TerryWalstrom

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Posts by TerryWalstrom

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  7

  A Cat's Last Emily (Emily's Last Cat)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a cat's last emily (emily's last cat) __________.

  lifting her elbow up off of her cat.

  emily whispered, .

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• 

  TerryWalstrom

  Thank you.
  
  I woke this morning missing my old friend, Quincy. We were JW's together since the age of 13. He died two years ago and the sound of my phone not ringing is the saddest sound of all.
  
  HOME IS WHERE YOUR HEART IS

  If willows had wings and wasps could sing
  If flurries of snowfall were blue
  The roar of the Nile and its proud crocodiles
  Would carry me back home to you

  If pennies were time, I’d buy for a dime
  An echo of you for a day
  And then I could tell the old wishing well
  To carry me back home to you

  The wind comes along just to whisper your song
  Then turns out its pockets for me
  That broken old moon has spoken and soon
  Will carry me back home to you

  If death had no sting every church bell would ring
  If tears made a sound in the night
  The angels could listen and thunder would glisten
  And carry me back home to you

  Time spins to an end and I’ll find you, old friend
  A beautiful lie must be true
  IF it rains pennies fall and we'll pay one and all
  When they carry me back home to you

  (In Memory of my friend Quincy Roberts)
  ___________**_________

  
  
  
• 
  7

  A Cat's Last Emily (Emily's Last Cat)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a cat's last emily (emily's last cat) __________.

  lifting her elbow up off of her cat.

  emily whispered, .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  Thanks for the encouraging words.
  It was early this morning when a short phrase worked its way into my head.
  It interested me for some strange reason. It had a kind of lilt to it and was suggestive of an idea. "Lifting her elbow up off of her cat" was all I had.
  I had no idea where it would take me. So, what I did was select a piece of very evocative music to play through my earphones that would impel me to write in a stream of consciousness. The music was Emmanuel by Michael Colombier and played by Chris Botti.
  
  The rest happened organically right down to the last stanza when I got stuck. I wanted it to end the same way it began; melancholy but happy. But no--the music had its way and poor Emily never made it back up the stairs.
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClMTuUwl0tg

  
  
  
  I've been told this was a bit on the dark and side side--so--I've been moved to write a brief epilogue:
  
  EPILOGUE
  (The landlord sits reading by her window at night
  In her lap sits a book, a new cat block's the light
  No longer lonely with this grateful Le Chat
  The cat she names "Emily" ( Emily's last cat.)

  
  
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

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• 

  TerryWalstrom

  All week long I've been reading about the history of banks in the U.S
  The idea of doing business without using, touching, or carrying actual gold or silver came about this way:
  At a certain point in history, trading and barter became very burdensome. Coining valuable metal into portable currency seemed a better alternative. Not ideal, but better than barter. Local lending institutions with trusted operators became necessary. Poor people did NOT trust a National Bank over a Local Bank for a long time. Why? Because they were run by strangers and the opportunity for locals to keep an eye on the bankers was not possible or to judge their character.

  Local banks were run by people they knew.

  The eventual solution? FREE BANKING ERA.
  
  Local Banks could do as they pleased as long as funds were backed by an equal amount of gold on hand and on demand. Free banking spread rapidly to other states, and from 1840 to 1863 all banking business was done by state-chartered institutions.

  The legitimacy of any bank was solely determined by the LAWS passed locally or nationally to monitor and control operations.
  
  “Wildcat” banking appeared because local laws could be “relaxed” by local politicians, cronies, and double-dipping investors!

  NOTE: Banknotes were issued against little or no security, and credit was over-expanded. The borrower couldn’t pay back the loan and the local economy became depressed (the payback funds were necessary for the Bank to make new loans).
  
  What remedy was possible?
  Federal Laws were enacted to examine and regulate all banks and bring currencies in use into harmony.
  THE NATIONAL BANK ACT radically changed how banks operated.
  Local banks which refused to abide were taxed until they came in line and agreed.
  To compete with National Banks, State Banks created a new invention: the Checking Account. Customers could pay their bills and buy goods WITHOUT DEMANDING GOLD from the local bank’s on hand reserves.
  During the Civil War, the Federal need for funds to fight the war led to the selling of Government Bonds (I.O.U.’s + interest) citizens purchased on promise of repayment and profit.
  As the Age of Industry began, banks began investing in commercial enterprises by lending money to entrepreneurs for startup, equipment, etc. The interest charged added to the bank reserves on hand.
  
