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"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
None of the belligerantly brazen and widely-known felonies, Constitutional violations --- rape and stalking, grand larcenies, kidnapping, looting and vandalism, identity theft and credit card fraud, attempted murder and obstructive harassment, false imprisonment and dysfunctionally ineffective counsel, brainwashing and forced drugging, enslavement and extortion, libel and elder/sexual abuse committed against my personal and corporate props have ever been charged or adjudicated (despite repeated pleas to higher authorities, federal and state and international and cosmic) against known and named located "perps" meaning that felons have been voting -- and buying guns -- in Virginia Commonwealth -- and complicit Tennessee, and no doubt others, for at least 20 years.
This is the truly weird backstory "spun" to fantastical rumors and smears by psychopathically greedy marauders then and since: My third husband (to-be) moved, uninvited, into my singly paid-for and fully-furnished Shenandoah Riverfront Aframe with all he owned in two paperbags which is all he had a legal right to leave with, having never paid any rent or mortgage and being intelligently cared for through 14 often-harrowing years. He became toward the end a physically and verbally threatening and inaccessibly unreasonable "crackhead" that refused to reconform liveably or to leave voluntarily. So "in extremis" at a dangerous October 7th, 1997, evening moment, soberly and sanely terrorized by that hugely bulked and drugged-out criminal with a locally-known and extensive rap sheet, I called Page County Virginia's E911 and said calmly to the deputy thereafter at my door, "This is my house. I just want my husband to leave." And was arrested myself which, as a judge there later ruled, was completely illegal (and utterly ludicrous under the circumstances). Obviously, the whole place -- kinda like nearby Baltimore/D.C. metro -- turned out to be "dirty" top to bottom side to side and no place for notoriously "soft-hearted" and too-often naiive me.
As well as possible since then, like women (and men) around the world now and throughout history, I've "picked up the pieces and walked on"....
E2016 Addendum: Whatever this political entity be that surrounds us now, it is inarguably NOT "my country" by its continuingly mystifying choice to abrogate massively and murderously my civil rights as a native-born taxpaying non-criminal responsibly adult female/woman elder citizen, nor is it functionally the Constitutional construction codified by our founders and fought for by my ancestors -- immigrant pilgrim settlers, soldiers, investors and entrepreneurs, suffragettes and barristers -- and me. And I do not choose voluntarily/freely to "unify" with it as is.
"To each man a song, born into his blood and vision -- the working force, the fire of spirit. To each his gift, the song that he is committed to sing in his time on earth. Yet a man must hear it forming and feel the composition of it along the strings of his soul. In the quiet and secret places of his heart the music waits. Voices he does not know sing it to him when he does not watch, and those bells that rang in other lands, in other times, ring yet to reach each soul.
"But he must take along his soul into the riven, quarrelsome streets and into the furious arenas where he meets with life. And there is no place to hide.
"And music, so gossamer and tender, born of innocence and frail substance, is thrust into the forge and laid upon the anvil, and struck there with hammers and beaten upon from divers directions.
"If he cannot protect his song and slip away from the destruction of his soul, if he cannot hide from the clamor and the weight and the heat, then he is lost.
"If the calloused hand of circumstance reaches inside him and scrambles the notes, scattering them to the lost reaches of his soul as the planets are flung through the heavens, then he is doomed and lost.
"And if the searing finger of despair reaches in to cauterize, to seal up his soul, and the cold wash of fear descends upon him and his metal has no temper, then he will not live.
"For of what use is life if a man cannot find the lost knowledge of himself, or put together again a song that has been broken and scattered, or restore his soul?" -- The Song of Samuel, And Scatter the Proud by (now-deceased Asheville NC reporter/novelist and ACR friend) Lewis W. Green