Free Idea for the taking!

 I'm an idea man. I'm also at zero for selling my ideas.

 I once told someone I had admired an idea that I had come up with. He had secured over two dozen of his own patents and was famous in my eyes for doing so. He said that my idea was novel with a british smile. I thanked him before he proceeded to admonish me for doing such a foolish act,

  "Young man, NEVER tell someone else your idea without securing it yourself!" His English accent showing disdain for my being foolish enough to let an idea slip from my lips.

  I don't own an idea. Even one I pretend to have originated in my head is but an already existing part of the eternal wavelength. Intellectual property to me is of the same realm of that of the physical kind. Out of reach by choice.

  I cannot do a kickstarter by myself for several reasons, or excuses, however you want to look at it. There are peope making money from ideas every day. The money generated can start more Kickstarters and be given to charity to grow an abundance of wealth for the right reasons.

 $250 is the minimum donation goal with two weeks being the least . These are a few of my latest(thought up just now) ideas.


 A novelty collar that translates your pets barks, meows, or chirps into jokes from your favorite local celebrity.

Cost- 175.

 Normal animal collar/harness - $5 to $30.  This is an important part. It must be sturdy enough to support the speech detection and translation unit and be comfortable enough for the pet. You get what you pay for. For the five, the material will snag, and tear within a month. For the thirty, it'll be usable in that many years.

 Translation unit. $9.

 This is a peizo speaker connected to an array of circuits that close circuit only when a sound is made to depress a thin film on the opposite side. Through gates, the charge travels to one of fifteen different pre-recorded voice performances of five to seven seconds in length.

  Voice talent $0 to Millions.

  So. You either have a friend or five in the industry or you're really good at imitations. If not, you must hire someone to do it. I do not know the going rates, but these celebrities are easy to imitate.

Male:

 Donald Trump
 Sylvester Stallone
 Arnold Swartzennegger
 Groucho Marx
 Richard Nixon

Female:

 Joan Rivers
 Zha Zha Gabor
 Sarah Palin
 Shirley Temple-Black
 Julie Kavner(Marge from The Simpsons)


Note: This is a conceptual phase. To actually set this up for a kickstarter, you have to do a video about the object and layout goals and rewards. That takes time and even more ideas. If this one is good, it'll spawn even more ideas.

 So even if I can't capatilize on my own thoughts through kickstarter, you may! Build upon these as you would write a novel from seeing some chimpansee's handwriting.

Shock's Summer Reading Pt. 2

Okay, where were we? Oh. More of the novels I've enjoyed over the summer.

Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell

 I cannot pin down my fascination with English authors. It may be partly due to my desire to feel closer to my ancestors, which many come from England. Or it could just be that they are the masters and I am drawn to them in their immense capacity to captivate any audience.

 The book itself was a gift from a friend who knows my situation. I am homeless, but not without shelter. This book deals with situations I have faced, and some that I have not.

 He spins stories within stories, even in the beginning. At the front of the novel, a character by the name of Charlie is introduced. Charlie looks and sounds like a child, but is very far from one in age. The stories he tells would make gentlemen and ladies blush alike, but they are a fun read.

 Within the pages, Orwell skirts the subject of changing language, one of which I am always fascinated by. Here is an excerpt from page 176:

 " The Cockney accent as we know it seems to have come up in the 'forties (it is first mentioned in an American book, Herman Melville's White Jacket), and Cockney is already changing; there are few people who now say 'fice' for 'face', 'nawce' for ' nice' and so forth as consistently as they did twenty years ago. The slang changes together with the accent. Twenty-five or thirty years ago, for instance, the 'rhyming slang' was all the rage in London. In the 'rhyming slang' everything was named by something rhyming with it- a 'hit or miss' for a kiss, 'plates of meat' for feet, etc. It was so common that it was even reproduced in novels; now it is almost extinct. Perhaps all the words I have mentioned above will have vanished in another twenty years."

 The lead character is never named, but it is not needed, as the richness within the supporting characters defines the book, not the un-named subject.

 I'll loan this book to anyone who has worked a 16-hour day just to do it again. They would know what it is to be a plongeur.

The Symbolism of Freemasonry by Albert G. Mackey

 Although I'm not a mason, I feel a kind of kinship with those of the secret brotherhood. I claim to have knowledge beyond this world, and if there's any group who would share this knowledge, it's the freemasons. I dove head-first into this book after I shucked all of my preconceptions away. That's pretty difficult to do, but it pays off in the end.
 Mackey lays down the structure of Freemasonry by giving a brief history and a few precursory lessons for the uninitiated. Those prove useful throughout the book because he refers back many times.

