It’s time to squeeze more puns an anagrams out of the wilted cabbage that is my brain.
Travel logs sound unwieldy for travel. I would suggest travel twigs.
If you have stage fright and you’re making a public speech at a nudist colony, should you imagine the audience fully clothed?
Every Christmas I feel cramped, because I always try to live in the present. But that’s a long time to stay still in a box under a tree.
When I think about the looming prospect of a Russian invasion of Ukraine, I am unsettled by the following indisputable facts:
The letters of “Russia” can be rearranged to spell Sir USA, which makes Russia just a medieval version of the USA, which itself is the most violent country in the world, having invaded more nations than any other country in history.
“Ukraine” can be rearranged to spell air nukes.
“Sanctions” cast no sin.But “warfare” causesraw fear.
It makes sense that “European” sounds like “You’re a-peein’,” since “Europe” is our pee.
The Russians better watch out for Kamala Harris, since her name rearranges to spell Am liar shark. (Or Ma Liar Shark).
Joseph Biden presents as a bit more passive, with the anagrams Bed Pies John and Needs hip job.
I don’t know what it means, but Joseph Biden can also be rearranged to spell “Hep jibes, son!” Which sounds like something he’d say.
Most alarming are the Vladimir Putin anagrams: A Invalid Trump,Laid Vain Trump, VIP Admiral Nut, VIP until drama, Mad Turnip Vial, Variant Mud Lip, Invalid Apt. Rum, Animal Turd VIP, Valiant Rum Dip, Timid Pun Larva, Valiant Rump ID, Dim Lava Turnip, Avian Dirt Lump, Valiant Mud Rip, Limp Avian Turd, Putrid Anal Vim (has he sent the assassins after me yet?), Lava Rim Pundit, Invalid Rat Ump, Laid Up Varmint, Maudlin Rat VIP, Diurnal Vat Imp, Plain TV Radium, Primal Nut Diva, And Virtual Imp.
Whereas Ukraine’s “Zelensky” is simply El Zen Sky.
In other world news, “global warming” is a blaming growl,an aging warm boil, and an all raging womb. I like the imagery of the all raging womb of Mother Earth fighting against the aging warm boil of the planet caused by the blaming growl of humans in denial.
That’s all the blog I have time for before whatever it is I do besides blogging. Come visit me on Medium.
are some of the many anagrams for Donald Trump, all of which seem right on point
whereas Joe Biden has very few anagrams, including be joined and I need job.
If I opened up a burrito joint in Alaska, I’d call it Brrritos.
And finally, from my cousins Judi:
Why daydreams but not nightdreams? Is a nightmare a nocturnal horse? Why is there yesterday, today, but no nextday? Why are there day lilies, nightshade, morning glories, evening primrose, but no afternoon flower? Why did humans decide freezing cold climates were OK places to live?
Daisybrain has migrated to two Medium blogs: Daisybrain and OCD-Free. Check out both and please follow!
I attended college in the years that President Reagan was supporting both the brutal South African slave state and murderous right wing terrorists in Central America. It seemed natural to split the world into good and bad. That was perfect for me at my level of moral development, which could be categorized as “absolutist.”
I held that same air of all-knowing rightness when I went to see local bands. On the day of the Spring Festival, I walked around to check out the various bands. I was careful to step over all sidewalk cracks with my right foot. This took some concentration so I wouldn’t have to do a double-step right before a crack. On patches with cracks near one another, I took small steps, on other patches, big steps. I got to an old section of sidewalk that was broken up by lots of cracks created by years of weather. I had to let my left foot walk over a crack now and then, but made up for it by stepping over a whole lot of cracks with my right foot. 19, 20, 21, 22 … that should counter the effects of the one left foot step-over … I also had to drag my toes behind me now and then. I tried to appear to be walking normally, but ever so slightly let the toes of my rear foot scrape the ground. I had no idea that this ritual would wreak havoc on my knees over the years.
There was an alleged rockabilly band playing on a low hill on the edge of campus. I was happy to get off the crack-laden sidewalk. I walked over in my torn jeans and ripped New York Dolls shirt held together by safety pins. In my musical world view, fifties rock’n’roll was an acceptable genre for a punk rocker to like, as well as ska and reggae.
I shouted out requests for Eddie Cochran songs, but the band stuck to more mid-sixties music. I was standing near the back of the sparse crowd, arms folded, only allowing my head to nod to the beat of their better songs. I walked across campus to a group playing original music. They sounded like they were trying to play aggressive rock and roll. I judged all such bands by how much the music sounded like the only real rock and roll band recording at the time, the Ramones, or whether the singer had the same energy and attitude of my friend John back home, who had been the singer of the Panics. The beat here wasn’t quite fast enough to dance to. Plus, the singer didn’t belt out the lyrics in a hybrid of singing and yelling, like John. I would have even been impressed by out-of-tune screaming, but it was just too radio sounding. I stood back, arms folded as usual, trying my best to look somewhere between unimpressed and disapproving. Boring, corporate pseudo-music, I thought.
I felt a compulsion to touch a certain light pole on the edge of the field. I walked by the pole and pretended to be looking for someone and then surreptitiously touched it with my fingers on the way back to where I had been standing. But then, I had to touch it a second time, so I walked back and casually leaned against the pole, my arms folded, touching the right spot on the pole with the fingers of my left hand, under my folded right arm. There was another pole about 20 feet behind me, but I decided that I didn’t need to touch it. If I walked away from my pole, I’d have to go back repeatedly to touch it. Better to stay leaning against it.