  The whole idea of using paper money, Bonds, IOU's, promissory notes made "cashless" transaction possible as more and more people began to TRUST that somewhere somebody had gold or silver on hand to back up the transactions.
  
  Human beings are not trustworthy when they get the chance to steal or gain advantage.
  So?
  So, after banks failed, the Federal Government stepped in and guaranteed local banks up to a certain amount. This was to instill trust (even when trust was illusory)
  The big financial meltdown in 2008 came because untrustworthy people did untrustworthy things such as selling houses to customers without enough collateral.
  Why would Lenders do that?
  2 reasons
  1. An act of Congress made them do it
  2. Banks could sell the "bad paper" to Wall Street
  Who went to prison for any of this?
  I don't know--you tell me? Nobody is what I'd say.
  Why nobody? Because Congress made it possible and Congress jumped in and supported the Too Big To Fail stop gap financing. TRUST was purchased. CONFIDENCE was purchased. With what money and from where? From future taxpayers.
  
  That's right. People who aren't yet born.
  Money from nothing.
  
  Who do we owe all those TRILLIONS to? Each other.
  We pay taxes. The government spends tax money not yet collected by borrowing.
  Banks, the Treasury, the Fed all participate in a mostly illusory leveraging of the future to pay for the present.
  
  Those who get angry fall into two categories.
  1. Those who see nothing wrong with this and say it will all be okay, so shut the hell up.
  2. Those who become convinced a vast conspiracy is involved.
  
  What do I think? I think no conspiracy is necessary when most of what happens is made
  legal by politicians acting in public (getting voter approval) who are paid to grease the wheels of fiat money and future leveraging.
  
  The so-called 1% is enabled by voters, if you come right down to it.
  If regular civilians could spend like crazy and not pay their bills--(Big Brother will step in and pay) almost everybody would. But hey--a great many citizens live beyond their means using credit to purchase goods and services--all on a PROMISE to PAY.
  In other words: we all do it--"money for nothing and the chicks are free."
• 
  7

  A Cat's Last Emily (Emily's Last Cat)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a cat's last emily (emily's last cat) __________.

  lifting her elbow up off of her cat.

  emily whispered, .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  A CAT'S LAST EMILY (Emily's last cat)
  __________

  Lifting her elbow up off of her cat

  Emily whispered,

  "Now, where is my hat?"
  
  

  Barefoot she tiptoed embarrassed how late

  she'd be for the Metro, then shrugged, "Such is fate."
  
  

  Older is slower and patience is best

  There's no sense in rushing, the long game is best

  A gentleman's waiting is proof of desire

  Winter is calling and passion is fire
  
  

  Emily, wrapped in her ermine and pearls

  long ago best of the Paris street girls,

  Met her first sailor and right from the start

  Lost both her innocence and most of her heart
  
  

  Life, silly sad game of both give and take;

  Losing a lover and lying awake

  Cling to sad memories old songs tear apart

  He's an old photo and love's an old art
  
  

  Emily, slow now and barely alive,

  reckons this winter is one to survive

  Beauty's illusions work best in the dark

  She's the magician to kindle that spark
  
  

  Money is money and dreams are for fools

  Actresses’ practices break all the rules

  Pocket her money, take off her hat

  A little of this (and a whole lot of that)
  
  

  Snowfall comes early, the Metro is late

  Shivering Emily is down by the gate

  Reach for his photo and manage one tear

  Darkness moves closer and closes the year.
  
  

  Somewhere an ambulance wails in the dark

  Neighbors awake at a dog's plaintive bark

  None but the cat at the top of the stairs

  Senses her passing much less even cares
  
  

  Closing her eyes the last starlight fell

  on Emily's story with no one to tell

  Somewhere a sailor startles awake

  Clasping his chest at a sudden heartbreak.

