The Culture that has been here all the time

Just another season. I like the cold weather and the snow flurries that visited us yesterday. I am grateful for my limited enjoyment: a few NFL games, ancient movies, and dramas or dramedies from the UK.

I hope all of you are well.

Jim

My lover held a blanket in her arms and whispered, "Follow me to the distant garden in the forest." Her soft voice was alluring, and she moved like a willow in the breeze. She tossed the blanket between the fruit on the vine like a wave upon the shore. Beneath her flowing gossamer gown, I gazed at a living goddess from ancient Greece. This must be a figure of Aphrodite come alive. Her smooth, pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. I was helpless to resist her. Soon, we were tightly wrapped in one entity, indistinguishable as separate lovers. Hearts beat as one. Breathing was as a single billow. The soft grass under the blanket made our bed complete. Her lips bore the heat of the fever within. Her breasts were soft, her nipples hard, compelling me to nourish my desire. The identity of my manhood explores the cave of Venus within her. When we were nothing more than an ashen stone in the moonlight, the sweet sleep of joy gave us rest.

My wife has severe cognitive degeneration (ADA, think Bruce Willis). She still likes it when I tell her she is pretty. I put a small amount of makeup on her, and she smiles, hugs, and kisses me (nothing more). I ordered a wig for her to see if she would like it—real human hair. Her mom had very thin hair as she got older and had several nice ones — too bad I didn't ask for them before she passed away.

A rich man lived in a mansion with servants and paid helpers to keep and run it. He spent all his hours awake plotting how to gain more wealth - some people believed he did that in his dreams, too. When holidays came around and things like birthdays for people in his life, he delegated the job of sending cards and gifts to his assistant.

His assistant was a nice guy who barely made a living from the salary the rich man paid him. Many years passed, and all went as usual, but the nice guy became ill and passed away in the hospital unnoticed. The summary of his obituary read, "He was a nice man without a family." He was cremated, and that was the last thing the rich man did for his employee—no one knows where his ashes are kept or even kept.

Not too many years later, the rich man became ill, and hoards of people sent flowers to him while he was in the hospital and took turns visiting him. When he died, they all collaborated to have a most beautiful and magnificent ceremony, an eloquent eulogy, and even a parade with a horse-drawn carriage and marching band playing a somber dirge.

People gathered at and around his mansion for the reading of his will and last testament. The crowd gasped when they learned that a daughter and a son received all his wealth and worldly possessions—only the nice guy knew his children existed.

If you want to pay homage to him, you can visit the great cemetery on the hill overlooking the town. It is made of the finest Italian Marble and is as large as a bus.

Rich Man                                                  Nice Guy

The sun was about to set on a mild autumn evening. Above, a stream of Starlings made their way from the farms in the west to the marshes in the east for the night, the twisting with a din of squawking. I and my lover, joined a few other couples wandering on the hillside meadow in a field of amber American marram grasses. There were a few asters scattered within the blades. We sat close to each other, embraced and kissed, but returned our gaze toward the distant bay with the approaching purple sky. The gentle breezes encourage the grass to perform a Ballett. I imagined an orchestra performing an opus of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. When the purple terminator engulfed us, we shivered into a warm embrace. We agreed to make our way back home to the warm kitchen fire and a comforting cool-weather drink.

I try hard to be optimistic, but the shadows of doom haunt me more each day. So many things are wrong and seem to have no sanguine path to improvement. 

I hold my own and do not cry. I accept responsibility and work to improve, but to no avail.

If you were Losing your mind, would you be aware of it?

AI Overview

While it's difficult to say definitively, most people experiencing a significant decline in mental health, including "losing their mind," would likely be aware of noticeable changes in their thoughts, behavior, and perceptions, even if they might not fully understand the severity of the situation; however, in some cases with severe psychosis, individuals might not recognize their own symptoms due to the nature of the illness. 

Sometimes, I think I lost my mind already.

AI bots love me.

Well, readers, friends, and not friends,

I want you to know I have a sense of humor; some of you may not get it. Sometimes, my sense of humor is dark. My brothers and I can joke in a hospital with someone we know on their deathbed and make them laugh. Funerals were wonderfully humorous to us. If that offends you, I apologize. It is how we, and especially I, cope. 

Example: I am lying in an operating room. I open my eyes and see a beautiful anesthesiologist, and the first thing I say is, "Wow, none of the aliens looked as beautiful as you when they abducted me." The medical staff in that hospital voted me as patient of the year. LOL

My brother was a supervisor for a transit company, and someone committed suicide by stepping in front of a train. His comment? "We won't see him walking around in the zombie apocalypse or The Walking Dead (TV show)."

When our mom was on her deathbed, she joked too.

So when you read my blog, and I am having a bad day, I may write something strange to your sense of humor. Forgive me.

You can't have sex once you are gone. You might as well get all you can now.