 Although I did not divine the location of the Ark of the Covenant by the containing explanations inside this book, I still had a good time learning through it.

Anatomy of a Park  by Donald J. Molnar, ASLA with Albert J Rutledge, ASLA

 This text-book formatted gem is written for the everyday user of a park as well as lead designer. The contents are well defined and carry the reader through the critiquing process of existing sites as well as looking at and interpreting design plans.

 One of the greatest things I have gotten from this book is the 'multi-use' theory that takes a structure or area that has a downtime and figures a way to create a complementary function for when it's not in use. In other words, mostly everything in here is functional, even down to the handy-dandy soil charts in the appendix. It is indexed rather well, also.


A Not So Singular World by Patrick Hatt

 This book is a hilarious romp that explores the hidden entities among the currently living. Jeremiah, with his main pal and companion, Orlin, (A giant leapord-like Savannah cat) get mixed up into something very strange one day when Jeremiah sees things that are very out of the ordinary.

 Without spoiling the book for you, (because you know you want to buy it and read it for yourself after this good review) I will let you know that the novel is full of fun, quirky moments and a cast of characters that will leave you clutching your stitched sides in laughter.

 Reading this has gotten me closer to understanding some of the characters in the cat's rhymes on Pat's blog:
It's Rhyme Time.

 I close with a picture and a hope that I will get to a connection later to comment and such.

Shock's Summer Reading

Hey! My scheduled post went out successfully, so I can set up more like that one.

 Unfortunately, I cannot schedule comments to your pages. If I could, I'm not sure they'd be understandable or pertain to the post at all. Ether way, I will find time and a better wi-fi to re-connect and catch up with all that I've missed.

 Without wifi, I read. A lot. It's to be for your benefit, though. Knowledge is only power through the use of another faculty to serve others, I always say.

 That said, this post is titled "Shock's Summer Reading" because I'm a little late on the book reports. Here is the list of recently devoured word entrees.

My Novel or Varieties in English Life by Edward Bulwer Lytton. Published 1836.

 This was a six-hundred page beast. It was the first of three works in the Bulwer's Works Vol. III.

 To write a review on this book would take a more than a post, so I'll leave this one to be described later. I loved it!

 Zicci by Edward Bulwer Lytton. Published 1836.

 A much more digestable forty-five page tale about an ageless mystic who's part of a secret immortal society. The inclusion of a serum made from both synthetic and homeopathic sources was the fountain of youth. The Mystic, Zicci drank this bubbly green stuff and went out to find either love or another recruit for his eternal brotherhood. The character himself does the most mysterious things to lure both a woman and a man to seek his definite being. Should either attain the knowledge? Only I know, hahaha.

 The Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne, A.J. Arberry, and Reynold Nicholson. Copyright date: 1995.

 I hadn't really focused on any one individual from Rumi's era(1207 to1248), nor any one from Persia in history. Noting the gap in my knowledge, I snapped this random pick up as soon as it showed it's graceful self to me.

 Rumi, (Jellaluddin Balkhi, to some), became a writer of poetry of the most spiritual kind. I had no idea that he was so large in academic circles, most likely due to my lack of academic credentials. But no matter, I dove into the spiritual messages beak first.

 This guy is timeless. He made sure by broaching subjects that no one else would touch. He wrote a parable about a woman who does something very wrong with a gourd. When someone from the thirteenth century A.D. gets me to say "Yuck" aloud, I pay attention.

 The sensational style of shocking people doesn't stop with just vege/animal love, he seems to revel in the blashempy of fictional accounts of both Jesus and Muhammad.

 How wild it was for me today to hear of the Bicile' movie making a big stink in the world to cause deaths over a depiction of Muhammed.

This guy was doing this over seven hundred years ago, and not only did he peeve off the muslims, the christians somehow allowed him to live out his life.

note to self, "If you are a great dancer, poet, and spiritual guru, you will not die in the hands of extremists."

 So, I've got the poet and dancing stuff down. Now for spirituality. I've got eons, but it won't be easy.

The Messie Motivator by Sandra Felton

 I'm actually not reading this book just for myself. I'm reading it because I am in a long line of Messies. That's what the author calls hoarders. That's what
the hoarders in the book call themselves.

 The book is full of positivity and tips to de-clutter and organize not only a life, but a self dignity in shambles.

 In an example of her dignity-saving activities is telling people who are being disrespectful off in an even tone.

 From experience, I know that even tones are not effective alone. If I were to have a regular place, I would be a hoarder.

 But I do not have one, therefore my hoards end up being just tiny parcels seperated by miles. I still need work, but this book is very social. I'm not too social, and would not attend a meeting with other Messies. In that, the program would work for me only in the tips and self-help categories.

