Neil Armstrong: A hero of my childhood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gte3BoXKwP0The
Why i chose the above music link: It has a different title, but what I have always heard was the chorus :  <the video i give no regard to> Take me away.
I find this song's vocal and words most fitting for this entry.


To the Heavens and Moon 1969: Returning to the Heavens with his passing August 25 2012.

                         An original Rocket Man: Neil Armstrong.

                                       By Mark William Darus

　

I had a few real life hero’s when I was very young. These great men did things unbelievable and against all odds. They threw their asses out there to accomplish things unheard of and thought impossible. They were the adrenalin junkies of their time, what we’d now call X-Games players. Pushing themselves to break limits and boundaries, and dare is say: To go where no man has gone before.

My first childhood hero was Chuck Yeager born Charles Elwood Yeager, Myra West Virginia 1923. An ACE of WWII, he came a test pilot soon after the war..



On 14 October 1947, piloting the Bell X-1, he is the first man to break the sound barrier and successfully land the plane.

Reading about him in a book series my parents bought called Above and Beyond, I found this mans sheer grit elevating to my boyhood mind.



Decades later when I saw the movie The Right Stuff, hearing his voice on the commentary track and the special features showing him as the films technical advisor, I relived my childhood fascinations once again. Sure, the movie was about the beginnings of the Astronaut program in the United States and how the Russians were the first to place a satellite into outer space: Sputnik.

The first part of this movie you might as well say is a tribute to Chuck Yeager.

In my humble opinion: One of the greatest of mankind on this Earth.

　

Second major hero: Alan Shepard. Born Nov 18 1923 in Derry New Hampshire , passing July 21 1998. The first American in space. On January 31 1971, piloting Apollo 14, he landed the lunar module the closest point of destination of all the Apollo missions. He was also the first man to drive a golf ball on the surface of the moon, thus making the longest drive in history.

I vividly remember watching Apollo 14 splashing down on the black and white television my parents owned. Huge parachutes above it as it crashed into the ocean, the capsule bobbing about.

Screaming in the joy of the 9 year old I was as they exited the helicopter. Watching him stepping to the flight deck of the aircraft carrier, unshaven face, unsteady legs as gravity nailing him once again after 9 days of weightless life in outer space. Smiling as he and his crew waved to cameras filming.

A truly amazing man with a huge sense of humor: Golf balls fired from the moon. How amazingly cool is that? Utterly ridiculous in a time when serious science held most high. I think maybe his actions played an enormous part in my life. My unusual mind embraces things done for the sheer sense of fun and the nontraditional.



Alan Shepard: When I earn my place in Heaven, I would be most happy to hit a driving range with you and my father.

　

Neil Armstrong born August 5 1930 in Wapakoneta Ohio, passing August 25 2012.

My third and last childhood Hero.

Apollo 11.

2:51 UTC on July 21 1969 <Giving credit where credit is due, the time and date stated is in Earth time. God only knows what that translates to on the surface of the moon.> Stepping down the ladder of the lunar Lander Eagle, hopping from its last leg, he touches down.



His sure, steady voice speaking, static crackling in with each word spoken, Neil Armstrong proclaimed: “That’s small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Watching Walter Cronkite, his voice quivering as he freely wiped tears from his face. “Neil Armstrong, on the Moon.”

So absorbed in the moment, eyes and mind focused in complete tunnel vision on the TV, I cannot say what my parents or sisters said or how they watched this.

My eyes, tears running from them. Smiling as my head descends toward my knees. I began to cry. So glad to see such a monumental event.

I did not remember seeing the splashdown.

Neil Armstrong left this Earth yesterday, August 25 2012.

Into the Heavens he traveled back when.

Into the Heavens he now and forever soars.

As I write this, my eyes begin to leak clear fluid once again. Different now than I was many decades ago, I can still maintain some sense of loss.

Dropping down on my left, and highly pale knee, lowering my head in respect to you.



Saluting.

Neil, you were the last real Hero in my life.

Can’t wait to meet you in the here-after!

Mark William Darus 0825-262012

Sidenote: It was my friend Michelle Kenton to point this out to me: "Wow, Mark. You just started taking pictures of the moon yesterday <08-24-2012>. I guess you jinxed him." Knowing her well over the last 19 years, her sharing the dry humor I possess, we both laugh.
Still, what made me start taking Moon photos two days ago?

Breaking the set by Ryn Cricket

                                      Breaking the set
                                       by Ryn Cricket

     Katie and David were sitting on the couch while their mother paced back and forth in front of them. She looked like a lawyer about to give her final argument, but they didn’t know what it was. Both of them were doing well in school, in soccer, in everything. They didn’t hang out with the “wrong kids.” They had no idea why they why they were summoned to the couch.

     “I have something to tell you.” She began. Minds were racing –death, disease, moving…
     “Your father and I are getting a divorce.” That wasn’t even an idea in either of their heads. Nothing they had braced for or imagined. By the look of shock on their faces, she felt she must continue.
    
      “I really want you two to understand something. I know most kids think it’s their fault when this happens, and most parents try to explain that it isn’t –because it isn’t. But somehow, the kids never believe them. But here’s the thing, your father and I stayed together so long because of you –not for you, but because of you. What I mean is, as the four of us, we are awesome, aren’t we? I mean dad coaches the soccer team, you guys play, I’m the team mom who bakes cookies, and we all go out for pizza. We have fun. We are a great family. –But the two of us are just horrible. And when you two aren’t around, it’s miserable. When you start dating and hanging out outside without us, and go to college, we might resort to killing each other –that’s a joke…” she laughed nervously. “You’re getting close to that age, and we can’t face it together. I know this sucks. I know. It sucks for me too. I LOVE the four of us, but the two of us, just aren’t working.”

         Katie and David just sat there stunned. You could see their minds reeling through moments. Did they miss something? How did they not see it? Were all of their great times fake? There was just nothing they could say. They didn’t talk at dinner. Since their father didn’t come home that night, it was a very quiet house. Both of them left the table after dinner mumbling something about homework. And that was it.

        Their mother was left sitting by herself on the couch all night, hoping, praying they understood, hoping they didn’t hate her or resent her, hoping she could do this.

         The next morning passed without a word. Both Katie and David woke up and got ready without any prodding. They had their usual toast with cinnamon sugar and orange juice. And they grabbed their packed lunch, without a word, without looking in their mother’s eyes, without looking at anything.
 
         It wasn’t 30 minutes before the phone rang. The voice on the other side said, “Is this Mrs. Haley?”

         “Yes, who is this?” she answered wondering if she should change that after the proceedings, or should she keep it to be the same as her children.

           “This is the police, ma’am.” And he paused for a long time. Long enough to wonder what kind off trouble her husband –soon to be ex-husband was in. Or no, maybe David skipped school and he was picked up somewhere…

         “You have a son, David, and a daughter Katie?”

         “Yes.” She said almost quietly. David would cut school, but Katie, never. “What is this about?”

