richardmurray

KENNETH · December 31, 2021

no problem @KENNETH most in the usa know this is true, the question is, can individualism plus collectivism exists simultaneously while positively in an extremely multiracial sector of humanity? Right now, no one in power or near power has an answer

KENNETH · December 30, 2021

I think one thing that will help everyone is to disassociate terms like liberal or conservative or democrat or republican to parties of governance. The POAJ or POAL , PArty of Andrew JAckson or Party of Abraham Lincoln are none of those terms. NEither is liberal or conservative or democrat or republican. Both are parties of government, trying to get votes, by any means necessary. IF we all stop looking at parties of governance as philosophical havens it will make it easier to relate to their actions. TO your issue of phenotypical race. The POAL knows that you can get votes by saying "blacks bad" so they do and they win those place.

KENNETH · December 30, 2021

good points, the usa's fiscal environment, from the destruction of most indigenous peoples to the enslavement of blacks, no matter their ancestral descendency, was communal in nature. It wasn't each indigenous must be killed or each black is enslaved, it was all indigenous must be kileld or all blacks are enslaved. The fiscal reality is in contrast to the declaration or constitutions legal framework, which emphasizes individual rights over any collective. For whites who had and have the positive fruits of both the fiscal communalism or the legal individualism, it has brought about a modern white community that is in itself very multiracial. But, for communities of differing descent<indigenous> or phenotype<black> the fiscal disadvantage and the legal misapplication they received and received creates a terrible environment for the 2022 usa to be a happy rainbow

December 11, 2021

I really love this post, the truth in it is stunning

The truth in the following article about Nintendo's early days is something that saddens me deeply, to read now. I said many of these things absent the ability to cite and people in the usa, in majority would and will refute. Glad to have finally found evidence to show the statian populace in terms of the history of video games.

October 3, 2021

BlockChain Protocol
https://aalbc.com/tc/profile/6477-richardmurray/?status=1645&type=status

richardmurray · May 4, 2021

My opinion as I read the essay

Well modern media has created a pathway for individuals of the people, the polis, to relate to all, to create a rigid framework of morals, or rules or ethics, to anything. The article suggest correctly modern politicization isn't about governing or government, a thing that governs; it is about people making things of themselves, political.

The author makes one mistake, the politics of ethics is not complicated to comprehend if you accept that ethics do not have a universally accepted form. Once you comprehend ethics are defined by each individual or group, then ethics by default is a subset of politics. Aesthetics , meaning what is perceived, is also a subset of politics.

The author hits on the head, albeit with a geographic absence, when they describe the truth; modern humanity in the places where the internet is available, which is still not most humanity actually, , the readership is groomed by its communication to itself to have a very selfish sense of character. In an international communication hub, the people in it are learning to be more individual, not more communal, or tribal not integrated.

I enjoyed this prose from the essay in brackets

I Quote the essay again in brackets

<Later, Frances the communist avows that she “want[s] to destroy capitalism and consider[s] masculinity personally oppressive.” >

That line to be fair proves the authors point. Anyone who has drifted online to the bright or loud places, if they dare read the comments, knows many people recite that thinking in so many words.

I will not spoil the essay, but if you get to the point where Ligaya Mishan is quoted and you read a Dance of Dragons then think Shame^INF and then Cerci's smile in the arms of the mountain made some sort of zombie thing.

The author of the article missed a chance to relate the history of self flagellation in the counter-reformation in Europe. Self-flagellation is a strong cultural element in European and by extension, European imperial culture. From baptisms that nearly or sometimes drown throughout the christian communities, to the remnant of impatience to black children in black parenting stemming from a time when black people were the auto child to whites, to the strength of arranged marriage among people who are labeled: educated, wealthy, modern, throughout latin america or asia <even though one's knowledge, finances,time of birth, or culture does not deny them the willingness to suffer in a marriage they didn't want> . So, the self cancellation is merely a current form of self flagellation.

The nathan Goldman quote made me laugh. But I disagree with the word Juvenile being used by the author. Children have fought wars. Some children have a complexity of life that will make larvae out of the supposed mature intelligentsia. I don't think the issue is age, but scope. Simplicity is the goal, simplicity with a language of adult tweets woven tight around the face.

His point on paradise lost is well done. To be blunt, I think an enlightening or at least exposing panel will be with many writers today discussing that book and its unapologetic glory for "a bad man"

Reading the paragraphs concerning the need of the human individual to be present in fiction , for fiction to be valuable made me think of FLannery O'Connor whose work, by default is the opposite. I argue that the characters in her work, ask the writers or readership the author refer to face the magic mirror gate in Die unendliche Geschichte; most of them clearly running away screaming!, forgive me.

The study of human communalism is not all that is written. I paraphrased the quote the author used of baldwin. I concur with the writer, the question of what if is interesting in literature. If what if does not exist but only of course exists in literature, then literature becomes purely commercial, like glowing vampires in the bright sunlight who have nothing to fear.

