This would send Ms. Rivenbark into APOPLEXY!!!

Diagnosis: You are a CHRISTIAN (or similar). Instead of LYING FREQUENTLY and manipulating your mate -- since believing on Jesus erases all effects of your sins (or so you think), why not try TALKING IT OUT calmly and honestly???

I will print Celia Rivenbark's entire column from the Wilmington Star News, today, at the bottom. Although there is the "Fair Use" doctrine of re-publishing copyrighted material and this will go beyond what's allowed, since I make no money off this blog, Celia wants as BIG an audience as possible (to sell her books), and the paper gets a bit of promotion as well, I doubt they will be upset. But if they COMPLAIN, I will immediately remove it.

The biggest development of the last couple of days is that I've connected with someone I feel entirely comfortable baring my soul to -- someone happily partnered, so this is NOT a romance. And THAT gives me someone to write my books to -- I had someone I wrote my Tennessee Williams memoir to -- and I've "captured" his personality in my mind, so even if he runs off, I still have what I need.

So here is what I wrote this gentleman last night, with changes for clarity:

OK, I was alone studying the Seth Material, too (throughout the mid 1970s), but all the other Metaphysical/Spiritual studies were with others. I was more into Abraham/Hicks videos than books, and never really believed the channeled spirit, Abraham, was more than a higher aspect of the host, Esther. I have never "seen the future", but have had visions into the past in a few dreams.

At my age of 28, a Catholic priest seduced me coming out of Easter Mass -- I just thought it would be interesting to experience Mass again. He said, "Have you come to play the church organ?" I baffled, he explained that a parishioner's son -- very tall -- was coming to practice, and he had not met him before. And that said, he IMMEDIATELY invited me over that evening for a beer in his garage apartment -- since the Monsignor would be out. And THAT was how I got a bit of a foreskin fetish, he an Italian import and for MANY years the MOST sensual bed partner I had experienced. He said we could never meet again.

The assistant pastor of my PA parish grades 7 - 11, was Father Dieckhaus, which everyone pronounced DICK-house, and he had a high effeminate voice, but I never heard scandal about him. Today, a younger relative of his is PASTOR there. Pastor Dick-house. I filled in the LATIN words (we switched to English about the time I left service as an altar boy), that priests forgot, a few times, and could recite all the Altar Boy prayers, and much more of the Mass in Latin until about ten years ago.

Unlike you, I have never died, but had to stand under the cold shower for an hour (twenty minutes of TRUE crisis), in 2010 -- dry-heaving at both ends -- to barely hold onto my consciousness, being convinced I would die if I didn't. I had been poisoned (for the first of five times within the next year, and WHY my good friend Col Dottie Newman, who had been Colin Powell's top security officer, soon got me OUT to Mexico!!!), but I learned to toss my cookies as soon as my stomach grumbled and never suffered again as much), by the top political operative of Walmart Corporation -- and because she FAILED, she was high-tech poisoned by the Republican Party and remains in an entirely unexplained coma in her parents' house to this day.

I was also held hostage five times in Mexico by drug mafia (2010) -- once by two sons of El Chapo Guzman for five weeks, once by the son of the TOP CIA Colombian cocaine exporter to the USA in his Mexican Godfather's house. God-F Hector was a world-class engineer with 24 homes around the world, and had placed the booby-trap in the Chunnel between England and France so the CIA could have another FAKE terrorist attack, similar to 9/11 (that a talking head from both CNN and Fox admitted to me in writing EVERYONE knew was planned by Bush/Cheney/Bin Ladens/Saudi Royals). Fortunately the booby trap had recently been found, and the Chunnel closed a few months in 2010 for "repairs", which my captors thought funny.

I also met George W. Bush's top drug money launderer, Martin Lamb, in Colima Mexico, he having a private island off Panama with jetport. When he heard I was a Kenan, he ASSUMED I had lots of dirty cash to launder, and BRAGGED ALL ABOUT IT -- LOL!!! I was in Mex hospital in 2014 with water on lungs, congestive heart failure, and arrhythmia, and when I got to the states and finally got another doctor, tests showed I had also had a major "silent" heart attack, but OK anyway -- probably while in Mexico.

So I haven't died, but I've seen some difficulties, and I was also beaten severely about five times in Mexico by Episcopalian-American Drug Mafia (and a few of their lackeys -- the wealthy Kenans who put President Pena Nieto into power via Exxon-Mobil and others, and that Church is SUPER involved in drug trafficking). It is NOT painful to remember any of this.

Interesting that you say I should write a NOVEL. The book truest about my Kenan Family causing the 1898 Wilmington Insurrection, Cape Fear Rising, calls itself an historic novel, and a CIA Drug Mafiosa I knew through all the years in Mexico, Theodore Druch (a tall, Jewish HAIRBALL), was Timothy Leary's live-in lover for two years at Milbrook, and then HIS book about that is called "A True Novel". A month ago, I learned that one of my two downstairs neighbors, "Sam Celia", son of a famous painter, and often TOTALLY acting like he got LOST on acid decades ago, was CLOSE personal friends with Jerry Garcia and corresponded with BOTH Dr. Leary and Mr. Druch -- supplying them all with the PUREST LSD from his lab. He just makes cheese from raw milk, now, he claims. He also collects slugs at dusk to feed some kind of animal he keeps secured in a dry aquarium.

