Category Archives: notes

Letter to Bill O’Reilly from Kimberly Townsend Palmer, Esq.

maxine waters bill o reilly

Dear Bill O’Reilly:

This morning, you saw fit to ridicule House Rep. Maxine Waters for her personal appearance. Specifically, you observed her speaking in the House and began to snicker. You apologized because you said all you could think of when watching her speak was… “James Brown’s wig. It’s the exact same wig!”

Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so fucking funny.

Might I point out to you that Donald Trump has so much hair glue in his sleazebag, 1980s coke-sniffing, 13-year-old-raping, gangster coif it makes me nauseated every time I see, hear, think, or write about him.

Might I point out to you that you are not even worthy to be stuck to the bottom of Rep. Waters’ shoe?

Might I point out that your books are absymally written, clumsily biased, and badly researched?

I won’t even stoop to discussing YOUR personal appearance. But I WILL add, I know who I’d rather wake up in bed with. And it ain’t YOU or your HAIRMAN.

Most sincerely,
Kimberly Townsend Palmer, Esq.

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Trump, A Secret Family History

donald trump family tree

Trump, A Secret Family History (as revealed to me by his secret family!)

When the San Francisco police started raiding Granddaddy Trump’s hotel/brothel down by the wharf, out of sheer spite (because their favorite girl had dragged herself out of the whore business by her own corset & a married farmer down in Bakersfield)… well, when that started, Granddaddy decided things had gotten too hot. Down coast, Granddaddy found a good location near the train line for a hotel in a place with no cops. He couldn’t come up with $1,000 an acre, which is what the owner asked, so Granddaddy filed a placer’s mineral claim against the land. The U.S. Land Office was, and is, corrupt.

Despite the placer’s claim giving him no right to build any structure on the land, Granddaddy built a boarding house. As soon as the boarding house was there? The railroad built a station. To his credit, Granddaddy never attempted to mine gold on the land —the miners themselves were his source of income… when they weren’t mining, they needed to eat & sleep & occasionally find a willing woman. The land’s real owner tried to collect rent – but legal title didn’t matter much to Granddaddy, not then… or now.

“Title” is fiction; perception is reality. In the end, he practically stole that land from the first owner for $100 an acre. And not too long after that, he got himself elected to public office, winning justice of the peace by a vote of 32 for, 5 against. He found himself firmly attached to the government tit & at the same time earning money by violating the law he’d been hired to protect… well… it really didn’t get much better than that, he thought.

From crooked brothel owner to crooked justice of the peace in less than a generation. Not bad for a German immigrant, eh? Granddaddy dreamed big… multigenerational wealth transfers, the long view. He’d teach his son (Daddy Trump) the family tradition. Then his son (Trump) would teach his grandson. That tradition would practically be bred into the bone by the time his grandson would both win (and also not win) the presidency in 2016 (thanks to Russia, James Comey, and the alt-right movement). Think of the great-grandsons! There’d be Trump II, Trump III… well, the possibilities were endless.

Until the impeachment… but that would be giving too much away… I’d better let him tell you the rest himself!

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“The politics of 2016 breaks entirely along lines of identity: first race or ethnicity, followed by gender, level of education, urbanization and age.”

What Trump Exposed About the G.O.P. – The New York Times

https://apple.news/AocAVFxmuSpWor6IikXVhow

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Giant Redwoods, a poem

illustration muir woods 2

Giant Redwoods

(Statements in italics taken from Ethics, by Baruch de Spinoza)

Look farther and farther toward thin blue sky, until the green feathery tops of the trees are like the northern pole on some dream planet.  Put the anger back in its bottle. These trees are generous.  Hatred can never be good.

Your carsickness from the ride up the mountain begins to fade, leaving behind a breathless, weepy echo not unlike your first religious fervor.  Hatred is increased through return of hatred, but may be destroyed by love.

