Some people, here and there, over the years since iPigeon.institute had initially been founded, out of my renewed interest in feeding the birds, in town, posed the question, or they had surmised, perhaps, whether, or that - I feed the birds out of some kind of particular connection or affiliation with Catholicism, being that they ostensibly draw a connection between the birds being taken care of, with the imagery of Saint Francis of Assisi, who is typically pictured, in art and in sculpture, as being surrounded by small animals and birds. In addition, a seedy side of suspicions, upon ulterior motives, assertedly at issue, is suggested about the practice of feeding the birds, as we, here, in Southern California, of this generation, have, as well, come to associate Catholicism with child exploitation, and other tawdry deeds, such as homosexuality. I'll address these issues, in the following paragraphs.
I had just received the notion, early in the morning, today, as to update my blog (finally - it's been since late June, 2023, that I'd last published, I believe, since I died early in July (it was encephalitis, or something like that, this time, that I had fallen dead). These days, dying could be, kinda... like that, I've come to discover. Nowadays, out here, Fentanyl is on the rise, and, in my first instance of dying, I'd snorted a bag of what I thought was cocaine - a foolish thrill to marginally indulge, since I'm immune to cocaine intoxication and euphoria, like it used to be. This last time that I died, I had no recollection or warning of that I was going to fall unconscious - I simply woke up, naked, with tubes in me, in a dormitory-like room setting, with young nurses, about my age, and somewhat my peer demographic, although I was very uncomfortable about the situation, since I had no idea, for some time, where my belongings were - being a materialistic guy, whereas I'd been keeping up with important bills to support owning my belongings, it was a dire blow to my identity, I could feel. I was feeble, to some degree, when I had woken up, with some numbness on a couple sections in my leg, and my good hand was weak, in the forearm. Nobody gave me any information as to what had happened, or how I had gotten there.
All of this being the by and large underlying premise of how I could possibly compose myself, given the consideration of that today is Ash Wednesday, as well as Valentine's Day - two days in which Catholicism looms large, on the calendars. People who are Christian, such as myself, don't make much of Catholic traditions - and, in the case of Valentine's Day, largely being a popular point of reference to a holiday, perhaps, yet, on our calendar, most standard holidays fall on days next to the end or beginning of the week; around the weekends - I'd suppose that this practice of dating national and federal holidays, in the United States, is potentially a context developed from out of our American society's roots in labor and manifest destiny, in which, as I'd come to ascertain - of that it's difficult, over time, in particular, to sustain a laboring lifestyle and workplace practice that works, throughout every day. Compared to Valentine's Day, which is traditional, still, in American society, yet moreso an arbitrary distinction, of a specific date, rather than a planned and more generally described "day, out of some numbered weeks," given the various calendar months.
This being the case, I find that it's somewhat too misfortunate - this aspect of how I'd unexpectedly died, of all things, and self-sacrifice had been a heavy burden upon me, since I used my iPad Pro for accessibility issues, and, since my passing away had been a tragic experience for me. I'm still being burdened and stalked, in the streets, even by activists, in addition to gang members, although I do expect better outcomes for myself, and, I'd suppose, I could fairly much, not speak for others, since nobody presents themselves to me.
I've been to mass, before, however, so I somewhat know how it is - it's a bit more liturgical and formal, in setting and ritual, at least, on a more generalized basis, as far as how the service goes. As far as content, I'd say that it really depends - various cultures have their own flavor, at times, so to speak, on religious services. I find that I'm in too dark a mood, on account of that I am a stalking victim, to care much about religion, or of things that people say, or claim to care about. There's nobody that's actually speaking to me, there's just voices in my head. People that speak to me, as voices in my head, are being identified, regularly, as being developmentally disabled, and bordering on retarded.
Alright,
so, that's my story, as for this year. My significantly primary goal is to feed the pigeons, and develop them in to fine birds and poultry, over the years and decades to come. I get the feeling, as such, as though some people read an account like that, and - as well, "so easily" attempt to mount and claim a stake upon what they ostensibly "fear," in fearing death, of some inevitable outcome, whereas they're sitting or standing around, or something - gathering, perhaps, for the sake of stalking me, in town; in turn, upon religious standards, general practices, and expectations that people who are rational, the throughout society - get by on; "live by," in other words.
I'm not a large-scale influential individual - I have vast and rich facets of my personality that I'm not addressing, even, for much of the time, out of my days, most commonly. I could communicate some various things on many topics, quite well, yet, beyond what I face, as obstacles to my civil liberties and rights, as an American citizen. I "suppose" not that people are so limited in sociability traits, and decency, solely; I imagine that, rather, some of the other "people" in my head, speaking to me, have a grip on rational outcomes, for people who refuse to repent from sinful acts. Death was easy enough - once I'd passed out, and, as I'd said, I didn't even notice it coming, this last time. The first time, it was like a desperate nausea, overcoming me, and that portion of things lasted perhaps a half hour. While I was unconscious, I didn't know, or realize anything further. Once I woke up, it was about 6 nights' stay at the hospital, and I'd eventually recovered, and moved forward, from where I was at, in life.