          “Their school bus was in an accident this morning, and I’m sorry, but…”

by Ryn Cricket 02212010

Eating once again at a Cracker Barrel: My soul is prepared, how’s yours?

  
              http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWgphYPf0PA
                   <music fitting to this entry. Open second window and hear it                                   as you read.>

      Eating once again at a Cracker Barrel: My soul is prepared, how’s yours?

                                      By Mark William Darus

          Walking into this restaurant, not the same location as the killings I wrote about in my April 4 2012 entry. Odd sense coursing through veins, bizarre tingling of wonderment as Cracker Barrel restaurants share the same layout, architecture through out the USA.



           Gazing about as my party and I are walked to a table accommodating us, sitting. My eyes taking in old mid to late 1800’s photographs of sour, stern faces in black and white, signs of Sinclair gas with its dinosaur prominent, tree saws amongst wasted banjos and trashed brass instruments. Fire heaving open flame in the big center hearth, enhancing old world home sensations most of us never knew except for memories of Little House on the Prairie or the Waltons television shows. Adding Smokey flavor to everything brought to table, playing the triangle peg game some challenge, servers refill coffee cups, refilling water glasses, bringing more bisquits or cornbread, adding jellies at request.



           Prices have risen since my last visit. Go figure. There must be at least 15 lawsuits arisen from the Brooklyn Ohio incident. This is the sad and desperate hunger of humanity. Not grateful they were spared a raging soon-to-be ex-husbands stray bullet. Suing because their dinner was interrupted and they face irreparable mental damage with their irrational beliefs that no restaurant is safe.

`

          Looking about, watching those around the restaurant in close proximity, I wonder what might trigger a response most human in awareness, memory or feeling.



          Excusing myself from the table, heading for the mens room, I quip most aloud: “I hope no one is celebrating a birthday here tonight!” Yeah, I am a cold bastard. Someone has to gauge reaction in relation to those so far self absorbed they are oblivious to their surroundings.

         My words and its voice that carries, as subtle as a chainsaw performing an abortion, chime out.



           The snaps of a few heads, to me keenly audible like that of a Bruce Lee movie where every action gives a ‘whooshing’ sound, aim alarmed eyes squarely at me. These are those people most aware of their sense of the here-and-now. Statistics would show that at least half the people in Ohio visiting this restaurant chain wish to see a copycat shooting with the same glee as would those creating a gawkers block on a freeway, seeing a body halfway leaving the windshield with blood spattered head, lifeless, resting on the hood.



           Returning to table, my Uncle Herschels breakfast waiting. Ham, hash brown casserole, biscuits and gravy and grits with requested butter and coffee cream. Mixing the scrambled eggs with pieces of ham and hash brown casserole, relishing taste dancing about my tongue. Swallowing fondly, taking into me, yet still thinking in areas most ignored by most.



            Everyone at my table getting what they ordered and liking it. Fondly, slowly, taking forks of their culinary cravings, smiling, talking, sharing.



         While eating, my mind working thru scenarios of darker mental landscapes. Placing butter into the center of my grits and covering it to have it melt. Moments soon after, adding three sugar packets to it, a minute or so later adding coffee cream over it. To me, grit’s the way I like is both a comfort food as well as a sweet, fulfilling desert.



         Looking at the party of four sharing this table with me, I begin to wonder, my mind doing what it does. What would happen: If the music of Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton were overtaken by gunshots. If the comforting smells of a wood fire and food were defiled with the profound fumes of discharged gunpowder. Smiles 180’ing to those of pure fear and horror.



        What would my girlfriends mother do if shots rang out? Possessing fragile knees of the aged, slow response as muscles weakened over time. Would she duck under the table for safety? Could she even perform such a feat?



        My girlfriends son, going toward his senior year at college, would he duck and cover? Cover his grandmother or mom in self sacrifice?



        Little doubt in my mind on this: My girlfriend would throw herself toward her son and protect him. Giving her credit, she did stand over a dying woman a mere house away from the place we shared. Witnessing this: Watching blood leaving this woman, brightest of street lights encompassing as it turned a puffy December evenings tranquil bluish snowfall into a horrid, iron stench snow cone on the ground.



        Gunshot to the heart, my girlfriend, a nurse, taking in the last fading breath as the woman before her expires. This dying woman, victim of a store hold-up gone south as she ran and was shot in the back, just small months before gave birth to her first child.

        I was getting tires at the Firestone near the place I worked at the corner of Richmond and Wilson Mills road. Winter bonus hitting checking account, having enough to purchase the tires, lacking a cell phone then, blind to horrors his woman experienced.



         What would I do? I’d like to think I would throw myself toward the shooter. It’s not that I am suicidal so much as I believe it is the right thing to do.

              Knowing this and my beliefs.

              My soul is prepared.

              How’s yours?

Mark William Darus 0824-25-2012

Happy Places Revisted: Coming Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwKIvX8VIgQ

                             Happy places revisited: Coming home.

