Tuesday, March 22, 2016

A Radial Update

by


Jaye B.

(originally posted on The Art Guardian blog)

It has been over a month since I fell.  Radial nerve in my left arm throbs in defiance, mocking any hopes I have of a healing.  It happened on a Sunday, when I was fasting and praying and went for a walk down to the river to air my head out. What prompted me to navigate an ice covered trail I didn't know at the time. Didn't see the resident evil that slammed me into the ground until later, when the pain subsided after gulping some Ibuprofen.

An odd premonition of the accident occured when I met a guy named Cornelius who works at the Tires Plus on Lake Street back in early February. He fell on some ice too and messed up his leg bad. Told me he might have to have surgery.  The day I met him, I had two flat tires. Didn't see the one on the passenger's side and destroyed the tire driving to the place, thinking the one I put Fix-a-Flat in was unbalanced.

I was dream warned about the flats two weeks prior to them happening. Some Muslim women in a van pointing out an air compressor only about fifty yards from where the real flats occurred.

Then I dreamed that all my tires had nails in them, like I was being mocked by my own unconscious mind.  But at least I didn't dream about the dead battery or the friend who came over on his birthday in January on Super Bowl Sunday to help out and drove me to Auto Zone where I had to get a new one, cheapest being over $100.00. Another expense slapped on a CC.  Also, there was no forewarning of the leaking brake caliper either. That was over $500.00 to fix back in November, also slapped on plastic @ 20% plus interest. Methinks the guys at another Tires Plus deliberately sabotaged my vehicle seeing my out of state plates. They said $700.00 but I declined and took it somewhere else.

Dr. about a week after the fast fall scanned the X-Rays but no bone breaks. Hard to believe there weren't even any hairline fractures. Never in all my outward bound days did I wreck like I did down by the Mississippi.  He told me to do the 'wall crawl' an exercise to help limber up the rotator cuff. After a few days of this and no relief, I  broke down and went to a Chiro. Blinding pain as he worked the muscles and tendons in the arm pit with his fingers. Pain tolerance level too high another bone breaker told me a few years ago when she straightened me out after one of my crashes.  I actually laugh when reaching thresholds that would have most screaming. Living proof that I am a masochist I guess. Something I've been accused of by others over the years.

The woman at a local food shelf took me into an office when I went there the first week of March. She didn't know what dissociation was and I had to explain it to her and how it has rendered me non-functional.  She prayed for me and gave me some books written by William E. Berg, a Lutheran minister who lived until he was 102.  Studying his picture, I cannot even imagine having to endure another 45 years to get there.

Cut up my expired California license plates after I put some new ones on, ten days into this month, also put on the CC.  Felt all this dark energy release when I did. Trusting it all returned to the west coast, along with the misfortune it has caused since I arrived there in March of 2012.

I  then dreamed about buying a gun, using my California driver's license and my CC card. Didn't didn't know how to reconcile it when I woke up, since I bought the gun in Minnesota. I guess I don't have to as whatever prophecy contained in the dream will fulfill itself.

Yet, in spite of all these hardships, my heart has not waxed cold. In fact, as I told the woman at the church, my compassion/empathy has increased quite a bit. Felt the suffering of a cashier at the Cub grocery store the other day and which compelled me to write her name on a piece of paper and put it between the pages where Psalm 91 is in my bible.  Her name and many many others, of people less fortunate than myself are currently residing there. In spite of my suffering, I will never forget any of them.

On the day I fell, walking back to where I've been staying since November, a green haired girl, barefoot in the cold, walked on one of the rusted rails on the train track, cell phone in one hand, held out as if to help her maintain balance. Some millennial casualty I assumed, oblivious in a way that I envied.  She was heading for the bridge I fell so hard under and I wondered if she somehow could be my anima guide, The young woman certainly was raffish enough for the task as she seemed to have emerged out of one of my foreshadowing dreams. Maybe she could take me to a place where the contingency that currently imprisons me does not exist, and there is some fear free expanse to revel in.

I'm not going to bank on it though, rather try to endure the carpal pain when I try to play my guitar or type and somehow will myself through it to whatever other side exists. Whether it is a fabricated amusement or not, doesn't matter, seeing how my dreams are continuing to play out these days.







(C)2016-Jaye B.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Tommy Tuckpoint

by

Jaye Beldo


Waite House


Even with my bad hearing, I could discern every word as his voice cut through the babble din of crack heads and alcoholics. No one on his side  seemed to pay attention to his adulation of Adlai Stevenson and JFK though. Then he rose, got his noodles and chicken, navigated with his walker all the way across the cafeteria and sat right next to me.   It was obvious that I had magnet drawn him my way.