  ____

  EPILOGUE

  (The landlord sits reading by her window at night

  In her lap sit a book, a new cat block's her light

  No longer lonely with this grateful Le Chat

  A cat she names "Emily" ( Emily's last cat.)

  _______________
• 
  5

  A (true) Horror story

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a horror story (true)1970. we’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.well, this is that place.

  right here.i’m standing in john’s house in the kitchen.

  it’s murky inside this old place.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I think naive people don't trust their negative feelings about other people--only their positive.
  Lots of little moments of dissonance arose and I pushed them aside.
  I think it happens in marriage too when one partner is cheating on another. That tingly sensibility that whispers, "Beware" is there for a reason.
  If humans possess any instincts (I believe they do) it should be the negative ones we listen to best; the warning feelings something just isn't right.
• 
  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I kept asking myself why a government would want to punish people with a conscience.
  Ah, but I was asking the wrong question. The law of the land was to allow Conscientious Objectors to perform Alternate Service (usually in a hospital). In fact, I had successfully argued my case before my local Draft Board and was assigned hospital duty in Terrell hospital which was for mental patients.
  My question should have been, "Why is my conscience being hijacked by my religion and my legal alternative being subverted?"
  
  
• 
  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

  1. 
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  3. 
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  TerryWalstrom

  I didn't mention what Hoetzler looked like.
  He looked totally the opposite of intimidating.
  He wore thick glasses--almost so thick you'd think he was joking.
  He was bald on top but his hair was a bit wild on the sides and kept too long.
  He had a kind of caterpillar of hair across the top of his lip and it had never seen trimming.
  I could see how he'd have been picked on as a child. He looked like a natural born victim.
  But if he ever looked at you--straight on--into your eyes--that was more than creepy!
  It was like standing outside staring into the sun; you had to look away. Only--it was darkness blinding you.
  
  Funny how some people you meet just fall into a special category: unforgettable.
  I've done some internet searches for my old prison buddies and when I do occasionally
  find one, I've never had Hoetzler come to mind so's I'd talk about him.
  I'm sure they'd remember--but only the silliness of his appearance. That's what throws you.
  It looks like if you ever spoke with him it would be a laugh. Ha! not this guy.
  Not this guy.
• 
  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  THE PAINTING HOUSE (A prison memory)

  "Your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in. One minute safe; next minute not."
  
  The old inmate leaned forward on his bunk and scared the living shit out of me.
  He swung his huge face toward me like a weapon, with a half-lid eye and let his lower jaw jut forward.
  But-It was his voice--cracked and booming--like a bell down in hell that startled me.
  I was a fool for asking. You never ever ask. But I didn't know. I was about to find out why. You never ask a man in prison why he's in there. For god's sake; he just might answer you.

  "When Grampa Carl come in. We kids froze. Little rabbits we was. Who was he gonna pick? We shiver and don't never look up. Cuz, one thing for damn sure, one of us he gonna take to the Painting House."

  "What's a Painting House?"
  The inmate sniffed the air like a bloodhound onto the scent.
  I could see awful memories flood in--it was on his face. Nothing was as ugly as that thing crawling into his head.

  "When Grampa Carl take you into the Painting House--when you come out--you be painted red with blood and you be painted blue with welts and bruises. And you never gonna be right no more."

  The story this man told me I've never spoken aloud . I wouldn't be telling it now except--I just woke up a little before 2 a.m. with it staring me in the face with a half-lid eye. A bad dream? Sure. Why now? Don't know.

  If I tell--it might go away.

  ______
  His name was Hoetzler ("hurt slur") I've forgotten his first name.
  I wish I could forget what he told me--I thought I did forget.
  I guess not.