                                      By Mark William Darus



Photography

Such a wondrous place to live and learn

Each days treasure hiding to find

From idle glance treating eyes to sights unseen

Great smells of cooking from several houses away

Laughter from something not painful to anyone

Looking to heavens and Earth

Camera in hand and ready

or

Tripod to hold things steady

A world once known well

Recaptured

Now digital

Costing much less than decades before

Missing as little as possible

Words

Once again put into coherent fashion

Making sense to others in ways never known

Lack of booze but having great pills

Like a river strong and flowing

Passing over rocks and flying over falls

Moving in whatever direction they course

Not knowing from where they come from

Not knowing where they’ll lead

Not knowing

Wondrous place to be as mind churns on

With undertows and whitecaps

Moving

Creativity

Marriage of ability

Talent

Sheer dumb luck

Embracing all senses with heart full open

Smell fragrant rose over exhaust fumes

Hear laughter killing the screams of the insane

Witnessing the splendor of this Earth as trees climb

factories descending into the minerals of their creation

Wind caressing exposed flesh

Air pushing hair about haphazardly

To chill or to heat the body

Warmth of the sun after a long winter

To feel what your life has to take in

Complete exposure

Arms extended wide

Mind growing with each moment experienced

Bad or good

Something to be learned always

Every aspect of being

A never closed or locked door

Exposing self with no regard toward judgment

Contented place in this world

Hope

Given by those well known

Those taking the chance to meet via Electric Circus

Globally

Being greeted

Being accepted

Reaching and being connected

To feel once more
Happiness

               Mark William Darus 0823-242012

Recreating by Ryn Cricket

                                               Recreating
                                            by Ryn Cricket


             I’m going to tell you something that I have learned to keep a secret for a very long time now. In 1997, I was in a college class called, “Personal Transformation.” (Probably the best class ever invented) and we were talking about our childhoods –specifically overcoming things and letting go.          The question was, “When was the first time you remember someone ‘raining on your parade?” This was eventually followed with horrible stories of abuse, neglect, pain and problems that made me want to hide under my desk and crawl out of the room. Even though I was 27 years old, each story seemed unimaginable to me.
          The only thing I could think of was in fifth grade when it came time to separate our music class into band, choir and general music, I wanted to play the drums. I wanted to play them so bad, but my parents wouldn’t let me and I had to chose choir. This was the worst thing I could think of. This is when I learned to keep my ideal childhood a secret. Of course things weren’t perfect. I’m sure some things were unfair and mistakes were made.            I remember my dad lost his temper with me once. But my childhood kind of resembled The Wonderyears. I had good friends, we played outside a lot, my family took big vacations, and we always ate dinner together at 6pm.
          But, the most memorable part of my childhood was our cottage. We had a little cottage up on the shores of Lake Erie, and it is where we spent practically every day of our summer vacation. I swam everyday, played in the sand, rowed the rowboat, had lots of kids to play with, climbed trees, explored, had picnics and bon fires, it was just pure fun for a kid. In the same little cove as us, were aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles, my grandparents, and neighbors who had been there forever.
       My little brother was known for eating breakfast at our house, then going to my grandma’s and eating there, and then going to my great-uncle’s, and then starting all over for lunch. Sometimes the men would go fishing, the women would make potato salad, corn on the cob and deviled eggs. Then they would take the picnic tables and actually line them up on the little road between the cottages and we would all eat together. Sometimes, my dad would get out the ice cream maker. All the kids would take turns turning until we thought our arms would fall off.
           There was no phone. We never watched TV. My grandparent’s might have their small black and white on an Indians game but that was the extent of it –background noise to their card playing. When we slept the adults would gather outside and talk, drink a little, play cards, whatever. It was soothing to listen to. If my parents had to go home, they could leave us behind if we begged, because there were 10 other adults around and it was really no big deal.
        Now, as Bill Cosby would say, “I told you that story, to tell you this one.” I had such an amazing day yesterday that I actually got chills.
          Yesterday, I asked my neighbor Fred if he happened to go to the store any time this whole weekend, could he take us. I didn’t realize I was out of bread and jelly. I had just been to the store, but didn’t know. I had read Rumi and Raine a Frances book about bread and jam and I guess Rumi took it seriously all week, because I had two loaves of bread on Monday.                 Anyway, I thought if he were free at anytime, just let me know. He IMed back, “I’ll be there in 5 minutes.”
T         hen, when he gets there his friend Pierre (also from Norway) comes out of the car. He says, “I’m back! –For good. I’m going to be your neighbor!” Yeah! Then we go do a little shopping. We go out for pizza, and since we had just had pizza, the girls and I decide to split some spaghetti and salad. Well, they were out of meatballs so Fred talks us into Carbonara.        I had never had it before –he has a way of getting me to try new things that I end up loving and craving –this is definitely on the list. Then we talk about all these things, having barbeques, hanging out, they’ll watch the girls if I want “me time.” My head starts swimming with possibilities.
         After dinner, we all had a few groceries to pick up, and let me tell you, 5 adults to 2 children is the most amazing ratio! I never had it so easy in a grocery store! Both men pushed the carts, so the girls just thought that was awesome, because they knew how to play and make them giggle, and race around. Fred’s girlfriend Boo is the one who takes the girls swimming everyday, and she did my laundry when my nanny was gone. Well she’s also a masseuse, and when I was getting the beginnings of a migraine last night, she came over with Pierre’s girlfriend and they gave me a massage, during which, I seriously began to wonder and question how did my life get so good?
        And then this morning I realized, this is kind of like my cottage summers, except my house is the a supreme cottage, but the sense of community, exploration, comfortableness, perpetual summer…I’m kind of reliving it as an adult, and giving such an amazing gift to my girls.

By Ryn Cricket04012012

Getting terminated: Human way of saying: You fucked up@

              Getting terminated: Human way of saying you fucked up!
                                        By Mark William Darus

　
             Marks refrigerator is a never ending science fair project of mold and decay. Months old streak, pork and leftovers growing new forms. Smelling not because of temperature not failing.
           Unlike his kitchen carpet, it’s reeking of ammonia from dog piss and such other foul matter causing one to heave.

          Cold sweats bring him about with damp clarity. Feel aof unease that never fades not matter how many times it happens, the result of medications that aim him to personal center. Not happy. Awakened once again, reaching for an empty box of LM’s tall reds, uttering the word ‘shit’ to no one but his dogs in audience, he leaves the couch to which he sleeps.
           A mere hour before he drifted to slumber, eyes closed, mind most tranquil, laying on his left side as he listened to either World War II or Ken Burns Civil War documentaries. Wind of a fan covering him, cooling him. Faint whiffs of a blown out Yankee Baked Apple Pie candle fading. Falling asleep.
\
          Full sleep, with Trazodone flowing through his system, all falls short.

          He does not have nightmares to cause this. He does not have feel fear. He just awakens, bathed in his bodies own water that seeps from his pores in ever growing repeated fashion. What happened once a month just some ninety days ago, now happens three to four times a night. Unknown side effects of the combination of pills that keeps his mind going on even flows.

           He had told his manager about this and his attempts to contact his psychiatrist.

          Use to this, not happy for it, he scoops up his sheets and pillows and replaces them with fresh substitutes.
          Letting his dogs outside, journeying to his basement, he places drenched things into the washer for cleansing.
         He is not worried about mildew build-up before he gets up in the morning. A pro at this now, he knows he will be awake in another 1-2 hours to repeat this process.

         Needing a cigarette, aware he will not return to sleep for at least an hour, he leaves his home after covering himself with yesterdays dark blue Echo t-shirt and faded shorts. Before doing so he brings his dogs into the his house. Giving them a snack of hamburger buns, their tails wagging about.
       Into the night, strolling down Scranton Road aiming toward Clark Avenue and the one and only establishment open to purchase smokes at such an odd hour.
       Walking into his world, a land where people get killed for no particular reason. Gunned down, knowing in his self no harm would happen to him here, he continues.
        Half a block from personal dwelling he encounters a shoulder length red haired plain clothed cop dressed as a hooker. She so confidently offers herself to him, moving toward he as he walks soundly. No thanks, darling.
        “Why not?” Swaying her hips too and fro, giggling breasts about, smile full of shining white, well cared for teeth. “Am I not good enough for you?”
        Stopping hard, he critiques her.
          First of all, you look way too healthy to be a Pro around here. Y’ got too much meat on your bones. Granted, this looks real good to me. You are exceptionally hot and do-able. Second, you are way too tanned with what you expose. You being a night dweller, worker, you sleep during the day. I cannot picture you sleeping off heroin or crack to awaken at night looking this good with tan lines. You carry a left whitish untanned band around the ring finger on your left hand. Third, you speak far to clearly and educated to be a money-whore.
        Pausing momentarily, watching her shift uneasily, wondering perversely where she hides a microphones on so scantily clad form. Awaiting what she might have to say.
         Pronouncing her a tried and true member of the Cleveland Police Department, smiling, stepping back. Still waiting.
        “Wow! You got this down. You going to write a book?” she asks, taking the very same stance that made her husband fall for her a mere three years ago. Standing proud and tall, her hair and face shadowed by orange glow of streetlights with occasional shots of white and reds from passing cars.
      Bowing head to her, smiling, telling her we wanted, needed a smoke.
       She reaches into her ample cleavage and pulls a pack of Marlboro out. Offering him one, telling her back-ups this is a ‘four’.
       Fourth, you need to tell, and or teach, your make people the art of decaying teeth.
      “What?” she asks bewildered, her inner tape recording rolling.
       Your teeth are way too white. Far too well maintained for you to be a working girl around here. They don’t hold the crystalline, almost opaque look they need to to make your being a junkie here remotely possible.
      “Well, I”
       Cutting her off with the precision of a Master Butcher, he adds.
        You don’t have PIDs.
        “What’s pids?” she asks. Muscles loosening in her arms, legs doing same. The ‘Fight or Flight’ response leaving her. Her stance leaning toward knowing. Eager.
         Pelvic Inflammatory Disease.
        Taking the deepest of inhales with cigarette she’d given to him, he continued. PID’s causes an abnormal lower belly to stand out. Hard to the touch. This is NOT like being pregnant. Exhaling fully, whitish smoke clouding still night. Standing tall before the Cop, giving cocky smile with eyes planting once again into hers.
         “Wow,” exasperated, falling from her lips.
\          A CPD black and white Dodge Magnum moving at a steady 5 MPH comes from behind formerly known school as Saint Michaels. Approaching them, hooker/cop thrusts right hand sideways, four fingers stretched: All is okay and covered.
       Yet, she calls them over.
       “He a pervert?” a police man asks her.
         “No, not at all.” Looking at the man, she says: “Let’s do a “Serve’ on him. Take him to the corner. Let him get a pack of smokes and take him home.”
       “Okay, sis, we got this.”

        Returning home, thinking of the here and now as her writes this. Thinking of the shapes from night time images that the three churches he passed on his quest for LM’s would grant him with long exposure time.

        Once again, descending to the Maytag in his basement, opening lid and pulling a different sort of wet out. Clean fragrance meeting nostrils, liking it, placing things in his dryer.

          Going to his place of sleep yet again, with hope he puts Sherlock Holmes Voice of Terror black and white with Basil Rathbone into his CD player. Covering himself in a quilt as he lays his head on fresh pillows, he fades to sleep once again.

          Only to awaken an hour later.

        Drenched in the coldest, sickening of human wetness without urination, he is now awake again.
       Going through rotation, over and over again on auto-pilot. Doing without thinking.

       Having no reason to leave his home, having cigarettes and plenty of laundry supplies to handle things.

         Mark had told his manager what was going on with him.
        He told this to her on the Monday of 08062012 via concerned voice mail regarding an email about FMLA. Tuesday and Wednesday passed with no question regarding anything mistakes he may have made. No warnings given, either verbal or written.
         The morning of his suspension , he told her about how his meds were affecting things. How he couldn’t bowl due to massive lack of coordination and his fear of passing out. They both shared areas of physical things that affected them both. He asking about her family and a child illness of most serious regard.
       He went to her with questions about emails regarding training on new systems he was excited to learn.
       He has always been open to learning new things and processes.
       She told him about what would happen and how he needed to clear a spot for a second monitor.

        Feeling confident, leaving her, telling her he needed to log in, both smiling, he walked away.
      He asked her where Monkey Jungle conference room was for “a Discussion” would occur at within 15 minutes after his logging in. She told him where it was.
      He logged in, checked the team SAR reports.
        He read the updates.
       He did what he was told, cleaning a space for a monitor he would never see.

        The Meeting in the conference room:

        Being there, about 4-5 minutes, sitting alone in silence except for the steady hiss of constant ventilation and the lack of corporate maintenance over the last 3-4 years to change filters. Bad economy and lack of employee concerns as illnesses and flu run amok? Wondering, mind taking him to places he cannot wait to take photos of, his camera bag just in front of him with its ability to record both audio and video, he waits for his team to arrive.

       His manager and her manager arrive.
\
        Bidding a great morning. Wondering further, more so with lack of team surrounding him.

        Standing in mind while sitting all the same in slightly comfy padded chair.

          They told him the reason of this meeting.

        He totally botched a timecard. Apparently his manager had adjusted his timecard the previous week. When he arrived at work that Monday morning August 6^th 2012, he did what he normally would do. He adjusted his timecard and totally  screwed it up.
        When questioned about this, he said he had no idea why this occurred.
        At no point did he deny this error.
            He did state “this explains why my check (directly deposited into accounts in both Dollar Bank and PNC” were way higher than i had anticipated. “
           His managers boss, level 2, said how this was serious.
       And he said this was very serious. He also said he had no idea why he did this error.

          The manager 2 went on to state how he was suspended without pay for further investigation.
Resigning himself to prior events in his company, feeling that the music had stopped and it was his turn without a chair to sit soundly upon.
          Being told yet again, his future would be based on further investigation, the meeting ended and he asked if he should log off their system.
          Walking back to his cube, he did as he should.

       For the next several days, phone-tag would play out. Mark would call and get voice mail and vice verse. At one point, he did reach another manager 2, and she attempted to conference the call. The call was dropped, somehow.

       The following morning, this being Tuesday August fourteen, he received a letter via FED EX overnight stating he was terminated.

       Mark read this document, scanned it, and does what he does.

        He went on.

        Bowling ball in hand, a bowling team and many others behind him, camera and full mind that has been writing for months, Mark goes into other areas of life.

          Call this Another Life.

          In his entire life, Mark never sought the use of a lawyer.

            But at fifty years old, being open to all, some things breed hopes anew.

　
　
Mark William Darus 08212012

Caller ID by Ryn Cricket.

                

                                                Caller ID
                                           by Ryn Cricket


I know who you are.
I know what you’re calling for.
I won’t answer the phone.
because I got nothin’.
You want money?
Get in line.
My pockets are empty
until the 15th
and most of that is already accounted for.
Yes, I know you’d like
your paper edited today
because you just finished it
and it’s due tomorrow morning,
But I have a lot of stuff to grade
you know, for work.
My friend needs a resume,
My editor keeps calling
Oh and these two little girls
who are always running around me?
They need my attention once in a while.
You want my mind?
Get in line
But for now,
I think it needs
a worry-free vacation
–it’s never had one.
I know who you are
and I know why you’re calling.
I’m not answering
because I”m tired of explaining to you
–and the others
that the cancer
and my psychopathic ex
sucked every sexual impulse
out of me.
You want my body?
Get in line.
If I ever get the slightest inclination back,
I might call you.
I know you prayed for me
while I was sick
It was important to you
and I appreciate it so much.
In fact, it probably worked
but I don’t think I need
organized religion –again.
I’m not anti-God
I’m just anti-pigeon-holing.
My spirit is a little freer than that.
You want my soul?
Get in line.
But I gotta tell you,
I”m all tapped out.

By Ryn Cricket 08042011

In regards to Disposable Humans, I must add my thoughts.

                
                                       By Mark William Darus

　
　
        Wasn’t this the same kind of corporate behavior, perhaps even nonviolent psychopathic in nature with its lack of remorse, emotion and regret, that caused Unions to develop in the United States many decades ago? Lack of Job security, threat of you being replaced for cheaper labor? I am not saying that Unions are the end-all and be-all, but before the Reagan Admin crushed them , they did mean something. Of course, this didn’t stop GM from trashing Flint, Pontiac and other great cities of Michigan to build plants in Mexico. Sure, we’re not stupid. This move looked real good to those that clutched GM stock, didn’t it?
         Didn’t our steel companies get sold out? Didn’t few, like Dennis Kucinich lobby Washington to bail out the Steel industrial power of the United States? I think, the steel industry was looking for a bail-out of like 700 million. I could be wrong on this figure. Sorry, but didn’t Dennis and others get tossed out and even laughed out of Washington DC?
        Yet, through the BUSH II administration, we bailed out the Airlines for the second time for billions? Same administration: didn’t we bail out the banks for 7 billion dollars?
       Through the Obama admin, we saved GM, Chrysler. Why did we allow this? Just about half of GM products are made and assembled in other countries, and most of those parts that make the vehicles were and are still manufactured on foreign soil.
      When GM got the bail out bucks, didn’t they shut down dealerships across the country? Why is that relevant? Well, anyone that bought a GM product will most likely have to drive a heap ‘o miles further down the road for warranty service. Sure, to those of us that live in big, or excuse me, shrinking industrial cities, that may not mean a great deal. One the other hand, this could amount to many miles in the Heartland of the very country that gave billions in tax dollars to sustain them.

        Major thanks to the FORD MOTOR company for not accepting nor wanting any part of that madness. They survived many recessions and the big depression in the United States.

       Keep this in mind: The American Steel Industry: One of the of the few remaining things that can proudly state: Made in America, has comeback from hibernation. Areclor Mittal Steel. Founder: Lakshmi Mittal, India.
      Honda: American plants beginning in Marysville. Japan based.
        More recently: KIA motors. South Korea. Plant in Georgia, USA 2009. Currently heading toward their phase II, expanding beyond their Sorento and Optima, they expect to have most of their vehicles made here. Funny how the percentage of KIA vehicle parts are double that of so-called American car parts.

       Let’s look at the vast array of jobs in the USA. Service sector, phone work, retail stores, dying malls, online sales, shrinking government employment, State, county, city jobs getting cut or phased out.
       As the US’s economy went ‘Kerplunk’, didn’t Wall street get a bit antsy? Didn’t the share holders call, and still do, the shots companies would follow to maintain confidence?
       It was like Elitist, On-High board members said: SHIT? What are we gonna do? Our stock is tanking?
       Some smart junior exec said: I have a solution! Let’s hire a butt load of people just above minimum wage and train them. Yeah, this will cost in the short-fall, but build confidence in the 12 month stretch. We spin it like this: “We’ve hired X-thousand employees in the last 12 months!”
     Grumpy, last decades CEO asks: “how’s that going to do anything but cost us more?”
            Beaming, looking for either huge bonus or a senior exec spot says firmly: “As the newbies get trained fully, we just find ways of terminating employees of long standing and high pay and do not make this known to public. We can learn from such financial disasters like Circuit City, cutting tenured yet offering placement a month from chucking them. Perception is reality: We hired this many! No one ever asks how many we shit-canned. We can get two for one in today. Perhaps take this further with part-time help that won’t qualify for health care! Think about it!”
         Most on the board smiling at this, agree at the suggestion. They implement this.
        And a snowball grows across the United States as our economy goes further downhill.

       Yes, I believe it started that simply. Like a virus, it spread out in profound proportions. It continues to do so. It will continue until some radical event occurs in our country.

      It is my belief this ‘radical event’ will not occur, but it is my sincere hopes it does.

      Just some statistics of the lands of this Earth….


       How long have these recognized countries been around?

　
       China: 211 BC. 2233 years in existence.
       Ukraine: 882 AD, with villages going back to 4500 BC.
       Japan: 660 BC. 2672 years in existence.
       Germany: 962 years
       Canada: 447 years.
       Rome: 753 BC. 2765 years in existence.
       India: 7000 BC.
       South America: 990 BC.
       Mexico: 7000 BC
       Russia: first Tsar: 862.
       Iceland 874 AD.
       Ireland 1606 AD
       United States of America: 1776 AD. 236 years if you do not include the Native American Indians time before Christopher Columbus landed here.

      In the scheme of things, we in the United States are but a group of angst filled teenagers. Heaving about with protruding chests and an armed ability to waste the globe with our military power.
       Should we as a people be proud? Absolutely!
       Should we disregard other nations and their opinions as they differ from ours? We SHOULD NOT though we often do. We like to buy our friends and preach to them to wonders of freedom and Capitalism.
      The very same Capitalism that has been embraced by our government and fueled by Wallsreet as it further infests and propels our economic structure to ship more jobs overseas.

      Statistics lie America. When we talk of unemployment, know this: When you lose your unemployment benefits you are no longer part of unemployment statistics. This means your lack of working, feeding yourself and family DO NOT COUNT and are not recognized.

      How many of you have lost jobs that you have had tenure, years with, because of either plants moving out of the United States or them finding reasons to terminate your employment as they hire many to cover your position as a fraction of the wage you earned?

　
                                      My investigation begins.

Mark William Darus 08192012

12 Letters, by Ryn Cricket.

                                      12 Letters
                                  by Ryn Cricket


“Can we call him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone, sweetie. He lives in a small room with just a small bed and no window.”
“We can’t type on the computer?”
“Nope, there are no computers.”
“Can we visit him?”
“No, he’s very far away and you aren’t allowed to see him.”
“Well, can I send him a picture?”
“You know what? I don’t know. I think maybe you can. Let’s look it up….Yes, there is an address right here.”
“Can you send him this one? It’s a mermaid with wings. Can you tell him what a good swimmer I am, but I wish I could fly. And tell him I miss him.”
“You got mail!”
“I did? What does it say?”
“I miss you too my beautiful daughter. I think about you everyday, my beautiful daughter, and I love your beautiful art. I taped it to my wall. Your beautiful mother tells me…”
“Mommy? Why does he keep ‘apeating himself?”
“I don’t know. That’s just the way he writes.
“Mommy, I want you to tell daddy that we are moving to Thailand, and tell him that we have to fly on a plane for a long time far, far away, and it will be very hot there. And when it’s morning for him, it will be night time for us. But I don’t want to send him a picture this time.”
“Ok. You don’t ever have to send him a picture, and you don’t have to write if you don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“We got a letter.”
“What does it say, mommy?”
“It says that he is happy that we are going, and that we will have a good life there, and that it will be every good for us.”
“Where’s his letter to me?”
“I guess since you didn’t send one, he didn’t send one back.”
“I want to send daddy this picture of a prison, but look, you’re in our kitchen in Thailand making potato soup, and the police smell the soup, and they leave the door open to come here, and daddy escapes, and he comes here too because he can smell the soup…see? But I don’t think you made enough soup for all of those people!”
“That is really sweet! But let’s find a picture of what prison doors look like. You can’t just escape.”
“I was just pretendin’”
“But it was a good story though.”
“This time I want to send him a picture of my birthday. See, I put 5 candles on the cake. I don’t think he knows it was my birthday last week.”
“Sweetie, he was there when you were born.”
“Oh, really? Do you think he just forgot, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, send him this one and tell him I had a mermaid pool party and it was fun. Tell him I love Thailand and I can swim everyday, but I still wish I could fly. My fairy wings don’t work. They are just pretend.”
“We got a letter from daddy! I wanted to call you at work, but Pi Mon wouldn’t let me…What does it say, mommy?”
“…It doesn’t have any part for you this time. It just says that he doesn’t want to write anymore, and goodbye.”