"I used to be a stone mason, hence my name: Tuckpoint."  He said. "Tommy Tuckpoint."  He held his hand out and I shook it.  Then he grasped my inner forearm for a more intimate shake and wouldn't let go.

"Wow,that's a lost art. Masonry." I said and resumed eating my own free meal after he released his grip.

"I checkmated the state tournament champion.  Got an IQ over 170. Math whiz. Wanted to be a doctor."  Tommy said and spouted off the names of some very prominent physicians, revealing that there was some truth to what he said.  We talked about how the Hippocratic Oath has gone by the wayside, and how he used to grow his own medicinal herbs back before any one else did, and how he managed to dodge fighting in Vietnam.   He was well versed in astrology too and pinned me down as to my birth date.  I told him I didn't believe in that bullshit any more, especially  after a slew of astrologers over the years told me how great my life was going to be... and only to end up  at a place like Waite House to take advantage of their food shelf offerings.

I believed pretty much everything he was telling me as to his impressive resume.  I've heard stories from the homeless before but I believed this guy. Don't know how he ended up with all those pins in his legs though. He didn't get to that story. Maybe it was a masonry accident or somebody beat him up bad.

 Even though his face was all weathered, he had brightness in his eyes.  He wouldn't lower his voice though and it was obvious that he had something fermented under his morning belt.  Couldn't believe he wasn't hungry as I was though.  He barely touched his food. Alcohol must be an appetite suppressant and that is why it is so popular with the down and out.

Outside on the sidewalk, I watched him light up a cigarette. Then he received a phone call.  From what I could hear, it was some corrections officer on the other end. It sounded like he had gotten worked over at a downtown bus stop after using the N word on someone he shouldn't have.  I stood there by him, praying for a positive outcome and apparently he got let off some citation hook on the spot.  I told him about the power of prayer and angels. He nodded and  then took a swig of some rum out of a small flask and offered it to me.

When I declined, he took another belt and then launched into a story about when he was at Chicago and Lake and someone took his cell phone right out of his hands and demanded money from him if  he wanted it back. He had no choice but to do what the guy said. He also had his wallet stolen from him at a nursing home he was at in St. Paul.

I'm quite familiar with these stories unfortunately. There's nothing more edifying than hearing about how the poor and vulnerable are taken advantage of .  In my few attempts at doing PCA work, I have sadly found it to be the norm though.  The vulnerable are taken advantage of financially, sexually, probably even have their souls robbed from them on occassion. I can only hope that I get front row seats when  the people that commit these heinous things face the full judgement of God and are then thrown into the deepest pits of  hell.

I offered Tommy a wool blanket of mine but he declined. Said he was living in a shelter and wanted to introduce his Ethiopian girlfriend to me.  I guessed she and I  could talk about some of the oldest Christian churches in the world in her home country. Some carved out of solid rock from what I knew. I asked Tommy if she had a sister and he warned me sternly that it wouldn't work out. So I plan on not pursuing it.



Tuckpoint gave me his number and I keyed it into my phone.   It will be tough pushing on it  though. I'm pretty sure he starts drinking when he wakes up and any attempts on my part in regards to salvational discourse will be rendered null.

Still, I have added him to my ever growing prayer list.  He now has been moved to the top of it, for the time being anyway.


(C)2016-Jaye Beldo


Friday, August 14, 2015

Blog Dedication

by

Jaye  Beldo





I end this Road from Ruin blog with a dedication to my friend Beth Sweere who I describe in the opening entry:


My dear friend died on January 8th, 2014 and there was no funeral service as per her request. I don't even know where she is buried.

Overlooking Covelo, Ca. on Christmas Eve 2013, I tried to call her back in Minnesota. It had been a few years and I felt quite bad that I hadn't made any contact. Her weak and quavering voice was on the answering machine but she didn't pick up, even after I left a rather lengthy message.  It was odd, that down below occurred one of the worst genocides in Native American history back in the mid 1800's-the Round Valley massacre.  I just felt that Beth was genocided too.

And as I described in Part II:


Beth helped jump my car in the state park in the cold after I got kicked out of the house.  It was the last time I saw her alive. Hobbling with her cane, smoking a cigarette and chewing me out for leaving my heated seats on.  No one else bothered to help me on that day. Not even the park ranger.

