December 5, 2013
By Kevin Tully
The Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster appears to be a simmering global disaster.
Hiroshima by someworthwhilequotes.com
“Rachel, get your shoes back on, now!” yelled the tall, ragged looking father. He stood over the child as she dragged herself across the pitted vinyl flooring. Even seated it was easy to establish that the child was not put together right. Her hips were wrong and one shoulder aspired to her ear as if she were perpetually shrugging. The man’s suit of clothes were pleasantly matched but appeared disheveled and worn. However upon closer inspection it was he that was disheveled and worn. The clothing reflected the man.
“Come on Rachel, don’t worry about tying “em, I’ll do it in the car,” the man said, lifting the child to her feet and setting her gently in a brightly painted plywood box with old lawnmower wheels on either side. He turned and walked a few steps toward the kitchen and grabbed a plastic trash bag that appeared to be holding books. Tossing the trash bag over his shoulder he stooped and picked up a length of nylon rope attached to the child’s vehicle and pulled her out to the waiting pick-up truck.
“I wanna sit in the back with Mamma”, said the child as they approached the rumbling pick-up. “No, no Rach, go on and sit inside with Daddy”, said the woman softly, lying on an obviously dense and comfortable pallet made up in the truck bed of numerous brightly colored and decorated quilts and various sizes and types of pillows. The woman smiled faintly as the man lifted the child into the truck cab and she pressed her face to the back window and said, “Hi Momma, we’re going to a party.”
…The assembled women all were seated around her on the pine bough and fresh hay littered ground. They had placed the books, mementos and photographs, close by, on bales of hay and benches. Her husband held the child in his lap, seated cross-legged at her side. Rachel held her Momma’s small thin hand, tracing the faint blue veins under the vellum like skin. Three older men, sitting in tattered synthetic webbing lawn chairs with slabs of yellow pine as seats, were playing and sweetly singing her favorite song, “Ripple”, an old Grateful Dead tune she had learned from her father as a child. One of the men was playing her cherished mandolin.
They had said that it would be fifteen to twenty years before the major effects of radiation exposure would show up — it had only been twelve. She had been warned about having a child, all women had. She never regretted her decision, especially now in her last moments. Was it selfish and wrong — will she be judged for it? She found some comfort in knowing that she may soon find out…”
From, “Oh Japan, How Could the Mauled have Embraced the Beast!” by Franklin Cincinnatus
Submitters Website: http://www.facebook.com/FrindsOfLyndonJohnsonCityArt?ref=hl
Kevin is (writing about yourself in the third person (illeism) is a trip) an artist/writer/carpenter and frustrated songwriter living in Johnson City, Texas. His latest frustrating songwriting attempt is titled, “I Touched the Hand That Touched the Hand That Willie Touched”, it, according to Kevin, is about falling in love for all the wrong reasons. Kevin is also a closet subversive. He claims he’ll come out of the closet as soon as handguns are no longer popular. Kevin is a loud, obnoxious Texan and hopes that this will be held against him — “It makes life so much harder and interesting when traveling outside of the Lone Star State.” Kevin used to be a Golf columnist. He says life as a Golf columnist is not a whole lot different than life not as a Golf columnist. Kevin is sure that Jesus was indeed a Socialist. Kevin founded a short-lived organization, “FOXNO”, with a mandate to get Fox News off the air. It got very little traction and as a result, over the ensuing years, Fox has propagandized a very significant portion of American television viewers, which, if unchecked, could destroy this country and the world. Kevin’s Father thought Kevin was prone to hyperbole. Kevin wishes everyone would read “A Pilgrim At Tinker Creek”, “In Watermelon Sugar” and all the poetry of Carl Sandberg. Kevin once, when drunk, argued, “America is not a city on a hill” for two hours, because “America is not a city, it’s a rather large landmass that used to belong to Indians and porcupines!” Kevin once yelled out at a “Chicago’ concert, “Steinbeck is God!” Kevin does not suffer fools or assh**es, usually. In 1969 he had a neighbor that was an assh**le who, although an assh**le, was enchanted with the Space Program and the prospect of man walking on the moon. Kevin and his best friend, Tommy, tied thread around a pinecone and at the designated hour, threw the pinecone over the neighbor’s television antennae and shook it like hell — the assh**le neighbor missed Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon. Kevin says that every time he watched Michael Jackson moonwalk he would be reminded of his assh**le neighbor and he would laugh like hell. Most folks that know Kevin would say that he hasn’t changed. Kevin Lives in President Lyndon Johnson’s hometown. Kevin, along with a few others, is trying to expose Lyndon Johnson for his equivocated humanity and possible good intentions. Kevin is pondering a short story about power and its surprises titled, “Kings Can Dance.” When asked about current politics Kevin simply answers, “Trump is a turd.” Kevin would like for me to express his gratitude to you for taking the time to read the above stuff and to say, “good be on you.”
Comment: We are deluded or deceived.