Unpenned, the women

  were still "crazed".  Seven were crawling and making animal sounds.  One did so, but was faking.  She'd stayed awake.  And somehow had managed to contort her body so the cattle prod didn't stun her into shock.  She'd been around the world as a Correspondent covering combat. 

  Men in dirty farm work clothes and grocery shirts had been deputized for the manhunt.  One headbutted the finally lasso'd hunted man, accused criminal.  Another withdrew a pistol from oilfield jeans waistband and pointed it at the ground.  "You got ten seconds to respond to the Sheriff's question." The hunted man spit but the broken teeth bits had already been swallowed, so just backy-colored juice and blood spewed from his black hole mouth.  "You just used up the ten." The man shot the man in the foot.  Hunted man didn't flinch. 

  Some of the women went into law enforcement and justice theory.  Either by marriage or solo.  

  The instance of change to life, sudden violence, forced people to grapple with questions of human nature; conduct of self vs. navigating others with different character/values/lifestyles; faith in a world where reality can and does change. 

  For my generation witnessing that phase of people pulsing between a safe world and a violent world allowed a peek into the cracks in Establishment.  And started us pondering voids, lack, resilience, tumult, and faith.  

  It wasn't long before people started creative grappling too.  An at-first awkward effort to express healing and permanently "broken" and measures of caring and involvement, Post-Apocalyptic literature marked an intellectual processing of a world that is everything all at once.  And, heroics or no, still existing as it all plays out. 

  "We're okay."  One girl texted back to a far away parent.  "This is what we are doing right now," she said allowed to the others.  They'd all survived being outdoors in the hurricane.  A man smacked the water with a rafting paddle.  "Need attention?" A woman asked.  He chuckled.  "Trying to wake my brain up without coffee."  A heron silently sailed overhead.  "It's a sign!" Someone shouted. 

  "Awake now?" 

  "Of what?" 

 

Support Local

 

Really good chicken biskets! 

At Nantahala General up slope in the Gorge area.

"Keep working," the TSA worker urged.

  Because it matters! 

  Because we care about our beloved Country. 

  Because other countries need to do the same. 

  Because other countries don't need our jobs, our money.  The freedom to work is the most precious gift of "capitalism"/ a sane, persevering world of humanity. 

  Because we need to survive our places, and peoples! 

  Hearing that on the radio today totally inspired a productive Friday in my world.  Thank you.

"It's going to take," the microphone

  screeched; "US." The young woman wasn't expecting a respectful quiet.  People were listening.  She pulled facts and figures of world problems out of the tumult that had crescendo'd around graduation time.  She addressed grandparents dying, no money for basic quality of life, a society seemingly divorced from God, and didn't bully when she said it again.  "It's going to take us." 

  The next generation.  The youngest men and women of America.  Fresh faces, fresh ideas.  The way through gridlock.  The way to a future.  Not a stomping tantrum for "change" but an elbow grease and dig deep. 

  "Does us include me?" A pops asked the young woman after the address.  Some of his buddies asked, "What about me?" She nodded and mustered a smile.  "Not sure how exactly, but yes!" 

Dah Boot

  Another aspect of war and migration we were studying a long time ago at the University of Hartford was how, historically, especially post-WWII, Italy was kind of a big boot to people who would not (could not?) stop being "criminal".  Instead of processing criminals they'd get booted and they'd roam the world making trouble.  And also team up with others, people and cultures where there was/is a more natural blending of violence, black market, and militant groups who are seeking such players. 

  This flow of criminality is the basic problem with open borders and extreme danger during wartime.  Way more so than a national "racism" or a hypocritical version of democracy. 

  I wouldn't tell you, is basically saying, you wouldn't look in the underwear drawer for your dress shirt. 

  It's a war.  So a lot of information/talk goes into specific "files".  Really all members of associations, not just leadership, have to be on guard against being "scooped".  But life and death matters are even more carefully tended. 

Sirach 36

  'Bout the only thing civilians and non-operative digitalia can do.  Best thing people can do is pray, that's what Jesus said.  

I thought to eat, but no...it's time to plant those cold crops!

"When I feel bootifull,

  I want to make love." Click.  Off went the communications device.  The thickly foreign accent lingered throughout the PA system's airwaves. 

  "So you're saying there may be a window of time for us to get a delegation there?" A career politician asked an analyst of geopolitical situation.  A young person waiting to interview the people visiting the work camp in the Forest asked the politician a question over arms upholding perimeter around him. 

  "Are you not a Christian?"  The question was loud following the PA announcement and others tasked with protecting a safe zone for questions totally quieted. 

  "What does that have to do with anything?" The politician asked over the arm wall. 

  "Well, wouldn't you be afraid to go to a Communist country and get persecuted?" 

  Someone faked moving a microphone to the politician's side.  But before he could answer two people with a soil testing kit poked at each other and the woman said, "We are not dose kindof communistas." 

  "Are you from Koobah the politician asked?" 

  "We were," the man said.  "We escaped and moved to New York City and then Latin America." 

  Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.  Some people squirmed away from it.  A taller person opened it.  Outside there was a normally tall man, head at knee height because carpenters were working on the front staircase.  "Who are you here for?" The door opener in camo clothing asked.  "I believe my wife may be inside.  She had a beauty appointment."  

"Sometimes it's the enemy," a

Communications expert explained to the people assigned to the exercise.  The exercise was to arrive at an airport and open an investigation into a damaged plane. 

  "Again, and you'll hear my team say this a lot, sometimes it's the enemy, that's pitched float devices or messed with an interior panel." 

  "Can you believe we're going to have to do all this in real time?" A suited-in-Tyvek woman asked no one in particular.  Only two young people chuckled.  One flashed a perfectly white teeth smile and offered to let the woman look at something on his checklist.  "You two gonna stand around and be buddy, buddy all day?" A man with no inflection in his voice asked the commenting: interesting. 

  "Maybe if you weren't out to eliminate everyone who might be on your team, you'd have a team," Another woman said to a guy who'd boarded the parked plane in jeans and a shirt and tie and immediately griped about what kind of team doesn't let a guy know they're leaving the hotel.  "Don't look at me.  I slept in my car," one of the young people said. 

  "How would we know what happened if stuff is missing?" 

  "Excellent question!  You wouldn't." 

  "Like need to know and you don't?" 

  "Yes.  That's partly on purpose to get better answers.  So don't take procedural stuff personally.  And, in this exercise, the assignment is to open the investigation, not solve the mystery." 

  "Okay." 

  "Thanks." 

  "Look at these." Someone held up a pile of magazine inserts with flight maps on them.  The expert suggested bagging them and leaving them where they were as she swabbed DNA from the toucher's hand.  "In the field, this all would've been photographed before we came aboard as admin." 

  "It was," a man said loudly as he came out of a bathroom. 

  "And who are you?" Someone asked.  He pulled a business card from a shirt pocket and held a well-manicured fingernail under a company name.  "It's private.  You people probably never heard of us." A young person plucked the card from his hand and pocketed it.  "We'll look it up.  I wouldn't hire anyone that scares the shit out of a bunch of people like that." 

  The man looked around at the faces looking at him and left the plane.

  Personal theme song these days, 

     La Bambaleo as mixed by DJ Chico and recorded on LATIN HOUSE Viva Latino ☕  😅

  Similar beat was booming long ago in a Holston Heights learning the hard way about love and loss.  

  The sound of two dueling buzz saws awoke a sleeping, lazy, hiding "crowd" in the early afternoon.  Waitress tips had bought sticks of lumber to erect some privacy walls.  In theory--privacy, non-attached partitions, would help the whole neighborhood sleep better since some of the neighbors could not un-divide themselves from each other locked into only fighting. 

  Snooty poets in turbans and flowy sun-clothing shook-crooked necks with heads ready, bring it.  The day.  

  Children of different families roamed and ran in a park near the library.  "You wouldn't have to hide out if you would just click, get your W2's or whatevah." 

  "Really?" The man pretended dumb face.  "You a Fed now?" 

  Eyes at ground, not daring to look into the face of another's love.  "Hardly.  Just know what I hear about people.  Less trouble to just do the tax thing." 

  "How you know I made money?" 

  "Duh.  Everybody seen you working all summer." 

  "It's not summer now." 

  "Naw man, taxes are from last year's wages." Another man who'd picked up two girl children from the table area stepped in as man-to-man FYI.  "Loretta does all that paperwork 'round here." 

  Hammering sounds filled the stale air hanging over the street.  Little people eyes looking across the street out of windows.  Two with a fixed up wagon of water to drink.  "Polenta snacks cost ONE DOLLAR." 

  "EACH." 

  "Oh my God.  What are you all doing in there?" An Indian woman asked at the stretch limo's cracked open but tinted window.  "They mustah bailed on the struggle," a young black woman decided, stated, and squinched her lips up towards her nose.  A back window was electronically lowered and five or six mentors waved.  Some did not smile, but one sneered.  "We paid for gas.  It's her husband's," one pointed to the front passenger seat.  "Mrs. T, Mrs.T," a very young boy called out as he came toward the vehicle, "Can we come too?" 

  One mentor got out to stretch legs.  Leaving a door open.  Into a neat and orderly scene of church lady clothes and perfume went three of the youngest children. 

  "Time for a smoke?" A young writer asked the tall woman with a lot of white and graying hair who'd gotten out.  "Just stretching my legs, but I don't mind if you do since you do." 

  "You heard I didn't quit?" 

  "We've been sitting over there for a good half an hour." 

  "Where are you all going?" 

  "To the car wash." 

  "Why so dressed up?" 

  "My typical way of dressing." 

  "Can I tempt you?" Offering a cigarette.  She shook her head no.  "Sucked up a lot of oil fumes over there." 

  Silence.  Then she said, "Out here in the world,

  "Yeah? 

  "I want you to let them be the avant garde." 

  "Who?" 

  "Whoever they are." 

  "I gotta think about that." 

  More kids got into the limo.  "Want to just take a walk?" 

  "Not strong enough yet.  But I will be." 

  "I believe you." 

  "I'll keep in touch." 

  "Okay."