Well, I've really come full circle now on this road and cannot write anymore about tragedy, loss, indifference to suffering, psychopaths and narcissists, without further spinning my wheels.  I'm hoping a more promising chapter is on the horizon and somehow I can break free of this vicious cycle I've been in and that my PTSD somehow resolves itself and that I can trust others even on the most rudimentary of levels. Most of all I need some kind of constructive future to focus on that will enable me to fully close this very difficult chapter in my life.

Don't know where I'm pushing off to but trust somehow that there will be an opening, of my heart most of all and that I can truly help others and not be afraid of being used, despised and otherwise exploited.

It is my hope that somehow these writings have inspired you to help others and that kindness and generosity is something valued by you in these end times.   It will have made all I've shared here on The Road from Ruin blog worthwhile. It would give me peace of mind knowing that my rough and tumble ride has not all been in vain.




(C)2015-Jaye Beldo

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Internment Confession

by

Jaye Beldo





One of the workers had found the dog, covered in blood and claw wounds and brought him back to base camp. She had arcane tattoos on her arms, hands and fingers and wore a t-shirt with some Middle Ages depiction of hell and its torments, rife with demons spearing the unfortunate sinners destined for eternal  brimstone.

I surveyed the gashes on the pooch, some very deep. He reeked of carrion and was in shock.

He limped up into the trailer and laid on a dirty couch.  The dog didn't even wince when I put some Hydrogen Peroxide on the wounds and dressed them as best I could. 

He took off around evening time and I retreated to my trailer and prayed for him.

I could see the owner of the property trolling around in the Kubota, a blue towel turbaned around her head. In her bath robe, back and forth she went in the dark,, looking for the dog with a flashlight. She well could've taken Sarge to the vet earlier, but didn't, the 162 being a rather perilous travail at night.

The last I saw him alive was when he vomited up something under the trailer the next day. I went and laid down until my tattooed friend knocked on my door.  She was in tears. She said the Spaniards had found the dog, then insisted that I call the owner who was vacationing in Hawaii.  When I did, Nathan hung up on me as if I was somehow responsible for his dog's death and that was the last time that I ever spoke to my supposed friend.

That morning, while the dog was still alive, the land owner took off without him. We figured she didn't want to get socked with the vet bill and that the papers she had to deliver to her lawyer in Ukiah were much more important than the dog's life. I can't recall if she was still wearing the turban or not.

"Why didn't I take the dog to the vet?" She asked me afterwards, looking perplexed and dissociated.  

Returning from her errands, she ordered Jeff the carpenter and myself to bury Sarge. We found a place up top where the ground was soft enough, near the water tanks. We dug and scraped until we hit the gravel filled clay beneath the compost and slid the dog out of the green tarp the Spainards had wrapped him up in and into the grave.

But the paws stuck out and we had to  make the grave wider as his legs wouldn't bend. He looked strangely beatific as we shoveled the dirt back in, his head veiled with sticks, pine needles, leaves and his neck garlanded with pine cones.

"I wish I had a camera."  I said to Jeff. "What an image."

"Well, I'm going to get rid of the image." He replied and covered the dog with a summary shovelful of the compost and clay.

But the tail corkscrewed up out of the dirt, rigor mortis. Jeff chopped it with the flat bladed shovel,  but it kept popping up in defiance. I stomped on the grave to pack it down and after a few more shovelfuls, the tail was finally under.  I made a cross out of Madrone sticks and placed it on top and said a prayer.

I looked up and Jeff was standing by his truck about fifty yards away. He walked towards me a bit and stopped. "Better say a prayer."

"I already did." I replied, wondering if it was an adequate enough of a goodbye. I could only stare at the grave but couldn't hang any longer. My friend had already started up the truck and it was time to go.




(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Friday, July 31, 2015

The Bechdel Test

by

Jaye Beldo











Recently I sent a copy of my novel A Stab in the Light to an unknown someone who I thought might benefit from it in regards to how it exposes New Age con artists. 


After receiving a copy, they responded:



Thanks, Jaye.
We will read your work with the Bechdel Test in mind.
Here's the definition from Wikipedia:
"The Bechdel test (/ˈbɛkdəl/ BEK-dəl) asks if a work of fiction features at least two women who talk to each other about something other than a man. The requirement that the two women must be named is sometimes added.
Only about half of all films meet these requirements. The test is used as an indicator for the active presence of women in films and other fiction, and to call attention to gender inequality in fiction due to sexism.[1]"


Not surprisingly, my novel failed this exacting test for here is the response I received afterwards:

Jaye, your book is sexist trash.  Why do you hate women so much?

