.

Clearly I cannot go forth and play the game of the world is right as rain, just a tough run. Bull to bologney, I will spread the truth as best I can, practicing every day.

I'm a mocking bird, and my words sting the whole hive when I hit these high notes. It's not a  matter of meaness. I regret having been mean, said a mean word, cast a bad thought. My whole core revolves around a happiness, improvement, and an ideal of hold firm to truth.

Problem is that language is one of the shackles. This verbal intent on my part is only going to scatter fire and hoping open hearts have room for some more of the pieces.

The language and the depth, ambiguity, are programs for living. And dying. And torturing, tormenting...but also tickling, laughing, owning, choosing, creating could be written.

Without a clear communication it would be quite unlikely we could become one tribe of creative generators, making this ghastly gamey shamebulls, into a new original vantage point, may take patience and understanding.

I had anger. Human hissing, foaming anger. Cruelty, is unpleasant in any form. I don't look away. I can't look away. But I have the same weapons and could employ them too. Never changes that I realize I am not going to nor do I forget the times I did use it.

I have so many vantage points that clearly I see every but what is under my own nose.

I'm also a diligent word warrior, or as I have described "Verbavoire." I don't have many average characteristics, I don't clean, or do windows, and I never look down on those who are down.

But My message is that I care to communicate and continue challenging those who take it less than seriously that there is a change on the herverizon. Many of us out here are charging up our souped up communications and the revving is causing some stir.

I note a fearful sense in and around me, but that is what happens when I fear what is possible or even probable. " A force that created a prison for me." And on the inside and out. Not clever, cool, or respectable, but a negative force, holding back it's power mongering.

Others display their pay check to actors union income, dual and more, but I do suffer to offer real critical information on this circus of the anti-matter. It hurts, it's a conditioned, amnesiatic lie machine on every level.

Sad, as I have so many better ideas, and meet people all the time beaming with potentials and have yet to bring it forward.

Where's the technology? Where's the fun? Where's the love?

Who de-created everything?

More questions than answers. And stomach discomfort because of the gaps.

My current "status" is "introspective." I want to know what is ticking me off and making me tick.

And making me sick....lol

But one thing never changes.................No unexamined life is worth living-Socrates

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

I didn't know I could moon dance and other things....

I've decided to do a long historical, and nightmarish run thru of my last two plus years, but I realize it started for me from the beginning.

I never had a good singing voice, nor could I dance to any rhythm but that of drunken piano players. Suddenly I have latent talents that I find fun and interesting.

As I have described, my time in the Kern River Valley has  now been spent being picked up by local law enforcement and taken to jail. Doesn't matter, the intoxication, I was put in over night for speaking with an English accent.

Cheers! as we know this can be dangerous to the community. It may inflict a certain unknown and incorrection inflection into speech. Others may be come concerned if you cannot identify where that accent originates from.

So, it is, the life of an idiot bi polar American.

I came here because, as a do gooder, I thought I could help build a community thru the communication tool of journalism.

In 2006, I found out people in the local hospital were lying to me in articles and right out there on the front page of our local Sun. I guess I could not even imagine doing it, and gave them more credit than they had do, but it was on my part a simple tool to help them get info to their customers.

They used that good will and almost had a 12 million dollar bond. It was my word they used to purchase that trust and in the end, I found a sad, sick, healthcare system right under the noses of all who ran it and used it.

Elder abuse kept me awake at night as I found I was unable to stop it or even identify it. I guess I could  not understand such cruelty so therefore did not see it.

But at this point in time, I want to see me, my track record and head to the task of writing my story,"Unacceptable behavior."

It appears honest intentions are not allowed in this world. In fact, as I have skimmed over, trust and compassion are a real slight frosting on the shit cake this world stands for.

Now is a time I have nothing but a cracked heart, eager even for hope that there is a decent soul left on this plane.

I"ll contine to turn this language on it's side until it rolls some better numbers and gathers better members. Humans have come so far as to hold me to the most oppressive situation, but I don't hold too long.

Really we as a humanity, and or false front, have created wonderful homes that use staples and paper to put together: a mobile home. Wow. We could use some of our patent office leftovers. What is next a contractors license to put together spit and staple homes for the nobodies, just to get them off the street.

More truth. That is if the police leave me on a keyboard long enough to tell a balanced story. I'll just moon dance right to the keyboard...lol....I love good surprises.


Sunday, May 18, 2014

Testing my own worth:The Bi-polar American

I guess it's been as far back or projected forward in my future plans, a glitch. That is that I don't seem to care much for myself. I'd rather not have to choose as there doesn't seem to be anything listed that I want.

There are core issues, what is me after losing all my belongings my house, my voting rights, my labels that appeared timeless, that I am sorting thru with a heavy heart.

Missing are the people I love so much, they are my top priority. But the only way is thru the wall into me. Into loving me, liking me.

It all seemed so useless, I have been told repeatedly that I have failed on some or another level. Nothing is quite right about me according to the world looking in at me. I jump the hoops and still don't make the mark.

Thirty years I didn't do drugs as I saw people become addicted and sad cases, so I avoided it. Then I try it and I'm labeled a felon now because I tried to see it for what it was.

It was not a problem I get bored with everything, but it was a choice to try it.

Judging myself was a full time job, as I never manage to get it where others see I should go. I have felt blind all my life, deaf to the call, but wild with hope that there would be better. Now I'm the one  who has to make me better.

