Symbiosis (Part 2)

In my earlier post I proved how necessary partnership between the male and female factions is.
Sure, some men live a decent solitary life with labeled organizers for each sock color, and cook gourmet dinners for themselves, and possess fine hobbies and exotic pets.  Some women live un-dramatic solitary lives with a pet to pity and fine philanthropic outlets.  But I don't have to expound to prove that even this in its most glorified moment is just as pathetic as the existence portrayed in the previous article.

The very fact that there is NO symbiosis present should be heart-wrenching.  What business have the two factions living a solitary life?!  Here is why:  (Again we turn to Genesis)

21 And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

22 And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.

23 And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

Here it is apparent that the woman was essentially (for lack of a better dramatic word) STOLEN from the side of the man.  But of course she was quickly returned because as verse 22 says, God "brought her unto the man."  Obviously, the first man was rather pleased with what had happened by his statement in verse 23.  He'd have to be since that woman was the rib over his heart.  

On a more serious note, we are handed a picture of what it means to have true symbiosis.  It is not just one specie or faction benefiting the other or even just living with the other.  It is an ordained collaboration.  One is not complete without the other.  

Any incomplete thing is a rather sad sight indeed.  It cannot function properly.  

Without a true symbiosis, a man is without his rib- a comfort to his heart.  (Believe me if you had no bone over that Central Pump of yours, you'd be fairly distraught.)  Without a true symbiosis, a woman is without a head.  And any headless creature should be greatly pitied- take a headless chicken for example.  It has no direction, no thought, no sight, no way to express itself, no way to receive nourishment, no breath.  

Gee...isn't that romantic.  *theatric grandeur*  "Thou art my every thought, for my curly fair-head has none!  My ever word- I have no thought to speak because of my curly fair head!  Thou art my meat for every day, my every breath, thy very name upon my lips is food enough for my heart!!"  *swoons*     

Okay, back to the serious funny.  

Here I have proven that symbiosis between the male and female factions is good and necessary.  Without it the two are pathetic and pitiful messes.  The Greeks knew what they were doing when they crafted this word during their morning debate at the Acropolis.  They recognized the sad state of solidarity.  But we see that it was ordained in Genesis by One very wise.  


Symbiosis

Signed,
Ryden Solo

Symbiosis

sym·bi·o·sis  (smb-ss, -b-)

n. pl. sym·bi·o·ses (-sz)

1. Biology A close, prolonged association between two or more different organisms of different species that may, but does not necessarily, benefit each member.

2. A relationship of mutual benefit or dependence.

---

[Greek sumbisis, companionship, from sumbioun, to live together, from sumbios, living together :sun-, syn- + bios, life; see g^wei- in Indo-European roots.]

Symbiosis has intrigued man for centuries.  But today, it interests me.

Most would argue that the two factions of the homo-sapiens category are the same specie, but I beg to differ.  There is clearly a certain measure of symbiosis present within this category between the male and female factions.  I will venture even further by stating that this "symbiosis" is entirely necessary for the survival of each faction- one cannot do without the other for any serious length of time.

Within the female faction, I suspect that it is a work of empathy, or compassion, or- let's just face it- PITY for the opposite faction.  But on behalf of the male faction, there is a noble desire to protect and provide, a sort of fathering instinct or- let's just face it - PRIDE.

Pity and Pride work together in a most interesting way.  Pity is obviously the more "gullable" word and thus likely the sole reason the female faction symbioses with the male faction.  Let us imagine a world between the two without symbiosis.  The male faction's abode would be rather bare, the direct opposite of his face and head.  His table would be continually full of indigestible leftovers and his diet might even be rather time-efficient and simple, consisting of basic proteins.  His clothing would be very practical and eco-friendly in the sense that there would never be a lot of it nor want of water to wash it.  Time would also be managed in a most interesting fashion.  It is likely that the beginning of each day would be spent preparing the daily meal, catching, cleaning, and cooking.  After eating the breakfast course, the male faction would settle down for a nap.  By the middle of the day they would arise and devour the lunch course, just the same as breakfast, and after that settle down for the noon-day nap.  After this, they would arise and devour the supper course and then again, retire for the remainder of the night - though several of them might arise for a snack at some point in the night.  

Now, let us take a look at the life of the female community without the symbiosis of the male faction.  I do not believe it would vary much from any group of females we witness today.  Work areas would be neat and tidy, pantries well-stocked, and houses well furnished.  Clothing would be washed, dried, and pressed as well as hair well-kempt.  You see, with or without the existence of man, females would still be trying to outdo each other.  However, one of the most notable and grave disadvantages would be the atmosphere around the female faction.  In their race to outdo the next female, a most horrendous pecking order would be established.  It would truly be a dog-eat-dog world.  Verbal battles would be un-ceasing, diminutive phrases would sound well into the night, tempers would flare, hair would fly, and objects would break.  With that said, we turn again the more docile and harmonious male community.  

