Alien DNA

DNA AS ALIEN NANO-TECH : DARWIN COULD NOT IMAGINE ALIENS

by Paul Schroeder
God is responsible for the spiritual entities within our bodies, and there’s a harsh truth to face : aliens are the most likely candidates for the geniuses behind the amazing nanotech DNA which designs our life form physical bodies; there is no argument required.
The alien silhouette fingerprints, within our DNA, point to evidence that we were not ordained to this planet, by God, but by aliens , a newly revealed history and destiny for us, in this universe.
God, is true enough, but the O.T. Bible as a touchstone of “HIM”, with its myths and tales has no place in this DNA amended raised human consciousness, for cruel and deceptive reptilian aliens masqueraded as God, in ancient times.
The moon, much evidence suggests, was purposefully placed, on this reptilian preserve so as to minimize extremes in what-we-call- Earth’s climate, and seems to have actually been an ancient alien “craft”, now used as a base to ‘harvest’ and ‘trade’ humans, their seed and embryos, throughout the galaxy.
This ‘truth’ ,is down a long hall and somewhere else, far from what one might otherwise surmise..

The full truth is out there, and that is that we are not, nor have we ever been, the top of the food-chain.

These best games-keepers never let we animals within, suspect that Earth is , a preserve.


Biblical ‘dietary laws’ now reveal its owners’ tactics and true purposes, to harvest physically and spiritually, a better tasting and safer to eat harvest of humanity.After this horrid alien realization, any informed UFO researcher, must needs then become a vegetarian, for any moral and philosophical traction..
God, when not sabotaged by demonic or alien theft and recycling of life forces, imbues all physical DNA contrived sentient life with sparks of His spirit.
There are, however, many predominant planets whose entire intelligent life forms are spiritual entities,  and no physical DNA is required to house their spirit beings.
Our physical world is, amazingly, an anomaly, by virtue of the sheer numbers of many such non-corporeal worlds, by comparison.
Does human DNA reflect a computer code, of proteins and time-release enzymes, an alien nano-tech, and thus a no longer hidden fingerprint, of our “Creator”?
Scientists have found that our genetic code has all of these key computer code elements.
“The coding regions of DNA,” expostulates Dr. Stephen Meyer, “have exactly the same relevant properties as a computer code or language” (quoted by Strobel, p. 237, The Case for a Creator, 2004)
“Whose mind or what entity could shrink and miniaturize such information and place our DNA’s enormous number of ‘letters’ in their correct sequence as a genetic building block instruction manual?
Could evolution in itself have progressively come up with a nano-tech system like this?
It is difficult to fathom, but the quantum of information in our human DNA is roughly comparably equal to 12 sets of The Encyclopedia Britannica-an amazing 384 volumes worth of detailed data that would fill 48 feet long of required library shelves .”
“Yet in their precise size-only two millionths of a millimeter thick-a teaspoon of DNA, according to molecular biologist Michael Denton, has “all the information needed to build the proteins for all the species of organisms that have ever lived on the earth, and there would still be enough room left for all the information in every book ever written” (Evolution: A Theory in Crisis, 1996, p. 334).
                           Intelligent Design of our Human DNA
As scientists began to unravel and decode the human DNA molecule, they found something amazingly unexpected : a computer programmer’s exquisite ‘language’ composed of some 3 billion genetic letters.
“One of the most extraordinary discoveries of the twentieth century,” says Dr. Stephen Meyer, director of the Center for Science and Culture at the Discovery Institute in Seattle, Wash., “was that DNA actually stores information-the detailed instructions for assembling proteins-in the form of a four-character digital code” (quoted by Lee Strobel, The Case for a Creator, 2004, p. 224).
As George Williams explains it: “The gene is a package of information, not an object. The pattern of base pairs in a DNA molecule specifies the gene.
But the DNA molecule is the medium, it’s not the message”
(quoted by Johnson, p. 70).
  Design from an intelligent source
To any discerning mind, this type of nano-tech high-level information originates only from a technologically advanced intelligent source.
As Lee Strobel explains: “The data at the core of life is not disorganized, it’s not simply orderly like salt crystals, but it’s complex and specific information that can accomplish a bewildering task-the building of biological machines that far outstrip human technological capabilities” (p. 244).
“For example, the precise nature of this genetic language is such that the average error that is not caught turns out to be one error per 10 billion letters.
If an error occurs in one of the most important parts of the code, in the genes, it causes diseases such as sickle-cell anemia. Yet even the best and most apt typist in the world couldn’t come close to making only one mistake per 10 billion letters-far from it.”
Michael Behe, a biochemist and professor at Pennsylvania’s Lehigh University, explains that DNA genetic data is primarily an instruction manual.
He reasons: “Consider a step-by-step list of [genetic] instructions. A mutation is a change in one of the lines of instructions.
So instead of saying, “Take a 1/4-inch nut,” a mutation might say, “Take a 3/8-inch nut.” Or instead of “Place the round peg in the round hole,” we might get “Place the round peg in the square hole” . . .
What a mutation cannot do is change all the instructions in one step-say, [providing instructions] to build a fax machine instead of a radio”.
(Darwin’s Black Box, 1996, p. 41).
We therefore have, in our human genetic code, a complex instruction manual eloquently designed by a more highly intelligent source than even the genius of human beings.
The God agnostic and recently deceased Francis Crick, one of the discoverers of DNA, after decades of work deciphering it, admitted that:
“an honest man, armed with all the knowledge available to us now, could only state that in some sense, the origin of life appears at the moment to be almost a miracle, so many are the conditions which would have had to have been satisfied to get it going” .
(Life Itself, 1981, p. 88, emphasis added).
Dean Kenyon, a biology professor who repudiated his earlier book on Darwinian evolution-because of discoveries of information found in DNA-states:
 “This new realm of molecular genetics (is) where we see the most compelling evidence of design on the Earth” (ibid., p. 221).
As well, one of the world’s most famous atheists, Professor Antony Flew, admitted that he couldn’t explain how DNA was created and developed through evolution.
He now sees the demanding need for an intelligent source to have been involved in the making of our human DNA code.
“What I think the DNA material has done is show that intelligence must have been involved in getting these extraordinary diverse elements together,” he said (quoted by Richard Ostling, “Leading Atheist Now Believes in God,” Associated Press report, Dec. 9, 2004).
” I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made . .”
 Written some thousands of years ago, King David’s words about our alien constructed human bodies seems most true.
He wrote: “For You formed my inward parts, You covered me in my mother’s womb.
I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made . . . My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought. . .” (Psalm 139:13-15, ).
Where does all this deposit the theory of evolution?
Michael Denton, an agnostic scientist, concludes:
“Ultimately the Darwinian theory of evolution is no more nor less than the great cosmogenic myth of the twentieth century” (Denton, p. 358).
Thus we are left like a precipitate out of a solution with an astounding Creator nano-tech design that every life-form on Earth carries,” a similar and related genetic code programmned by our extraterrestrial maker and that evolution is hardly what we deduce that it is it .”
This discovery shall shake our roots of humanity and confirm or deny our beliefs, both in our concept of a Creator as well as in our own concept of our destiny.
Within this  paradigm, all forms of life farmed throughout the Universe can be seen as an enormous molecular nanotech creation by a intelligent Creator using amino acid thoughts, expressed mathematically.
Crick, DNA’s discoverer, perhaps, said it best:
“Life did not evolve first on Earth, a highly advanced civilization became threatened so they devised a way to pass on their existence.”
“They genetically-modified their DNA and sent it out from their planet on bacteria or meteorites with the hope that it would collide with another planet. It did, and that’s why we’re here.”
“The DNA molecule is the most efficient information storage system in the entire universe.
The immensity of complex, coded and precisely sequenced information is absolutely staggering. “
“The DNA evidence speaks of intelligent, information-bearing design.
Complex DNA coding would have been necessary for even the hypothetical first ‘so-called’ simple cell(s).
Our DNA was encoded with messages from that other civilization.”
“They programmed the molecules so that when we reached a certain level of intelligence, we would be able to access their information, and they could therefore “teach” us about ourselves, and how to progress. For life to form by chance is mathematically virtually impossible.”
Advertisements

AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

by Paul Schroeder

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path:
“The Spell of the Yukon”
               By Robert W. Service
“I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
   I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
   I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
   Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
   And somehow the gold isn’t all…”
I rarely ever worked overtime, or sought spare part- time jobs to make more money, seeking blue skies above to doing work indoors, and I relished my poorer beer pockets without ever developing or resenting the absence of a richer champagne taste.
Those ambitious lads of my childhood who entered finance, medicine or law,  worked 24-7 towards a salaried lifestyle that flew them first class, overseas to luncheon meetings and purchased them mansions in the  glass sky towers of Manhattan.
Effete, they would confess,”Those who say that money can’t buy you everything, don’t know where to shop!”
I  became a college instructor teacher who received a meager pittance, but though  I relished my bankers’ hours’ 9 to 3  job, I deeply longed for the respite of work, each academic year, within a ten week vacation, over the summer.
During academic semesters I recklessly ate up all of my sick days and personal days, taking escapes in the sun at the beach, and landscaped land escapes in three and four day weekends, at mountain lakes’ sites to hike in virgin woods alone.
Others in Higher Education had instead garnered many days, ‘in their bank’, saved up jealously, to trade for cash, losing one day for every two saved, upon retirement.
To me, counter intuitively, non providentially, time away to think was worth more, as an escape valve,  than half of some obscure future money.
Work was onerous and exacting, and freedom was a hiking-in-the-woods- relief, from fluorescent overhead lights, and the grinding grading of incessant exams and papers.
For release,  the best part of my chosen vocation, I lectured and pontificated, teaching American and English Literature, in a large lecture hall,  chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, during class instructions, throughout, to self medicate.
I am presently retired, thirty-five years in teaching, and have a modest lovely home and property, and as for wanderlust, I  have long found that armchair travel is the cheapest kind of travel, content to read brochures, than take inoculations, to explore the world.
Money aversion- ennui got worse as I grew older.
 I soon preferred the sidelines of copious earnings, a spent man, seeking  to relax and to write.
Why was I, so different, to care little for “success”, measured in hard work towards riches?
I wasn’t remotely money excited,  as a child, dimly knowing on a subliminal level that God didn’t place us here, on Earth,  on a special mission,  to make money.
A spiritual message experience, I received, as a teenager, a homeless runaway at seventeen, running from a divorced household of violence and police- being -called -by- the -neighbors,
became a core influence for my slant on monied life, a purposeful one of just getting by, instead of working hard towards earning luxuries.
It was Christmas time in New York City and I was seventeen years old, homeless penniless,  and wandering.
I had exited  the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West, where I had feasted for hours, on museum eye -candy, but my stomach  had rumbled with hunger.
And now back on the street, I found that it had been and was now, snowing heavily.
I wondered worriedly where I would sleep, that night.
 A local movie manager,  a friend, Paul Gary, said that I could, when in Brooklyn, sleep in a little used old loft room in his movie theatre, the Loews Oriental, in Bath Beach, Brooklyn, in a dusty, haunted costume property room.
I was the inhabiting spirit.
The smell of freshly roasted chestnuts,  sold to passerbys from a kiosk wagon, near to the museum’s stone steps, in a blizzard of snow, wafted my way and roused me.
I had no money in my pockets; I salivated at the  sweet nutty perfume.
 Chestnuts were a seasonal treat I had  enjoyed, at this very museum’s site, when I had a bountiful existence within my cantankerous parents’ marriage’s deep pockets’ circle of influence.
I would ask my parents,  they’d  fish for loose change and I would relish the sweet flavor of fire roasted hot chestnuts, now a new symbol of want and the faded memory of childhood .
I was alone upon the streets of Manhattan, hungry and had no money.
The  snow covered shoulders and face of the man who stood behind the kiosk wagon, were wrapped in steam; he was small and dark, wearing mittens with holes for the fingers.
The snow fell heavily in sheets that made a city of asphalt shock look gentler.
I  came close enough to  inhale the dark aroma of roasted chestnuts,  a childhood memory token, an olfactory solace for my pangs of hunger.
 I  noticed that on one side of his kiosk wagon hung a large piece of grey cardboard with a blue magic marker message upon it, his philosophy of the moment, but on an unconscious level, one  for the rest of my adult life.
A raised consciousness was sparked.
It read:
“I really don’t like making money;
I don’t want to conquer the world,
and I don’t wish to ever be rich;
I don’t even want to set the world, on fire;
 I just want to keep my nuts warm.”
A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path.

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

 by Paul Schroeder

“Sex is not the answer.
Sex is the question.
The answer, is ‘YES’!”
(Woody Allen)

Since sex is less than five or ten percent of a marriage, those who marry just for sex, find imposing reasons later on in the relationship, to not confine sex, within the parameters of their marriage, but remain as faithful, as their options and opportunities.

 

After all, man DOES need woman for the artistry and complexity of friendship, for filial fun, cute socializing, profound partnering, and deep soul intimacy, but they may not ALL BE with the SAME woman.

Women wander sexually, as well, as statistics reveal, that every other wife strays to another’s arms, for love making.

 

I often thought that women had it better than men and that if I were a woman, without any love, I’d be down at the docks,  no underwear, waiting for the fleet to come in, with my skirt pulled over my head.

More and more women today, say aloud, that they “don’t need any man, anymore, even for sex, but that they DO need men , sometimes, but then, ONLY, to lift and move, heavy things around…

 

There surely HAS to be some more dignified way of expressing desire and passionate love for another human being, because the human body is a sad marvel, with its waste disposal plant, immediately adjoining its amusement park area.

Sex, is forever something that parents are loathe to discuss with their children; when I was a child of seven, they mentioned the fearful danger of sex, saying, “not to play around with sex, because it was,”playing with fire.”

At seven years old, I recall thinking,

“Well, I HAVE a hose…

But one who marries, just for sex, is buying a 747 jet, just for the little bag of peanuts.

Surely, there’s other ways to get peanuts, if that’s all that you really want.

Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, and will as soon marry for sumptuous breasts, than for love, an idea so repulsive and childish, that it takes much head shaking, to comprehend,  because spiritual
love is appreciating, sharing, empathy and giving, quite bereft of the pangs of lust.
Yet, for all men’s fascination with women’s breasts, should men themselves,  overweight  develop breasts, they  do chafe ingloriously, upset about those unmanly acquisitions.
                                                 

Men are more juvenile in primitive sexual drives and emotional makeup, and women are indeed, far better human beings, providential, sensitive, charitable, strong and beautiful.

This DNA primate difference can be demonstrated.

At a very young age, place a group of five-year-old girls, in a room together, and they will sit, talk and relate to each other with civil chatter, sharing, and often with surprising wisdom.
 But, place a group of five-year-old boys in a room together,  and soon they will roll all over the floor, like shaved gorillas, lost in individual and mutual combative power fantasies.

Our lingering social notion  that men are more important, more apt and more likely to be leaders, is still a hard social prejudice to quell.

Equality, in mutual passion, is easier to demonstrate:

When a cop on the beat encounters a young couple making love in the tall grass, in a park, he does NOT tap their shoes with his nightstick to angrily demand,

” All right, now, WHO’S in charge, here ?!”

Progress will turn HIStory, into HERstory.

Women remain naive and not the least bit aware of men’s glandular functioning concepts towards all women.

At a party or wedding,

men view a woman’s public, licentious exaggerated undulations in dance as her being naked,  and sexual fantasies unfurl

deep within men’s psyches.

Dance becomes sex in visualized fantasies of private encounters with these licentious, and actively lithe women on the dance floor.

For women,  few rarely grasp that their public dancing, is clearly nothing but public, overt, symbolic sex.

 

Perhaps this makeup makes it still a man’s world, because it’s much easier, in society, to BE a man:

Each solitary, individual feature on your face always stays its birth shade and original color.

Methinks, that If men wore makeup, most would be disconcertingly prettier than many women.

If a man chooses, he might, perhaps, consider a cosmetic shave, but ONLY to some parts of his face and neck.

You can always wear shorts despite how awful your legs do look.

Your last name, regardless of marital -legal battles, stays put.

People do not ever stare at your breasts and your nipples when you’re happily chatting with them.

You are genetically and socially blind to any but the biggest wrinkles in your clothing.

Calorie intake and belly size are never a crucial consideration.

 

You always have the consummate and total freedom of choice about the growing of a mustache.

 

You don’t have to remove all of your clothes just to pee.

 

You can wake up just as attractive as you were when you went to bed, rather than have your beauty somehow deteriorate, during the night.

 

You can more easily, socially, defend your space, with knee-jerk displays of violence.

Woman, as the pretty sex, is a relatively new idea:

 

Pirates who wore the perfumes, jewelry, silks and frills echoed this olden concept of male beauty; a classical nude in statue, was almost ALWAYS male, historically, in ancient Greece and Rome.
This classic maleness model of beauty oddly reversed itself in the eighteenth century and women became the “pretty sex”, instead.

Throughout the animal world, whether it flies or swims, the male is STILL the colorful sex, the female, the drab one.

 

But since the eighteenth century, sexual and cultural reversals have oddly persisted in human affairs, and women instead have become the pretty sex.

But “pretty” means, slim and skinny, as fashion dictates.

 

Today, women who carry a few extra pounds, live longer than the men, who mention it…

Straight men, do not adorn themselves towards being highly polished- exceptions exist for politicians, actors, sports-stars, head gangsters, and police detectives, for within these men, narcissism, a sinful sense of entitlement, and monumental ego all loom.

 

In those egomaniac ‘types’ , highly-polished, self-preening is always accompanied by bullying others.
But the question remains, for the sake of guile and deceit: how curried and airbrushed is too curried and airbrushed?
The first thing I look at, when I see a polished, curried woman, is her eyebrows; if they’re natural, it’s a blast of honest sexuality that curls my toes.
If they’ve been removed and severe Groucho-Klingon brows, of crayola, at odd sharp angles, or worse,  tattooed on, I experience an anxious ‘turn off’, a social warning of duplicity, and all of my ‘antenna’ are up, and waving..
Women with long lustrous hair have always been sought as mates, because hair grows slowly and vividly reflects one’s general health, so mating was preferred with shiny, long-haired lasses, who were lax with lasciviousness …
But the rub, is that many women who look like floss, patina and veneer, are mostly shallow types who a man has to pay, for an intelligent conversation, because
 they have long cared ONLY about their outsides, and not ever about, their ‘insides’.

‘Beauty’ television commercials and ‘beauty’ magazine ads feature graphics of highly curried women, extolling Western society’s virtues of vacuous, narcissistic women, who gaze back at us, made over into a man’s surreal vision of what ‘beauty’ should look like..

 

In Maine, at a lobster restaurant, I went to the register to pay and behind the counter, opening the register, was a tall, strikingly handsome, buxom woman, in a formal ballgown who sported a large handlebar mustache.

 

Her startling visage has stayed with me, for many years, resplendent and role indigestible..
It’s a cultural facade and mirage of the sadly discarded true value of beauty, which always comes from within.
 A man in our culture says,”You’re beautiful”, before he says, “I love you”, and thus a woman is wrongly taught , that if beauty fades, then love must also fade.
Poorly informed, desperately seeking love, she runs scared to the beauty parlor, nail salon, hair stylist, cosmetic facial and breast implant surgeons, willing to suffer to maintain an airbrushed, curried, artificial “beauty” , so that “love” will not also vanish.

Men perpetrate this hoax until they themselves believe it.

In truth, a woman is as sexy in bed as that woman was interesting, before bed, and interesting, after bed.

But, for many non-self-respecting men, it’s all  just  about  a woman’s exterior patina, and veneer towards sex.

For these men, none of them ever reached under a woman’s skirt, looking for her library card…

 

Men admit that they LOVE women who look hot and who act hot;  homespun, often unwilling women, by comparison, are like radiators, men have to keep touching, to see if the heat’s coming up.

Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, more vain than women and more duplicitous in satisfying their overwhelming hormonal drives.

 

Thus, using men’s sex drive, against them, women culturally have been taught guile and deceit from a tender age, to ‘trap a man’, by using their physical, sexual allure:

 

They shave armpits,

shave legs and mustaches,

dye their hair,

use eye-liner,

mascara and false eyelashes,

face makeup,

 

(“Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy”)

 

 foundation,

earrings,

tints of rouge blush,

sport uplift brassieres,

apply perfumes,

apply lipstick,

go for Botox or plastic surgery to erase facial wrinkles,

 install Hershey-kiss silicone fake breasts,

wear high heels,

designer fingernails,

contact lenses,

  paint fingers and toes.
They put on things, to make them look bigger, and things that make them look smaller;

then, they meet a man,

and  they want, …”HONESTY!!”

Man, refuses to accept that makeup glamour fools the eye and deludes the heart, until he awakens after the wedding to see his bride without any makeup, and in shock thinks, “WHO is THAT?!”

Can such preoccupation with sexual camouflage avoid extra-marital diversion , and allow longevity and truthfulness towards a meaningful marriage?

 

Many couples who have lasted together forever, don’t have to work hard,  to get along  in marriage’.

 

When George Burns and Gracie Allen were asked how they remained so in love after sixty years, he said:

 

‘Marriage is a business.
When you work too hard to make the business of marriage work, you get tired, and when you’re tired , you get annoyed, and when you’re annoyed,  arguments start, and when arguments start…then, you’re OUT of business’ .

I remember once being stopped and asked at Disneyland by a graying and aged couple, to “photograph them”, for it was none other than their “fiftieth anniversary”.

 

I saw the way he held her hand and how they hugged and kissed as I struggled to find and frame the picture.

I wondered what wisdom and marital advice they might share, for too many, marriages end sadly in divorce.

 

These too many short-term marriages, for too many men, seemed to me,  just like a tornado:

 

in the beginning, there’s a lot of sucking and blowing , and later on … you lose the house.

 

Whatever happened to the romantic woman and to the romantic man who said that they could not live without each other?

 

He went East, and she went West… and they both lived.

My wife went over to speak with his wife to comment on how sweet they looked together, but when

I returned the camera as he made his way  over to me,  I asked him the $500,000 lulu question:

 

“What’s the secret to being married, so successfully, for so long?”

 

He looked confidential and wise and peeked to see if his wife was engaged in conversation before he spoke:

 

“You gotta cheat”, he whispered.

Men are like linoleum floors. Lay ’em right and you can walk all over them for thirty years. ~ Betsy Salkind

THE RESCUE OF STRAY CATS : NUDNIK, IS A NUDNIK

Rescue of Stray Cats

by Paul Schroeder
My  cats who live with me, are only two I have brought inside, of dozens of kittens I have rescued from my backyard and handed over,  to willing others over the years.

Dozens of cats are born on the farm next to me.

The Queens Museum Farm, an historic twenty acre working farm, in New York, has greenhouses, flocks of chickens, a yard of pigs, several cows , two dogs, many cats, noisy guard-dog-like peacocks, a large victory garden llamas, donkeys, horses and a half-dozen sheep.

Cows low moos, aching to be milked, at dawn, singing birds chirp and warble in clouds of wings that fill the trees, and at dusk and dawn, roosters ca-ca-doodle-do within

Its fenced perimeter, less than 100 feet from my backyard.

In the tall grass fields, among goats, sheep and cows grazing, feral feline queens  drop litters of four to six kittens, every seven weeks, and sooner or later show them  my backdoor

which always sports a bowl of water, and a plate of cat-food.

 A frail black kitten who cried on and off all day, abandoned under a nearby woodpile on a rainy day,  was left by his mother and not returned for.

It took my son and me over an hour to  first locate the cries and  then to remove the virtual ton of lumber precariously perched ,  under which his mother had left him.

He had cried plaintively for hours, wet, cold and frightened but hidden too cleverly to  easily reach.

