Tuesday, July 30, 2013

What Food is Your Life Worth?

                                                Muffins or Death!
                               Restructuring ones self for mere survival
                                          By Mark William Darus.


           She awakens beneath comfy blankets, mind drifting from dreamland to cold shadows dancing across her first floor bedroom apartments walls. Her eyes slowly open, attempting to adjust, give place, take in.

            Inhaling a huge amount of air, her large body’s muscles go to their limit. Heels, pressing firmly below them against cotton sheets,moving, strolling outward. Flabby arms reaching away from body, heavy shoulders constricting, lower back attempting to arch.

       The smell of blueberry muffins fills her nostrils.

        She begins to salivate, spit filling her mouth like that of Pavlov’s dogs. Fighting it, grabbing a towel, wiping it off.

              Finishing a painful stretch.

          A simple stretch most of us take for granted with each and every awakening we have.

       Yet for others, this brings a pain many of us will never know.


         She greets her daughter who had made the muffins.

           “Go-ood, m-morning, Sh-Shauna,” she stammered, not fully awake, yet very hungry.

         “Good morning, Mum! You look well today!” the child of 17 said to her mother in clear voice.

        The two bedroom, 900 sq foot apartment was filled with the scent of blueberry muffins. Each and every crevice spoke of eating, flat white walls dripping blueberries like gore in a slasher film, perhaps with a circus clown adding some real butter across muffin peaks for fuller flavor.


            Torture filling every member, every muscle, every joint of her body as she takes every slow step further. Familiar longings tugging her in directions of a half century of memories of cooking.

            Her moms breakfast scents filling the upstairs hallway. Food being ready as she traveled down the stairway with its cigarette smoke stained walls. With each step down, her nose taking in if it be eggs and bacon, potatoes and eggs, pancakes, toast or French toast, oatmeal or Cream of Wheat. The stench of Maxim instant coffee and L&M cigarettes crushes her when entering the kitchen. This bothered her immensely, but didn’t curb other things.

          She devoured all that was before her. Sometimes reaching to others plates when they hesitated.

          Dinner time came to her not soon enough. She had accomplished her junior high school homework quickly and happily. Her mind, thinking of singing chorus and the joy that brought her, as well as her studies, wanting to be a history teacher.

            Dinner would come, either from her mother or grandmother, Jenny whom lived across the porch. Her father had heart disease and gone through countless heart attacks (losing track after his thirteenth one, two heart surgeries in the early to mid 1970’s) so cooking often was divided as families back when willingly/happily shared responsibilities of the simple human carings. >intrusion by the author here: Back when, people truly loved and cared for family. I have my doubts that this still exists today in White American Society<.

               Her grandmother, Jenny made huge meals. Jenny was a survivor of the American Great Depression, much like her fathers grandmother of Ukrainian descent, believing a simple truth of her life: Eat as much as you can when you can! You could be without for a long time in between.

                  In absence of her mom, Jenny stepped up to the mound, ready to throw fierce fast balls and mesmerizing curve balls to keep her family fed regardless of circumstance.

         Jenny Sturdivant was an amazing cook.

         Full course meals in fact. Salad, vegetables highly buttered, walking toward meat! Be it chicken, pork or cow, this lady did always heave her best out each and ever day. Mashed potatoes slathered in the thickest of butter. There were always some form of cookies or desert afterward. Always.

        “Eat! Eat! Eat up!” Jenny would say taking a swig of a liquid.

             Her other grandma (100 percent Ukrianian) would merely have her sons and grandchildren leave her home with pirogee well into 80 plus year of life. She made both potato and Sauer kraut. Creating them over her six day week endlessly She would also give them a quarter gallon of pure butter cooked with sweet onions, simmered slowly over an hour. Wanting, driven, she created culinary feats few could match with either both quantity nor quality. And to think she tossed her product into an old clawed porcelain bathtub for her children to dig in and share her creation with their families.

            I ask you.

               How fucking cool is that?

            So sad to think this type of thing has died over the decades in the United States.

           Nightmares now fill the mind with arteries clogging like that of kitchen basin overloaded with bacon grease. A once two inch span cut to a half inch width. Heart pumping, labored, chugging.

            Abrupt, harshest of roundabouts swings you sideways to thoughts beyond, yet backward further.

             Corrective surgery needed as knees lose ability, ankles give up and a life of more than 5 years seems impossible as her will turns sideways. Thinking of this 2 years ago, she entertained a journey into a mine field of her desires.

             Her personal darkest moments of what is important to her. Her son. Wanting to see him graduate high school, college. Fall in love and feel hurt. A parent like most: Want to see the best for their children,


          Mind scrambling too and fro, Fighting denial, struggling, sweating feverish apparitions, thirsty.


