The secret invasion by tulips who are here to take over America

A gift from the flower dons
Photo by Catia Climovich on Unsplash

 

Secretly, there is a plan for tulips to take over America. They’re elegant and you can buy them for people, but it’s all a great conspiracy by the flower dons, who sit behind desks, who rub their hands together, thinking, how can I make the world more beautiful? I’ll give the world tulips.

They just walk around in their suits, the tulips dons, handing people flowers for no reason. Sometimes the flower recipients are annoyed. They don’t necessarily want to carry tulips in their hand. But most people just take the flowers.

Once, George got up from a restaurant table to use the restroom. And, when he came back, there was a room full of people with flowers, showering him with them.

George, have these flowers, one said.

Thank you, Ron.

George, have these flowers.

Thanks, Judy.

George, have these flowers,

Thanks, have these flowers

Thanks, Jules.

On the ritual went, late into the next morning.

It wasn’t death, but you’d hope them considerate enough to bring a wheel barrow to allow you to take the flowers home. Is this what flower dons get to? Who started this strange tradition? You see, it all started on the park steps on Union Square. The first victim of flower bombing was hit and the strange trend caught on like a storm. People would outdo each other, the stunts more grandiose and extravagant.

My brick and concrete overview of New York City, ignoring parts of Staten Island as one usually does

Here's my account of New York City, no better or worse than anyone else's, but I hope you find it helpful. There's a great variance in temperature, having all four seasons-- snowy winters, hot summers, falls full of orange and read leaves, springs full of flowers. There's no difference from any moderate climate. If you go to the outskirts, you get a peek at the wild life that once occupied the land. In the Bronx Botanical Gardens, you can spot blue jays and cardinals. My girlfriend, who lives in Staten Island, sends me pictures of peacocks, turkeys, and deer. When I was younger and lived in the North Bronx, I'd see the occasional blue jay-- but the urban landscape is sadly comprised of a few animals-- few of which are well-liked: Rats, cats, dogs, and raccoons. You can also spot Skunks in Baychester. Pigeons and robins are everywhere. I don't know anything about their current vibrancy as species, but they appear to be resilient and scrappy. I remember observing the birds, as a kid, always impressed by how the cold weather didn't appear to affect them, how quick and alert they were for food.

You can find people of different kinds here, but you can also go your entire life without associating with people outside of your ethnic group. The city therefore grants people the opportunity to be cosmopolitan, but a person can also remain as backward as anywhere. The internet has democratized things a bit. It was once the case that people were more dependent on this monstrous concrete and brick hulk, focusing their efforts on it, building it, and putting their love into it. Now we don't focus as much on physical places like New York City. We're more and more on the internet.

People have continued to live in New York City, in spite of the ebb and flow of its relevance. Something about it is cozy. The word associated most with the locals is "bodega", the name given to a corner store typically owned by a Dominican or Puerto Rican in most of the Bronx, Northern parts of Manhattan, several places in Brooklyn and Queens I would guess. There are also may Yemeni-owned corner stores, which are pretty good too. I've had lots of good sandwiches from those places, usually after having stumbled home drunk from a bar in my late twenties. There are many bars, far too many for me to name. You can find good craft beer places, the types of places I would visit that would normally carry obscurely-named porters and stouts of high alcohol content. But, if I were ever in a tough spot, I would settle for a place that served Belgian Beers like Chimay and Delerium Tremens. On my nights out in the city, I experienced the full range of who people could be. I, who was once sheltered, was at once assaulted with life's beautiful and darker elements. I saw people at their worst and I saw myself at my worst. Now I'm at a point in which I've forgiven others and have also forgiven myself. I don't drink so much anymore. My greatest pleasure is derived from a cup of coffee, which never has to be fancy. It can be a simple cup of coffee and I would be happy.

I wasn't allowed to drink coffee as a child, but I think my grand mother made me try some when I was seven and I hated it. Then an Indian lady at Dunkin Donuts shoved a cup of coffee in my hand in my twenties and told me to drink. So I drank. I was hooked on regular coffee ever since. I can already picture the coffee snobs turning their heads in disgust. I drink mine with cream and three sugars. I hope that, no matter where my readers are in the world, they have a place they can sit and drink coffee and chat. I hope the chats are pleasant ones and that they carry meaning without them simply being an exchange of pleasantries. Meaning and pleasure are not opposed, but the empty exchanges on the weather on the outside without us at least addressing our weather in the inside of ourselves will do nothing but increase our dread as we labor through life. Coffee can be had in a number of ways. I like mine in a very simple and straight forward way. The corner stores all have coffee. The few diners that still exist here all serve coffee. None of it tastes as good as coffee I once had in Zona Colonial in Santo Domingo, but, whatever the coffee, it generally does the trick and helps me cope with life. Living in an urban climate, full of grays, with people dressed in black, constantly laboring for the bare minimum-- you're well set up for drudgery. Coffee is right there with you throughout your annoying morning commute on the subway, which has a bunch of guys yelling "Showtime", flailing about, and sometimes kicking people. There are sometimes homeless people who sleep on the subway trains. They're normally left alone-- but be mindful if you notice that all train cars are full and a single train car is empty.

I think the important thing to note in the time of COVID is that you can get good take out in New York City-- take out from all over the world. Sure, you can make your own, but that would take away precious time I can spend typing, eating, Netflixing reality television, wondering how many versions of a British bake off show can be created, watching every single version of British bake off shows. What is a place, really? Frank Sinatra made a song about this place so I guess that's cool?

Today’s mixture of thoughts brought to you with chicken empanadas

We don't have to agree on everything, but let's conclude we both like chicken empanadas and will eat them when given the opportunity. It's not often enough that we are confronted with a flaky crust; we take this challenge on willingly, knowing these efforts enhance the enjoyment of flavorful chicken.

Yesterday we had empanadas with coffee and you told me my bar stool is ugly but functional.

Meat hangs from the ceiling, which makes me either pretentious or refined; I haven't decided. It hangs from the ceiling, giving the room a look. We can't decide if it's a good look, but it's a look all the same. There's wine here-- rows and rows of it. We normally just watch it, nowadays. We don't normally have it the way we did last night, drinking row, after interminable row, throwing the empty bottles at one another and breaking into song. Last night was different, but we're eating at the moment. There's knocking at the door and you get up and let another man in. He walks up with a bottle of wine in his hand. He looks at the wall with last night's broken bottles and decides the wall can use some more broken bottles. An eerie look overtakes all of us for a second; we laugh and then we start drinking.

This season, like the last season, we will have chicken empanadas, coffee, and wine. We will sit by the warmth of a fire. We'll listen to you insult my bar stool, we'll break into songs, we'll throw bottles. Then we will get past the winter solstice so that the fire by us dims making way for the greater fire overhead.

Villains find ways to cope with the new normal

Scardon had enough!

He's never had such a bad pastrami sandwich! How was Scardon, lord of the night supposed to rule the world without the right pastrami sandwich? He swished his cape in disgust. "This won't do! My ominous mask looks like everyone else's mask!," he gasped. "Everyone wears capes now! How will I stand out?"

He thought about going outside to cough on people and the beatings he would receive as a result. He stroked his mustache and struggled with his French press. His hands were useless when he was anxious. With murderous dictators succeeding the way they were, it was hard to distinguish himself as a supervillain. Scardon therefore embraced the supervillain purely as an aesthetic and discarded the real life embodiment of the supervillain which was the murderous dictator.

People didn't quite understand it when Scardon yelled, "I am the darkness!" at people. They thought he should learn to calm down, for the most part. He still practiced lurking in the shadows while holding his hands out like claws.

He considered the best type of poison gas-- if he should use the colorful kind or something in a black or gray. "When it comes down to it, if I contribute to the art, it will all have been worth it", he said, delivering his latest scowl, crouching and doing his best maniacal laugh.

2020 Year in review

I'm here to tell you that this was an awful year. I hope that your version of awful was, in a way, less awful than mine-- but we're here, whenever here is. Let's try to enjoy this moment which is likely to be filled with booze. My particular booze, at the moment, is red wine. I don't really go out much, these days, with the plague and all. I tend to be surrounded by a couple of glowing laptops with a big screen TV behind it. Whatever the matrix is, I'm sure I'm plugged into it. Be informed of what's coming. The world is in danger.

The coronavirus killed hundreds of thousands. Some of us have experienced it to a greater extent than others, but most of us have, in one way, experienced it. Some of you are learning what it's like to work from home and love it while others hate it. Some of you still have to work outside and deal with nasty people who cough all over everything. Whatever your situation, I wish you a speedy recovery from the hellscape that was 2020.

It's my hope that as people we can learn to be a little kinder towards one another, that whatever philosophy we adopt enable us and encourage us to act compassionately towards one another. Maybe buy your friend a pair of sneakers. Maybe hold a door for someone. Mentor someone. In some way try to balance-out the negative with the positive.

I tend to like religious people, having once been religious-- but I've never liked the idea that we have to wait until the day of judgement to make things right. "So what if the only world we have goes to hell if God is going to set everything right?", you say, and I'm disappointed you're such poor stewards of the world the greater power has given to you. If justice has a sword, look where the sword has gotten us. We're a mess and it's because we don't know how to cooperate.