I am reading Nella larsen but I can suggest, Alice Dunbar Nelson. In a number of her works, you gather the voice of the multiracial world in the black community in the usa, which is rarely emitted in most financed media.

I recall reading that essay from Viet Than Nguyen , I thought and think him wrong, even on a monday. I like this line: In a better literature than the sanctimonists’, the frequent distance between our ideals and our practices would itself be the subject of interesting novels.

I amend that novels where characters lives show the variance between how we want to act while how we act returns to the earlier point about being human. The author is being a little verbose.

The author continues on restating points. He isn't preaching Trilling on a pulpit but he is now using more words to restate what he already described, the frustration is coming out.

I comprehend the author's frustration. No one has quoted Richard Murray yet, to RIchard Murray's knowledge at least, but I recall asking questions in a writing group, and being excommunicado-ed for it. The questions, the what if, ask not only the readers but other writers to see where they may be uncomfortable. Writers , reared in modernity, not only want to covet the tribal audience but are in the coven of tribalist. And, it has created rifts in the literary creators community, which is not uncommon in history, but evident in the literature of a day.

...

What say you?

Article from the author

https://libertiesjournal.com/now-showing/sanctimony-literature/

richardmurray · February 8, 2021

The title plus subtitle in the article, the following prose concern, linked below make an assertion or ask a question. The assertion is: Men do not read enough erotica literature while erotica literature is more mentally stimulating. The question is: Why are men so impotent in bed or rigid out of bed?

The first five paragraphs simply assert that the relationship men have to erotic literature is the mind of most humans is myth, not reality and some quotations are given. The next two paragraphs reassert an opinion: erotic literature is better to stew the imagination than video pornography, and pornhub is mentioned. The next five paragraphs attempt to ask a question: what is erotica for men; said paragraphs do not answer the question, but suggest that erotica is genderless in the audience desires of its writers/creators. The next four paragraphs discuss ethics in erotica. The point said paragraphs come to is erotic literature like video porn will challenge some rules from some humans on what is good to experience. But, unlike video porn, no real humans are involved in the acts that only the creations of the oneroi do in your mind. To put it bluntly, in a legal way, your thoughts can be disliked but they can not be deemed criminal. The next six paragraphs offer citations or referrals to erotic literature, to aid the reader to convince themselves or others to read more erotica.

The article does not state the erotic literature men are reading, nor does it suggest why men need to read more erotica. The article doesn't provide any statistics to suggest erotic literature reading is more mentally stimulating than viewing video porn. The article doesn't suggest through statistics or in situation potential how men can become more potent in bed or flexible in all ways throughout humanity while reading erotica.

But, one must always look toward themselves. So,I ask myself the following questions.

Do I like reading erotica?
Do I know many men who read erotica?
Has erotic literature, I read, made me more stimulated mentally?
Through other men I know personally, why are men impotent in bed or rigid out of bed, relating to reading?
What is the relationship of men to erotic literature?
Does erotic literature stew imagination better than video porn?
What is erotica for men?
What are the ethics to Erotica?

The following paragraph answers questions 1/2/5/7

I remember, being a boy who wrote poetry mostly, going to various book fairs in a place in manhattan in new york city, where I was raised. Said place is Harlem. In said book fairs, I recall tables for, what I will call, Black Urban Romance. I recall a cover now. A black man, shirtless of course, having an angry face filled the cover. The head of a black woman was placed under his crotch or between his legs. The cover was above his chest: "Ass is ready 2". I moved on as a child. As a teenager, I laughed and moved on. As a grown man, I skipped that section of the fair. I only disliked the hospital section from said fairs more, with all the pamphlets of possible illness or pain that I need to consider for every moment of my life. ... What is erotica for men or anyone is a vital question. I remember an xmen comic book, yes give me a moment, where an advertisement for an xmen swimsuit calendar was in the middle of the comic book. No, I didn't buy an xmen swimsuit calendar. But, I bet many a boy, immature male legally, or man, mature male legally, were stimulated by the truly fantastical drawn physiques of the xmen women in the skimpiest swimsuits. Does this mean erotic literature for men need to refer to the visual gratifications in visual porn? No, but I am certain most men, definitively this man, are not aroused by the figures of men usually present in erotic literature imagery. And, sadly purists, the modern readership is highly convinced by book covers. Do I like reading the "Ass is Ready" series? No, I never even tried. But, I am certain most men I know, who like to read, evaded erotic literature based on how it is sold. Now, I have no statistics. Maybe men in the lgb~ community like to read books in the erotic literature zone. If the article was insinuating influence from men in said community, it did not say and needed to if it based its argument on said community. I find eroticism in other genres or stories, not deemed erotic. No, I will not go into which or what. Erotic literature was said, in the article, not to be made for women or men. But, if more men are to be attracted to erotic literature it has to appeal to the width of men's lust, which can challenge various ethical structures, especially from women.

