The Russian All-Female ‘Battalion Of Death!’ – And What Historical Impact Did They Have?
World War I and the Ever Sinking Morale Of The Male Russian Soldier saw a new incentive to raise morale of the sunken-heart and even ‘shame’ many male ‘potential’ soldiers into joining the fight!
A Battalion Of Female Soldiers were banded together to create new inspiration for ‘Mother Country’. This group of women would be known as ‘The Battalion Of Death’. Although many women were already trying to sign up and fight in an official capacity, until now mainly refused/ignored. The government of this time latched onto this notion and reasoned this would be perfect for raising enthusiasm in the low morale of the Russian (Male) Soldier.
A Human Way – Disassemble My Parts Please!
“We don’t just trust – we believe, no matter what form”
June Parsons, peering out the capsule bay with stare of the uprise and justly swamped by obvious. The blue planet earth rose to round and flamed to red as the eyeball flickered to what turned next. June’s face pivoted from the destined outward and faced back to Harris, who stood with stared and imperfect frame of slithered past.
“What are you doing? Harris asked.
“All this world we knew one day and all this world we gave back to pre-historic reign go – we never really existed did we?”
June answered and asked without need of turn but glare at the earth that was. Truth swamped June and flooded the once were the breathing real. June turned back to the planet shield view with a hopeless prayer of undoing the wretched wave once more. Swamped and stained, flagged and deluged was fire the lives of populace and historic mess we called ‘our place.’
“Why don’t we count anymore, why is it only time that loses course?”
‘Why do we deal in time, folded from the wrinkle of speck and blink of living eye that deserves far more than the fake and spent moment that only forced upon itself into words extinct.’
June’s living inner-voice never stops but rolls out and bares unto as if like a naked new born. Armies grew, fields downed, hope ended – but END turned into hope. End was the singularity. This end was the beginning, for June this was salvation, rapture, a doorway through. A great flood was innocuous. A rowboat with a view, a view to kill an evolution, or to see one?
June was a filmmaker of the self-societal documentary field – tall historical stories and unfolded pseudo-science without a bone in the ethics box. Black boxes we never knew. Dr Harris was the face that people saw – a doctor with a voice and pulled nigh a punch. Fake and high octane was all in a day’s month or a heart’s blink. Every conspiracy under the sun was no holds barred and buried few. Material was rife. Truth was a commodity not unlike pizza. Pizza was real at least and not lace-formed on the wave of ‘clear.’ Duplicates of life, duplicates of mere thought, mirrors that fought for themselves to be taken off the authentic. Authentic humans were expensive if not myth in itself. Reality was a point of view if just maybe a trace of the mirrored lens. The diamond ‘clear’ wave became the singularity that all were waiting for. It would change life as we knew. It would feed the few. Teach the young, comfort the old, bring up and out the dead.
June Dormer and Dr Harris were somewhat chosen not for the above the line measure for measure scruples but for the scruples they lack. Any new kind of conspiracy of the awful was the new hunter and gatherer currency. They were despots. This currency translated unendingly into the diamond wave. ‘the clear’ was a new and kind euphemism for what finally formed under the wave. Mystics and oracles, doomsday sayers and newbie philosopher lost no ground in the reckoning teardrop wave that no less changed the blink of time. June and Dr H were among the second wave of ‘uphuman’ that were sowed and harvested by the wave. We were given memories and the more we could afford the better and fuller the memories. What really was the yardstick of authenticity was just one new religion away. We don’t see what’s on the outside of ourselves for what it actually is but what we have been trained to see. As for the rest of the senses we can only delve deeper and the deeper we perceive to go – the more we cost.
New dreams and a brand new the awakening row was inhabited by the untrainable who lost their way – or gained their way. Gaining one’s way was ambiguously a state of mind and not sounded by the ‘wave’ but steered like no tomorrow and plunged deep down and pulled by the lace-formed gravity into submission of the wave. Religious freedom was like contraband Prozac. America had a new dream! All new dreams being equal among just one of the few – Mary Arnette, a televised star for the dead from a war-torn upbring, haunted by ghosts that mumble too many a language that Mary has no recollect. Mary surrounded herself with vanquished time. Old clocks and retro stock and jigsaw closet hoarding was illegal and only worked as an ill-remind of a time that was. Mary didn’t dream, dreams only turned to nightmare, nightmare to real. Perpetuity was Mary’s father. A world full of ghosts for her eyes only and never a light at the end or beginning of the ‘clear.’ Mary’s blaze approach to the unseen and her resilience to the new only marks her as a pin drop candidate judge for trial row. A game that everyone plays and everyone wins just by witness. Let the wave run through. Blessed be the wave and all the escape new philosophy that dream once and the new dream forth.