I wished that I had a dark pair of sun glasses to complete my detached punk look. As the band played in pointless precision without a hint of rawness or self-depreciation that could have partially redeemed them, I started my huge band-naming ritual, going through a list of all the bands I liked from my record collection. The order always had to be the same: “The Ramones, the Dead Kennedys, the English Beat, Black Flag….” I repeated those four sixteen times, but then realized that I needed to add four more: “The Sex Pistols, Fear, the Rezillos, the Who….” I did eight sets of eight, but then accidentally thought of another great band, the Avengers. So, I had to think of seven more bands. This made the list 16 long, which I repeated 16 times, plus an extra two times in case I had miscounted, along with a few repetitions of the first four bands, ending, of course, with the Ramones. At that point, it hit me that I had to do the same thing over again, but put the whole thing in quotation marks, “Quote the Ramones, the Dead Kennedys….” But then I couldn’t end with the quotation mark version, so I needed to repeat the original version of the list of 16, 16 times. I hardly noticed the live show ending and the crowd trickling away.
It was extremely frustrating that I could never just relax and experience a moment; whatever was going on around me — conversation, class, a party, or that outdoor band playing — I was constantly repeating rituals in my head, touching things, re-reading words over and over, etc. I decided after the spring festival to go to the library that night on campus to see if I could find out anything about my mental condition. It must have a name, maybe even a treatment.
I headed over to the Rockefeller Library and spent several hours looking for information about repetitive habits. Finally, I came across a description of a mental illness called obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. People suffering from OCD felt compulsions to perform repetitive tasks even though they hated doing them. The book didn’t describe my rituals exactly, but I knew that this was it, I had found a description of my condition. It had a name. And this meant that other people suffered from it as well. I felt a wave of relief sweep over me. It was so good to know that it was something real, and I wasn’t alone.
The description of OCD made a lot of sense: it’s a neurosis, not a psychosis, the literature said. That meant that even though they couldn’t stop themselves, sufferers knew that what they were doing was irrational. This knowledge wouldn’t reduce my symptoms, but it was reassuring. I sat at the little library desk smiling and thought, I’m not crazy about being crazy, I really AM crazy!
Back in my dorm room, I took off my shoes, carefully placed them facing the window, touched the doorknob, my record player and the desk. I touched the desk a second time then sat on my bed. I wanted to finish the book I had been reading, Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. I looked at the book, but didn’t open it up. The last time I had tried reading it, I was stuck for hours re-reading the words at the end of one of the pages and I knew that I’d just end up getting stuck again. I looked out the window up at the stars, thinking about the countless beings on other planets who must be looking up at the stars, too. I closed my eyes and focused on sending them a telepathic message: I’m here.
I switched from blogging in WordPress to posting my writing on Medium because WordPress had “updated” to become too annoying to use. I realized when I got to Medium that it’s a paid service. Visitors can see a few articles every month for free but then have to join Medium for full access to content like my blog.
I am asking you to join Medium. I don’t know what they charge per month – I don’t have to join to read my blog posts – but if you join, you will have unfettered access to all of the wacky and insightful daisybrain content you have begrudgingly become accustomed to, *PLUS* my 2nd medium blog, where I post articles of a more spiritual nature.
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Republicans keep accusing Democrats of attacking Trump Court nominee Amy Coney Barrett’s faith. It’s a kind of pre-emptive attack, since Democrats aren’t engaging in the argument at all. It’s a Wizard of Oz moment: Pay no attention to the man behind the screen.
The man behind the screen is patriarchy. I couldn’t care less about which religion Barrett ascribes to. Yes, Barrett is a cult member, but not because her specific faction of Catholicism is a cult, but because all religions are cults — Patriarchal cults.
There is a bizarre notion that a strong woman can be a feminist while enthralled by patriarchal anti-egalitarian beliefs. That ain’t feminism. The founding principle of feminism is that all people, regardless of sex and gender, are of equal value. An obvious corollary is that everyone can control their own bodies and consensual reproductive behavior. Someone who says they value the life of a zygote as much as an actualized human woman is not a feminist. A person who believes that a male god put women on Earth to serve their husbands is not a feminist, even if she also believes that God wants her to be a Supreme Court judge.
The purpose of every religion is to maintain social order, to keep societies functioning. The myths of religions can put order to people’s understanding of the universe, but the primary reason we have religion is to keep the rulers in charge, and the rulers are generally men. You may have been taught that religion exists to make people moral, that without a document saying “thou shall not kill,” people would go about killing each other every time someone is cut off in traffic. But the top-tier function of religion is to control the masses of people so that some people can have unchallenged power and jurisdiction of other people.
How can an ordinary, or even a super-super-intelligent ordinary person fall for this? How can a person of color support a white supremacist president, or a woman believe her role is to serve men? It’s called internalized oppression: Internalized racism, internalized sexism, internalized homophobia. That’s the power of culture — it indoctrinates from an early age; its toxic beliefs are passed on even unintentionally by adults to children. It can make a small fish think it’s being true to itself by serving a shark.
There are a lot of great spinoffs to religion: songs that make you feel good, bake sales…. But those are things that have been invented by the cult members to make the cult more palatable, to enhance the feeling of community and to comfort people is distress. As good as those things are, they don’t erase the fundamental fact that the congregants are members of a patriarchal cult designed to maintain the dominion of men over others.
Note: This article was originally posted to my OCD-Free blog on Medium (which you should all be following). However, because it doesn’t fit well with the theme of that blog, I have decided to remove it and place it here, where no one cares. If you miss Daisybrain posts, and I know you do, follow both of my Medium blogs:
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This is my 2006 report on the structural violence of institutional racism and poverty that produce an inadequate and unequal public school system in the United States. The case study is of Central High School in Providence, Rhode Island:
Central High School
Here are two large posters that I created that show the Citric Acid Cycle and Photosynthesis: