The Meanest Man in the World.

Tom was not a nice man. No one was surprised when he was shot dead in the street. When I say Tom was not nice, I am really saying he was the meanest kind of mean. Tom did not care for anyone, but  himself. He was never nice or friendly. Even as a child Tom was cruel and withdrawn. His baby sister was born when he was five. Tom could not care less for the most part, he just hated the crying. The day his sister came home from the hospital, Tom was angered at her crying. What was mean Tom’s response? He walked right up to her as she set in her car seat in the floor and punched her square in the nose. Twice. Tom was the kind of man who would kick your dog after it got hit by a semi.
    His neighbors hated him, but not as much as he hated them. Missing pets and assault charges were regular events. Tom was no stranger to the justice system. He spent several of his nights in the town jail. Once Tom broke a coffee cup over a stranger’s head simply for making eye contact. Needless to say Tom had many enemies, basically the whole state of Mississippi loathed the guy. Most everyone knew of Tom’s pure meanness and terrible temper.
    Tom got mad at even the thought of a pin dropping. Over the years he had hospitalized dozens of people, including three cops. The fact that someone finally shot him in the face was no shocker. His temper was so bad he was bound to eventually anger the wrong person. He had been shot at several times. Some called him the luckiest meanest man in the world. This day, however Tom’s luck ran out. He angered the wrong person.
    The police write up was simple.

Male 57, Self-inflicted gun shot to the head, dead on arrival.

It seems Tom finally ticked off the meanest man in the world, himself.

Train of Thought Free Writing

Explosions of mercy that rain down upon me remind me of hoping for more than I have now somewhere in time you learn to settle for less than you deserve sometimes you find that what you seek is more than what you can find other times those things that you seek are not truly what you need what you need can be much more simple than what you might wish wishing and hoping is not futile as they provide you with happiness and joy but sometimes joy can only be found within your own mind someone once said that all that you hate will become what you love and what you loathe will become what you need the nature of addiction is such that it twists you and breaks up your dreams dreams are like mercy bringing peace to your soul I find it best to avoid those things which take control of our motives unless those things be pure darkness will shatter the strongest of minds given time you will find that your resolution has been chiseled to nothing and you are lost in despair sin is a tricky thing that makes you less than you could be so much less than you should be the devil will hurt you he will hit you where you feel you are the strongest he will cut you so deep and carve away the last bit of your humanity we are to be Christ like this is never easy but pays off in times to come a little suffering now is better than damnation down the road what does it mean to be pure and hopeful and joyful and glad where will you find happiness and the escape you so desperately seek for yourself the answers are found deep within the precious Word the things that you seek shall be found through patience and above all obedience.

A Poem

She entraped my mind and set my soul free to fly through the sky
Now she has me on a roll, as my heart it rests at night needing not to flee anymore
She has what I have been seeking, She's got my love racing to her now
Her love is a blessing that lets me know I can not run I can not run
The days fly by, oh it's so fun with her the sun is shining evermore
Sure there are clouds, but she shines through to the light
I no longer feel lonely in the crowds, instead I can stand firm in the night
I lay my head down and I can not help but smile, I know she'll be there for an everlasting while
She settles me down while making me love her like a wild fire
She is my flower she is my power child
She takes my mind and she rocks it around, holds it close and keeps it near
There is no need to fear she will surely surely be near
Oh my child my my my child
Never mild, always mine, always there to spice up, spice up my life

A Short Story

Joe was not a complicated man, well no more complicated than most men in an institution. Few of the staff really knew Joe's story. Joe had forgotten it long ago. All that was left for him was his daily routine. Breakfast and overpowered anti-psychotics at 6 am. Play therapy, the Legos really seemed to help his attitude, at 7:15. Free time till 10, the pills and Andy Griffith reruns kept him chillaxed most days. Game time at 10, don't cheat he knows when you cheat. Lunch precisely at noon, Joe loves orange jello. Pet therapy at 11, don't give him a bird.. and on the day drags till lights out at 9 pm. All was fine so long as no one cheated, birds were not involved and above all the schedule stayed in tact. Joe went years like this with very few incidents, there was however the two parakeets... shudder. After almost 10 years of the same thing day by day Joe's facility began to lose funding. Lost funding meant some patients had to be moved to other facilities. Joe bingoed and was soon headed for another place in another town. Chief medical officer Dr. Mazey was tasked with breaking the news to the patients. He coldly told most in clinical and orderly fashion... He saved Joe for last. He was afraid. genuinely afraid of Joe's potential reaction. Joe was a big man and before settling into his routine a decade ago, a terrifyingly violent man. Dr. Mazey cautiously walked up to Joe with several orderlies standing by. “Joe I have some news.” “We have lost our grant and have to move some of the patients to other facilities.” Joe grunted. “We have to move you tomorrow, Joe.” “I'm sorry.” Joe mumbled something unintelligible as Dr. Mazey walked away. Craaunch. That is the sound everyone described as the sound the good doctors neck made as Joe grabbed him by the hair and violently snapped him around as he tried to walk away. It should be noted that no one actually said that because no one survived. It was a massacre. Joe went completely berserk and destroyed the life force of everyone in that room. When the police arrived those from other parts of the facility were standing outside. The police headed for the room noted by the staff. There they found Joe huddled in the corner mumbling something about feathers and gravy. The dead were everywhere. Joe smelled the fear on the officers and charged Officer Hind from the corner. She shot on instinct.... Joe has a new schedule now. The grass is cut every Thursday afternoon. Every year on the date of the massacre, Officer Hind visits Joe. She leaves a flower for the man she never knew. His grave reads Joe Hind Lost Soul December 5, 1964-October 3, 2014. Her mother never told her about her father, she found out the very hard way....

Dauphin Island

Just a couple photos this time, no intellectual comments other than to say God is great!

The Man in the Knit Hat

The man was getting older. He wore a knit hat and set comfortably in the aged, but not quite ragged chair. He sat there staring through large framed eye glasses with a half-smile on his mouth and a full one in his eyes. Those eyes had seen good times and bad. They had seen his own suffering and those around him. They were the eyes of a servant. One who had spent his years caring much more about others than he did himself. A man who had dedicated his life to help save souls and give others hope. Those eyes could be stern, but never cruel. He had lived long enough to know what life was all about. He knew somethings were too good to be true and knew that the world was not in the practice of handing out favors. He also knew that God was no respecter of persons, but sometimes looking at his blessings this could be hard to believe. He wasn't rich. The money he made went to others for support or donation. He had the kind of blessings every child of God either longed for or already had. He had his love, both that which he gave and received. He had a beautifully wonderful bride who had been by his side for almost fifty years. He could rest comfortably knowing they would have all of eternity. He had four children who loved him very much. His grown sons did not mind kissing their blessed father in public. He was loved by many Christians throughout the country. He had left his mark on a number of congregations throughout this country and beyond. The marks were not scars, they were emblems of loving service and tender dedication. He is the best man I'll ever know. He is my father, my guide, my protector and friend.   

Art vs. Entertainment. Ready set Go.

What is that separates art from entertainment? What features does a particular medium of art have that gives it value beyond entertainment? What gives a piece of art value and substance? The modernist thinkers would have one believe that it is the unique nature of the medium and the piece that separates it from being simply a means of entertainment. According to their line of thought, the piece of art has to have certain characteristics unique to its medium. They also believe that it must be unique within the medium as well.

I thoroughly agree that a piece should be unique and stand apart from other pieces in some considerable manner. I do not, however, agree with the idea that it has to have certain characteristics of its medium. I understand and appreciate the fact that art is often made within a certain medium. I do not think that art has to be locked into one medium with certain characteristics. Is my painting any less of a painting if I paint it on a sphere? Is that sphere any less of a sculpture because it is painted? I present that it is both a sculpture and a painting and that it does not necessarily capture key elements of either medium. My point is that mediums can be, and often, are mixed. The object in question does not have all the qualities of either medium, but is still art.

Another thought to be considered is the idea that by questioning and being critical of what is art we are strengthening art itself. Questioning something one believes and honors will often strengthen his or her belief in the matter. Art is no less art because it is questioned, in fact the examination will only prove it even more to be art. The concept and reality of art is so firmly rooted in our minds and in fact that examination will not weaken it, but instead will strengthen it. If one begin to question and be critical of the idea that a dog is an animal then honest and factual investigation would simply lead the individual to the conclusion that the dog is indeed an animal. On the other hand, if one was prejudice and illogical then they might come to the conclusion that the dog is not an animal. That seems silly and irrational, but when one is clouded in their thoughts and ignore facts then erroneous conclusions are reached. The same can be said of one’s opinion of art. If “Bob” is irrationally convinced that art is simply entertainment and does not logically sort through the facts, then “Bob” is probably not going to be convinced otherwise. Ultimately art is of value beyond entertainment regardless of what someone thinks.