The following paragraph answers questions 3/4/6/8

What is ethics? Ethics are rules of interaction defined by humans. Even though, historically, many humans, individually or collectively, love to attribute a set of ethics as elemental or timeless. The truth is no set of ethics is ever timeless or elemental. Why does that matter? The question of erotic literature's value as more mentally stimulating <automatically accepted in the article> or the effect of any art on human beings as better<like children listening to european orchestral music made between the 1400s to early 1900s is better for their mental growth> or the role of what a person or group shall want in their arts defining class/rank/race <the visual rawness of video porn being touted as beneath the literary complexity in erotic literature, mentioned in the article > are all ethics. These are not truths. These are rules. The article presents these rules as what need to be. But, that is not elemental. That is not undeniable. That is opinion. In certain places in humanity, majority opinion. But, majority opinion has never equaled better. Majority opinion dictates the pressure on any minority or individual on how to act. While I chided the "Ass is ready" series with my own set of ethics. In no way was I correct or right. For the record, Black Urban Fiction is the biggest money maker from Black book buying dollars involving literature publicly designed toward the black community, in the united states of america at least. Men through rearing or personal taste, like the raw or raunchy lust form of erotica. Does that mean men are less flexible in their literary taste? Some men are being less flexible, maybe even most, with their reading and beyond in other arenas. Not all imaginations want a complex pattern, some want a block color. In the work not labeled erotic literature I read that stimulate me in the way erotic literature is supposed to, I am stimulated in various ways. I do not know if more or less, as I am stimulated mentally in various ways from many forms of literature. But the ethics around erotica, whether literary or video or graphic, need to have a space for the width of erotica that is desired from men, or women.

But making any ethical code that wide will require a big imagination.

https://www.insidehook.com/article/sex-and-dating/time-men-start-reading-more-erotica

January 22, 2021

NyoKuun - the snake stitiching game, what is the highest level you can reach, is it too slow, do you want it faster?

http://houyhnhnm.github.io/BlackGamesElite/GameRoom/MSinChe/MSinChe2.html

richardmurray · January 22, 2021

Thank you united statian cowgirl

January 14, 2021

KumRan - the color memory game , what is the highest level you can reach? how many seconds did it take you ?

http://houyhnhnm.github.io/BlackGamesElite/GameRoom/MSinChe/MSinChe1.html

richardmurray · December 22, 2020

It is the shortest night in Avare, in Sao Paulo in Brazil, a farmer walk to a simple orange tree, growing away from the grove. The sun sets and the stars brighten as they get their chance to gather. The farmer begins to grab stars and place them into the tree, where they can talk and gossip the news across eons.

The farmer listen into a faint star dangling low near the base of the tree.

"I recall the Lonely Man, the two Weepers and the Three Brothers of the Rim, looking across my universe...the glare of our light never allowing him to see anything ahead, his back eternally fixed"

"...He was still looking out, when I came here, bitter, angry"

The farmer walk out to the edge of the tree and grab a star, and it speak to him.

"I am a member of the Golden Ladle... my cousins, the dippers, tell me many sailors find their way, using them, on this world...but I know a world where the skies decides where the sailors sail"

"A sky of said world tried to discover what effect we stars had on their fellow skies. It measured distances and changes, the sailors of said world loved that sky cause it was calm at sea level, allowing the lesser winds to govern the actions above the sparkling sea... that begins the legend of Narda the sailor and the seas of night... now place me there"

And the farmer, place the star where it gleamed to. Suddenly, a number of stars laughed on a lengthy branch. And the farmer edged close to overhear a particularly glinty star

"...alright, alright, remember all of you flashes, everything I say is the truth... I once saw the spirit of the existence, that is right... the spirit of existence, which turned from a star brighter than my dreams into some image of a fleshy female creature, was talking gibberish."

"Everything the spirit said was gibberish, just a flickering about. I asked it, what is the problem? That is right, I am a gentlestar. The spirit suggested some fleshy male creature, tricked it. I said impossible. I told the spirit of existence, my cousin is what those fleshies call the north star, if it shine bright with me, it will forget all of the tricks of the crawlers. So, the spirit of existence, chose to shine with me. Yes, that is right, it shined with me, and me alone. No one else saw because the rest of you were busy talking to yourselves, not gleaming all around you. I of course, am aware of what is going on and saved all your lives. The spirit even touched me with a flare. Yes, it did and said, my simple focus inspired it to select me to have a child. We will call it, Horus or Hercules or something. Shut up Cassia! Your just mad you didn't get a chance with the spirit"

And the farmer chose to move on and pick another star. For when the night end, only oranges will exist where the stars were. A juice not to be sold, but savored.

If you enjoy my stories and want to read more consider the following

Illustrated fables, from a city near you

https://www.kobo.com/ebook/concrete-fables

The Goods News through the year- stories throughout the calendar

https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/entry/261-december-solstice-art-or-text-craft-parade-good-news-blog/

richardmurray · December 21, 2020

“Look up mommy”: speak a voice, looking up, in the night.

“I see the conjunction; do you remember the planets?”: speak an older voice, looking down at her daughter.

“umm yes, Mshtari and… and, don’t say it! Zohari”

“Very good… do you want to hear a story about them?”