When have you not been afraid?  The random can be scrutinized for meaning, the puzzle solved, when surveyed long & carefully enough.  Anything may be accidentally the cause of either hope or fear.

These trees have plenty of time.  As a child, you stared at Jesus’ sad face for hours, wishing you could marry him  — wondering what it was that made him love you.  Could you sacrifice yourself for the sins of the world, if it was that simple & necessary? Cathedrals turn us small and vulnerable again, for reasons both blessed & cursed.  Devotion is love towards an object which astonishes us.

Vague, starry eyes like yours feel at home here; the air is weighty, burdensome & solemn. You’ve loved trees before; this is different.  These trees have plenty of time – more time than you.  If we love a thing which is like ourselves, we endeavor as much as possible to make it love us in return.

Your nerves are suddenly frozen, by the unaccustomed richness of perfect light.  Your guide is tall & slender, hesitant to speak.  Her mother has the tattooed forearm of a Polish Jew of a certain age.  The knowledge of good and evil is nothing but an idea of joy or sorrow.  Sorrow is [a hu]man’s passage from a greater to a less perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  She touches your wrist, and for a moment, you, too, want to grow taller, leaving the surface of the earth behind forever.  Shyly, she picks up a tiny pinecone, smaller than a toy.  You both laugh when she tells you this is their seed.  Joy is [a hu]man’s passage from a less to a greater perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  And all around, their wise, fallen, hollow bodies litter the ground like the bones of saints.  Childlike, you understand a wish to die here, never to leave this hush.  They’re only trees – your neck bent back as far as it will go; only trees, yet wondering if the giants can hear your thoughts.  Love is joy, with the accompanying idea of an external cause.  Love and desire may be excessive.  When the mind imagines its own weakness, it necessarily sorrows.

Is there anything we have less power over than our own tongues?  These trees have plenty of time, growing wise as the Buddha, in their silence.

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How Art Thou Received? (a prayer for refugees)

How Art Thou Received? (a prayer for refugees)

Imagine: suddenly, without warning (because that is how war arrives) you are a war refugee! Simply running away from being murdered. And how are you received when you can finally stop running, when you are out of range of the guns, the bombs, the blood? No countries to take you. No one to feed you. You are a skeletal pawn in a skeletal game.

Embalmed corpses declare war on the living and fight for their “territory” against other embalmed corpses using armies of young people; embalmed corpses feeding on fresh, young blood.

I know something is very wrong, somewhere. It must be addressed, and addressed properly. Our prayer, our incantation, our spell to heal, must be more powerfully crafted, more distilled, more essential, than was the horrid spell we are trying to break: a tradition of might over right, strong but wrong, a spell of ignorance which has caused so much harm, and is trying to do more… powered by the love of power, the love of control over people.

The scarred parts of the heart can be replenished; the broken parts, glued; the weak parts, strengthened; the fear assuaged, the pain relieved. But the desire to change, to truly alchemize oneself, spin that straw into gold… the gold of the sun… the silver of the stars… the red planet… the North Star… primal navigation by looking not at the ground, but by looking up, to the sky… that kind of desire doesn’t visit often.

If you want to know where you are going, be sure your map is accurate, or at least doesn’t kill you. Migrating birds know this. Power & Liberation. Slave & free. Joy & Suffering. High & low.

Craving slaves, some are trying to roll us back to serfdom, only they can use our own science & technology to rape us! Serfdom: tied by birth to land. You are a pawn, a source of income; in thrall to your Lord and Master. Freeing serfs is always a struggle. Brute force arm-wrestles the human race, and brute force often pins people to the mat, but… you cannot keep people down for long. The oppressed will continue to spring up and defend their inalienable human rights. All people are created equal: including our ancestors, who existed long before the self-anointed first “private property” owners. Human beings are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, yes? The earth cannot belong to any one of us. Period. We own this planet. All of us.

 

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Eleven Random Questions, and please submit your own answers as replies!