                 Yes, she must be thirsty for water.

               The thirst for water is a given instinct with us.

                  We all spent the first nine months of our lives in water, didn’t most of us?

                   “are your friends going to over all daY” she asks, a voice now strong.

               “Yes, Mum.” he child said softly.

                She, a mere two weeks before had gastric bypass surgery, looks to her child.

                 She pauses for a moment to think on the coldness of her thoughts, reflects on her life, and asks: “are they going to stay til tomorrow?”

             Her cat cries about an empty water bowl behind her as she opens the drapes of her living room. Her dilated blue eyes cause a crashing of light as she takes in the splendor of another day.

              Reverse and set your mind at ease like an Orwellian story where time does what it does. Her mind smashes about violently from past things to her childhood, memory of being married, of still births and the triumph of her childs birth.

             “Count backward from 9. 8 , se------vin. si…” the surgical god of tranquility spoke to her as the music of the surgical theatre played out at the surgeons request while he performs his job. Asking a nurse for the proper tool….

            “9-8-sevvvvvvin……” dreamland awakens to her. Drug induced slumber create oher wondrous ties of possible futures as her physical body goes numb to the profoundest of intrusions bringing peace legally.



           Surgeons cut her belly from points A to B.

           Flesh opened. Masked eyes peering into her body as others looked at it in High

              Definition, latex covered blue fingers dig into her with surgical steel clamps, dividers and dive into like Greg Lugginis with precise precession mating.



                 She is smiling sincerely. She has lost 18 lbs in two weeks according to her doctor in his stuffy office space and the antiseptic smelly corridor of its scale.

             “Your friends being over is fine.” she says.

              I can take it. I really can with what they want to eat and I can’t.

              I have no other purpose for food but to simply keep me alive.

Looking at her child, cat and thinking of family and friends, she thinks of a song her brother told her about.
There’s a time and a place to die, and this ain’t!

                  She struggles onward. No good things comes without pain. Think me wrong, as a woman about childbirth!

                   A better song springs to her mind.
                   She runs with it...

                    as her mind and body....

                     begin to sing and dance as she grows and grows.

                    Being reborn.

                     Mark William Darus. 07302013

                      Thanks to a strong individual that granted me the right to write this.

                      I was the sad idiot that pissed off many and didn't eat more. Mother, grandmothers, friends parents. It didn't bother me in the slightest as I offended then as they heaped food to plate and me telling them no. Needless to say, I was not popular at many homes, yet found this amusing over decades.


Thursday, July 25, 2013

Give me not for my Birthday. Speak praise of my parents. They made me.

              How does one thank their mother and father for making them?

              Where does one dive into their murky depths as well as the most brilliant points of existence? An existence based on two people mating and creating you?

             Sex is such a violent act in itself.

            The penetration of a female from a male.

             Blood pressure goes berserk as if climbs human Alps, heart rate rises rapidly, muscles expand and constrict quickly. Increased respiration. Involuntary movements and vocal response. Reaching male orgasm, sometimes his messengers hit the mailbox, other times, not.

           Swimming in pitch darkness, trying to find a ladder for lifes sake, one half of what will become YOU splashes about madly as time is of the essence. Mere flashes of electricity give this half of you a chance for sight.

            Upstream, downstream and rogue waves toss about viciously.

             At this point, you’re nothing more than a mailed letter amongst millions.

          In a different place, another land, a village adjacent,  lies an egg. Lonely and waiting to embrace the vigilant  voyager that truly has traveled quite far as an intruder.

         Secondary penetration occurs. Explosive, yet shielding at the same time.

            A mans seed crashes the shell of a woman’s egg.

             From this set of things, we are made. Truly blind chance.

            My birthday is July 26 1962.

             My parents created me some nine months before that date as they connected themselves with love and passion. Knowing my late parents as well I think I did, I can imagine their movements, hear their panting tones, quivering voices, their eyes locked supremely to one another.

         My father fired a fastball, mom caught it.

         And I started from there.

          I, oddly, some might say, sickly, can see this as plainly as the screen before me.

          Yeah, I don’t view things like others do. For that I am grateful and proud to be that way.

           I really don’t care if others don’t give me things on my birthday. It matters not to me in the slightest on this.

          On my birthday, I can only thank my parents for having really good sex to make me happen.

        Thank you Mom and Dad! This is your day of celebration, not mine. To me, as you both created me, a sublime team effort amazing!

         I miss you both so very much. Mom: the touch of your fingers coming or going away from you even if only for a few hours. Dad, the brush of your arm, elbow, shoulders much the same as moms. Seeing your eyes as parted, the smell of instance Coffee and L&M cigarettes lingering in the air like warm sunlight, the tones of your voices. 

