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Got Milk of Human Kindness?

Psyche of a Murderer

ndpthepoetress: "The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe is about an evil eye, dismemberment, and the repercussions of guilt. What more could a reader ask for! A seemingly short tale with enthralling details, but with an abrupt ending. Still in-between the lines one can perhaps visualize how some people fixate on a person’s flaws instead of their overall significance as a human being. And so the story begins, such imperfection gradually converts into an obsession. The male perpetrator could have only taken that which disturbed him the most. His method of choice however contemplated primarily on the breath of life, possibly giving the readers a clue to the frame of this killer’s own psyche at the time. Hence; the subsequent anatomization, may have been more of a means to prove his own self bloody-right than the ascribed reason. However; he was about to learn that all human life does have value. For guilt has a way of eating into the brain. There truth echoes, beckoning to be heard. Such resonance then can impel a sane man mad while plummeting a supposedly mad man even further into the depths of insanity. And so it is with The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe":

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!



Part Two 

The Tell-Tale Heart is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1843. It is included in , online at .

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Down The Rabbit Hole

The concept of combining quantum theory and spirituality was originally introduced in a 2004 movie entitled has now been expanded upon in an extended version of the same film released August 1, 2006, What the Bleep - DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE QUANTUM EDITION.

1The BLEEP – Quantum Edition explores the latest scientific discoveries that explain the mind-body connection – making them understandable for the everyday, ordinary person. In addition it puts forward revolutionary experimental evidence that we, and our world are not separate, but connected.

2Part story, part documentary, and part elaborate and inspiring visual effects and animations, this extended version features a new opening 3following the journey of divorced professional photographer Amanda (played by Academy Award winning actress, Marlee Matlin) as she comes to understand the sources of her depression and slowly changes her life. During the process Amanda 2afinds herself in a fantastic Alice in Wonderland experience when her daily, uninspired life literally begins to unravel, revealing the uncertain world of the quantum field hidden behind what we consider to be our normal, waking reality.

The movie's documentary inserts include the world’s top in the field of physicists, neurologists, anesthesiologists & physicians, molecular biology, and spiritual teachers, mystics and scholars who 3aexplore the links between quantum mechanics, neurobiology, human consciousness and day-to-day reality and talk about the consciousness, psi research, physics, biology, emotion and addictions.

There are in this Quantum Edition. One of my favorite animations is when 4Amanda peers through her camera at the wedding reception. She sees into the guests’ bodies and watches Cells running rampant with their molecules of emotion. But this rabbit hole soon turns inside out as the Cells find their way out onto the dance floor to cajole, coerce, and excite the partiers into their favorite brand of emotion. Animations similar to this help us 5examine how the brain captures and processes information, and how that influences thoughts and actions. Making the case that humans can become addicted to certain emotions - love, rage, humiliation - just like a drug, and it takes willpower to break the cycle.

The fourth new character in this version is the animated Dr. Quantum by the pioneering physicist . Dr. Quantum leads viewers through an exploration of quantum physics including the Double-Slit Experiment and Entanglement. My favorite is Dr. Quantum - The Flatland:



I found the most intriguing part of this movie to be the Water Crystals by . He proves that 6thoughts and feelings affect physical reality. By producing different focused intentions through written and spoken words and music and literally presenting it to the same water samples, the water appears to "change its expression". 7From Mr. Emoto's work we are provided with factual evidence, that human vibrational energy, thoughts, words, ideas and music, affect the molecular structure of water, the very same water that comprises over seventy percent of a mature human body and covers the same amount of our planet.

Also beautifully detailed in his book “”:

“Imagine if water could absorb feelings and emotions or be transformed by thoughts. Imagine if we could photograph the structure of water at the moment of freezing and from the image "read" a message about the water that is relevant to our own health and well-being on the planet. Imagine if we could show the direct consequences of destructive thoughts or, alternately, the thoughts of love and appreciation. The Hidden Messages in Water introduces readers to the revolutionary work of Japanese scientist Masaru Emoto, who discovered that molecules of water are affected by thoughts, words, and feelings. Dr. Emoto shares his realizations from his years of research and explains the profound implications on the healing of water, mankind, and earth.”

Thank You Love

As C. Norman Shealy, M.D., Ph.D stated, “6aHalf of the earth is water; our body is three-quarters water. Water represents the interface between the 4th dimension in which we live and the 5th dimensional sphere of our soul.”

In conclusion; ‘What the Bleep - DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE’ is more than entertaining, it is education. All that remains is the one enduring question "How Far Down The Rabbit Hole” are you willing to go?" Cause the deeper you go down the ‘Rabbit Hole’ the more you learn, the more you discover, the more you understand, the more you see that ‘we are not separate, but connected’.

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?” Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland)


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Double-Slit Experiment and Entanglement

Permission to use photo #'27. Animation characters' from the Press Room, High Resolution Stills from What The Bleep Do We Know!? granted to Binding Ink.org by Webmaster.