“yes”

A blanket covers the two as a third sit down next to his wife in the blanket; he says nothing while looking up.

The mother clears her throat.

“Once many, many, moon turns ago the planets, who were young then, made forms to travel beyond their bodies and record experiences, Zohari chose a form and wanted to experience the ability to play find and seek with the Sun”

“While the avatar to Zohari was on a way to Ra, Mshtari made an avatar. ”

“Mshtari wanted to play shadow evasion with the Sun. And the avatar of Mshtari intercepted the avatar of Zohari.

The two avatars need not speak; they knew their intentions and they began to fight.

The avatar of Ra noticed the battle while waiting in its crown. ”

“The avatars fought with so much passion, they brightened all of space. That grabbed the attention of Hathor, of the old divinities. She appeared about Ra.”

“She spoke to Ra and suggested a solution. Since the two are fighting over hiding in the dark or staying in the light, why not make it where they both can have fun.

Ra did not know how. Hathor answered, what if you use a planet. With Zohari’s avatar on the side not facing you and Mshtari’s on the side facing you, you can search for Zohari while dance with Mshtari.

Ra liked the idea and flew to the fight. The two battling avatars agreed and their spirits soon separated, dimming the heavens. And all three ended up playing on every planet they can find.

Till they ran out of energy and needed to go back to their sources.”

And the two parents, sandwiching thier child, cuddled tighter and looked up to the old light.

If you enjoy my stories and want to read more consider the following
Illustrated fables, from a city near you
https://www.kobo.com/ebook/concrete-fables
The Goods News through the year- stories throughout the calendar
https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/entry/261-december-solstice-art-or-text-craft-parade-good-news-blog/

richardmurray · December 18, 2020

CONCRETE FABLES

Illustrations of moral lessons from the Urban Jungle. A contemporary set of fables as potent as Aesop's. A fun set of fantasies to read at your local park.

https://www.kobo.com/ebook/concrete-fables

richardmurray · November 27, 2020

I remember when I saw Hialeah after waking up. The members of the raiding band cautiously behind me. She was cooking food for all.

I knew few english words, my name being John; but she didn’t mind. I met her eyes and she already knew mine. We fell in love, and I joined her raiding party. We survived tons of gunfire as colonist numbers grew and grew. We even got through a pregnancy in a winter woods in the MicMaq lands now called New England. Aponi, our little treasure, skipping in the snow. Hialeah’s feet after the pregnancy always needed extra comfort. I had to make special shoes for her.

Then, the colonists in 1775 finally wanted to not be english. We talked about what we should do. She reminded all of us, her people were assaulted by the colonist and had to flee. The colonists fable of being aided is their version of saying they stole from native people. Her people of the Powhatan Confederacy had to protect our food from colonists, who eventually raided across the Tsenacommacah and made it Virginia. She will never forgive the colonists, whether they call themselves english or american. And the persistence of their myth of friendship, sickens her very soul.

I agreed, some others joined me and her, but most chose to go farther west. I didn’t know about my people across the great water, but I will never forgive the colonists, no matter what they call themselves either. And, we few went south. We were at the battle for Jersey. I even saw a flamboyant soldier defend against the colonists.

After meeting Richard Freeman, he told me that Ethiopia is a place across the big water. Since I never heard of a place across the great water where I came from before, I called myself John Ethiopia.

And then, the war got worse. My beautiful land was shot during a raid, I held our butterfly, as her mother sung her last song to her.

And, in 1783, the war ended. Me plus our daughter, the last of our band, were sent to Nova Scotia. The cold was too much for the little butterfly and she died.

Alone, cold, my memory of her with our little life losing color or definition in the last thoughts in my life.

My spirit now gives thanks not living under the colonists, as their kingdom grew. A kingdom full of thieves. I give thanks for being eternally free from its lies, side my loving wife and child. Beyond the confines or the reach of the eagle.

Thank you for reading, if you want to read more of my work read below
Poetry or More
https://www.kobo.com/ebook/poetry-or-more-1
Bookbub
https://www.bookbub.com/profile/richard-murray-16885e64-6c28-459e-bf5f-45c7d458ce49
AALBC
https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/blog/29-richard-murray-hearth/

richardmurray · November 12, 2020

It is an afternoon sun through calming clouds on the private catholic school Institution Marmoutier , along the Loire river. A boy take his lunch and go to his favorite riverside, alone.

He unfurl his mat and lay on it, placing his lunch beside his head, and look to the gentle clouds, tears budding at the corner of each eye. He sniff and take out an earbud to hear a Carl Sagan recording. His dad liked Carl Sagan alot, as a kid his dad listened to Sagan with his grandfather. The youth cover his face using the back of his hand while tears flow down cheeks.

Abrupt yelling interrupt his woe. He see a girl running from other girls, and he leave his food and mat yelling: "Arrete!"/"Stop!"

He chases them to the abbey; it is quiet cause most of the students are in their rooms or the game room or cafeteria.