The other, I call "Miss Lucy" in this blog, named for Boss Finley's whore (a character in Sweet Bird of Youth), which she LOVES. At age 15 and in 9th grade (her top grade completed), she STOPPED GROWING -- prematurely -- at six-feet-three, PREGNANT with her first of three girls. Later, she was an International Narcotics Mule, until a big capsule broke in her system and she unexpectedly survived -- but retired (and chalked up more Felony and Misdemeanor convictions than I care to report -- this about 20 years ago). Last week she committed one married daughter who has kids to Mental Hospital and when she got out, she was arrested on several Felonies that Lucy is helping Law Enforcement with. Today she has a growing drywall and painting business, with a Mexican partner and a few employees -- COMPLETELY LEGITIMATE (from all indications), and despite her hysterectomy of four months ago, she has MANY male lovers, both young and OLD!!!

And she LOVES Jesus, but hates churches.

My landlady's house is across the street, a late Victorian, beautifully preserved. It has been in eight movies and three TV series. Her name is Gold Walker, and she wants me to write a history about her house and the NUTS she has for tenants in her properties on this side of the street. Her house is supposedly haunted by the ghost of Whistler's Mother -- who was actually BORN on that spot in an earlier house.

Across the street is where Woodrow Wilson spent growing up the son of the Pastor of First Presbyterian. And HE re-segregated the US Government and Military as his CHRISTIAN DUTY!!! That congregation, with William R. Kenan, Sr., later CAUSED the Wilmington Insurrection of 1898.

>>> ADDED: And ONLY JUST NOW, I learned that William Rand Kenan, Sr. of the Duplin Rifles -- the ONLY Confederate credited with taking a clear shot at President Lincoln -- while in FULL HEALTH, died suddenly in 1903 - on the 38th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln's assassination.

Now THAT is what I call a PROPER REPUBLICAN REVENGE!!!

* * *

And YES this is one of the BEST historic neighborhoods -- Wilmington is the MOTHER LOAD of writers' inspiration!!! Chock full of ECCENTRICS, of ALL persuasions.

And I totally understand the idea "I have to go back and take care of business." That is WHY I am in Wilmington -- to make AMENDS for the MEGA CRIMES of my near and distant Kenan relatives, by EXPOSING their crimes, and to clear my name and renew it.

>>> CELIA RIVENBARK'S COLUMN TODAY:

Published here: http://celiarivenbark.com/2017/05/stop-telling-me-what-i-can-talk-about/ (Actually, Celia must own the copyright since this linked to her page.)

Stop telling me what I can talk about

by Celia Rivenbark | May 8, 2017 | Weekly Column | 0 comments

Has this happened to you?

You go to a party, or maybe you’re just meeting friends for drinks after work, and no sooner have you settled in than someone cheerily announces there will be “no political talk!”

This conversation ban is harder for some of us to adhere to than others. While I’m happy to spend way too much time dissecting the crumbling relationship between real New York housewives Ramona and Bethenny, it’s weird to be told what you can and can’t talk about.

To quote the Real Housewives of Orange County: “Who DOES that?”

And, because I’m not a great rule-follower, I’ve had my knuckles metaphorically rapped a few times.

“No political talk!” the hostess reprimanded me recently during what I thought was a discreet rant about that dunderheaded border wall.

Suddenly I felt like a 6-year-old. So I did what any 6-year-old would do and pointed at my friend and said: “She started it.”

The hostess smiled widely and said something about how she didn’t care who started it, we were here to HAVE FUN! I looked around for a piñata because, well, 6.

I wanted to tell her that talking about Trump and Co. is how I have fun lately but I was already the poo in the punch bowl and decided to cut my losses.

At a pool party last week, the hostess advised us there would be no political talk once a certain guest arrived. He was “from the other side” she said in a whisper and she didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable.

I get that.

OK, no I don’t.

Earlier in the week, having dinner with a few women friends, someone who looked and sounded a lot like me brought up the subject of Trump’s tax returns and may have mentioned it would be easier to find a vegan at a Ted Nugent concert than to locate them, and this person, OK, me, was told to “shush.”

“No politics!” one of my friends hissed.

What? What’d I say?

Never has it been so popular for conversations to be squashed before they can even begin.

One day soon, restaurants and bars will be segregated. The hostess will greet you with “Politics?” or “No politics?” so your conversation won’t offend like stale cigarette smoke did back in the day.

Because I can be a contrarian, as soon as someone tells me what I can’t talk about, it’s all I can think about. It’s one of many qualities I share with the great Homer Simpson.

A well-intentioned host wagging his finger and saying “No political talk tonight” makes me want to do crazy stuff like say “Pass the parsley potatoes and tell me what’s the worst thing a mother could hear. Give up? It’s “Mom, I have a second date with Bill O’ Reilly tonight!”

This sentence, while obviously hilarious, could get me banished to the kitchen with the flip-down TV as my dinner companion.

That’s OK. I know where to find MSNBC.