How to do this is a true search for my own meaning here. I don't get it. But I'm looking for it. Me. I see that I really enjoy sharing with others tales of stupidity, success, the experiences. Writing or story telling would certainly be my bent.

Bards would tell their stories, histories, myths roaming from town to town. A renewal of this sort of personal sharing is part of what I yearn for.

I realize I haven't been able to even get my first podcast going...WTF? I have been waiting years to get the technology, but it was not available in Weldon, the former home of my former house. 

Maybe a new way, it's a new day. I'm creating the best I can, and outside of this, is more...

There are people who are afraid I may say something or do something out of the ordinary.


But that is what I do. It's time for break in the fast of those who choose to avoid those of us who are different and damn good reason. 

What am I worth, just money or what makes me a value? My humor in the face of fierce opposition to my fun and chocolate side. Laughter really does heal me.

But it's time to shore up to the money side of value as they are all included. Not much left, but I have untapped resources and talents.

First up though  is to put some dinner on the plates and tend to the pets.

More on my worth....

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Squatters and vandals...


It's been a while since I felt my fingers on a key board. It's been even longer since I have had a computer that has not been stolen from me.

Update is that I am out of the car style living, now into my completely destroyed home, where my parrot SKy and I live in squalor.

The team of Macaws and effects have been a moto-roost for a couple months now. Sky nutted up at the end, she's lonely. She has such good drug detecting qualities she could be used at an airport and I'm sure they would give her a cut. lol

Walter, Dukeskywalter, will hopefully be in our stead tomorrow. Then the three amigos will head toward the coast as the house is up for sale and claims to insurance are in order. Our next step I'm hoping for some times with good people, a new computer, and a room in a comfortable, creativity inspiring home.

I"m sure whatever needs to happen will be next. In the mean time, I keep going, Sky is resting her weary mobile bird head, and I go get our Boxer buddy from the desert.

More as the team returns together looking for another home on the coast with friends.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Awakening the bi polar behind the walls

I've been describing the separation that continues to keep good people apart and in errant miscommunication. Constantly acting and jumping thru hoops of financial  ill design.

I"ve been tracking and logging my record of truth, whether it makes me look good or not, it's what has to be for me to carry on. I need to know where I am on the map before I can get to a destination.

For the last two months I have trusted others who have ripped off my possessions, stolen my house away, ruined my reputation, tampered with  my car, and basically set me up to be taken to jail by the Sheriff's department.

My car windows broken, car towed away, mace sprayed in my face, beaten up by law enforcement, but set upon standing again to walk the walk I have spoken of: Truth erring on the side of compassion leading to a free way to our real inheritance.

But I am back again to report I have lived in my car, seen the terrible nature of living in poverty, but still say it is the system, not this sister who only wishes to embrace a common wealth for us all.

To do this, I have looked at the language and found it is just more shackles and tricks. My eyes and ears are rigged by something to elude the things you others take for granted that you actually see and hear. It is a sensory shackle that has to be constantly manually corrected by me.

Anger almost overtook me, but I guarantee my real core is not seething it is breathing in more love and light, mixing it up so that I can be more effective. And less used by the angry torrents, more so blending them into my softness which is also at the core of my being.

I have felt a code and a song, and talents I never even considered I had. Always told I was wrong, or no to anything that questioned the common held beliefs, I am here on this day to say NO to those who have hidden their cruelty, torture, and cowardice.

Continue to beat a path to the front door, and want it opened to be truly free.

My truth only helps me understand more about what is happening. I will continue to share on facebook and the google community. And this blog is open to the public.

TAke care and would love to publish sincere submissions on this blog. I have books, "the Chronicles of the bipolar reporter, and "unacceptable behavior" to finish writing and publish so that anyone has access to the truly absurd world around us. And within some of us.

More to follow....

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

REmembering The Will and the way:sick degrees of separation

Wehn I was about 11, my sister and I were wating on my parents to select a Christmas tree. We chose to stand in front of some horses in a corral, and possibly pet these creatures.

My sister slipped away to pick some flowers while I whole heartedly went up to the fence to call these horses to come over to me. I grabbed the fence with both hands, and suddenly had my self stuck on an electric wire.

I was aware that I was sizzling with this power, but my grip was on this grid and my muscles were frozen out of my control. I seemed to suddenly have 360 degree vision, I could see my sister a few yards away, back turned. And the horses were backing away too.

I tried to remember the safety classes, taught to stay away from live wires, but it served no purpose. I lost track of time, my fear, just a roadmap of ideas of how to end my saddled soap opera of feeling caught and helpless.

Within a few replays, I gave up all the advice and warnings I had on record and went for full throttle will power. I focused my own laser tag on the right hand holding a hot line of separation. i kept that open communication with my limb, commanding it to release. Actually, the words I screamed silently to my body was "LET GO."

I urged the hand to pull off as I owned my fisticuff linked to the power usurpers linr deliniation. There was some focus pocus but I won. Suddenly I was airborne backward onto the ground, free of charge.

I got really angry, at both the horses and my sister for not aiding my helpless condition. Or I assumed helpless. But really I had the master switch and I only needed to know how to turn off the surge protecting the urge to give up to the forces between me and these horses.

Today I know I should be angry at the fence poster child for keeping kids from ponies and Fonies are internally and eternally a habitual response.

Who knows how many times I was surging in the control of the keeper of separations, distancing us from our own power.

Will it to be....And It will be.