As the female faction wars long into the night, the male community is busy commencing their mid-night snack: roast beef sandwiches without trimmings.  They eat quietly without much speaking.  Occasional grunts are heard denoting a request for the pass of a second portion and there is comradeship all through the monotony. And once the merriment has subsided, the male community is again enshrouded in blissful, grating snores.

So I have made my case.  And here, I present to you, dear reader, the remedy- in which the symbiosis was Providentially ordained.

Genesis

18And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; 

I will make him an help meet for him. 

19And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.

20And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.

21And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; 

22And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.

23And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

24Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.

        
To be continued.....

Signed,
Theribov One

Horseless and Happy

As far back as I can remember, perhaps even from diapers, my attention was captive to anything with four legs, hooves, and a nicker.  Even the dopey Disney Clydesdales with collars and buck-teeth.

At age four, I was drawing and painting two legged horses (because I did not yet understand dimension.). But by the second grade, I had made a paper carousel horse collection (horses with dimension and four legs.) that wowed my teachers.  

By the fourth grade I had knocked out all the books related to horses in my school library- even checking out the "How To Draw Horses" book several times.  I had already read Smokey the Cow horse- which was on a 10th grade reading level- and the librarian,  my mother, and my teachers were forcing me to broaden my literary horizons with "non-horse" books.

I don't know when my mother figured it out.  Maybe it was when I took a Toostie-roll bank and set it up in my room for my sisters to donate their allowance money toward my future horse.  Or maybe when I sat at the top of my driveway with painted driveway rocks for sale- all earnings to go straight to that horse.

After I had cut out at least a dozen Classified's ads on local horse sales and tacked them to my wall, my parents must have thought they should make it clear to my young mind that our situation would not be good for us or the horse.  I was bitter.

By the sixth grade I had contemplated a couple of options: running away to a local stable or feigning lack of appetite and sickness that only horse-ownership could cure.  That sort of drama came from the books I read, not the films I watched.

I was given two options that year: horse-lessons or a flute with music lessons.  It took me less than one hour to make my decision.  I chose the music.  And I've never regretted it.  Here is the sum of my wisdom.  I knew that horse lessons had a cap on it.  Money runs out, no horse, no ability to ride.  On the other hand, I could make music without parent funding, and the flute and the ability was one thing I could carry with me the rest of my life.  To this day, I am proud of my decision.

What I ended up doing in 2010 was a spark of entrepreneurial inspiration.  However, it has not really taken me anywhere yet.  I found an old wood-burning iron and decided, "Hey, this is fun.  I can sell the wood I burn and save the money from that for a future horse!"   So Phoenix Pyrocreations began.  Problem is that the older you get, the more you need money for.  And then when you think of getting married you realize that you need every bloomin' ounce of that cash for a down-payment on a house, car, and furnishings.  And then when you think of getting married, you also realize that very likely before you're ready, you'll have a family to support, and you wont be able to keep a horse anyway.  Still, selling pyrographic art-pieces was more noble plan than running away or starving oneself.

So, arriving at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I have concluded that I am horseless but happy.  Sometimes the best way to ease the pain of an unfulfilled dream is to fill your life with many smaller dreams.  I may not be destined for a wilderness establishment in Colorado or Montana; but if I am where God wants me, even if I am horseless, I will be happy.







Signed,
Sylvanbliss

Def.:- Sylvanbliss:  1. a state in which one realizes that it is better to be horseless and happy than to have many horses and no joy.
2. the realization that without joy the dream one wanted would become an all night struggle. i.e. nightmare; but with joy he can be happy awake as well.
3. the contentment of going where the Lord says go.
4. sometimes also perceived as a last ditch measure for horse-crazy people in which the victim attempts to bury the symptoms and "forget".  This usually only results in a resurgence later in life which is worse than the previous and should be dealt with tenderly.  Some have found it useful to allow the victim to keep chickens, goats, or some other small livestock as a wound-salve.

Complex-ion

"So, where are you from?"
It never ceases to strike me funny when people around me ask me this question for the first time. Usually, they're asking it at the first time- the first time they've met me.

I have a tendency to throw my head back and release a rather buoyant laugh whenever something strikes me funny.  This is one of those triggers.

I know what they're thinking.
"No, sólo porque soy morena no quiere decir que soy una chica española!!!"  I want to rattle off.
Sure, I took two years of Spanish in high-school but I grabbed ^^ from Google Translate.  Thanks Google!!

Other than my appearance, my name seems to be another trigger.  No-one gets it correct on their own. (One young man has and it earned him bonus points.) Scarce few get it right after I tell them how to say it correctly.  (The attentive and "people who care" do.)  

One of my coworkers (who has trouble remembering my name) calls me Esmeralda because I remind her of the gypsy from the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  

Spanish people often come up to me and chatter away in Spanish. 