My Father. Many times a Santa at many places. Mid 80's with a Pentax SLR.
My mother and eldest daughter Rachel as a baby. Mid 80's SLR.

        I have little clue how you view my life since your passings, but that's okay. I get inklings now and again as my mind does mental calisthenics. I have no doubt you will kick my ass when I see you both again. I have this coming as it's well earned on my part.  You never asked for perfection, and I really have that covered!

totdat wir зустрічатися again!

Mark William Darus: Proud son of Marion F and Ted Darus. 07252013

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

A Dismal Future Unless We Are Very Careful. Dwink of Water.

                                Water: Mommy, can I have another 'dwink' of water?
                                              by Mark William Darus.

                                  Part One. A start on a Mothers fight.

                         A small daughter of our Tiny Blue Marble lovingly looks up at its mother. Mother and daughter, eyes locked in complete serenity, the childs peaceful voice asks, "mummy, can I have another dwink of water?"

                         The dirtied haired mother looks down at her child, startled, somewhat frightened. Mothers face muscles tighten fast.  Her mind is shooting like a freight train without functioning brakes, scrambling, tortured, hurting. She looks around their flat and  its barren, crumbling walls, broken screen windows allowing flies to soar in. She thinks quickly, as fast as she can, milliseconds elapsing. Thinking: I can do this for her! I just have to cut 10 volts of electricity over the next ten days. Yeah! I can do this. Her face loosened to more calm continence.

                     "Excuse me a moment, my darling," She turned her back to a daughters loving eyes looking toward her.

                     The child, sleepy after a great day of adventure. Memories of breakfast with mum giving her cereal and fatty bacon. Getting dressed.  Mother pointing out bird songs from the forest, they sounded so sweet to me,  as we walked to Kinder School. Running freely about the neighborhood with friends after school before seeing Mum after she returns from work for hugs and gentle kisses to me.

                     This child and her friends held many things in common. Filthy hair and faces hugely pimpled far beyond their years. All of them under the age of 9, living not in some third world country. They were new kids in America.

                      Reaching the kitchen, the mother looks at her Nestlaide 2100 Water Carrying Device, service number N2100WCD07261962, and slowly lowers a decades old Dixie Cup to its nipple. Looking at its display, she presses the 2oz send button to fill it.

             A raspy, electrically crackling female voice speaks from the unit: "Tha-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-TEE-nk your for choosing Nestle!" As warm as a Siberian Winter in February.

             Precious cup filled, the mother walks tenderly to the closet that is her childs bedroom . Never wanting to spill the tiniest of drops from its vastly over used frame, she moves ever so cautiously with purpose. Her mind meanders to better times, simpler times, when all she had to do was put her nipple to her babies mouth to sustain it. She blows that off and concentrates on the task at hand.

             Taking the battered Dixie Cup, gently lowering it to her childs tender pink lips, mating rim to mouth, its small quantity runs.

             As its aqua  volume ceases, the childs mouth is opened wide, like that of a baby bird expecting more worm food. Mother taps her slender finger on the cups rim repeatedly til every drop to reach her childs tongue.

             Mother thinks, how did we come to this?

             >Author Intrusion< Considering these things in history: When I was a high school student, I knew many grocery store workers that made over 10 dollars an hour. Granted, the Reagan administration killed them at around the same time as the Air Traffic Controllers Union. Interesting point in history.  Capitalism is a plague across our globe. It is also a failed system, and if it were not so, why did the American people have to bail out the, errr, our own, banks?  Come on! How fucked up is that? Yeah, let's each and every one of us give our tax dollars for these pricks to raise our interest rates.

                    This is merely part one of a mother trying to keep her daughter alive in a world we WILL see sooner than we think.

                               My film: Water.
Thank you for taking the time.
The only dead soul is one that stops learning.
based on the heels of this post:


Saturday, July 20, 2013

Who Owns Our Earths Waters? Nestle Corp would like to. Stand against them!


                                   Corporate Pyschopathy: Part II: Nestle Corp.
                          "Water is not a Human Right and should be privatized"

                                      I am sharing with you a video interview with the CEO  of Nestle Corp. He thinks water should be owned and traded like, say, oil. He believes the benefit of water is not a human right.

                               Ladies and Gentleman, Children both young and old! Please acquaint yourself with  Peter Brabeck: Chief Executive Office (CEO)Nestle Corporation and his views on something none of us can live without.

                             Sure, we can survive without oil if needs be. History and basic human survival   have taught us this over the centuries. The struggles and prosperities are a mere memory away if we can simply remember the stories shared by our ancestors of their hardships. For my Lands: United States of America, I remember my grandfathers words of our Great Depression and how his countries existence shifted, contorted, strived for keeping loved ones fed and covered in shelter. Poverty hit most high here in the 1930's, as well as the world.