Mary knew nothing of this dream for all the world of dream maketh to the r.e.m. we know for granted is replaced by waking night and day by ghosts. The neuro dot of clean swept earth only dreamt of us and missed by one soul we know as Mary. To strive and seek for evermore, or not, Mary accepted her footprint of tone and soul swept call. As a city of light glimmered and spoke, she had no regret as to the simple soul they chose. A dream she will never know but perchance to dream she opened up to all that passed, if not by a kind of divine demand. From the voice of lost child that passed before rightful time, to the collective lost in the final solution of amassed genocide. A conduit Mary’s burden of past and a shoulder to the grief of mechanisation of passing of, influencing of the few became aplenty of change! Aplenty of spirit freed from unrest. The wave of ‘the clear’ started from her. Messiah and Mother were titles never used without one the other. With the honour that bestowed and followed our ‘clear’ woman came the new flip side of the beckoning wave.
June Parsons witnessed it all, a cherub face, a wood worn glaze, but none too many a world of wisdom didn’t shy. Affiliation or reckless demise was it’s ambiguous trace. Amazed as she ever was at the narrow clasp and overlooked glimmer a wave-gripped world would let away. If only this immaculate conception to seven degrees truth were incapsulated and we were care-passed for what we wished. As every new belief under sun, June held tight a new knowing and touch of being the ‘away’ human she was programmed to be. Déjà Vu she peered, she reminisced, as time never the two shall meet.
June and Dr Harris are the witnesses and the sacrificial few. Thrill placed where thrill is worn into the deep dark recesses of a sentient past that only money could buy. If June and Harris were indeed a way more human, then bring fourth the mettle who’s take on life and compose the review. Reviews were never what drove the silent run, but ‘a way’ to drown the child – take the child out of the spherical and Mary was her name. Orbit has no place, time revisits the weary as the orbit of time re-shines to undo the woven grime and adopt no veil legacy make. Requiem and silent shrinking of earth as time came back to a vantage point June watched. Remove the child – replace the past from out of a warm food chain and under a cold new wing – a wing of purpose. The bandaid was the ghost seer and the wave ‘clear’ was muddied. Ashes and diamonds and mirrored memories decapitated and removed by the very thing ‘clear’ created but not lost in irony, the very children, for real human sake alone.
Sweet children and the sweetest messiah became the sweet teardrop and past pin prick that was and never the twain shall meet and all for atoning the nick in time. ‘Easy, look onward sweet angel, or was it an idea – a memory?’ A non-biological life form repeats to herself as the earth becomes too far away to see. ‘Did we do the right thing, did we exist? Existing is doing, isn’t that the program?’ June blinks uncrontollably.
Harris jumps to disbelief.
“I’m taking her back!”
She sprints to the control deck, hammers out the inhuman fingerprint of entwined intention. The unagreeable G-Force spins the craft and forces Harris against the ceiling as June descends down the ladder tube to initiate her hostile change of… Harris still stuck to the ceiling with his humanoid appearance, but split second judgement never leaving his algorithm. His humanoid eyeballs click to transfix and adjust to the situation – his mission, their mission… NOTHING ELSE EXISTS. Harris cannot move any part of him. The real force alone would kill any real human. Harris wasn’t human! His memory flooded with every contingency and winning was the contingency of liquid. ‘I need to become liquid,’ a microsecond of thought became the liquid of black. Slithering through G-Force of inhuman weight that would only crunch to dust every human strain. NOT HARRIS. Directive Is One.
‘June’s directive is contaminated – she must be destroyed, now.’
A black liquid slithers and reasons what must be done as this whole craft shudders, it draws a wide arc in space. The arc corrects and Harris re-humanises to Harris…
We glimpse back to a brief moment in ‘time’ prior messiah.
Mary, maloncholic, a war torn refugee now in a country that only knows takeaway pizza and throw-away everything else. Sitting in her wheel chair of a hospital with one view out her grimy ‘lens’ of window. “Take Me To The River.” – A billboard advertising holidays in Venice. Mary sits there, tears are commonplace on cheeks as she is propped up in her chair with bomb-bast amputated non-existent arms and legs and a jaw so badly broken all she can do is grunt with one eye taking the view. A collapsed lung and the other snorts through a hanging device. Hospital staff ant-work behind her in the distance. Headlights of cars, unstopping, shine their glare like a pendulum at was once were – the rest of her. If only she had wrists. If only she knew what she was to become… Regeneration of the miraculous didn’t happen as much as the nightmare curdle of pain seeped through her blood of stumps only her present could conjure.
“We don’t see, we don’t feel”
My doctor stands over me with a smoke in his mouth, a needle (on his own this time), middle of my once were dreams. No ant-work behind him… I wake again a few hours later. I breath. I’m facing the outdoor sign again. It is day. I’ve been raped. I can’t move my mouth. I am 9. I breath every morning and after thirty years that same doctor becomes my Stockholm’s Syndrome Husband – The husband I love. He suffers depression. My God-Given empathy is his.