  Hoetzler felt "odd" as a kid. Something was different inside him from other kids--he was sure. He had five brothers, reared on a farm, worked like a mule as most kids were back then. The older he got the meaner he grew, and soon he was stealing apples, setting fires, and getting into fights.
  By age 11, he ended up in Juvenile Court on a drunk and disorderly charge. His parents refused to vouch for him before the judge.
  He was sent to Minnesota State Training School where he met "Grampa Carl" and found out about the Painting House.
  While he was there, he was repeatedly beaten, tortured, and raped by a frightening son-of-a-bitch named "Grampa Carl" a demonic fella in charge of the youngest kids in reform school. Grampa had been a coach before State Training School. He found a better opportunity working with troubled kids, to teach them the lesson of life he lived by: "Trouble brings trouble."
  
  Hoetzler hated that shed where the sporting equipment was kept, the Painting House, so much he told me he had set fire to it and got away with it. The other kids knew he'd done it--but they'd never tell.
  When his stint in the Minnesota State Training School ended he was sent back home to the farm where he stole money from his mother and was beaten by his dad. He ran away and hopped freight trains to escape and ended up in one hobo camp after another when he was abused.
  
  When he was old enough, he enlisted in the Army. He lied about who he was and where he was from and a kindly recruiting sergeant filled out the necessary papers for him.
  It didn't take long before he ended up in Fort Leavenworth's Disciplinary Barracks. With a dishonorable discharge he set off on a career stealing bicycles, cars and even yachts. From bad to worse, leaving a trail of misery and wreckage in his wake, Hoetzler never seemed to find a way to stay out of trouble.
  The man rattled off a list of prisons he'd been in I couldn't possibly remember now. I was impressed.
  After his last crime spree, he found himself holed up in a mission on the border of Texas where a priest taught him how to paint.
  
  "Father Antonio calmed my anger. It was the afternoons--in the rectory with two easels and a palette of colored paints. He's the only man who ever cared about me."
  
  Inmate Hoetzler had left the mission and Father Antonio behind and set off to find his way back home after all those years on the road. But stealing a car and driving across state lines with an underage girl was not the best way to stage a homecoming.
  Instead, he was seated on a bunk next to me spilling his guts.
  He did so, I believe, because he heard I was convicted of the crime of religious conscience and somehow--I suppose--he associated that with Father Antonio.
  We talked about art and about god and some pretty horrifying crimes he'd committed.
  Like I said before, his weird eyes and deep voice were so unsettling...
  Anyway, we were interrupted by something or other and I never spoke to him again.
  Every day I'd walk by his cell and see him painting. The weirdest memory is that he'd only do clown paintings--really disturbing ones. He had no discernible talent--but he sure had the imagination of a devil.
  
  That's not much of an ending--more of a memory torn loose from it's nest way deep inside my subconscious. I've tried to get rid of Hoetzler's place in my life but it never goes away.
  I've written horror stories with him as the main character as a kind of exorcism. It doesn't work.
  I guess he's hitched a ride in my mind. I can't chase him away.
  This morning he returned.
  
  I'm sorry but this is my way of trying again to rid myself of him.
  I've given him to you.
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  This is where I got my source information:
  https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2015/1/12/1357390/-Creating-money-out-of-thin-air
  
  _____
  
  The only conspiracy theory I ever fell for was the one promulgated by the Watchtower.
  I married into a Jewish family and 3 of my kids are Jewish. So, the idea that I buy into anti-Jew theories is a non-starter. My in-laws are about the best people I know. My sister-in-law is orthodox and I find her a bit ditzy--but--she'd be ditzy even if she were a WASP.
  
  If the article I read (above) is just dead wrong, then I apologize for reporting it as though it were a well-researched bit of discovery. I'm more interested in the essential facts about how financial institutions get away with what they do. Paying a million dollar fine, for a company bringing in billions, just seems so crooked it's unbelievable unless Congress is lining its pockets with legal bribery.
  I'm not a political person. I've never voted. But I certainly do see $$ and malfeasance all over the place.
• 
  5

  A (true) Horror story

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a horror story (true)1970. we’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.well, this is that place.

  right here.i’m standing in john’s house in the kitchen.

  it’s murky inside this old place.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  I realized I had made 2 really terrible character judgments which were dead wrong by this time and it shook me. First, was the inmate in prison who assaulted me. I had thought he just wanted his Bible questions answered. (Idiot me!)
  John Day was #2.
  Talk about a steep learning curve!