On Motherhood...

…And Other Conditions

In my penultimate blog - before I ‘let the cat out of the bag’ (and acknowledged fully to myself as well, that I have a major role to play, as we move on in our planetary Process) - I referred to the matter of motherhood, and how so many females of our times are being deprived of the experience, for various reasons, especially including political (to break down the family unit, and let the state take over the raising of the children) and monetary (the more bodies in the workforce, the more taxes for TPTB to siphon off into their pockets).  It brings up the subject.  Of motherhood, and ‘family life’.  I will start with My Mother. 

My mother didn’t seem to have the first idea of how to be a mother.  Now, having said that, I was a special kid, from the git-go, apparently.  But first things first, in the telling of this tale.

I started my life without my/a mother.  The ‘nominal’ mother of my brother and me (he was three years older than I) upped sticks when I was still in my diapers - as my paternal grandmother told me years later, in filling out gaps in my understanding of my early days - from our home in small-town Provo, Utah and headed for Hollywood, to attempt to capitalize on her looks, which, according to a customer or two of the small cafe attached to a gas station that she ran (while our father was going to Brigham Young University.  To attempt to ‘better’ himself in life; all another story, or to say, another part of this one), made her look like ‘one of those Hollywood stars; you know, the one with the fancy name.  De Havilland; that’s it.  Olivia de Havilland’.  Small-town cafe cook she didn’t want to be (and while her husband was off having a grand old time at BYU).  Whatever happened down there, in her short attempt at breaking into the movies (this was circa 1935 or so; so talkies were just beginning to come in), no one knew, so far as I know.  (She had a couple of brothers whom she may have confided something of the matter to over the years.)  All that was known about ‘the matter’ was that she soon came back, got a Temple divorce from our dad (they were both Mormons; but she dropped out, possibly at that time, in her attempted change of life circumstances), reclaimed us kids (after a contretemps with our paternal grandparents over the matter, who had had to pick up the pieces of her relationship with their son, in the form of us two kids), and headed for Boise, Idaho, where she farmed us out with an old couple who took care of kids for a meager living, while she went to secretarial school.  

And that was my earliest experience of a ‘home’.  I remember, as a toddler still, looking out through the slats of my crib in the corner of the bedroom of this old couple who had something to do with us (we were told to call them ‘Grandma’ and ‘Grandpa,’ though they were not related to us.  Not that I would have known the difference), and, perhaps not being able to figure out what in hell was going on, I would rock myself to sleep.(1)  And then there were a couple of times, in my pre-school years, that I remember my brother taking me to go see our ‘mom’.  What was a ‘mom’?  I never really knew.  She was just some strange lady to me, who had something or other to do with us.(2)  One of those times was to go to see her in her upstairs apartment, where she had hidden some candy Easter eggs around the room, for us to go find.  And the other time of memory was a Christmas Eve, when she - this strange lady, again - was now living in a small street-level apartment, and she presented each of us with a couple of wrapped presents, from under a small tabletop Christmas tree.  And that was it, again.  No hugs.  No ‘I look forward when we can all be together’.  Just back to the house on the side of a park.

There was at least that in my childhood days.  And its swing set.  Until the day when she got married; and off we went, to live with her. This strange lady, and her strange ‘husband;’ whatever that was.

Hey - at least I got to grow up in Southern California out of the deal.(3)  Which is where things started happening, to cause me to wonder a little about ‘me’.  A few examples.

When I was in the Boy Scouts, our Scoutmaster took a (pre-video) motion picture of some of us before we headed off for summer Camp in the mountains, which he showed one evening upon our return.  Nothing was said.  But something was obvious.  There was a most prominent glow around me.  And it wasn’t just from my sun-bleached head of blonde hair.

I was as stunned as any of us may have been.

Later on, in high school, our track coach went out of his way to help me end up in the All-Southern California CIF Finals competition.  (I ran both the 100-yard dash and the 660 in high school, as a ‘C’ Class athlete, meaning the littler guys.  I was better in the longer run.)  I hadn’t really earned that honor.  I was good; but not that good.  I was somehow, for some reason unknown to me, ‘jumped’ over other kids from other schools in our district.        

What did they ‘know what I didn’t know,’ see in me that I wasn’t aware of?? 

Over the years, I have thought back to that short film of our small group of Boy Scouts, where I stood out amazingly.  And have wondered.  And let it go.  To get on with my life.  But always, I have had a feeling, independent of that sort of experience.  That I was - different, somehow.

I can remember being upset about perceived injustices in junior high that the other kids didn’t seem to care as much about.  It got to the point, as my life went on, that I began to wonder more and more about it.  Even as I was beginning to feel as though I were in an envelope, of some sort, that was ‘holding me back’.  Somehow.    

Until

Now.

And now,

there is no holding me back.

Just as there is no holding back 

of the tide

of history.

And of

Time.

So, actually, Mom.  All in all.  You did good.