By Ryn Cricket 04252012

Disposable Humans. by Mark William Darus

                                      Disposable Humans.
                                       By Mark William Darus.

　

       Waking from sleep abruptly as her twin alarms screamed aloud in contrasting pitch and speeds. 7:30 AM EST. Sitting upright at first, taking a deep gulp of air to heave herself toward the clocks. With experienced hands, she nails both ‘snooze’ settings and drops back to the couch she embraces her nights. Eyes still closed, going back to the land that lay between sleep and the fully conscious world, she takes time to say her prayers.
      Aloud, she says: “god, take good care of my family and friends. Both are the same to me in my heart. You know this, lord. Please take care of them. Please take care of everyone. Watch over the animals of this planet and the plants and waters and clouds and sky. Call me selfish and asking you to work overtime, I ask you to tend a lot! I know this. But if it’s any consolation, forget me to do what I pray! In your name, I pray.”
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
BUUUUUUUZZZZZZZ!
      Hitting the snooze again, she drifts off.
      Like every morning for many a decade, she gives herself a mere twenty minutes to prepare herself for coming day.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
BUUUUUUUUUUUZZZ!
      A final snapping awake, she rises. Forgetting to wipe away sleepers from tired eyes, she stands in yesterdays t-shirt and undies. Let the dogs out. Feed the cat.
      Doing those, the dogs doing their business and bringing them in, she takes removes clothing and takes a shower. Feel of warm water enveloping her, she plants shampoo to her brown, thinning hair, lathering it. Taking left hand covered in cleansing foam, she washes her pubic hair, now grey. Body wet, hair areas covered his frothy white, she begins to wash herself off.
       After coating herself in various soaps for both hair and body, she steps into the flowing water and rinses it all off. Leaving her in city water spraying from the old 40 year old shower head, she wonders: Why do I shower in the morning when each day leaves me with feeling so unclean? Why don’t I shower this shit off before I go to bed?
      After drying body and blow drying hair with a 20 year old Conair 1500, Melanie gets dressed.

     Melanie had worked for just over 8 years with a major insurance carrier as a call center rep. In that time, she had received many an accolade from many of her shifting bosses in her tenure there. On more than one occasion she had been a ‘High Performer’, it meaning she was in the Top 10% of the thousands of call reps. She showed a profound ability to assist other reps and Coaches. In her company, Coaches were somewhere between phone reps and managers, like Millwrights were to Steel Workers in a time before. When trained in areas of the company before the Coaches, that would answer questions for their team, were trained, she would gladly help them in fielding questions. She made this willingness to aide known. When the Coaches would have their weekly meetings, Melanie would, with the gratitude on her manager, be the teams, as well as other teams, be the ‘go-to” acting Coach to assist.
      Over time, proving herself most worthy, she even covered the various teams she’d been on the ‘Pended Activity Reports’. If those reports hit a certain number of days, they’d fall on the shoulders of processors. When hitting processors, the manager would get an email not kind, though not judgmental, about a particular persons not keeping up. She would dutifully send team members either reminders and offer help if needed. She would also cover them when either on vacations or leaves. She did these things without being asked to do so. She did this with several managers blessings and gratitude over her time there.
      Slender months before this August, after she volunteered to write for a company newsletter when announced, with the leaving of a fellow team member, she was announced as a new person to this two-person team in meeting of her peers. Her manager apologized for putting her on the spot. Melanie happily accepted this and told her manager she’d be happy to help.

      Granted, Melanie’s last twelve months had not been easy for her. In this time she had begun treatment for Hypertension, went into rehab for alcoholism and was found to be bipolar in late 2010. All those things she looked back at with a child-like vision of learning to lose training wheels and ride straight and even. This was late 2011 and early 2012. She’d missed a lot of work, but FMLA covered her.
      Through this process, learning to walk again, she found a need to be a member of something from her past. Bowling. She’d learned this from her father growing up. She’d been on several first place teams, had a perfect 300 in 1998. She’d lost interest a year after the perfect game. Going back to her second home, Brookgate Lanes, now known as AMF Brookgate lanes, in August 2012, without a team, knowing no one, she joined a league. Thankfully, the secretary of their Thursday night league found her a team. It was with this team she would spend every Thursday for the next twelve plus months of her life.
       In July of 2012 she purchased a Kodak digital camera from a Big-lots. Always enjoying photography, loving the freedom of not having to pay for developing photos, she posted many a shot on FaceBook. After just over a month, a co-worker gave her a much better digital camera. She loved the pics this took, though uploading was extremely troublesome. She went to Dodds to trade it and after spending a meager some, held a Fujifilm S4200.
       Taking shot after shot, so humbly grateful for what she would be given the chance to film, without huge fees to see final results, she moved forward.
       Early March of 2012, when her psych meds leveled her, Melanie started a Blog. On this blog, the subject of psychopathy and mental illness, she would in less than 6 months have over 5600 hits and nail over 50 different countries with her 70-plus entries.
      Between the bowling team she had come to feel a kin to, a profound sense to read and write again, she felt a huge ability to be useful at her job again. Not to mention a fiery passion for photography once again, she was most hopeful.

       Melanie missed a few days just over a week ago. When returning the following Monday, she did her timecard.
       Apparently, she made a mistake.