                          "Mark, those few of us that worked during the Great Depression, had the glory of still having a job to work. We worked as much and as hard as we could! We did this not for egos sake, prestige nor gain. We did this to keep our wives and children alive. Our families alive. Many of us had parents still alive and they needed to be tended to. My grandson, never forget my words to you..."

                          I was like 12 or so years old when he passed. His thoughts, tone and expression whilst we talked as he made me pancakes have NEVER left my memory. When it came to World War Two and Japan, he told me in the early Seventies: "Yeah, we won a battle. The Victor in this war will be determined by time itself over generations to follow."

                         C'mon,  you must  know Nestle well growing up in many countries on our shrinking Blue Marble: Nestles Crunch Breakfast Cereals: Cheerios, Cini Mini's, (United States of America).

                             The World of the Nestle Corporation:

                          Other things:  Toll House Cookies, Carnation, Coffee-Mate. Moca (Brazil). Bear Brand Probiotic (Philippines). Hirz (Switzerland). Sveltesse (France). Munch Brunch (United Kingdom).

                          Ice Cream known across the globe: : Camy (Spain). Δέλτα (Greece). Делта (Bulgaria). Frigor (Argentina). Hjem-IS (Denmark & Sweden). Kotijäätelö (Finland). Motta (Italy). Kimo (Egypt). Oreo (Canada). Nestlé Princessa (Poland). And others hosting countless flags via generic shadows.
                          Infant, Baby Foods:  Gerber (USA). Farinha Láctea (Brazil). Nestum (Portugal). Cérélac (no specific country). FM 85 (sorry, but this smacks so hard of a Stephen King story of a US bio-experiment gone sideways...)  Good Start (no specific country). Nan Ha (no specific country). Lactogen (no specific country). Piltti (Finland). Guigoz (no specific country. NanSoy (no specific country. Bona (Finland).

                        Okay, forget baking, cereals and infant food products created by this company. Let's stroll a moment down other avenues, shall we?

                         Performance Products: These are the types of items you'd consume to either enhance muscle growth to helping encourage weight loss or build muscle mass after shedding weight.

                          No countries given on these items. Nestiva. Pria, Supligen, Mushachi, Neston and my personal favorite in the USA, PowerBar.

                         Perhaps I am writing far too heartless about a global corporation that so deeply cares about us. Maybe I should take a step back for a moment, express their endeavors for us to be healthier and more fulfilled.

                  Nestle Corporation Healthcare and Nutrition products:

                     Compleat. Fibersource. Glytol. Diabitisource. Crucial. Nutren. Optifast. Peptamen. Boost.

                 Okay, their seasonings can make our meagerness in cooking taste a tad better in day to day life after a days/nights of sweating to sustain/ or perhaps apologizing to others we've done no wrong to.  Granted, they mostly carry an unhealthy sodium content and most Americans care little about this. >>>I care little about health over taste. I have a scapegoat though: I keep losing weight in this life of my last eleven months and no longer need blood pressure meds. I guess I'm either blessed or cursed. You decide.<<<

                     Their seasonings: Winiary. Thomy. CHEF. MAggi.

                     Frozen Foods: >I'd subtitle this: immediate need to satisfy hunger as there are no longer enough hours in a 24 hour day to sustain to feed my family.< Nestle Corp is not solely responsible for this. They do however  hold a lions share of a market that fuels these thoughts. This company carries brand names known to most of this globe:

                      Tombstone Pizza. Papa Guiseppi,  Lean Cuisine, Hot Pockets, Stouffer's.

                       Hmmm, think of our pets~!  Yeah, they got it covered.

                        Alpo. Friskies, Mighty Dog. Purina. Dog chow. Cat chow. Felix. Beneful. Beggin' Strips.

                         Candy Products sold: Baby Ruth. Bon Pari ( Slovakia, Czech Republic, Poland and Hungary.) Big Turk (Canada). Goobers (Polo). Chips Ahoy (USA and Canada). After Eight (Australia). Bertie Beetle (Ukraine). Sweet Tarts (global).

                            Like me, I am sure you have enjoyed this company over the decades.

                           Watch this video and I am sure your spending viewpoint will change.

                             You've gone this far...
                              What's your opinion?

                                Does the word boycott cross your mind?

                               Imagine a day we would say to our children: NO! run away from the open fire hydrant less we get charged for it on a very hot sunny day. How many glasses have you had.

                               Close your eyes and look back on this...

                               A time when you were your young.

                                Asking simply.

                                Can I have another drink of water?

        Mark William Darus 07202013

                Thank you for reading.

Mark William Darus 07202013



Tuesday, July 9, 2013


                                               Something I did today.

                                              Share peace and turmoil. \

                                                     Fight or flight.

                                               It really is your choice.