You let me just be me.

—

P.S. All of these ‘initiatives’ that the Democrats are putting forth, labeling commonsense Voter Integrity measures ‘voter suppression,’ and calling illegal aliens ‘immigrants’ and ‘newcomers’ - thus setting up a move to get more of them on to the voting rolls, before the (theoretically anticipated) ‘Reaction’ of Pres. Trump goes too far - and pushing for the voting age to be lowered to 16 (with their domination of the educational systems; in accordance with the Marxian ‘long march through the institutions’ agenda), and turning the raising of the children over to the state (thus ‘women’s lib’), and so forth and so on, is all, really, to get us to react.  Not just in a Marxist theoretics way.  But for a deeper reason, than most of them seem to be aware of.  Namely, to bring on

   not global Communism.  But

   Synthesis.   Out of both ‘sides’ of

   The Process.

   And thus:-  

   Out of the ‘clash’ between religion and atheism:

   Spirituality.  The understanding of our true natures.  And the ‘nature’ of Life itself.

   Out of the ‘clash’ between capitalism and communism:

   The best of both.  Honoring the individual - as ‘a spiritual being having a human experience’ - on the one hand; and bringing in an emphasis on cooperation over competition on the other.

   And so it goes.  With the raising of the political ‘ante’ to the global level, that the New World Order crowd has brought us to.

   So: Thanks - in a way - you totalitarians.  You have ‘paved the way’ for 

   the New Age

   to come in.  

   A whole new level of civilization.  One that acts as a capstone to

   The Process.  

   And which allows me to ‘’come into my own’.  As symbolized - I have come to realize - by my family name.  (There being no coincidences.)

   Stanfield. Which comes originally - or so I am told - from ‘stone in the field’.  The practice of marking one’s property.  (I.e., life circumstances.  As other family names originated, from such as Baker, and Smith, and Cooper, and so forth.)

   And so, I am just ‘marking my field’.

   In claiming my Christhood

   NOW.

   And to all you NWO actors who are thinking to take over this country, and are censoring conservatives and patriots every way you can, pretending that they are engaging in 'hate speech' and such excuses, I have one word to say:

   Bullshevik.

—

footnotes:

(1) I was told years later that I would rock my head so violently that they were afraid that I might bang it against the sides of the crib and hurt myself.  

   Who knows.  Maybe I did.  …And maybe that’s why…

   Well.  Let’s not go there.  Let’s stay here.

   For the time being.

(2) Years later - in point of fact, when I had just dropped out of university, and, after some days ‘cooling out’ at the beach, went home to face the music with Mom (my brother had long been kicked out of the nest by then; another story.  Another aspect of the story) - I found out what we were to her.  Essentially.  Was - in a word - insurance.  Against her old age.  

   I never really ‘got’ that about children and their parents.  Some children and some parents.  That children are their insurance.  Especially in Third World countries.  (And thus why the high reproduction rate amongst such peoples: They needed to make sure that enough of their children lived long enough to be able to look after them in their old age.  Insight.  And also, then, why that rate will drop ‘naturally,’ when their standard of living is increased.

   Not that our erstwhile masters want many of us anyway.  In their Brave New World.  Planned for our obsolescence, and replacement by hybrids run via AI.  But to continue.) 

(3) Briefly: We moved to a smaller town in Idaho, by the name of Payette, where ‘Mac’ (a nice-enough guy) lived, and was the co-owner of the Ford dealership in town.  Where I spent the second half of my first grade and the whole of my second grade.  During the latter of which Pearl Harbor happened; and caused our move to Long Beach the following summer.  A town near Hollywood.  Which our Mom somehow knew about, from her previous time spent in the area.  And which she convinced Mac to move to, ostensibly for the opportunities to make a lot of money that were going to unfold in either the aircraft factory in town - Douglas Aircraft (where I ended up working for a couple of my university-days summers) - or the shipyards.  Mac - poor Mac, not realizing that our mother still had her mind set on her dream of ‘making it in Hollywood,’ didn’t know what he was up against.  Until she started stepping out on him, which caused a divorce, and her retaining of our house as part of the deal; upon which turn of events, he may possibly have realized how he had been used.   

   From New vehicles to Used… 

   (N.B She never ‘made it’ in Hollywood.  Although she tried.  She would disappear in the summers, while she packed me off first to Scout Camp and then to ‘Y’ Camp.  When I asked her innocently once - when she came back a couple of days after I returned from camp and had arranged for a gal friend of hers to ‘look after me’ until she got back - where she had been, she said, ”Well, it’s none of your business.”  That was our sort of relationship.  And actually, it was fine by me.  She lived her life, and I lived mine.  I’m sure it was all in our contracts.

   For what it’s worth: I somehow found out some years later that she would spend her summers around various swimming pools of various ‘names,’ hoping to be ‘seen’.  Doris Day was one of them.  How she made her connections, I never knew.

   As I say…)