He was so hungry still not weaned, that he bit off the rubber nipples on the small kitten bottles I fed him with, swallowing rubber that made me rush him to the vet .

He was barely four weeks old,  but I held him on my warm chest for him to hear the familiar solace of a heartbeat, and I talked to him, at great lengths; he was one I didn’t succeed, though I tried,  to give away,  but he was instead lovingly cared for, hand raised.

This frail kitten evolved into a Daffy- Duck- difficult- to- live- with-nature, a ‘lid off the Id’, feline nightmare who  grew to monstrous proportions, who bites and scratches at the slightest wrongly perceived provocation.

He was symbolically difficult from the very beginning; it took us almost an hour to  unload that large teetering stack of planking woodpile, behind a neighbor’s shed, to finally locate him in pouring rain.

Though unseen, he’d been heard for hours, well-hidden, to cry and cry and cry..

His mother, well within sight and earshot, patently refused to come to him, to comfort or retrieve him, from where she had carried and hid him, and for a good reason.

Male cats were marauding nearby and she knew that by feline male nature, they’d  slaughter  the kittens, and then wait for her dugs to grow dry of milk, and go back, into heat.

 

Then, they would mate with her, assured that the next litter would be theirs, a sperm war of jungle DNA mentality.,
She had cleverly hidden them all, everywhere,  so that marauding  toms, couldn’t get at them.

I weaned him, doctored  his ailments and assuaged his angst.

I rocked him to sleep, on my chest, accompanied with lullabies, three times a day for years.

Now, in his seventh year  as  a twenty-two pound neutered black tomcat , he has earned his name, Nudnick.

 

Though he grew into a cat of monstrous proportions with an aggressive ilk, he  loudly and  plaintively  insists on being ‘tucked in’,  like a young child, requiring  squeezes with hugs and kisses ,
before he will settle in to sleep!

(Nudnick, is Russian, for an annoying, boring, persisting and irritating pain in the derriere, personality. )

He is  tall and large boned, an enormous pure alpha male with a huge square head who affectionately and jealously loves our family with his head banging,  deeply jealous of my other cat, a doddering senior female, of tiny physical proportions, who hates him.

Squeaky, is the oldest rescue cat I ever found deserted: feeble, senile, on antibiotics,   a twenty-two year old ailing but purring,  shriveled feline,

 tiny,  under five pounds, with glazed over eyes ,

who walks in  lost circles of dementia,

 an elder cat without teeth or claws, unable in any way to fight back, against Nudnick,  a jealous  aggressor.

When Nudnik  sees Squeaky getting required medication with commensurate affection, consumed with  jealousy,-(he has core abandonment issues)-, he  feels compelled to jump onto her to bite her.

You can see his eyes grow large with pain, when he sees that she is being cared for.

Because of  jealousy, Nudnik tortures her and this, in turn infuriates me, which only fuels his jealousy.

She walked into my living room  from my back garden years ago, to claim us, a  stray lost and she rolled around on the floor in grateful pleasure and sat perched in our laps  to thank us.

Now,   she’s a twenty-two year old, frail, striped tabby, who faces an unsettled old age , because an adopted kitten  ballooned  into a vengeful King Kong.

 Since, she like a vocal chord altered cat from a laboratory,  could muster only a high pitched chirp, I had named her, Squeaky.

  I wondered who had lost her  and what quantum of love had been lost.

The vet volunteered to euthanize her,  for she was old and in bad shape,

but I said that we would mend and adopt her, instead.

It seemed a betrayal, for she had shown a poignant gratefulness, a recognition of her rescue.

Nudnik  tackles and torpedoes her mercilessly, whenever she tries to move from

her bed to the litter box, and makes her transit anywhere,  Hellish .

I had  caged him for periods, when we were out and about,  to insure her safety,

 afraid that I’d come home to find her murdered and afraid that, I ‘d find it hard to really forgive love Nudnick..

Her life was wrecked by Nudnik  and to protect her we caged him whenever we went out, in an attempt to protect senile Squeaky from persistent Alpha male assaults.

It was an ungraceful, dreadful old age retirement for her, because of Nudnik, who

 Frustrated,

I have admonished a thousands times, but  he is truly a Nudnik.

Once a nudnik , always a nudnik.

He  exhibits his nudnick nature when he tries to steal a  leather recliner chair from under me,

(“One cat, leads to another” (Ernest Hemingway)

 when I am comfortably perched within its embrace.

He will jump up, get behind me on the chair, and bully me,  physically nudge and push me,  followed up with bites to my arms  to force me out of the chair.

I  shake my head disapprovingly and tell him, ” Forget about it!” , firmly,

When that fails, he leaves the room and  knocks something loudly to the floor in an adjacent room, to get me up to investigate, and when I do, he then runs into my chair.

Should that fail to work, .

he will then leave the room, and cry repeatedly, from a nearby room,  plaintively.

When I am halfway there, he runs in at full tilt, or slowly swaggers in,  a form of cat smugness, jumps up to steal my chair, supplants me,  and stretches out in the warmth imparted by my body.

One can see some logical deviousness in his methods ; he has worked this out in his big headed little mind.

I have never before hand raised a cat, from a tiny kitten, to discover neurotic Nudnik!

He, alone, has given me more trouble than any collection, ensemble of cats , combined, that I have ever  rescued.

His cat rules:

  • Always give generously. A small bird or rodent left on the bed tells them, I care.
  • Climb your way to the top. That’s why the drapes are there.
  • Curiosity never killed anything except maybe a few hours.
  • Find your place in the sun. Especially if it happens to be on that nice pile of warm, clean laundry.
  • If you’re not receiving enough attention, try knocking over several expensive antique lamps.
  • Life is hard, then you nap.
  • Make your mark in the world.
  • Or at least spray in each corner.
  • Never sleep alone when you can sleep on someone’s face.’
  • There’s no denying the splendidness of felines:
  • I recall a graphic in the “New Yorker”, where a well-dressed,  neatly groomed man, stands over a litter box, arms akimbo, to directly  address a cat nearby his feet and
  • the caption read:
  • ” Never, EVER think , outside the box!”