I’m now forty three, I’m black, I’ve been gone through more times than girl guide manifestos in the perfect camping storm. I imagine hands, legs, two eyes, a perfect set of lungs, a time that I don’t need to be injected to stay alive, but as much as I fantasise, I still cannot envision anyone else changing my clothes or feeding me that amazing last piece of pizza. I love him, even though he still has his parties I only hear thumping through the walls. I adore this life. He makes it so…
Tides Of Space
Harris shines, face change as only Harris feels in a time-sensitive plague that June races with her stronger frame.
“What are you doing?”
His independent algorithm and tactic rhythm memories of the battle of midway only angered June. A red herring. Didn’t work. June, with a flick of her hand had Harris pinned once again to ceiling without need of G-Force but with her growing inner un-human feel.
“I’ll rip you to pieces! Please don’t make me do it.”
“Breath, let alone I’m only breathing for air, Sir my love,”
I muster after the rumbling party when it dies. Someone comes down to see me but only it wasn’t him and it wasn’t human. A man of about ninety stood there. More people followed. Before long there was four people just standing there staring at me. The doctor, my love, wasn’t anywhere in sight. More people came down the stairs – even the mental retarded and children, and they are so incredible nice. I start crying. The basement is full now. Have I been used now as a side show? Tickets!? I still don’t see my Sir.
My Sir is the only human I love and is the only human who loves me. Anything different is just a myth. I remember every birthday like it was yesterday – a mile high club. Television is a lie fed to ‘less than humans’ that don’t have what I have! My basement nonetheless is full. I’m going to pass out. No one is looking at me like My Sir always has said they will look at me. I’m still going to pass out. So many people – they seem to respect me with awe – maybe they’re ill.
I sit propped up on a non-Working wheel chair without a voice a without limbs. All I want to say is
I see from one and through to the other. Petrified as I sit, a portion of me. More people start coming down the stairs carrying things in white sheets. Time doesn’t flow, it jolts. I lean back in disbelief from time to time and look on as suddenly I see a leg, and another. Somethings somehow joins on like divine something. I’m still going to pass out but I don’t. The next leg, an arm, the next, my eye, my jaw, my whole pulmonary breathing comes.
I’m sleeping, I must be sleeping. I’m sitting up and praying I’m not sleeping.
“Let’s go for a walk, and a pinch, to prove your not sleeping?.”
A child says behind an adult and comes out from the hidden.
Lucid Dreaming, I am, but this a bit more feeling but who knows? Complete. Walk. Feel. See. Breath… I’ll buy it! Maybe it’s My Sir’s something new. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. They all keep looking at me like I’m… I’m on my feet and dizzy – a few help me. I’m thinking of that movie about a paper cut to prove if someone was dreaming of in a different time. I don’t know! Limbs are a bit different than a paper cut to prove something and even if I wanted to prove – did I? I’m complete, everything works. I don’t give a FUCK if it’s a dream because I feel like I’m FLYING!! I’m FLOATING!! I’ve limbs!!!! I can wipe the tears away from my own cheeks. I’m still here, the crowd in this jail of mine are still here, no one is laughing at me – yet. Maybe I don’t DREAM ANYMORE? If only I could make a trade with God, Satan, Anyone! Everyone! I don’t care…
“Just give me the paper cut, on the chin – DO IT!!”
“When I Wake?”
18 Years Later…
Id, Ego, Super-Ego And The Darkest! – According To Freud
It is the dark, inaccessible part of our personality, what little we know of it we have learned from our study of the dreamwork and of course the construction of neurotic symptoms, and most of that is of a negative character and can be described only as a contrast to the ego.
We approach the id with analogies: we call it a chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations. …It is filled with energy reaching it from the instincts, but it has no organization, produces no collective will, but only a striving to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs subject to the observance of the pleasure principle.
…contrary impulses exist side by side, without cancelling each other out. …There is nothing in the id that could be compared with negation…nothing in the id which corresponds to the idea of time.
…contains everything that is inherited, that is present at birth, is laid down in the constitution—above all, therefore, the instincts, which originate from the somatic organization, and which find a first psychical expression here (in the id) in forms unknown to us.
Freud’s Discoveries And Other Things!
Just some of Sigmund Freud’s early research was in the field of cerebral palsy, which was then known as “cerebral paralysis”. He published several medical papers on the topic, and showed that the disease existed long before other researchers of the period began to notice and study it.
He also suggested that William John Little, the man who first identified cerebral palsy, was wrong about lack of oxygen during birth being a cause. Instead, he suggested that complications in birth were only a symptom.
Life Of Freud🎋