Related Posts: To Curse, To Ponder, To Wonder or Not

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True Colors

My 'personal action' is to continue to promote nondiscrimination: S.T.O.P. ® the bullying (Bullying is just another form of discrimination), S.T.O.P.® the discriminating, STOP and: S.ee T.he O.ther P.eople.

In my opinion, whether because of ones health, accent, lifestyle, color of skin… whether rejected or ridiculed or some other means of communal castration, no matter how small or large any difference or the bullying or any consequence thereof be; the complete eradication of prejudice will remain a centuries old vicarious plague spurred from societal statistical stigmatic stigma, hysterically injected into the ill-reputed frail failing intellect of the majority who damningly dare to declare what differentiates from the norm. For example; I recently read about a son spurned by his own flesh and blood, “a vicious parent shaming still its child”1. ‘*Revolted by his father’s injustice’, the son left home at an all to early age, set upon a journey to prove or find his roots. Regrettably; during his mission, he was essentially met with a series of harsh condemnations. Ultimately; the son becomes consumed with self-delusion and an insatiable appetite for revenge to be inflicted upon those who once dared to flaunt their popularity, while others refused to embrace his uniqueness cloaked in natural flaws.

Fortunately "2the pen is mightier than the sword", so he merely immerses himself into his literary work. At last the world is his stage and he could not have chosen a better place. For whom among us has not been psychologically moved or entertained by words upon a page. Or our attention drawn to a character in a play, opera, movie, or a mere sit-com? And so with pen and paper the son makes his plight known for others to read then mourn, scorn, ponder, or wonder. Except to him, his anguish was the worse of anyone. Nonetheless; in due course the son grew into his own isolated culture rejected existence. After some time; a Woman professed, “*Evidently God has made us for each another! I am like you…” Soon afterwards the son married her, asserting; “*Blessed be the sorrows I have borne… Heaven was keeping such unhoped consolation in reserve! Until today I feared myself doomed to eternal singleness and to tell you the truth it was a heavy burden to bear”. Though; had he truly loved her for herself and not out of a seemingly Narcissist reflection of himself; then when her true colors came beautifully shining through, he would not have (for shame or other matters) discarded her much as he had been cast off by the population. Yet he did flee from her side; “*to abandon the career of literature, to escape into the desert and if possible shun for ever after the sight of living creatures. To seek, indeed, like Alceste”. Oh but as fate or merely an ill-fated wind would have it; the son landed not far from where as a child he had begun his journey away from his parents home. I surmise that perhaps feeling like the odd man out, surrounded once again by the publicly accepted; here in this familiar place is where he may have learnt the greatest lesson of all, which is; nothing in life is ever as it seems.

Every part I read about the spurned son seemed a humanistic enough story plot, the emotional afflict of discrimination, a temporary successive solution, love, loss, lessons learnt… except this is a tale of the feather type. Written in 1842 by Alfred de Musset; whence combining a vast array of birds with a stylish flare, a story takes flight. Amid the author’s intertwined unraveling assemblage of vividly artistically painted printed words, emerges a subtle view about a struggle with the centuries old trials and tribulations of the societal injected statistical stigmatic stigma, known as prejudice. “^How glorious it is and also how painful to be an exception”.

And so begins:

*The Story of A White Blackbird by Alfred de Musset (Histoire d'un merle blanc)
^As translated by Christopher (translator) Morley


1. George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), O May I Join the Choir Invisible!
2. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Richelieu Act II Scene II

Related Links:

Stop Bullying

Not In Our Town 'highlights communities working together to stop hate'.

A Writer's Womb

"The Vagina Monologues is an episodic play written by Eve Ensler which ran at the Off Broadway Westside Theatre after a limited run at HERE Arts Center in 1996…A recurring theme throughout the piece is the vagina as a tool of female empowerment, and the ultimate embodiment of individuality." Wikipedia 

The Play however; seemed to produce more argumentatively valid criticism than actual dialog. That as it may; the fact remains many women today continue to be uncomfortable talking about or using the word vagina. Therefore in consideration of such taboo, I'd like to note that my post is not intended in any derogatory or vulgar manner, merely a depicted creative analogy.

I begin most notably with the mental vaginas' spontaneous abortion, a miscarriage, an injustice to the artistic world; mournful that in my pursuit of writing, some of my best thoughts have passed away; gone but not forgotten.

Emily Dickinson (1830–86)  Complete Poems 1924

Part One: Life XLVI

A Thought went up my mind today -


That I have had before -
But did not finish – some way back -
I could not fix the Year -

Nor where it went – nor why it came


The second time to me -
Nor definitely, what it was -
Have I the Art to say -

But somewhere – in my Soul – I know -


I’ve met the Thing before -
It just reminded me – ’twas all -
And came my way no more -





Perhaps in an attempt to recapture those lost words or to release the minds' many artistic contemplations, some authors stimulate their intellectual seemingly temporary impotent imagination, by becoming aroused via mental masturbation. Thumbing through a dictionary or thesaurus, indulging in scripted alluring narrative printed words spawned by other writers, lyricists… Such modus operandi has facilitated many a poem for me. 