He go inside the abbey and silence. He see the portrait of Saint Martin, third bishop of this abbey.

And he recall his father telling him on his first day at the school.

"Souvenez-vous, soyez altruiste, comme Saint Martins"/"Remember, be unselfish, like Saint Martins"

He prayed for days that his father will recover and come home, be a veteran. He is afraid of memorial day communication from relatives in New Orleans in the USA.

Sobbing interrupt his prayers and he go to it. Nestled in a small corner of a hall is a girl his age, by her dress pattern.

He ask: "Qui a fait ça?"/"Who did this?"

The girl do not reply but the boy notice blood from her inner right thigh. He take off his jacket and put it over her and rip part of his shirt and give it to her. She wrap her thigh. A chaplain arrive. The boy is nervous. The chaplain place a calm hand up and say: "Sois calme. J'ai vu ce que tu as fait."/"Be calm. I saw what you did."

The girl rise and go to the chaplain. He whisper in her ear and she turn slightly, her hands on the jacket. The chaplain calmly dissuade her and she exits out the abbey.

"Avec moi"/"With me": gently demand the chaplain to the boy. They walk quietly through the halls and into the chapel.

"S'il vous plaît, priez avec moi, là où saint Martins a prié"/"Please, pray with me, where saint Martins did pray"

The boy at first kneel and close his eyes, peering slightly to see if the chaplain was doing similar. The chaplain smile while praying and the boy close his eyes. The silence made the boy dwell on his thoughts to his father, and he prayed in earnest after a while, and lost track of time, until.

A bell sound a new hour and he rise up.

"profiter de l'école, tout ira bien"/"profit from the schooling, all will be well"

The boy run to class, an official stand outside the classroom door he run to; his jacket is on a hanger.

"bein etudient, aller aller"/"good student, go go"

The boy put his jacket on and enter the classroom, and his day progress as most school days do.

But, in the evening at his dorm room, a knock on the door. He cut on the light and run to embrace his father.

"Vous avez laissé ça dehors"/"You left this outside "

The boy smile looking to his father and notice a wrapping; the right thigh of his father has a tight strapping.

"Oh, ma jambe, j'ai essayé de sauver la vie d'une fille, elle est morte plus tard d'une explosion, mais je jure, j'ai pensé à elle dans mon coma"/"Oh, my leg, I have tried to save the life of a girl, she is dead after an explosion, but I swear, I have thought to her in my coma"

"Merci , Saint Martins"

Thank you for reading, if you want to read more of my work read below

Poetry or More

https://www.kobo.com/ebook/poetry-or-more-1

Bookbub

https://www.bookbub.com/profile/richard-murray-16885e64-6c28-459e-bf5f-45c7d458ce49

AALBC

https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/blog/29-richard-murray-hearth/

richardmurray · November 12, 2020

A teenage boy sit side his parents in a living room, surfing the net while eating breakfast, the quiet is nullifying. He see a trailer for a film.

“Black people in Mexico!… you hear this”: the teenager shout.

“yes, you didn’t know, Hakim”: pleasantly inquire his mother.

Hakim father chime in a vocal gesture, a nod, and words: “Black people live, all over, the earth, always have, always will”

“You guys didn’t tell me about that”

The parents look to each other, and the father speak: “now you know”: and the father laugh.

“Can either of you tell me more about them”

“I will go make muffins Sweets”: and the father begin to leave the living room.

“Ok Cowboy…You see that envelope Hakim… yes, open it and pass me the photo inside… thank you, this is your grandfather, he fought in what you were taught is called World War 2”

“it wasn’t called that”

“not to him, he said, Black folk all around the world been at war and still at war with whites for hundreds of years, no one called that a world war… you know, he died when I was a little older than you, I missed him a lot, you want to know how I saw him later, and how it relates to Black Mexicans”

Hakim give a nod and his mother tell a story.

A girl cry in her room unaware of, what she will do or be, where she can go. She look through a photograph book and see her mother side Aunty Bessie, when they served in world war 2.

https://todaysdocument.tumblr.com/post/189791629093/ltjg-harriet-ida-pickens-and-ens-frances

She remember her father telling her: “Never join the military Dulce, never, never serve another unless it is for your own safety, don’t let your enslavers sell you their lies till you can’t eat anything else, I was forced, like many, don’t do it unless they force you to”

Dulce’s mother was less clear; she suggested to Dulce: “I know your father’s ways but no matter what you do, I will accept it”

But Dulce want to uphold her father; she want to uphold his truth; her problem is few opportunities exist outside joining up. Dulce does not want to clean homes. Dulce does not want to open doors. Dulce does not want to be a secretary. Dulce want to play basketball; no female teams exist, even though she play side all her friends in South Essex.

Dulce continue to cry, nearly twenty and unsure. The rain pour over everything outside. Dulce hear droplets from the crack in the window; she has to close the window so the rain do not come in. At the window she see an odd member in the graffiti on the back side of Uncle Benny’s Ice Cream Parlor.