GRANDMA’S RUSSIAN ADVICE

Grandma’s Advice

by Paul Schroeder

Just before my grandmother on my mother’s side died at the age of 95, I whispered a kiss in her ear and thanked her for her wisdom.

One odd piece of advice, that she had taught me when I was a child, I had carried close to my inner ear, all of my life.

It had been an Independence Day warning, borne of a distant Russian wisdom, one that she had whispered to me four decades ago, when I was nine or ten years old, impressionable and the apple of her eye.

The imprecation that I got from her, the warning whispered in my small rapt ear when I was nine or ten years old had been an odd warning that ruled and guided my life, and through angst, had come to define a larger part of what I called my soul.

Her ‘Russian optimism’ for the world, was childhood overwhelming for me.
For her, life was always a cup of optimism, half filled ….. but, with something, that could  likely kill you.

Now, she at ninety-five was far from that woman who in giving advice could be ironic and poetical.

She had used lipstick as a rouge to color her cheeks and then decided that her whole face was of a pallor that also needed color, rubbed lipstick all over her face.

She was quite a shock when I got onto the seventh floor of the retirement home and turned the corner and saw her sitting in a wheelchair, as though apparently waiting for me.

 

She still had her sense of humor.

She earnestly asked with a childlike innocence if I could bring her some new makeup and some big diamond jewelry for her to wear to dress herself up, when I visited her next?

Cautiously, I had asked her, skeptically dubious ;”What type of diamond jewelry?” She had said;

“Expensive, fancy jewelry.”

She labored under the delusion that she was in a hotel in Miami, one that slouched in basic standards;

“The meals at this hotel are terrible, but what is a person to do?”

She did not ever surmise herself to be in a nursing home near the beach in Coney Island, Brooklyn.

A person’s senior mind can lend a type of psychic anesthesia that acts in many ways to protect it from uncompromising and painful truths. .

Now I was an odd adult.

I wanted her to know that I loved her, how her whisper had returned years later as my gratitude.

I had loved to cherish ideas; a rare few philosophers had touched my early soul .

Dr. Seuss had barely competed with grandma.

But, he  wrote : “Be who you are and say what you think, because those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind, don’t matter!”

 

But grandma didn’t recall her similar advice or the small pleasures and agonies of our past.

My other odd philosopher was sitting here in her wheelchair, armed and propped with a pillow/ alarm that would audibly alert nurses in the retirement home if she pitched forward and left her chair’s upright fixed position.

She was different the next time I saw her, the way she used to be ;

” Hello, Paul; sharp as a matzoh and twice as crummy!”

“How come you don’t call your grandma more often? Humph!!”

“Humph;You going to wait until I’m in the cemetery and THEN you’ll visit me?”

“I’m sorry, that you’ll be sorry, but THEN it’ll be too late!”

This was the same verbatim greeting that I had gotten from her over the years over the telephone .  I presumed that I was calloused to it all.

 

It always deeply riddled me with guilt but I never let her know, but instead I saw it rather as a good sign that she was still feeling feisty.

When she successfully aimed ring-toss-Velcro-guilt in my direction, I rationalized, she must be feeling much better.

I quickly tried to change the subject; ” Grandma I remember that boardwalk we can see here in Brighton Beach from a time when you were fifty years old and I was about nine years old and I still remember the good advice that you gave me, back then.”

“What advice did I give you?”

I told her.

It had stayed with me for many years as a token of her wisdom.

“You brought me to you on a bench on that boardwalk, in Coney Island, on a hot 4th of July afternoon, when the whole family was there suddenly hugging and kissing each other,

happy for once, to be all together and happy seeing the fireworks, and then you whispered it in my ear:

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams,” You told me.

“What?”, she said, so I told her again;

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams.”

 

“OH!”, she said,”I am VERY sorry, if I ever told you that!.”

“I AM very sorry.”

I reminded her, however, what an impact she’d had on me then.

“That whisper, as a recommended life philosophy, was both poetry and  true and that, your advice, really stayed deeply with me.”

 

Taken to heart, it had allowed me to remain aloof and separate from everyone, as a type of self protection,  to preserve my OWN dream.

 

“She looked at me as though I were some stranger in a dream.

I said it, again;

“Don’t get too close to people, you’ll catch their dreams.”

She was thoughtful and then looked worried.

 

She looked into my eyes.

“I never told you THAT.” …

 

“You shouldn’t get too close, because…”

“Germs”, she said.

” I said that you’ll catch their GERMS.”

“I told you and your sister MANY times;

“Don’t get too close to people, ’cause you’ll catch their GERMS.” she said, again.

 


“And YOU’RE supposed to be the smart one?!””Oh,” she groaned in pain.”
Take me over to the dining room; it’s still too early for the lunch, but I want to get there anyway, early.”

That wrong belief had overshadowed every relationship in my life with an ambivalence and a craving to just be left alone.

If one was alone, one was safe from what people could do to you, I had always reasoned.

But, I had been running away from my own shadow.

Two marriages and a dozen influenza later, I had realized her truth, too late.

HOW TO RECOGNIZE AND SURVIVE A SERIAL KILLER ENCOUNTER

How to Recognize and Survive the Approach of a Serial Killer

by Paul Schroeder
(“There are two kinds of serial killers as far as the victim is concerned: the kind that you don’t see before they pounce on you and the kind you see and don’t expect to pounce on you.
There are many more serial killers living outside the prison walls than inside.”
Pat Brown)

The expression,”serial killer”, denotes the word, ‘serial’, which means, successful killer .

Ted Bundy said that he often wore his arm in a sling to perfectly trap random compassionate women, who traveled to his car door to assist him with his theatrical ‘struggle’ with packages.

These outgoing, caring women were brutally clubbed into his trunk for later torture.

Serial murderers who instead of passion, kill in ‘cold blood’, and  do not know their victims, beforehand, for they kill randomly, purposefully moving from town to town, city to city, without any remote tinge of latent regret or  accumulative  feelings of guilt.

Unlike a murder of marital or  organized crime Mafia passion, there is no plan for a pre- dug grave or a methodical bother to dismember the corpse.