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ELEVEN RANDOM QUESTIONS

What do you think of keeping a journal?

The real issue here is not that of how journal writing affects all the other forms of writing.  There is much to be said about journal writing, both positively and negatively, and probably all of it is true at one time or another for all writers who face changing circumstances over the course of their writing lives.  Sometimes journals can help our other projects, sometimes they can’t.  Each person’s situation is best handled by themselves.  The real issue here, the issue that has people so stirred up, and rightly so, is the fundamental arrogance displayed in both the “writer” Jimmy V.’s original essay condemning journaling out of hand, and his later condemning replies to any and all responses proffered to him.  Arrogance of the intensity he displays has always been a substitute for actual wisdom.  This truth is one of the fundamental truths of human nature, and I am not the only person to realize it.  “The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.”  (Bertrand Russell)  That, little Jimmy V., spoiled rotten “writer,” is the central issue you should concern yourself with.

 

Which celebrity would you like to bitch slap?

Dr. Laura wins by a light-year.  I only slap those who’ve been guilty of slapping others.  She’s angry and cruel and gives just plain bad advice to her callers.  I listen to her all the time to remind myself how wise and kind I am by comparison.  King Solomon, she isn’t.  She’s a one-note piano with a bent wire.  She sounds like she needs heavy meds, and pronto!  Wouldn’t we all just leap at the chance to come back as her husband or son?  I’d rather be eaten alive by a swarm of rats.

 

Do you remember your dreams?

I remember my dreams often, but not every single night.  My dreams run the gamut of emotional response — from terror to euphoria.  I write down most of the dreams I remember.  They are usually very long & complicated & sometimes make perfect sense but sometimes don’t contain the slightest thread of logic.  My favorite dreams are the ones I call “therapy dreams.”  Often, when I’m upset or angry with someone, I’ll dream about that person & act out my feelings in the dream & achieve some sort of resolution which flows over into waking life & is vastly superior to any traditional therapy I’ve tried.  I’ve done everything in my dreams — flown without mechanical aids, been wonderfully fluent in foreign languages, had phenomenal sex with friends & strangers & celebrities, lived as a member of the opposite sex, written best sellers, killed people… my dreams are in many ways the best part of my life because they’re absolutely limitless in scope & action & intensity.  Sometimes dreams are a lot more “real” than real life & more enjoyable.  Surrealist dreams are the most interesting — upon waking I always try to puzzle out what was the link between seemingly unrelated events or objects.  I’ve even accurately prophesied the future in dreams.  I tend to think it’s because the subconscious is free to express itself rather than any supernatural explanation.  We’re just that smart when we’re not weighed down with all our conscious baggage.  Thanks for asking about dreams!

 

What’s your Wu-Tang name?

Contagious Specialist

 

What’s the deal with long hair?

You’re right, it is 40.  Not 30.  Sometimes long hair can make the face look thin & drawn, but that’s also true for teenagers.  Some of them shouldn’t have long hair.  On the other hand, I’ve seen old ladies in wheelchairs with long fluffy white hair & it can be quite charming.  I think if you look good with it, who cares what the rules are?

 

What are five good things about springtime?

1.  Getting the taxes filed & out of the way

2. Wanderlust & regular lust & spring fever

3. Plants waking up & showing off & intoxicated

4. Putting the hand lotion away till next year

5. Birds, bees, butterflies & bikini underwear

 

What are your irrational annoyances?

Noise, noise & noise.  Ungrateful children who view me as their maid.  Children who, rather than empty the trash, stuff the can so full you can’t get the bag out.  Children who leave dirty dishes & empty snack containers scattered around the house.  Children who are, currently either at the movies or sleeping.  Thank you, God.

 

Does springtime make you horny?

Nope.  For me the season of lust is definitely winter.  But then, I live in Florida.

 

Why do you love your pets?

I love my pets because they’re far less demanding than my children.

 

What do you think of the name game?