It wink at Dulce; and she go outside to take the trash; her mother call out her name at the back door; she reply, just taking out the trash ma, and get a simple affirmative.

In the back alley she approach the graffiti soldier. His eyes look to her, she shuffle backward and gasp, and he speak: “Glad you came out to see me, glad you got your hood, preparation is good for any soldier”

Dulce look about worried: “am I in the Twilight Zone or something”

“No need to worry young one, but your father told me all about you”

“My Daddy… but he”

“is dead? yes, but what most of you living folk don’t know is, when a soldier dies, part of their spirit is unrest till their country is found”

“my daddy was an american citizen”

“yes, he was, but…”

“he never loved the usa”

“thus, the part of his soul that is a soldier has no country, think of it, like a spiritual veterans day, you living folk honor the soldiers who live based on your rules of citizenship, but we spirits, honor the soldiers who died based on the countries they were fighting for, take my hand”

Dulce step back again.

“I want to take you to your father”

Dulce step forward, and again, and again, and take the outstretch hand of the graffiti soldier.

Dulce and the Graffiti Soldier begin to walk in the spirit world, hand in hand.

“Don’t worry, you are only in here because of me, if you let go my hand, you will be back in the rain, no problem”

The two walk about in the forever fading world and she see soldiers, who look like her daddy in uniform.

She see soldiers from other times

She see soldiers she think is from the war between the states

Dulce see soldiers that look like the Graffiti Soldier: “they look like you”

“yes, some from the Black Brigade, most of the Ethiopian Regiment”

Suddenly, the Graffiti Soldier grab her hand tight and say: “remember, you can’t leave me”

Dulce is excited as she see her father, sitting among other troops, about a fire.

Dulce father smile bright when he see her and break to only stand firm and salute the Graffiti Soldier:“ Thank you Colonel Tye”

“No problem soldier, I wish I could leave you two alone but”

“It is alright sir, thank you for this”

“Well little one, I will sit here and you can sit beside me while you two talk”

Dulce sit side her father while the Graffiti Soldier sit as arm far as possible.

Dulce and her father hug: “Daddy I miss you”

“I know, the part of me that is your father, your mother’s husband, feels your love all the time, thank you, but know a part of me has a timeless love for you”

“Can I help with finding a country”

“Well, I know some spirits have been waiting for, well, longer than I can explain, over there are Loyalists, who fought for the British, the country they fought for may never happen, the best stories come from the Black Seminoles, their oldest ones were actually descended from loyalists who are here, can you imagine a family reunion here, truly wild”

“Well, can I come back here”

“I am being helped by my comrades to do this, I wanted to show you some of those guys over there, Warriors who fought with Jonas Caballo. They died so that Florida could be its own country, where black or indigenous people could live free absent raids or any sort of attack from the usa, they said something special happened”

“what tell me please”

“well, they say, that the people must have found a home, cause no soldier joined them who said they died out, the last soldier said they were in mexico and were heading south”

“Black people in mexico”

“well now you know, though I have seen many soldiers, I tell you, Black people live, all over, the earth, always have, always will, just like whitey, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, the whole world has native black or white people, look a little different here or there, but everywhere has black or white people”

“Should I tell ma something?”

“No need, I see her in dreams… I want you to know, the country I fought for, has never existed, but if you need to sign up, even if you know about this place, do it”

“Thanks poppa!”: Dulce embrace her father very tightly: “I still miss you”

“I know, you get back in the house ok”

Dulce feel Colonel Tye releasing his grip; she try to grab him back but rain pour on her in the back alley, instead. She stand up and lean over to get the rain from falling on her face, and enter back into the house.

“Alright everybody! muffins are made”: speak Hakim’s father, entering the living room with a warm buttery smelling plate.

He sit down and Hakim ask him as his mother begin a needlepoint: “you know the story of when Ma met OldPa”

Hakim’s father laugh.

“Ma, is this your home? thank you”

Dulce put down her needlepoint: “Well… the home soldiers fight for, thank you… soldiers die for, soldiers return from war to, is not the home of the heart, like our little apartment, it is the home for their people”

“But why didn’t you try to find that home…for our people, the home where grandpa’s spirit can be at peace”

“I think … that is what your grandpa wanted to tell me, that he will be alright, part of him has eternity to wait and pretty good company, I need to find my home of the heart first, before I can find a home for the people”

“I will find the home grandpa’s spirit can return to”

Hakim’s father hand him another muffin: “I bet you will, but put some jelly on that first”

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richardmurray · November 2, 2020

It is the night when the season is between the equinox in September and the solstice in December. The woods are dark or cool. The spirits of indigenous warriors are allowed under the Hunters Moon to inhabit the crows. The march of the pumpkins always arrives through night mid-September equinox or December solstice; they are filled with spirits of children killed before born by the hand of fate. But, in this rare night, the crows found assistance in the crows.