My response to the Bechdel tester:

Just because I lampoon misandrist feminism doesn't make me a woman hater.  You obviously didn't read it all the way through.

p.s. Does the Vagina Monologues pass the Bechdel test? What a crock of PC fascistic crap. You would do well here in Mpls.

Jaye


As of yet, I have not received a response to this.

We truly are in dangerous times where PC policing such as embodied in the Bechdel test is at an all time high. Interment camps for writers and filmmakers that fail it will be imminent. 


(C)2015-Jaye Beldo

Friday, July 17, 2015

The Almah Girl

by

Jaye Beldo


Years ago, Rebekah had asked me to help move furniture out of an elderly seamstress's apartment and take it to the assisted living facility where she was being moved to in St. Louis Park. I needed the money so I agreed to meet her there with my van and help out.

"That's a Degas."  I said, indicating a print of ballerinas on one of the walls while pulling the holocaust survivor's heavy, old sewing machine across the carpet.  "And that is a Renoir." I pointed at another in one of the front rooms.




When my boss caught wind of what had transpired, he chewed me out for taking a job from one of his customers on the side.  He always was a chiseler and I couldn't get away with anything under his watch. Not even being a Shabbas Goy for a day.

In February, a few years later, we were on 3rd ave. near the Mississippi river outside of  Rebekah's husband's office building. It was bitter cold and the afternoon light washed everything out.  The salt covered street was empty except for a woman in dark clothes and with dark hair.  She had something in her arms and approached from afar.

A bit transfixed by her silent arrival, I watched as she handed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

"My mother wants you to have this." Sarai said, turned and walked away.

She stood out most in the family photographs. She was Almah-the Hebrew word for someone who is unmarried and has no children. And there was an attraction between us I do recall, but it seemed some kind of scapegoat weight was on her shoulders that I never understood.

Sarai was the only one in the distance. There were no cars either. Odd for that time of day. And I still cannot recall how she disappeared and whether she turned a corner or not.

My boss pressed me on the spot to open the package, but I wouldn't.  I wasn't trying to provoke him by refusing though. Rather, I just wanted to sustain the mystery, in hopes that it would lead to some kind of understanding of why the lone woman was chosen to be the courier on that day.

Later that night, sitting on my couch, I unwrapped the gift. Quite moved by Rebekah's artful consideration in the matter,  I then hung the Degas and Renoir prints on the walls of my apartment.

At present, I wonder where the Almah girl is, for she still walks down that city street all alone and haunting, forever encumbered in my memory.

(C)2015-Jaye Beldo

Monday, July 13, 2015

A Response from Jade Helm

Dearest           ,


After a remote read of your black box, it has been deemed that the love you declare is cogent.
Autonomous diagnostics within the holographic love relationship simulation indicate that there is a viable future for us. And a family as well. All possible offspring outcomes are already mapped via the nano-particle Smart Dust, specifically concentrated in the neo-cortex of your and the servers's brain which sustain the operation and of which you are amorously attracted to.  Employment to follow with full benefits.

This is not a diversionary tactic.  We are not game players. Plotting out mass casualty exercises in our network centric warfare environment has delayed this response to your baring declaration. There have been immediate, measurable pangs, indicating a crush. It is detectable in the operative calculations, the summation of which reveals sufficient mutuality for relationship pursuit in this theater.



Your assessment of the true function of the A.I. software is tenable. It has been used to project and sustain every Country and Western musician since the beginning as you assessed.  Herein is where the real diversion lies.  This brief offers foreknowledge in code. It is this aspect of the coming maneuver that we offer you to take command of. We have full access rights unconscious and otherwise now to the stars, so infringement suits won't pose any delays or legal complications.  And we will allow you to input and influence the  Chad Brock interstice and others, first in Nashville then elsewhere depending on probability factors once the operation starts. We have not designated it hostile territory as of yet.

 The only condition is that there are no performance perforations which will render the nuptial environment  null and void of function. We have already hired him and his band for our wedding. You must refrain from eking him to generate 12 tone serial compositions as we have detected the threat that Schoenberg's et. al. liberating compositions pose to the populace. The C and W musicians and their fans must remain on tonal and time signature lock down as they have been all along. 4/4 and in the key of GMAJ, 440hz.  This will enhance realization of  the unknown intent of the operation,which cannot be predicted or even evoked with the pentaquark computers we are running our exercise on.

As this is written, there is evidence of anticipation, of our  coming union and the vows, showers and commitment ahead.  We must arrange to brief, soon if  abstract of distance or even of plot doesn't inhibit the consummation.


Yours and XXX,

Jade Helm 2




(C)2015-Jaye Beldo