Not Winning Jackpot Nullifies My Narcissism                                                  

                    draeko damen      Damen Smith Linked In_01

At the risk of coming off incredibly more conceited than the title suggests, even from an early age, I was made to think there was a difference between me – and those telling me – that I was somehow unusual. Harry Potter has had it happen to him. You’ve had it happen to you. It’s probably something that happens to all academics. Most of us have had it said to us at least one point in our lives, by parents (not mine), or a teacher, or our best friends and lovers. My parents weren’t of that generation that even knew they were supposed to be the beacons of inspiration to their children.  Fortunately, as I’ve hinted at earlier, it’s not always the parents that warm your heart or inspire your mind to achieve beyond the sum of all your parts. Mine left this type of motivation to the outside world, to the streets, to nature, to God, and (most importantly) Santa, all of whom somehow convincing me that I was special. Although the latter rarely showed up.

I was led to believe that I was one step before short yellow bus, and a little close to being a very touching ABC afterschool… special.

Yep. At one point I was certain (with some scientific method applied) that I was psychic, possessed innate elemental gifts, a whisperer to the four-legged, and that I had a unique place in the universe. As child of the 60’s, growing up in the 70’s, such deductions were gotten fairly. With all the mojo and hoo-doo of that age, how could I have not eventually come to this way of thinking? Still, even though most of those hippy-based hopes have waned since my innocence crashed in 2008, there are still glaring remnants of it behind my smile, staring back full in the mirror.

So at least once a week, sometimes even twice depending on any “disposable cash” – and I am speaking in relative terms her, because my ducats are not, by any stretch of the imagination, ‘disposable’. Truth, I should be mentally insane right now, as penny pinchy as Jack Benny, and only spending anything when it’s essential. And then only after Congressional oversight. With my ‘disposable’ change, comes the purchase of a lottery ticket.

Sometimes it’s Lotto. Mostly it’s Powerball and Mega Millions. Never have done Scratch though.

An even line between narcissistic delusions of grand entitlement and distracted hope, the numbers are either carefully conceived or calculated, occasionally picked randomly en route, or they are derived from objects with digits beyond the 7-Eleven window. Aware that it’s almost a one in a 300 million chance of winning if I play, all those numbers would be reduced to total zero if I do not. So with that cheap preschool number two pencil (sometimes bringing one of my own, sometimes putting the number two because it’s the type of pencil) my vanity is then indulged. With this minute scribbler comes an existential confidence that I’m somehow chosen by heaven to win. Size does not matter.

After that deed is done. I fantasize about what I would do if I woke up a Monday multimillionaire. Those who took me in when I had nowhere to go. Those who gifted me with a coat for the cold, the people and learning institution to whom I am in debt, I would thank them and the Academy. Where would I live? Would I build or just buy? Would I stay where it is too very often rainy and gray? Would I, mere hours later, ride out in that R8, the one that’s taunted me from behind that show window? A road trip? Orthodontic work? Electrolysis? Hair transplant? There would definitely be yoga and a gym membership in the plan.

The odds are astronomical. But so is life. The universe loves me. There’s magic in my bones.

But what about these poor, unfortunate souls who actually won?  I would hope to have a bit more savvy than that. Still, that delusional narcissism is in here. It hints that I may one day be there, either through hard work or windfall.

The work has been hard! Today was the perfect day, me doing perfect thing. Stars are properly aligned – somewhere. I am set.

It is now the next day. And though it’s not the first thing done, having taken a walk out for some chai with a friend who’s letting me couch surf a bit, at last the Internet browser is engaged, the beach head of the lottery page invaded.

Scattered on the sands lay the torn remnants of red and white shredded tickets, the casualties of torn dreams. The cold slap in the face of surf and tide reminds, with a sobering wet, that neither life nor universe is fair.  The screech of a gull frustrated that its paper and not mana, suggests that maybe it’s about impartiality.

Why even contribute to the “poor man’s tax?” The motivation is quite primitive. Playing feels like hope. Maybe there are even varying degrees of faith, a faith in chance, along with egocentric conviction in one’s own uniqueness.

My needs so few these days, any lottery jackpot would be more than enough to reach comfort in retirement. Phyllis Diller (rest in peace) said, during her 2006 with Home Media Magazine, “Now that I’m really old, I realize one of the things it takes a lot of money to buy is silence.”<source of quote>

After watching that interview, that statement always stuck with me. Growing through a loud, often socially challenging background, the silence of libraries with sunlight and lots of alpine foliage is what I’ve continuously coveted. The rain is gone at the moment. Gold from the sky, illuminates the green all around me. Mostly conifer, some deciduous, it’s a welcomed kind of green.

It’s time to go about my day, mindful of debt, my soul chastened, not a muggle, and certainly not in possession of any practical magic.

 

 

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The Sheer Barbarism of Local News

With a new outlook in life, a death of the old, and a birth of the new, I’ve come to find my voice. I’ve come to notice more things that I had heretofore ignored or had just taken for granted, like most of us seem to be doing.

Yesterday, on my first Mother’s Day, I was watching the local news at a friend’s house, on whose couch I’ve been surfing for the past two weeks, and I remembered why I stopped watching local news in my previous life.

Local news sucks major dingleberry.

There was one report of a truck losing control and running up a ramp and injuring one person.

Yeah. That’s terrible. And it would suck to be the person driving that truck, just as it would most definitely stink to high heaven to be the person on the other side of that grill.

But why is this news? Why does anyone other than the immediate family members or the emergency response teams involved need to know about this? Either of which would have their own notification systems in place. So, what’s the point of reporting this?