Usually, pumpkins have to travel far in the night to get their inner souls released. Most humans these days don't allow pumpkins to be housed for souls, cutting shapes that the spirits can naturally induce. But the spirits in the crows under the Hunters Moons know. And they choose pumpkins to free their spirits; they choose based on how courageous a pumpkin is. One of the pumpkins selected was the first to reach the top of the hill, any hop forward and it will slide down.

It tried to help the crows break it free by glowing as much as possible. Eventually, it became free and then absent the pumpkin shell, became a light in the sky. Like all others who became free, it lifted high enough to be seen as a star in the sky by anyone on the ground. And, per fate, a young witch noted the spirit in the sky, like a star.

She flew up into the sky and met the spirit and asked it, in an ancient tongue: "young spirit, I lost my ability to have children in an accident but I will love to be your mom, if we work together, I can help you get a body"

The spirit reply: "Thank you, I didn't expect to be gathered by a human. I have been on the march for hundreds of years, since Wounded Knee"

The witch opened her mouth and the spirit came inside. She slowly descended on her broom with a brightness, and went into her home for a cup of coffee. After a bath in herbal salts, she leaves her home, and sits on the grasses outside her home with a cup of coffee. Butterflies flied about her solar brightness in the evening, a new mother with a child honored by the warriors.

The End

Thank you for reading, if you want to read more of my work read below Poetry or More https://www.kobo.com/ebook/poetry-or-more-1 Bookbub https://www.bookbub.com/profile/richard-murray-16885e64-6c28-459e-bf5f-45c7d458ce49 AALBC https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/blog/29-richard-murray-hearth/

richardmurray · November 1, 2020

This was the party I planned for months to attend. You have to realize, this woman is so sexy, and is a star trek addict. So, I usually am weak in the knees when I am around her. But she talked about the Halloween Party of the year the second day we met, three month ago. I love Mr. Spock too, but I will be blunt. I never saw a Vulcan as sexy as her.

So, here I am. I am prepared to the party. I am dressed as a red shirt, willing to die tonight. I gave her a text and she said she was at the porch with friends. At the stairwell, I glanced at a Cheetara, not really complete; in truth she was more like Fairuza Balk, and I had an issue looking away from her cute face.

It didn’t help me that she had a healthiness around her heart. As a gentleman, I smiled and she spoke to me. She said: “hi, my name is Mikaela, will you tell me about your world?”

I replied, placing out my tricorder: “I come from earth in this collection of planets called the federation. But I arrived to this planet on a ship called the Enterprise”

“Do you want me to escort you around my planet?”

“why not, let’s try up there”

We walked up the stairs and guided through the collectives of various people. At the top of the stars, we saw a guardian.

I spoke in shock to my guide: “who is this, the tricorder says she is full of diakente energy”

The guardian twirls and said: “I am Sailor Andromeda, can I be of assistance"

I reply: "I have a guide from this world, escorting me around. I am trying to get to the porch, see what the mountains are like”

Sailor Andromeda replied: “I will help, follow me”

So, we three went to the porch. And I saw my chocolate Vulcan, kissing a male Vulcan. It occurred to me, I never asked her about her private life. I assumed because she never said. I tried to usher my party away but she saw me, and waved. So, I used my tricorder and ventured to her party. I must admit, the greetings didn’t help me. And, I recall little of the Vulcan I wanted’s smile or the smiles of the two other guys that joined us, one to embrace Sailor Andromeda, or the other to embrace my original guide. We ate food, under the moon. We moved our clocks back. And at the end, I hugged all three beautiful women. And went home alone. But I remember the night well because I saw my new neighbor for the first time. And, she happened to want someone to watch her star trek collection.

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richardmurray · September 25, 2020

Happy 20th anniversary Deviantart , the black and white version is my style, but I chose to color it to fit the invitational from deviantart . Do you like the Black and white or the colored?

Black and white version- my favorite

https://www.deviantart.com/hddeviant/art/20th-anniversary-deviantart-Black-and-White-856152910

Color version

https://www.deviantart.com/hddeviant/art/20th-Anniversary-Deviantart-856152306

richardmurray · September 25, 2020

Thank you @rosa yes, alone is not the best, not desired:) your right

haha your right @Troy I didn't think about the forest fires, los angeles, look red from above, have you seen those photos:)

ahh florida, equatorial life:) is a blessing at times:) always green, nice. Glad to see another season with you troy

richardmurray · September 23, 2020

An autumn wind speak this morning. It speak that the autumn is here for good, until the winter wind come. Let me boil some syrup. I need to get the wood, give me a moment. <Sniffle> I remember when I came here. The tantalum rush was amazing. Can you imagine a stream of automated vessels, frozen bodies inside , risking fate, between harvested body parts to raided goods to slavery on an A.B. hideaway , streaming from the spaceport in Addis Abeba to Beijing2 on Europa. I recall viewing it,nightly, with my ElectronMacroscope, from here on Titan. Few of those brave travelers made it here; the terraforming of this moon was the last initiative of the United Nations before the fall. But, millions came to this moon for the Tantalum. I worked my way here: a labor ticket to the moon from Earth, thirty years serving Senor Quetza who is still a lunar lord, paid my way to the graneries of mars for thirty years of overseering the self-automates, then enough money to take a long arc frozen trip around the AB and the battles of Jupiter. From out of my mother's womb to Titan took ninety one years. At seventy-eight I was content. I never found a woman on the way who wanted eternity with me or likewise. I helped a few people become mature. But, I just wanted to reach this place. Took me five years but I found this little enclave between mountains, no Tantalum, but everything I truly wanted. Some place to rest after a life lived.

