Oh–about me, in case you wondered at some point.

Sometimes I get to the business of writing, and I forget some of the most basic rules of making oneself understood, and this is often because trying to communicate crosses so many languages, so many para-languages and so forth.

I have even forgotten most of the basic rules of etiquette from your world! Rules like ” introduce yourself to new acquaintances, politely.”

Well, pardon me for saying so–but you didn’t follow the rules either! So, how could I even think about etiquette?

Well, I am just a fish–one of many, in the great pond. One of many who has encountered your types in your own world–and that, unasked for indeed.

So,by way of introduction, let me say that recently, I listened in as an African American woman, whose father actually IS from Africa as opposed to one complaining endlessly about the drama and subterfuge oriented masking of racial dialogues that has become the “African American Experience,” in America explain the difference that she shared with her sister, when they try to speak across languages, and racial dialogues of culture.

She, like many others had been at one time (many times) accused of ‘talking white,’ and had endured many years of torment, assaults of one kind or another, until she tried to fit into the culture that regularly attacked her.

She dealt with that primary conflict by “coding” her behavior and language so that she appeared to be more like black Americans whose father did NOT come from Africa any time in the recent past. So, she learned to ‘talk black, or to alter her body language to fit in. She also found that the rate of assaults to her character, her integrity, and even her physical safety decreased.

She called this ‘coding, and cross coding,’ or reverting from one form of communication to the other.

Now, I can’t quite recall what her equally well spoken sister said, but it was to the effect that she didn’t alter her language or her other personality traits, but rather, she realized that she was different–not just from black Americans who accused her pf talking white, but different ALSO, from white Americans and all of their presumptions about race. She dealt with the issue by existing in a frame of reality wherein she was at the center, and others were outside that center, and accepted the task of realizing daily that differences exist.

Her sisters reaction–what I assume to be the most common reaction, was one wherein the communication model was a reaction to overtly negative, often predational interactions wherein she was labelled first, and forced into the localized racialized culture after.

Or, as Freud would have it, a reaction formation to the world around her.

I dunno, I am not a pshychologist, but if I were? I would tell you that the language of fish, in a fishbowl becomes remarkably distressed, and often, unpredictable, garbled, gurgled or otherwise blub-blubbed once it is under attack.

OH! I forgot to tell you the important part of what I was trying to communicate!

I am a fish, and I live in a small, but relatively comfortable bubble! AND, I have been in that bubble for decades-as counted in fish time. What is fish time, you are probably asking, right? Yeah–that’s the hard part! You see, every time I even open my mouth, I have to explain a world that is alien to your own, unless you too are a fish, in a bowl.


This is my house. I have lived here with my family for just a short time. But I once lived in a bigger pond. But then, al of these wild animals came stomping through it–it started in and around 2004, where the water got so muddy from all of those hip-wader wearing fishermen and women on fishing expeditions, that I could barely breath in water!

I didn’t always live in such a fishbowl–for awhile, I was out in the pond with all the other fish. But wild animals came, and destroyed my habitat time and time again, year after year. Can you imagine that? Al of those fishing expeditions-I suppose some fishermen and women just think they have a right to fish anywhere they want these days.

Sometimes, they get caught, but not often enough.


This one tore up my game camera, ruined a few plants, and killed way more minnows than it could ever eat in one night! Like, a ten to one ratio–this coon would fish around all night, and even left it’s doodoo laying around after it had departed!

Fishing permits went out of fashion, apparently, around 2005, at least for those who were fishing in my pond. And, later–much later, those permits became required again, apparently. Because I guess, every fisherman in your world needs to scout out the holes that they muddy up, and that, well in advance of any legal permit.

Well, I finally fond a pond where I thought the water was more clear (that was a fish world joke–is that funny in your world? I mean, the word ‘well,’ next to the word ‘pond’? In fish terms, that is funny–such is the banal existence of fish!)–and they did too apparently.

And the water became even more muddy, but this time apparently, they had fishing permits. Seems someone ‘somewhere’ put them on notice that permits are required in fish world. Retroactively, apparently. And that, informed by previous expeditions that failed to catch a fish.

Well (hehehe) anyways, in case you wondered, I am happily united with another goldfish, and we spend our days just swimming around, and waiting for the person with the fish food to drop a few flakes our way. And little fish eats so well that she has almost outgrown the two of us!

In a way, that is a very precarious, and vulnerable position to be in. A fish family, just looking to eat once in awhile, and being invaded for a decade before you found a clear bubble! Imagine if you looked up and saw claws coming at you every few days!! Or big long reddish orange noses poking around your home!