       Melanie, now driving to work on a bright Friday morning, arrives at work after a day off. Pulling into a vacant slot in the enclosed four level parking in a suburb of Cleveland Ohio, sipping her coffee and wondering how busy this day would be as the lot is very empty at 9 AM.
      Finishing her cigarette, looking into mirror while adjusting her Gander Mountain hat, she leaves her SUV.
      Gazing about one of the fewest of places one could see green grass in this rainless of summers, she walks toward nearest entrance. Entering, swiping card at microchip reader, greeted with female automated voice, “Please enter the door.”
       In, walking toward the bank of three elevators, pressing the ‘up’ arrow, waiting.
       Arriving on floor 3, exiting to her right, greeting fellow employees with usual enthusiasm and pleasant tidings, pausing for a moment to look at the artwork this place holds most proud. She often wondered why her company paid so much for things that made little sense while her ex husband was a fantastic artist in all regards.
      Sitting in the chair of her cubicle, opening systems needed to work. She was some 15 minutes doing so before her shift would begin. Normally, Melanie would be at work some 25 minutes before her shift would begin. Her systems, the company systems opened as slowly as ever, hence her reason to arrive early. Checking emails, she noticed she had a meeting scheduled that day. Such things not that uncommon after a day off. Melanie also saw emails of future trainings and an enthusiastic email about being chosen for yet another of the companies Pilot Programs. This latest about a dual monitor system.
       This was about 5 minutes before her shift would begin.
       Seeing her manager, she decided to visit her with enthusiastic questions regarding this new Pilot. Greeting her manager, her manager smiling back, they talked. They discussed the pilot, exchanged regards to the health of one another. Melanie asked her, with embarrassed face, where the Primate Habitat room was. Given direction, she was also given her managers wish to clear/clean her desk to grant enough room for the second 22” monitor to be placed.
      Checking the time with her manager, Melanie said she had to log into the phones. Her manager said she might be a bit late for the meeting.
      Melanie, being cautious after reading a corporate email about cubicle theft with purses and such, grabbed her camera bag and went to the meeting room.
      Sitting in the conference room, alone, she began to wonder. Sifting through wallet, she found her doctors note. Wondering further, as no other team members arrived, glad that she had shared with her manager about her calls to her psychiatrist about the side effects her current regimen meds were causing.
      After several minutes Melanie was no longer alone.
      Her manager and their manager walked in and sat down.
      Wow, this meeting is based on me, she thought idly.
      After passing greetings, the meeting progressed.
      “Melanie, we have something to address with you. That being your timecard.”
      Nodding, Melanie let it continue.
       “Your manager had adjusted your timecard and you went into the system and changed this.”
       Looking at the triangular conference phone just left of the center of the table, Melanie feeling a huge sense of unease said: “I completed my timecard.” Stumbling for words with meaning, “this explains why my (bank) account showed more than it should have.”
      Female voice, be it her manager or their manager saying: “This is serious-”
            Melanie, cutting them off, stating: “No, this is VERY serious.”
        This leading to some other infraction of similar events in July.
       “We are suspending you without pay until investigation is completed.” Pausing, they said they’d call her with result.
        Melanie, somewhat stunned, said: “okay, wow. Should I go back and log off?”
        They said: Okay.
       She bid them a good weekend as she walked from the conference room.
        As she logged out of the their systems for the last time, a coworker asked her how she was doing. Melanie responded: I’m out of the office.
           As she rounded the end of her isle, she heard laughter from the office of her managers managers office. Knowing it and its direction, she walked on. Going toward the massive neoprene art forms she aimed right for the stairwell.
                                                  Knowing it.
          After playing phone-tag til the Tuesday following, finally connecting, she was told she was terminated.
         Later that day, Melanie received an Overnight Mailing. This multi-page document, that for some reason was lacking a ‘page 2’, was most well thought out.
         The letter of termination stated: Our investigation findings validated that your falsified your timecard.

         Just over 10 years there, embracing everything this company through her direction and meeting it head on.
        Misty, teary eyed, but knowing how this company has treated comrades with enough seniority like hers in the downward economic spiral.
          Melanie, reading this again, her dogs barking in the yard, wondering how many others with the company have fallen with singular infractions, decided to launch her own investigation.

                    Disposable Humans? How many after 10 years of employment have been chucked like me since the crash of 2008?

The End.

　
-Mark William Darus 08172012

Emergency Exit: by Ryn Cricket

                                            
                                                Emergency Exit.
                                                 by Rrn Cricket


                  Kelly needed a quick excuse to get out of there. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t understand how balloons and crepe paper could be so stifling. She thought it would all be ok, but she wasn’t ready after all. She found an emergency exit door at the back of the reception hall, and the fresh air and sunlight hit her like smelling salts, waking her up and allowing her to breathe again. The heavy bass of the music was smothered behind her.There were two people standing by the wall smoking, so she flashed a quick smile at them.
          Pacing back and forth, she tried to decide what to do. Could she go back in there or should she just stay outside in the bright sunlight? She could see Joey coming out of the back doors. He shielded his eyes from the sun to look around the parking lot. As soon as his eyes spotted her, he walked briskly in her direction.
           He looked so good dressed up like that. They had never been to anything formal like this before. Mostly he wore t-shirts and jeans, but he looked really nice in his dark suit. His hair was combed and he was shaved nicely. He could have been going to work in an office. The idea of it almost made her laugh out loud.
       “Hi, Joey.” She said almost shyly.
        “Hey babe. Whadda doin’ out here?” He asked.
        “It was just so hot and crowded in there, I couldn’t breathe. I barely know anybody, so I came out for some air.”
          Yeah, it’s not my kind of scene either, but we should get back before anyone asks for us.” Joey said grabbing her hand.
         “You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute or two. Cover for me.” She smiled.
          He turned around and headed back. One of his friends handed him a can of beer on the way in, and they started laughing.
She liked the way her dress sounded like cellophane when she walked. She liked feeling like Cinderella. But walking in those shoes in the gravel parking lot was hard. Her ankle kept twisting if she stepped wrong, so she walked up to the sidewalk and pretended like she was a model. Cars honked as she passed, and she waved like a princess out on a stroll.
She had almost forgotten that she had tucked the money her mother had given her inside her bra since her dress didn’t have any pockets.
She saw a taxi parked across the street at the bowling alley, so she walked in to find the driver. She found a man sitting at the food counter drinking a Coke.
          “Sir, is that your taxi?” She asked pointing towards the door.
          “Yes. Why?”
          “Well, I was just thinking that the freshest air is by the ocean. How much would it cost to have you drive me there?”
          “That’s at least 130 miles away. It would take over 2 hours. I’d have to charge you about $250.”
          “Ok, then, I’m ready to go,” she said pulling a few bills out of her bra.
           He got up and grabbed his hat off of the counter just as she realized she didn’t have to hold the bouquet anymore.
           Maybe she would call Joey later.



By Ryn Cricket: 06052010

I Hope: by Kara H. Montgomery.

　
　
                                                       I hope.

                                                       <Poem>
                                         By Kara H. Montgomery.

　
Kill my alarm as it splits my brain to bits and pieces
Half hour before sunrise
Roosters crowing
Dogs hungry for chicken
This world starving to eat me

Not done yet casting sleepers away from eyes
Coarse and tired hands of labor
Scratching my face, red cheeks aof many sunfilled days
Red and blistering
Hurting
Popping
Soon infected
If not cared for.

Breakfast.
In cooler:
1 piece of bread
1 egg
Tiniest amount of whole butter
Container of steak seasoning: going back to times better

Mixing those to splendid harmony
Eating in small amounts to fool the stomach
Relishing every bit
Swallowing with water

Poverty
Only acknowledged by those that give up
Fail to try
Those lacking hope
And those who cannot be happy for anyone else.
Poverty belongs to those that give up on all.