I have a former sister-in-law who collects unusual names.  A couple of her favorites are Shithead (pronounced Shi-THEED) and Lemonjello (pronounced Le-MON-jello). Also PsalmCIV (pronounced PIZUM-siv).  These are actual legal names, no joke.

 

What do you think of magazines with articles titled “Ten Steps to a Killer Orgasm!”?

I used to read Seventeen as a child… then read Glamour as a young woman… then read Mirabella as a grown-up.  It figures Mirabella went bust, it was the most intelligent in a sea of dreck.  Redbook was pretty good until they quit publishing short fiction. Jane’s okay, but too young for me.  I hate Martha Stewart but her magazine’s got the best art direction, I think.  And I like when she runs those articles about 27 varieties of tomatoes, or whatever, with a poster illustration.  Gourmet is an old classic, still living up to its past.  Vanity Fair has great writing & an eclectic subject matter.  Rolling Stone & Sports Illustrated also win for good writing that crosses subject lines.  I find I don’t have enough time to read all the magazines I subscribe to — they languish in piles.  W is nice just for the outsized format but their writing is negligible.

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Opening editorial message for Truth, the magazine, 1st draft

illustration truth the magazine opening editorial statement

Opening editorial message for Truth, the magazine, 1st draft:

First off, my name is not really Kimberly Townsend Palmer. It is, or rather, should be, Kimberly Townsend Pomikala. Pomikala is a Bohemian name, which my father was born with but which was changed by his family not too long after he started school in Arcadia, California. It was changed because one fine, sunny day he came home in tears after being called a “dirty Bohunk” by the other children. It was 1943, and the world, and finally the United States, had long been at war. The biggest battles were not being fought on battlefields but being fought inside the human heart. Many families lost their entire physical existence, multiple generations snuffed out in less time than it takes to inhale, exhale — mine lost only its identity. A small price to pay for being safe in southern California, in a town named for the residence of the Greek gods. So my father grew up as a camouflaged ethnic. The name was changed, but the inside could not be changed. He never felt at home anywhere he went. He might well have been a war refugee of a metaphysical battle — a battle, the fundamental struggle humanity has been waging since its inception, the inexorable war between truth and ignorance. Factual accuracy is not always the truth — truth goes to the essence of a thing. Not the surface, but what is deep within.

The story is told how Eve caused the fall of humanity from the garden of Eden by eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. What is the remedy for this? What is the essential nugget of truth we may take away from that crucial moment? My answer is: there is no absolute good, there is no absolute evil — there is but truth and ignorance. Eating the apple and gaining the surface knowledge of good and evil was a trap humanity fell into, a trap we have been struggling to release ourselves from ever since. Love exists. Hate exists. Both can serve the truth. Both can serve ignorance. We must harness ourselves to the wagon of truth and pull our heavy burden to wherever the driver leads us. The driver is God, the driver is love, the driver is peace, serenity and acceptance of the way things are on this planet. Many things we label good and many things we label evil are in fact neither. They are simply in the service of truth or in the service of ignorance. Satan, in the guise of the serpent, led Eve and Adam into a terrible, incomprehensible trap and God is now and has always been guiding humanity out of that trap. The reason God forbade eating of that fruit was it was not yet the right time for humanity to have that knowledge.

Plainly put, we are not yet advanced enough to receive the knowledge of good and evil. God is the only entity qualified to eat of that tree. We have taken a small, superficial bite of knowledge and used our imperfect bodies, minds and hearts to inflict merciless cruelty and oppression on others. Our biggest enemy is pride — believing we, as fragile, physical and temporal beings, can ever know enough to accurately judge another’s worth before God. How dare judges and juries impose the death penalty! It is not our role to take life, which is bestowed by God. It is our role to live it and seek the truth and banish ignorance. We are entitled to keep ourselves safe, we can ensure our physical and emotional safety from injustice and repression — but we cannot ever presume to know the will of God.

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