[ExI] openness on the internet, was RE: Destructive uploading.
kellycoinguy at gmail.com
kellycoinguy at gmail.com
Sun Sep 11 18:32:57 UTC 2011
Thanks Jeff your life's history is inspiring!
Yours most sincerely,
-Kelly (fellow traveller in the turnip truck of yore)
-- Sent from my Palm Pre
On Sep 10, 2011 8:17 PM, Jeff Davis <jrd1415 at gmail.com> wrote:
On Wed, Sep 7, 2011 at 12:11 AM, G. Livick <glivick at sbcglobal.net> wrote:
> Boy, what rock did you grow up under?
In my tykeness, my parents chanced to drive of an afternoon along one
of the many gently arching skyways that skirt the edge of the box. As
the road curved gently to the left, a turnip truck directly in front
of my parents, filled with young Republicans, swerved uncontrollably
to the right. Striking the guardrail, it resumed a reality-based
trajectory, but the shock of impact and the sudden unnatural movement
to the left, triggered a spasm of ideological purity in one of the
occupants, who threw himself out of the truck, bouncing and
cartwheeling along the roadway until he disappeared under the front
bumper of Mom and Dad's psychedelically-painted vw bus, affectionately
dubbed the "Karmic Comet".
Deeply engrossed in a discussion of the iconography of Rankian
Philosophy and its parallels in the works of Eric Hoffer, the folks
hardly noticed the momentary turbulence as Rocky the Republican
Raccoon, rolling beneath the bouncing Comet embossed his body plan in
the warm asphalt. Only later, did the dots connect, when a Reagan for
President "68 bumper sticker was discovered affixed to the Comet's
["Sad. Sad and tragic", you might say, but fear not. Rocky suffered
only minor scrapes and bruises, protected by an elephant's hide and a
cranial vault of near solid bone more robust than those of Icelandic
poet kings of yore. In fact, the experience set him on course for his
successful career as human speed bump in a nearby gated community, and
later as a Fox News traffic reporter. In retirement, he retreated
from public life, plagued, as he described in his memoirs, "Turnip
Spelled Backwards is Patriot ", by an unshakable fear of Vegans.]
I was not so lucky. When the Birkenstock Baby Trailer behind the
Comet -- my assigned transport vehicle -- met the future professional
speed bump, yours truly, my perambulator, and the bedclothes made
entirely of organic, free-range, 300-count, homespun hemp fabric, went
Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I topped the windswept edge of
the box with easy grace, and sailed with dizzying uncertainty through
the Mists of Maya into a future of authenticity and boundless
optimism. Then, as the wheels of my baby carriage struck the earth
with a jolt, and the whole she-bang plunged ballistically down the
rocky slope all Odessa steps, my life of mere months flashed before my
eyes. Several billion years of ontogeny in the warm, weightless dark.
A tightening embrace, the light at the end of the vaginal tunnel,
uncalled-for extrusion, bright lights, loud noises, and breasts, ...
Then another rude impact. The front wheels of my carriage crashed to
a stop against a rock too large to be impressed by my momentous
self-absorption. Once again, on wings of hemp, I found myself
airborne. Luck, my life's protector, was again at my side, as I
landed, the blow softened by a loaded diaper, and skidded (believe me,
you don't want a detailed explanation) gradually, but finally, to a
rest in the shadow of a very large rock.
There, beneath that rock, I was taken in by the locals, two moles, had
as friends a squirrel, and a moose, and in their fellowship, far
outside the box, grew to robust -- howsobeit feral -- adulthood.
Across all those years, in the evenings, before sleep would overtake
me, I would gaze intently into the distance at the pale blue light
flickering on the canopy of clouds above the box, and listen for
distant, attendant murmurings. But I was too far outside the box to
make any sense of it. To this day it remains a mystery.
Sadly, regarding your original question, the distance of years has
erased from my memory any particular name or number associated as an
identifier, with my sweet sweet rock of home. Of course, I remember
with deep affection my adoptive family: the two moles -- Russian moles
actually -- were Comrade Boris and Natasha, my squirrel friend was
Rocky, and my moose buddy Bullwinkle.
If that's of any help.
Best, Jeff Davis
"We don't see things as they are,
we see them as we are."
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