In fact; some where between the lines of awe inspiring inspiration, my imagination has spewed forth to artificial inseminate my mind. Now inside my mental womb there continues to grow numerous chapters to various books I'm writing. Unfortunately; my mental vagina refuses to give birth, merely false labor pains at times. Maybe that is why there are Ghost Writers, surrogate wordsmiths who can carry the actual words of an author to full term and give birth to a brand spanking new book.

"I do not think there is any thrill that can go through the human heart like that felt by the inventor as he sees some creation of the brain unfolding to success. ..." (Nikola Tesla, 1856 - 1943)

Sadly I may never know such a thrill for I can feel my creative intellectual biological clock ticking; with one hand on my pen and one foot in the grave, it's a race against time to see which wins. How dejecting that time nor death stops for no one; not us authors nor artists or lyricists, composers, or any creative endeavorers


"Time and Death their Thoughts impart On Works of Learning and of Art" 


from the English Dance of Death Pub. 1 April, 1814 by Rudolph Ackermann


May your mental vagina give birth before the clock stops tick talking ~ndpthepoetress

*The R. Ackermann image was distributed freely on the web, the book the image was originally printed in has no copyright notations. However; if you deem this image to be yours, please contact bindingink.org so we may hopefully obtain proper permission to use the above said image and give credit accordingly. Thanks.

9/11 Commemoration

As our hearts are tearfully filled with memories of those who lost their lives September 11, 2001, let us also never forget the bravery and compassion shown that day; and may we continue to forever embrace and extend kind words and actions to those left behind and still mourning, those injured and still suffering. Let us Thank all Military Personnel as we also remember and honor those who have lots their lives or have been injured in the process of defending our Country. And may we as a Nation United rise above this tragedy to not judge nor hate the majority, because of the actions of a few.


"Will hate bring it all back? Will it bring back the innocence? The sense of security? Will it bring back the husbands and wives and sons and daughters? Will hate make us better than those who hate us? Or merely bring us closer to them. Will hate help us destroy our enemies? Or will it laugh as we destroy ourselves. There are those who say we don’t know who our enemy is. But we do. Our enemy is a neighborhood Mosque defaced by vandals. An Arab-American storekeeper in fear of reprisal. A scared Muslim child bullied because she is different. Hate is our enemy, and when we start to hate other Americans, we have lost everything. Hate has taken enough from us already. Don’t let it take you."

Ferguson Tribute Elvis Presley

In The Ghetto (Dirk Parker) - Ferguson Tribute - Elvis Presley (LIVE)

We are losing our young brothers and sisters too often. We all have the opportunity and responsibility to lift each other up in hard times and through hard circumstances to live long, meaningful lives. 


Regardless of the circumstances in Ferguson, or the circumstances this song describes, we can help each other and lift each other up.




#LetYourLightShine #kindness #LIFTEACHOTHERUP #Ferguson #Elvis #ElvisPresley


Rechoired - A Capella Musician/Band Featuring Bennie Parker and Dirk Parker


Now Available:
He IsStrike Down




GoFundMe Rechoired is an a capella group that creates music to inspire and uplift others. Their number one goal is to prove (especially to the youth) that it is "cool" to live high standards. Through various events such as 'Super Saturdays', concerts, and firesides, members of Rechoired have positively impacted the lives of all who have had the opportunity to listen.


Click to Visit: Parker Brothers Blog 

Ferguson Tribute - Elvis Presley ~ Parker Brothers Videos

Ferguson Lift Each Other Up|Dirk Parker and Bennie Parker|Parker Brothers Music

In The Ghetto (Dirk Parker) - Ferguson Tribute - Elvis Presley (LIVE)

Labor Day


Foremost to our Military, all those deployed... Thank You. To all in the work force, those actually in labor :), to the many unemployed waiting to labor; during this holiday of sales – picnics - BBQs - and gathering abouts:

Let's remember all those throughout history who have made this Holiday possible!



Dropkick Murphys Workers Song Lyrics


Yeh, this one's for the workers who toil night and day

By hand and by brain to earn your pay
Who for centuries long past for no more than your bread
Have bled for your countries and counted your dead

In the factories and mills, in the shipyards and mines
We've often been told to keep up with the times
For our skills are not needed, they've streamlined the job
And with sliderule and stopwatch our pride they have robbed

CHORUS:

We're the first ones to starve (start with) the first ones to die
The first ones in line for that pie-in-the-sky
And we're always the last when (they gravyish it out) the cream is shared out
For the worker is working when the fat cat's about

And when the sky darkens and the prospect is war
Who's given a gun and then pushed to the fore
And expected to die for the land of our birth
Though we've never owned one lousy handful of earth?

CHORUS (x3)

All of these things the worker has done
From tilling the fields to carrying the gun
We've been yoked to the plough since time first began
And always expected to carry the can