When I was born, I was detained in the hospital for suspicion of being "jaundice".  

I was called Pocahontas as a child.  (I actually pretended I was Pocahontas.)

I can't tell you the last time I sunburned.

My eyes are so dark that even close up in the mirror, I have trouble spotting my limbal ring and pupils.
I can sit out in the sun for fifteen minutes and walk inside three shades darker.
I like to wear intense/dark African and gypsy colors.  I like skirts with sequins and coins.  I like silk sashes and fancy kerchiefs.  I am not a tambourine-player and I cannot dance.  

What surprise comes across the faces of the inquirers when I tell them that I am in fact a local!  I wonder why they don't assume that other American women with naturally dark hair and eyes are foreigners.  After all, America is a melting-pot.  This could be due to the fact that women are deceived into believing that blond is beautiful.  Blond is beautiful.  But blond is common.
I'd toss my shoe that way down I'm just as white as any natural blond. And there's the "same difference" for you.

I'm naturally dark.  And natural dark is extraordinarily beautiful.  I have no Complex-ion.


Signed,
Your Gypsy girl



 

The Sense about Scents

You probably have a few childhood memories about doctor's offices.  And the memory closest to needles and corpulent nurses is probably what your nose picked up when you walked through the door.  That unnatural cold, crisp, sterile smell.  A smell that made you think you had entered an alien space-ship or stepped out onto another planet.

I work in one of those such offices.  And every day I feel as though I have been abducted by aliens and transported to a gas-cloud planet.  Most days it's the pediatric waiting room, though, other times it's the wheelchair bound patients that are morbidly obese.  It's something you know they can't help because of their disability- but you have to wonder how their caretakers get use to it- or what their home environment smells like.  

I don't know which I prefer though- choking down giant gas-clouds of Lysol fumes or inhaling the sweet and pungent odors of dead, decaying, rotting, fermenting, sprouting cultures growing on various fluids and substances.  

And like today, when I had a slight cough I found it near impossible to suppress the urge.  One has to inhale in order to exhale.  Common sense.  But how does one cough or sneeze in a toxic environment- a gas-chamber of nauseous fumes?  One can't.  One just DIES.

It smelled like decaying rat.  (I would know.  I had smelled decaying rat years ago when I had found one in an old roller-blade boot my grandparents gave me out of their garage.) It being either the mother or the patient- no one cared.  Burning nose, tickling throat, watering eyes, customer service.  Serious multi-tasking there.
And the whole while you're thinking, "Just give them the prescription and get them out of here!  What's so wrong with telling someone that cleanliness is next to Godliness.  Like- if they had toilet paper stuck to their shoe would you say anything?  We probably don't because we think, 'oh, it'll fall off sooner or later and besides, it's not harming anyone.'"

What about smells people?!!  There is water and soap in abundance in America!  It's a free country.  The government doesn't limit the number of baths you can take in a week's time, or a month's time, or even a lifetime.  

"Hmm...Oranges!"  I exclaimed upon returning.
The nurses had just a moment earlier cleansed their planet of the aliens and sterilized the air with Citri-stat.
I've grown to really like the smell of oranges.  Still, I tend to test the air cautiously at first, just to make sure it is safe to breathe again.
The nurse-practitioner walked by.  "That room still stinks!"  She gasped through distorted lips.
"I think it was the girl's feet!"  The nurse commented with amazement.

I continued my journey down the halls of the office and tried not to contemplate my traumatizing experience. To think that I should ever offer embarrassment to anyone caught sniffing their underarms.  ------------------- At least they care.


Signed,
Proanosmia

Dream Begin

First posts need ice-beakers.  Something the size of a concrete buster, not an ax.  I'm not fond of the cold because my fingers seem to have poor circulation, but I've always wanted to ice-skate.  I also have a shearling coat and boots in my closet and I can't very well use either in a rain-forest climate.
I've self-published one book and am working un-methodically on another.  But I like to ramble sometimes. And I don't have time for social media.  So here I am.

It is what it is.  Random writings- instead of vague status updates.
Random pictures, instead of selfies and duck-faces.
Random topics, instead of dumb social media games.
If you're anything like me, you agree with ^^.

You probably think social media is for ordinary people.  Or at the very least, a waste of time.  But you will follow this blog.  You will.  You know you want to.  Because you agree with me and after finding agreement, you think I'm pretty awesome.  So get to know me better!

As my ice-breaker... or concrete buster, I begin this Dream post with the mention of my new bedroom. Finally, a bedroom ALL to myself after 21 years.  The first decoration is a major project, currently underway.  One, I would give you pictures of, if cameras took good pictures in the dark.  The Milky Way is going to come alive on my bedroom ceiling over the course of a week or two.  A detailed, accurate expanse of stars will litter my ceiling!!  My ProGlow paints are on the front porch charging for tonight.  Tonight, I begin painting.  Today, I begin Dreaming.

Signed,
Your 9