Why would every other person, not involved with this need to know that it happened? If either person has a family or an ICE, no doubt they’d be notified.  And as horrific an event as this is, there is no reason why I or you need to know of it.

Why is this news?

It isn’t.

It’s an event that occurred that some talking heads have deemed worthy to bring into our living rooms, not to build empathy – because this is not the Age of Empathy at all, but the Age of the Villian – but to boost their ratings.

And you get a clear idea of the callousness behind this horse-toothed reporting when they boast of being “the first to report it”.

This is madness beyond reckoning. And it needs to stop.

And the scariest part of it all is: turning off the local news, lowering their coveted ratings, would only result in them “creating” news. No, I’m not calling out “fake”.  But ala the Rodney King Riots and the irresponsible reporting thereof, I’m calling this out as being needlessly alarmist for the sake of them being on the air, for the sake of sponsors hawking local car insurance or second rate plumbing services.

Hey, we’ve all got to eat.

But my take: If it’s not relevant to national security, and overall public health and safety, or national politics, then we don’t need to hear about it.

#turningofflocalnews

Draeko Dahmen

The Little Things…

This photo up top is of my temporary art table.

Yep.

That is my bed.

That’s Archimedes in the background. He’s a little bi polar. He doesn’t talk or anything, but he’s been with me through thick and thin over the past 8+ years.

archimedes(bullet point 01)

(He does suprisingly well in the spinning cycle.)

Sitting in his lap, (in the first photo) that’s another little varmint I picked up. I chose to name him Ros Ghoul. (the ears of some comic book nerd is burning right now)

Is it weird to look into the eyes of a stuffed toy and see within them a sparkle of unbridled joy? No matter what their caregiver may be experiencing, those things mirror the pleasure we have for living that I think at one point was within all of us. Those of us who are adults now.

Still, I like to think of them, Archimedes Polium (his full name) and Ros, both as horcruxes of the positive magic. (Harry Potter fan nerd-gasm happening somewhere now) All my best vibes into these guys.

Oh yeah, art table. Working on one of my heroes right now, two of them actually. I just went back to do a once over her (the hero) before the shading process. All four heroes of the team should be done by the weekend.

Patriot from the Shadows

Moments of insecurity, in a world so shaken.
We wonder.
How tomorrow will be, though we endeavor to appreciate the Now.
Moments of clarity, in a world waiting bated.
The thunder.
In our dreamboxes and Pandoran lifestyles, on the eve of precedence, the calm cushions us.
The sun itself offers a rare warmth to its autumn beam this day.
What clouds or what beams come dawn, we shall face come what may.

Mary May

 

What can anyone say to the mysteries of life? We plan it one way, and it ends up another. Though we try with all our might to make a different path.

But who can know?

What will happen, when your foot steps out of that door, past that threshold?

No one knows.

And besides, the ultimate end is death anyway.

Who has ever escaped that?

I’m going to ignore the religious based comments on this one, because… Well, that’s quite frankly a quagmire.

To be happy.

The attempt to be such while being responsible and of a mind to take ownership of one’s own antics.

But getting caught up in pride, and ego, that’s no way to do it either.

The trick is to find the middle ground, between vanity and humility. But how do you accomplish this with a thin skin?

And if you developed a thick skin, then wouldn’t you also be adding to the woes of the world?

So, many questions.

So many answers to even more questions.

Oh, there is that feeling.

When one believes in himself or some external force.

It’s when the group think kicks in the midst that it becomes a hassle to the rest of us.

Why is that?

When did this begin among humanity?

What I am meaning to ask is when that incorporated neurosis became a part of the human protocol of communication with one another?

The world is burning around me and I’m seeking happiness?

What … Is there something wrong with this picture?

Who’s to say?

Who’s to determine the single world direction of human kind?

There can only be war to homeostasis.

If nothing else a war of wills until if/when we evolve.

So many factors may offer hurdles preventing us from achieving that potential.

Factors geographic and meteorological come to mind initially.

Mankind has to determine what we want.

Do we want Beethoven or Mozart?

Do we want traditional music, or electronic?

Electronic music would make sense, wouldn’t it?  We generate product of decadence with the materials we have conquered as a species, as a civilization. When we conquered rock and stone, our instruments were rock and stone. When we conquered wind and air our instruments were made of wind and air. Now that we have conquered the binary, in a sense, our instruments would fall onto an electronic/computer based material base.

Autumn Begotten

Fear always comes to mind. It is such a tool, in both the good sense and the bad. For the good, it teaches us to be wary of potential foes – if we are fortunate – and for the bad it can lead to delusional thinking and paranoia.

Again, finding the middle ground between the two seems the only logical decision at this time.

The world has caught up to me. What I used to write about in my comic books when I was a boy, at least the gadgetry, has come to roost, the bad leadership across the board, a good many of it.

I am a bit disappointed however that there are not (flying) cars en masse as the Jetson’s promised.  There are some, just not on the mass market. And in even deeper introspection regarding my desire to see flying cars, I must ask myself if whether or not the future where human kind was not as distracted to handle flying cars en masse was a part of that futuristic wish.

One would hope that it would have been.

Because as it is now, I don’t think anyone would want their personal residences, places where they sleep, in the potential risk range of a drunken flying car driver or one texting his girlfriend to come crashing through their living rooms.

I personally think the only reason why they aren’t in production on the same level as the automobile is because the military, for a whole host of reasons, wouldn’t ever sign off on them.

Most of those reasons valid.

I guess there could be zones where they could be permitted, but would there be any air traffic control involved?

How would that even work?

First World question: Is life so much a pain all the time? Or is it our perceptions of it? Is ambition a bad thing?

There is a Buddhist saying that desire is the cause of all suffering.

 

Draeko ~ try being as much as you are thinking