They make no attempt to hide the bodies of their victims.

They  stop on a deserted road and open the hood of their car to flag down a helpful motorist to kill them with a gun.

Back into the victim’s stolen car, in the next town,

they  lure a child into a car by asking them to help find a lost puppy or by offering them a kitten from a box of kittens, which disarms any child, and then  stab the child to death.

Later that night, they stop at a truck stop to pick up a prostitute to then strangle her afterwards leaving her body on the side of the road.

They remember to be most careful to use a different method of murder, each time to confuse police efforts from various jurisdictions, from establishing an M. O. pattern

that links random killings into a single silhouette, the  fingerprint of a singular serial murderer.

Interstate highways lend a unique anonymous isolation to the mentality that serial killers love and use:

Truckstops are high risk areas, as are truckers, themselves, and especially long off-ramps are  over represented with highway murder deaths, a study of  murder statistics show.

A big, friendly, helpful smile, or a helpful assist from a total stranger, is the last thing one will ever see and one will never see it coming, the guise of

serial killer psychopaths .

These serial killer psychopaths travel from state to state blithely killing random people, leaving corpses on roadsides the way that we leave cigarette butts, without a single afterthought ,

psychopaths who from childhood, have had  their consciences, all of their lives, sit in the corner, like a well trained German Shepard .

There is an unspoken spiritual truth, and it is that

such serial killers are demonically, Dark Force Entity possessed, humans.

Unlike unpossessed people, such Dark Force Entity humans do not return  to Heaven, our truest dimension, when they die, but instead are ‘shuttled’ through another and darkest ‘door’, directly back into another human fetus to reenter our world again.

Unlike most of us, who spend  time in between lifetimes, to garner spirit helpers and spirit guides, to prepare us for each arduous successive incarnation, serial killers enter back into this harsh world without a written ‘blueprint’, without spirit helpers and without  protecting angels.

These dark souls do again return to become serial murderers,


killing a long series of  innocent, unsuspecting people and as such theyall manifest the same three exact, precise signature evil  traits of demonic Dark Force Entities: sinister, predatory and self justifying.

Such”psychopaths”, possessed and guided by demonic entities within,

cannot be reformed or changed.

There is nothing that one can ever do to change such a Dark Force Entity in  human form.

It is good advice that one should avoid them, sidestep them, and never attempt to tackle them head on.

But one CAN recognize and survive an encounter with such a serial killer predator, by

taking careful notes from serial murderers who have explained their ‘trade-craft’

( from Internet unknown source):

” Trust your intuition:

Do not ignore your instincts or intuition.

You have likely recognized something indefinite that spells out danger, and your mind has not caught up with your recognition – you do not yet perceive how to dissect it logically.

This is intuition.

If something does not feel right, then it is not right.

Never ignore such inklings; do not be embarrassed to change your mind in front of a stranger or have fear of being rude.

It’s better to be rude than dead.

Under no circumstances get into the Car:

Once victims get into the car, few return alive and are later found dead at a secondary crime scene.

Whether you’re helping some stranger carry a package to the car, being offered a ride, or having someone else near your car, they can all end with you being murdered.

The presence of a baby seat or children’s toys in the vehicle – or even children themselves- are tools that a serial killer uses to mentally disarm victims.

The Green River Killer, Gary Ridgeway, once returned to a body dump site to have sex with the corpse of one of his victims while his son slept in the vehicle.

– Serial Killer Warning Signs of Entrapment-:

A Pretended injury/weakness:

The murderer makes a huge effort to let you know that he is physically weaker than you.

He may stumble and drop packages

“Please help me carry this to my car. Ever since my spine injury, I can hardly move.”

He may wear a cast or walk with a cane in the Ted Bundy method, to trap his victim.

Too much information:

The murderer will give you too much unnecessary, detailed information:

“My sister has a sweater just like that. She was living in California but she moved home last year. Her boyfriend gave it to her for Christmas, but afterward they broke up …”

When such a serial murderer is telling a lie, though it sounds credible to you, he often has little confidence in his talking-trap method and will tend to add too much detail, more than necessary to support it.

This ruse of details makes a serial murderer seem less a stranger and appear more familiar than he really is.

The un requested promise:

“Just one drink and then I will take you home, I swear!”, when you never asked him to promise you anything.

Sudden unsolicited promises can be a sign of an underlying sinister agenda.

Friendly authority:

The stranger projects some kind of non threatening authority:

“I’m the security guard/ the park ranger/ a police officer.”

“You didn’t see the signs; this is closed. I’ll escort/drive you out of here.”

‘You shouldn’t be alone here; we are on the lookout for a serial killer in this neighborhood. Get in and I’ll drive you out of here.”

No law enforcement official would tell you that there was a serial killer, for

they avoid giving outside knowledge TO  ANYONE of an ongoing case for media avoidance purposes.

Some serial killers come tricked out with police identification and police-like vehicles.

Insist that he call a uniformed backup if you did nothing wrong but are being “arrested.”

Challenging your personality:

The killer labels you, in a critical way, hoping that you will attempt to prove them wrong, “You’re too weak to help me lift this box into the back of my van.”

“You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

Teaming:

Often a killer will manipulate you to “team up” with him.

You and he instantly become a “we” – “I hate drinking alone, I know a great place we can go to up the road.”

“I’m going there too, we can get there in my car.”

This attempt to bond with you is a way to quickly establish a familiarity.

Imposed obligation:

A serial killer will impose his help on you, hoping that you will feel obligated to help him back.

“Let me help you carry that to your car” will lead to “Can you give me a lift to the corner?”

You leave your home to find your tire flat.

“Let me change that flat tire for you” will be followed by “May I come inside to wash my hands?”

But he WAS the one who punctured the tire in the first place.

Having already accepted his help, he hopes that you feel bad enough to refuse a request like that.

Once inside, you’re a murder victim.

An appeal to a feeling of being vulnerable:

“Help me find my lost puppy before it gets away too far.”

“I need to drop off this medicine to an elderly person upstairs, but I can’t legally park here; just come and sit in my car while I run in for five minutes?”