How would you feel if invaders poked around your world at will? I imagine that you would feel threatened, but, having only tiny little see through fins to fight with, you would become creative in your methods of fighting back. Or not–I hear in your world, people, and especially ‘outdoorsmen and women’ rely on firearms, and murder to protect themselves.

We fish don’t have that option–and what are firefins anyways? Probably lion fish have them–we tell tales about lion fish to our young, too. Even though no goldfish has ever seen a lion fish, we know they could poison our young, or eat them,maybe. The books we read tell us so.

But either way, I bet you would begin to realize that words themselves are not enough to stop that from happening. And even then? What defenses has a fish got to the beaks and claws of those from hostile predatory worlds, who seek to eat us? I guess that is another conversation, that can be had with those who speak my dialect.

Blub, blurb, bubble! I bet some things don’t translate over to the world of and fish kidnappers, and humans that fish without permits;-(

Well, anyways, here is a picture of me, and my family, in our fragile little bubble.

We like it here, because there isn’t quite enough room for those fishermen and women to stick their boots in as far as they have in the past.

Now, just in case your computer machine cannot ‘see’ this photo, here it is in another format, more or less–but you get the picture, right?:

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Do you see what I SEE? Yeah–things look so different from a fishbowl, that I cannot imagine what you see there. Probably, you see a fish, to be trampled upon, or caught for observation. Which is odd, because that is how I came to see you after the first half decade or so.

Well, on tomy introduction, anyways–probably, they would have to smash our bubble next time–it is in the nature of who they are to do such things.

In fish world, we call these types ‘fish-killers.’ Or worse–predators. Sometimes we laugh amongst ourselves (all three eyes of us) and say ‘no, they are not all killers! Some of them are tortuturers, and sadists! Some of them ARE good guys and gals–when they are being watched! (then, we say hhhahahahaha)

Nothing stands between them and the damage they will do, these types just  muddy up the water, and try hard to cover the fact that they came here fishing without a permit so long, and so often that the water, once muddied beyond repair, killed off many many of us–and what ‘defense mechanism’ can any fish have against that!?

I think there are probably answers somewhere–in a dusty old book or two from your libraries. I hear that you have MANY libraries in your world–and not all of them have the same books, one to another.Libraries, libraries, libraries– In fact, some libraries have different narratives then my own, or yours.

Some are ‘blue’ and some are ‘orange’ (go team orange!) and some are just little boxes called free libraries (at least, in the fishbowl where I come from–and they make great drop spots, too! Ahhh-do you remember “Gone with the wind–that old copy, dog eared, and worn–but with the flowers smashed in it, flattened like frogs on a county highway last June? Too bad for you…)

And those “other” narratives come from all around the world–not just some local docent’s pre-edited reading list of great American biographies, like the History of the John Birch Society, or  The Enemies of Freedom, by Joe McBushtonarthybama, second edition, circa 1953, copyright renewed 2001, 2006, 2009.

And surely–those poor fishermen–they probably didn’t even know that fishing without a permit is wrong.

*snipf* fpr poor fishemen/women…**snipf, again…**

They no doubt were just doin’ their jobs, and so forth. Bringin’ home the bacon. What an odd paradox that is. We fish don’t eat bacon, per se. But the alligator–a sort of relative of fish–can really eat pork.

I saw a video on Zootube one time, and some ranchers pigs got too close to the river (the rancher thought he owned the ALL the water on ‘his land’, and was keepin’ it all safe and pure from outside scrutiny, he wasn’t wise enough to realize that water flowed downhill, and belongs to all of us–and whammo! This huge gator jumped out, and just ripped that pig a new porkhole, right in the pigs wazzoo!

Now, I don’t eat bacon per se, but as you might know or infer, others do. I am just a little bottom feeder, and that, reluctantly. Trickle down fishing bait, and so forth. Hell, and high water, I’ll eat whatever you feed me when I am starved out of normal existence.

Why, we goldfish even scour our own doodoo sometimes, looking for dessicated matter. Odd, when we find it drops off of the fisherman’s boots, then. But not THAT odd. AND we will eat that shit up too.

You get the picture. And if you don’t? Ask a friend–I hear photos of fish in bowls really attracts your type somehow. Especially, family photos of goldfish–after all, the little fishes might not have trophy carcasses, but we sure do know how to catch fishermens/womens boots, stomping on our lil’ heads all the time.

And that, while the trollers wade, oblivious to those of us who are related to alligators, who might just–MIGHT, justly, bite your asses off.

And then, it’s my world again, ponds and all, free from the starving hands of coons who smell bad, and ruin most of the ecosytems we inhabit, with impunity.


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