Even now, after thousands of years of nations and ethnicities fighting one another, we haven't advanced past the need to use violent means for resources rather than learning to collaborate to ensure there are enough resources for everyone. If aliens ever visited us, we'd be ashamed of the state we're in. Half the planet's on fire. Not all of us are clothed and fed and have basic needs met. How pathetic. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize of 2020 being a futuristic year, but we're sloppy as the human race, not at all worth a damn as a whole.

On a micro-level you find one or two compassionate people in life. Some people say that most people are actually good people. Well, if that's the case, how do you explain the fact we're on the edge of destroying ourselves? It's time to look at ourselves clearly and realize that violence is counterproductive. We must support scientists and we must also advance in technology. We must take to the stars and we must build robots. We can't continue to be held back by backward thinking.

Let's finally be serious and ambitious with our advancements, discarding the belief that competition in the pursuit of individual greatness trumps the greatness of humanity as a whole. We're full of ourselves because we haven't been confronted by a greater intelligence. We haven't pushed ourselves to become better overall because of our infighting in spite of the world being more connected than ever.

I write to you now who are thousands of miles away, saying, "I come in peace."

The blue tip of the flower of my mind

The blue tip of the flower of my mind is explored only by those with the insight to incite me to a violent lust quenched by the wine bearers, even though I'm wine bearing. This is the code of my order, which is rarely explored in the way we would expect-- but in the most demeaning tones tongues are turned against us. We watch them, the mortals, torn apart by the conflicts they've created. We watch in shadows, perhaps complacent, but only because we lack the power but only the grace to move through life without inflicting ourselves upon it. We watch and then we finally move in a way only caressing until smoke fades into the gray night sky. Then we emerge with harps and stares to sit at your feet by the fire, with frail hands extended and stroking the sounds in the air.

Air what are you full of but that which in a moment I motioned up in the center of the universe? To you I am nothing and I can't blame you. You do not know what the soft sounds mean to me air, you insistent that the sounds should mean nothing. You think that I should be hard, air, you think I should work in the mills and the factories, air, you like the dark smoke, air, you like the tired limbs pushing the house door after dark, rushing to food the next morning, air. The blue tip of the flower of my mind is touched by you and it crumbles under your gust as you overtake me. Surely, there must be a way to survive long enough to be by the fire, to sit by yout feet and play. I've got a song, a song few people know. It goes like this. Wait. Listen. Any minute now.

So I obviously don’t eat people and what I wrote was a work of fiction.

I can't believe I have to explain this, but I do not like to eat human beings. What I wrote was a work of fiction written from a monster's point of view. If someone is writing horror, they're not supposed to write it from a straight forward, wholesome perspective. People write about vampires all the time. They just sound fake. And maybe stop making them goth. I mean, goth vampires are cool, but they don't all have to be goth. They can be imagined in different ways.

My love

My love is a minimally invasive procedure.

The Weapon: How St. Michael met defeat

Michael on one knee summoned fire and brimstone from heaven. With it he destroyed cities before human minds imagined the megaton. His eyes glowed two bright lights. Dogs barked in the distance, the diameter of hellrain like a virgin. The surrounding park was quiet and undisturbed. Surrounding birds even chirped as though they knew the fire carried the creator's assurances. They could fly around the circle undisturbed.

Three sisters gasped from falling sulfur -- Emma, Ode, and Everest.

Ode lifted her hand. A blue force field appeared above the three women who looked above them in terror at the overwhelming onslaught. Number four appeared among them as if from nowhere. She had long since discarded her birth name. Hundreds of years have since passed. No one remembered it, but her sisters would refer to her as the weapon.

The secret of names is a lesson kept close by big heads, Enoch, and their few fortunate students. However not everyone is taught formally. There exists the chance that a human, when trained by an angel, has a gift.

But if all gifts come from the almighty, how did the weapon possess powers to defeat an arch angel?

Exit wounds in enemies piled on wreckage

Bursting the enamel of an egg, I the great writer communicate to you in a manner mind shocking. Imagine as I would imagine. As you absorb the pictures from my mind into your skin, think of the sky lords. They exist not needing discipline, their actions already perfectly maneuvered. I see one of them, laid down and defeated. The fourth sister arrived and made short work of him.

Michael, the greatest of angels was humbled by a human taught by a lesser, who existed simply to work a craft while thunder above mountains roared.

If I say the right words, you will follow. My words are sweet, sweet human. Humans well-trained defeat angels.