I am not one of those
I help without regard of self
I try in all aspects
I hope the best for everyone

I hope.

　
By Kara H. Montgomery: Child of South Africa.

Reader Comments III. Across the globe.

                                   

                                    From all over the Earth.
                                      Reader comments III.

　
      Let me start by saying how happy I am with the responses I’ve received since Psychopathy: Another Life switched gears a while back. You have no idea how much I appreciate your words and time for emailing me.
      This means much to me. I have been working on this for just over 5 months now and it is your emails, comments and support and feedback that keep me going.

       Well, on with the words of others from all over on tiny blue ball in the sky.

　
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       Fantastic turn you’ve taken, Mark. I look forward to the sick world you share so freely.
        About Tommy: Directors Cut given 08/02/2012, shall I say: Finale Redux?
        The rethought edited version made me gush from my eyes and caused me to cry YES!
         I have no idea what you were sent, raw intel, whatever. Doesn’t matter, you gave this story a life.
         You weaved a tale most full. Start to finish, Alpha and Omega. The music you used, visuals, smells: You gave the reader total scope of what was going on each step of the progression Tommy walked.

         Tommy? Like we don’t know the stream this name bubbled from. Don’t take me incorrectly, not insulting you in tiniest regards, but the last song in this tale brings it all home to me as I am sure it does others.

            I look forward to all you wish to share.

Tasha from Guam.
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                             Mark’s life, <Aug 5 2012>

                Football, baseball and Frisbee things expressed by you hit me. Video games in our world take many away from things physical shared.
            I have read enough about America that I am glad my children will never see its shores. My children are content with things given them. Simple hand made toys, eating together, watching them play hide and seek. I have seen enough crap from YouTube of friends setting up those they call friends to know your country is massively twisted in priorities. How the children raised.
              Having read enough of your words, I do believe this story ended the way it did.
         Credit to you, Mark.

Sig Haugen from Norway.

　
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                            Hello Psychopathy Another Life!

            Writings of Ryn pushes me to look at myself with brighter light. Once dying of cancer my Lord cured me froms, Identity Crisis to living Toys from man of small standing when sun shined on him to be noticed a werewolf.
         Ryn and Mark, thanks to you.

Emily of Laos. I was stupid and am now living here after marrying a bad man.

　
　
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             Mark, you write what you write.
       You cannot tell any of us that you are not this new comer named Mark S. Kourge.
           Pen name? Sweetest of hearts, we understand this if it true.
             I comment on the 69 entries posted so wholly.
              From Intro to now, you express things not popular in any audience but that of the cinema or books.
             Friends and I loved your work: Three words given to me, 16/07/2012.
            Your giving a snapping turtle a valid place in this life, God inspired/controlled by God. Seeing this in gifted being a child of God, you see things imagined few take the time to waste.

           You are this song, Stardust by Crosby, Young, Nash and Stills.

           Given much of yourself,
             Happy reader with friends,

Hanna. Iceland.

　
　
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        Yeah, bleed the freak, cunt! My sis killed herself because of crap you right. She killered herself like four yearss again. I hope t find you and wasste you. You gone tow far. I hait you, btich!

Charlie, Chicago Illinois USA.

　
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               Love the photographs new on blog! Sets mood higher. You do good, Mrak!

               Thoughtfull.

Selina, proud child of South Africa.

　
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              Thank you for sharing me recent events that hit your life, Mark.
               Knowing It:
                 Love the grasshopper on Knowing It: part one. Hoping best for you and your thinking on this, you will be okay. Do as God tells you to. Hitting so many Nations words alone, pen, perhaps grander than sword. You know this things, less you would be frightened and stop. Not you and write.
             Mark, you hold me like some tiny dancer. Ever hear Elton Johns Tiny Dancer.
         This is you.

           Hopes for you,

Bae, North Korea

　
　
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            Fuck, man! You rock and slash! Take no prisoners.
           Sweet to see some believe in our failing Constitution of free speech as Homeland smacktards squelch most!
           Keep that ass of yours spilling thoughts, bro!

Sracey, Bedford Hts Ohio, USA.

　
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           Taking your blog in its entirety I can express this. You have gifts. Reading you for months now, watching you delight in posting photographs to your words, amazingness place. Mark, pleased you should feel on this.
              I have no favourite post entry of you. All you express is fine and good.
Ulfa, daughter of Iceland.

　
　
　
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This one was sent to by Audrey. It appears as a comment on 60 Countries Visitors.

           Dear Mark


          Thank you very much for the lovely reading you are sharing with us. It is very lovely reading and keep on sharing as you are doing very good work.
Congratulations on having so many readers from around the world as this shows that your work is appreciated.


         Take carer and keep safe
Audrey
Malta.

Authors Note: No, Audrey, it is I that thank you!



Authors Note: Thank you!

　
　
-Mark William Darus 08122012

60 Countries visitors. Giving me hope in humanity.

               
                 In the Spirit of writing and sharing:


               As Psychopathy: Another Life grows I cannot go further without thanking the people of lands I had no idea I would reach. You have taken time from your lives to read what I and others have shared.
            All of you have done more for me than you will ever know. I stand now and salute all of you! In my own country some have emailed me, namely Catherine, Jonathon, Abigail, and wished to share their lives with us. Funny how I have only received four comments from the USA when they can post such anonymously. Paranoia much runs higher here in the USA.
         To the people of 60 Countries that have taken the time, I give you the greatest of thanks, sweat and diligence to your time given me and words expressed to me.

        This is to you!
        You have made a difference in my life.

　
       To the readers from:

USA
Russia
Ukraine
United Kingdom
Mexico
Brazil
Chile
Germany
Malta
Canada
Bulgaria
Sweden
Israel
Croatia
Greenland
Thailand
China
Malaysia
Belize
India
Norway
Latvia
Afghanistan
Slovakia
South Korea
Vietnam
Guam
Philippines
Japan
Cuba
Cherokee Nation <not sure how that worked>
Wales
North Korea
Switzerland
Austria
Trinidad and Tobago

　
Venezuela
Ireland
France
Scotland
Greece
Laos
Taiwan
Serbia
Finland
Algeria
New Zealand
Poland
Hungary
Guinea-Bissua
El Salvador
Democratic Republic of the Congo
Singapore
Yemen
Oman
Nepal
Iceland




         At no time in my life did I ever think I would have such a broad audience. I never thought anyone cared enough. Thank you for smashing the down side of my thoughts of humanity into the fucking ground.

         Amazing readers: You take me higher as I post.
         You of many lands, hatreds and bigotries you were raised with, you must think beyond this to email me and go further. That, to me, is big on your part.

         I hope I have kept my word. I always want to stay objective.
         I continually wish to give you all a safe haven to express your words, hopes and comments.

       I hope once again for all of us.
        Like some Beauty Pageant Contestant: I really would like world peace.

        Note this: You have all made me shed tears for your kindness in visiting Psychopathy: Another Life.
        Perhaps emotion is coming back to me after being long gone.

         Thank you!

Mark William Darus: 08122012