I hear something. I am getting dressed to go out. Sometimes my fellow minors lose themselves in their depression. <creeeeek> I don't see anyone. ... I hear it again. Let me check the river. Ahh....

The Autumn Deer is looking at me from the frozen mist down the mountain in the nearby wood. Amazing how the deer evolved here. "Hello Friend!" Ahh, he is going into the ice blue mist. Enjoy life my friend, as I have. If anyone find my audiorecordings this land is in your caretaking. The tantalum can not be mined forever. And the beauty here can not outlast the dying sun, but will last longer.

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Poetry or More

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AALBC

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richardmurray · September 23, 2020

I remember the autumn gatherings when I was a girl; sparkling gala’s where my parents dressed me plus my siblings in glittering attire. I loved it. I felt always like a princess.
The pumpkin pie, the cranberrry sauce, the rice pudding, the apple custard, the watermelon slices, the corn bread … I loved it all. A peaceful rearing for me, the magic was in merely being alive; I had no need of unicorns from mystical worlds gated in forests or aliens from beyond the sky or anything unearthly.
I had a brilliant summer, and now my Autumn.

My autumn is simple and in continuity, a life from a woman alone. My job I like to do while it pay the bills, allow me to save, and give me time off. I am unmarried, but I have all sorts of comforts: masculine,friendly,inhuman; I am not alone. I am the autumn, and I am at peace as when I was the summer.

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richardmurray · September 22, 2020

International Day of Peace story

A man one day thought to himself, I will disturb nothing else, while laying in a bed, formerly his. He pee on the bed, defacate on the bed, so that he will not disturb the floor, the door, the world outside. His body hurt when he become hungry and he shake in the bed, stirring in the odor.
Finally, he realize he has to disturb where he lay. He can never be completely peaceful, and gets off his bed at peace.

richardmurray · September 12, 2020

9/11 2020

https://richardmurrayhumblr.tumblr.com/post/629017695402311680/transcript

9/11 has two lessons,

first, don't lie to yourself

The tragedy in 9/11 is that most people in NYC have accepted a lie as the narrative of that day. I was near those buildings. I heard/felt both planes collide into skyscrapers. If I ever find my 9/11 diary, a set of writings of all I experienced that day, I will publish it. But my memory provides enough detail to know the end of lying to self is the first lesson from 9/11.

People in NYC during that day asked why, why this happen? as if, they didn't know what the empire that the USA is does every day to places all over the world. People in NYC during that day blamed all sorts of people absent proof. I heard china/Russia/Puerto Rico/native Americans/CIA/illuminati all sorts of people uttered, proof to none, and yet, the people in NYC uttered this.

Some will say, people under duress must be forgiven the things they say or do. I oppose that view.

Hiding your negative biases or ignorance behind fear or impotency in moments of weakness is the greatest sign of a liar.

Everyone, next time any issue you care about is being discussed in your home, ask yourself, what is the truth? Not what is right or wrong, what you want or oppose, ask yourself what is the truth. The truth tends to show us, not what we want, or what we oppose, not what is right or wrong. The truth tends to show us, what needs to be done to get what we want in the most difficult way, absent lying. Now if you choose an easier path afterword, you are free to as a human, but know that it is a lie that base your actions.

second, don't think you can live outside the reach of the problems you make. It is a simple truth that the negativity one causes come back to them or those connected to them eventually.

Every black person that swore nonviolence was correct while black pregnant women were being hanged by a white mob didn't accept their lie will cause the death of many of their kin long after their dead. and the tragedy is, their latter kin maintaining said lie, haven't accepted the constant lesson of history from all the generations before that accepted said lie.

The truth is, all the people in the USA made the terrorist act in 9/11. The citizens or civilians in it who were too busy to vote quality leaders who wouldn't let a Statian imperial war machine be on the rampage, too focused on their money to chastise absent reprieve the military for killing unarmed people outside the USA. The elected officials, sitting pretty in seats of power in the municipal government of an empire to challenge how that empire maintains power or wealth off the death of people outside the USA. The security agencies like the CIA/FBI or similar, who do the most negative acts on a daily basis absent any scrutiny but always known through whispers everywhere in the USA. The fiscal firms that live as individuals above the law trading in the pains of the world for fiscal profit, whose shepherds evade the horror they engender.

The people of the USA made the terrorist act in 9/11 and still are not able to accept that simple truth.

richardmurray · August 18, 2020

A Seventeenth Witch

It was a quiet morning, in an eighth seventeenth

Miss Sarah, a witch, had a really long day