 The Survivor Bill Clinton in the White House by John F. Harris.

 This was a pleasure to read because I was fascinated with the many aspects of the president himself and his office. This intimate collection of mixed personal accounts and recollections from his staff made reading it fascinating.

 I voted for him in his first term. I know Elliot will hate me for saying that, but I retort with my current status as Green Party enthusiast.*

 If you're a member of any party and share their views(platform), you're partisan. Sorry, without seperation into these rival groups, there's no way to achieve any goal on any groups agenda.

 I've diverged. The book was finishable, but I was left without the true answer I was looking for when reading it.

I've decided to clip this into two more digestible pieces. The second includes Pat Hatt's A Not So Singular World, so stay tuned for more!

*edited for grammar

Leader at age 6

The principal and teachers were hearding forty-five of us first graders to the gymasium. Rey-hey, the mixed aisan/american indian boy ahead of me said there was to be ''equipment' there. Athough I didn't have a clue as to what it meant, I felt an exciting rush of anticipation rise within myself.

 A change had come over me, just from hearing and dwelling on a word I didn't know. I had heard the word before, but never had I experienced this feeling of exilhiration and immense newness. I looked around to see if any of my classmates were sensing this grand feeling as I was. Not one had even a pleasing countanance, let alone an positive expression upon their face.

  I was gliding along the hall, floating among the tiny marching tots toward the gymnasium. A couple of students had to be wrangled before we were all corralled into the gym. I felt as a giant amidst ants. I wanted to express this at once, but became awed at the presence of the 'equipment'.

 At the left side of the basketball court stood an aparatus that was foriegn to every single one of us. I knew this because when the teacher asked "Who wants to go first?", not a hand was raised but mine. Her next word was just "Go!".

  Within miliseconds, my mind had made itself up to what to do. I was not controlling my body, but aware of what was going on. From the right side of the court, my hands went flat and to my side as my hips dropped and turned away from the equipment. My head went down as I applied the momentum to my legs. I saw the reflection of surprised faces in the shiny wood as I ran in an arc that could have been drawn with a mathmetician's compass.

 My run was coming to an end. I raised my head, compressed my body before pivoting and hurling myself backward over the bar and landing onto the cushy mat on the other side.

 "Puffff" was the sound of the air releasing from the mat. It echoed in my ears as applauds from the loudest crowds in the collesium. As I rose, the cheers of my classmates were hushed by the next question from the teacher.

 "Who wants to go next?".

 Every hand went up but mine.

The Stick

 He saw the branch sitting on the fence as if Nature herself had placed it there for human use.

 It was of a wood that wasn't native of the area. It stood as tall as a man on end.  He touched the shaft to check it's strength. After confirming the branch to be sturdy, his fingers ran along the tines that branched off in a curving pattern, begetting yet more tines of the same nature.

 Immediately, he understood to sweep. Sweep the earth.

 He didn't ask, "Why?", he just enjoyed the task for it's own reward. As the unique tool did an equally unique form of sweeping, the sweeper began thinking in unique ways.

 He held it in two hands, the right most forward on the shaft, a foot and a half below the curving bunches of tines. With the left hand on the end of the tool, it rotated to whip the ends along the dirtplane. Rocks, quarts and igneous, were hurled sideways along with flurries of blown decayed leaves.

 The sound made from the whipping, thumping, and stratching of the earth with the natural implement was a music that caused syncronisation and collaboration from the birds and aphids.

 Thwaooshtcchhh!

 With each rotation of the branch he swept away his cares.

 First was his tangled bonds with the outside world, they faded past the background of dust as he swept.

 Second, he lost connection with all other living beings in the universe. Their light was diminished in the sparkles of unearthed crystal.

 After being alone with himself, doing this unknowledgable task, he then let go of his own identity.

 Free of ego, he became both the stick and the propellants it brought to life from the dirt.

 Crystals kissing in mid-air make the most undescribable sound as he became that vibration along with the others along the arc.

 He was transformed into a discarded rivet as well as several thousand abandoned snail shells.

 His presence also inhabited the bones of a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest in the last storm.

 Once all particles of his being had traveled from their sleeping graves to their new awakened home, he surveyed the scene.

 The yard was speckled with platinum, gold, silver, and yttrium.

 Flowers of solid air began to emerge from the glittery ground and cry diamond dust.

 He knelt and cupped his hands to collect the brilliant liquid.

 Bringing the dazzling refreshment to his lips, he laughed as it all dissapeared, leaving him with nothing but a clean yard and a stick-broom in his hand.

 He placed the branch back on the fence and thanked Nature.