On going dribble

Do you mean "drivel"? If you have on-going dribble, I'm pretty sure there's medication for that.


Not sure, when I scribble something that meets my needs I tend to slobber.
'Damn this here is good.' slobber, slobber..
Dribbling is something done with a basketball or something that comes out your mouth.
I cautioned folks, I have no idea what is coming out of think box; besides
it wasn't me, it was ' a supposed person.'
 

Korea
PBS documentary on their first dictator Kim II Sung

I've seen three on Discovery channel, one of PBS, this was the harshest by far.

An adult lady, told her story of how as a schoolgirl, she observed all things in her village. She was extremely thrilled when she noted
something, 'not allowed;' she would run to the police station to snitch off her neighbors.
"I felt so proud, so proud."
She escaped as a mature adult.

Food Rationing:
Workers 600 grams of food per day.
Seniors 400 grams a day (I forget it may be 500, and it was the most important aspect to us>)
Kids-forgot
Infants-300 grams a day

Concentration camp victims: What they can scrape, literally, sometimes robbing chicken feed that the chickens may not have eaten.
Who ate the chickens was not explored, bet it wasn't the prisoners.

In addition there are the medical experiments, the hard physical labor, the political excitations. You would think all opposition has been stamped out, and it has been somewhat, but there is always some who veer of path or have alleged, 'gone wrong.'


Young man escaped from camp, told his story of: ' My grandfather, both parents and me were placed in a concentration camp.
I was nine' !
As a young man he escaped to China.

Spooky documentary
 
Not sure, when I scribble something that meets my needs I tend to slobber.
'Damn this here is good.' slobber, slobber..
Dribbling is something done with a basketball or something that comes out your mouth.
I cautioned folks, I have no idea what is coming out of think box; besides
it wasn't me, it was ' a supposed person.'
You need to get out more.
 
I find myself always seeking the correct thread to post something on, sometimes there
isn't one.

Commercials:
Flo the girl that often appears on Progressive Insurance adverts:
Flo is talking to Bigfoot, she calls him Bigfoot several times
Bigfoot asks, 'Why are you calling me Bigfoot, my name is Daryl."☺

This time Progressive Insurance is not beating viewers over the head with
Daryl, not so with the next one:
A man rides a motorcycle, he has no lower torso?
How can you operate a motorcycle with no bottom parts?

Curious and interesting the first two or three time you see it, but
there beating us to death with this guy with no bottom parts.🤔
 
You do "Stream of Consciousness"
I think that's a question☺
Went on down to the Center for Higher Learning🧐 on'accounta'a of they told me
I need book learning (lots and lots of book learning).

I got off work at 3 P.M., school didn't start until 6 P.M. where you gonn'a waste three hours-I choose the beer joint.
Alcohol does not increase your communication skills, it does not increase anything
except stupidity. I majored in stupidity for the first year.
But boy could I write! Stream of Consciousness, you bet!
First semester I earned a 'D,' and a 'F.' but boy, could I write..
(You can't flaunt your academics skills with a gpa of 0.5😮 tried to chunk me
out of their school house-stuck up rascals😣
 
Events beyond my grasp:

I was watching skydivers jumping out of plane at 10,000 feet.
Before they pop their chutes they cavort in the open sky.
A huge open sky, yet, two of them collidedo_O
 
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More do not grasp

Worked at defense plant with 10-fifteen acre parking lots. The parking lot had several entrances.
Sunday, on a cold winter day, 3 inches of soow on the ground.

Two cars pulled into parking lot
from two different entrances
drove fast, there were no other cars
Collided!😖
 
Officer%20Dibble.png
MtLa.gif
 
A Driblet:

-Clyde, I saw a documentary on the TV, how to cure pollution.
-That's good Herman, that's good
-Don't you want to know about, pollution is a terrible problem.
Herman, I've never seen smog, there's not enough green stuff here to make a good fog.
no, I'm not terribly interested.
-You've never been no where Clyde.

-Your not going to leave are you Herman?
-Not until I've had my say.
-Okay, go.

Clyde, Clyde 46% of the people ride bicycles to work in Copenhagen.
-Now listen listen they have a rickshaw type bike to carry the old folks to town-cool huh?
-Enthralled,ain't ya.Hernan.
-You outht'a seen it Clyde, folks frolicking in the parks, don't have to find a parking spot,-just great!

Herman, no I did not see your TV program,but this was in the summertime wasn't it.
-Yea.
-Copenhagen way North of us, right.
-Yes
-They have lots of rain, snow and ice.
-I guess.
-I'd guess bicycle don't slide that well in snow or ice, not counting getting rained on in the spring and fall..
-Now, leave me alone`.

(Entertains me, blame it on covid-19 isolation)
 
Swan Lake – Dance of the cygnets (The Royal Ballet)
1:40

Swan Lake – Dance of the cygnets​

Well, you wouldn't think a redneck would have anything to do with ballet.
The question is: why do they dance on their toes.

I'll be back later with a non-answer.
 

Daddy

BY SYLVIA PLATH
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal


And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
 
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The Colossus​

BY SYLVIA PLATH
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It’s worse than a barnyard.

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.

A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered

In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,

Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.



 
I let the two poem Sylvia Plath wrote about her father stand alone.
Interpretation belongs to the reader...

Her father required extreme discipline from his family, but he died when Sylvia was eight years old.
There is a lot of bitterness here for an eight year old, OR did she manipulate the facts needed for her poems?
 
Don't read, this is an outline of 'stuff' i'm trying to figure out.
If you dribble enough words and lines against each other, you might get an insight of where the words go-not always, but most of the time.
 
mommy

mommy’s grave is all sunk in
I guess she’s used to it
Daddy- browbeat her all her life
till she was a’ feared to speak

When I got big enough
to do something about it
I wanted to, but I didn’t
I didn’t

she’d slink around the house
shrinking ever year
till she disappeared
no one paid her no mind
 


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