“My little girl is missing, will you help find her?”

– Not taking,” no”, for an answer-A classic murderer’s tool.

No matter how many times you say, “That’s okay, I don’t need your help,” the stranger insists on helping you.

If you give some weak excuse or sound unsure, he will persist.

Do not be afraid to be loudly blunt and rude: “I said, NO! Go away! I do not want your help!.”

Many are loquacious and charming, but it’s only a ‘tool’ to conceal a demonic intent:

“I’m the most cold-blooded sonofabitch you’ll ever meet,”  said Ted Bundy.

“I just liked to kill, I wanted to kill.”

The signature symptom of the psychopath is his inability to see others as worthy of compassion.

Victims thus become dehumanized, “flattened into worthless objects in the murderer’s mind”.

John Gacy, who never showed an ounce of remorse, called his victims “worthless little queers and punks,” while the “Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe declared that he was “cleaning up the streets” of ‘ human trash’

All of these killings were managed with an initial charming smile, a smile carefully contrived, before a lethal knife or hammer fell.

Would YOU have easily fallen, do you suppose, for one of these “tricks of the trade”?

Would you have been naturally leery enough to survive such tactics or would you be clearly very prone to an evil stranger’s charm and closeness, to become yet another murder victim?

And many rare victims who survived later said, “But, he was so sweet!”

Sweetness, is not the same as being sweet.

Sweetness can be used as a deadly manipulative tool.

A charming smile can mask the most evil intentions.

Once one is alerted to these uniform techniques employed by many incarcerated successful, serial murderers, one can teach one’s spouse, one’s children, one’s colleagues and one’s easily duped friends, to be much less trusting, to raise their fence higher, around themselves, to prevent them  from becoming  the next victims of a murderer.

One must teach one’s loved ones  to be immediately suspect, of any closehand encounter with a stranger, who pretends a stance of authoritarianism, need, or one warmly disarmingly charming,  widely used  tactics that serial killers rely on.

An approaching car, one that passes close by you, while you are out walking late, in an abandoned hour, or in an empty place like a deserted parking lot, could  easily spell death.

A serial  killer, hidden behind the dark car windows, could , at gunpoint, have you, or your wife or daughter within its interiors, within less than five seconds.

They are everywhere and in transit through small towns; be wary, be aware, beware.

One must be taught, instead, to be poised to bolt, to be alarmed by any car’s or person’s close proximity to one, in a lonely place and moment, and to lose one’s sense of blind trust, or blind faith of one’s presumed safety with a total stranger.

The suspicious always appears “ordinary”, until suddenly, it isn’t.

Can anything be done to change and redeem such serial killers’ dark minds and souls?

Capital punishment for such murderers is spiritually counter-intuitive, because after physical death, they linger on this plane and join together with dark others, to accomplish yet more evil than they ever could have when they were alive.

 

This is yet another salient reason to discard the death penalty, unless and until their hearts finally are shifted..

 

One should always avoid and sidestep them, and never tackle them, head on.

Only God can and will “shift” them, in His own time; until such time, don’t talk to strangers..

SEX IN PUBLIC, OR SHALL WE DANCE?


Sex in Public Places is Fabulous or Shall We Dance, Instead?

by

Paul Schroeder

Sex in Public Places is Fabulous or Shall We Dance, Instead?
“Sex isn’t the answer; sex, is the question; the answer is, “YES!” (Woody Allen)
Mark Twain once said, “No sane person dances”.

Must one be crazy to dance,

publicly ?

I thought long and hard about that statement, approached it from different angles of thought and pondered it.

Orthodox Hasidic Jews, believe that wild dance, ensemble, is a way to approach sublime Divine attainment, most tribal and ancient.

Is it the case that

those who were deaf, could not hear the music and thus thought the dancers insane?
What makes a person gyrate sexually in front of strangers? I finally accept that dancing is publicly symbolic sex, with the exception of Lambada, which IS sex, most graphic in public.

Lap dances and belly dances enthrall men as consummate sex fantasies unfurled, and these reside deep within our psyches.

Men who routinely go to “topless” bars to watch naked women dance, harbor a wild and degrading fantasy, an addictive stimulant, that seems just as unwholesome as public sexual gyrations to music.

But sex, in public?!


Sometimes, watching people dance, at weddings and parties, in, you’ll forgive the expression, “ballrooms”, I can see the symbolic give and take sex act in dance.Waltzes and Tangos are elegantly choreographed and highly polished sexual moves in partner synchronicity and poised ‘give and take’.I do also think that alcohol loosens inhibitions on the dancefloor as well as in dating.

Why do you think that men are so very willing to buy ladies drinks?!

“On-stage dance takes from sexuality practices “off-stage” and imaginatively stylizes them and possibly reinforces or challenges these practices that include expressions of sexual identity and attraction, flirtatiousness, friendliness, exhibitionism, eroticism, and love-making.”

(Hanna, Journal of Sex Research / March-June, 2010 )

Would one who is a Buddhist and contemplative, dance or would he resist the impulse as unabashed sexy exhibitionism?

After all, what is,”sanity”, if “no sane man dances”?

Drinking alcohol during a “cocktail hour”, before public dancing at such affairs may assist the temporary insanity inherent to very public sexual gyrations called dance.

Sexual unabashed exhibitionism?

I can often resist the impulse to publicly gyrate, or to circle dance or line dance amidst a large group of people by recalling Twain’s sentence.

But, if dance is truly symbolic sex, the horizontal mambo, then group dancing brings to mind another quote:

“Sex between two people can be a wonderful thing, among ten people, it’s just fabulous!”

To me, having unabashed multiple polygamous sexual partners is demonstrated by line dancing.

Dancing in public, however symbolically obscene in its blatant sexual gyrations, is not likely to expose one to HIV or STDs.

For one like me who will not dance, I wonder about the biological absurdity of dance and of sex.

There has to be a more dignified way of expressing your deep love and affection for another human being;

the human body is a odd marvel in that it has its waste disposal plant immediately next to its amusement park.

I and Twain, shall instead, sit this one out.