text:
For as long as I can remember I’d wanted a little brother. For reasons that elude my memory now, I had decided as a preschooler that his name would be “Tony”. My mother had already defied Nature and the doctor’s proclamation that she couldn’t bear anymore children after her miscarriage when she went ahead and delivered me. But I slammed the womb shut and in hindsight I’m sure for good reasons. Mom could conceive no more children naturally, despite her deep maternal longing for a little girl. Any objective outside observer would have agreed that my parents needed another child in their charge like they needed another hole in their heads for ventilation. But again my parents defied Nature. Driven by my mother’s desire, they began the long process of adopting a baby. Nearly two years later when I had virtually lost my 5-year olds’ hope of having a little brother the agency contacted my parents with the news that they had a brand new baby for us: a baby girl. My parents were ecstatic. Their waiting was over. Their prayers had been answered. All I could offer was dissent.

“It’s the wrong one,” I said, “It’s suppose to be my little brother.”

I felt tricked and betrayed. “You’ll love her just the same. You’ll see,” my satisfied mother tried to reassure me. Of course she was right. On the day we picked up the baby girl that was supposed to be my little brother mom insisted I pull in my pouting lip and hold my new little sister. She placed the quiet infant gingerly in my arms and I looked down into this tiny, sweet face whose big blue eyes looked back up at me as if to say, “I’m here and I’m yours.” I heard her eyes’ message and I felt the kind of button-popping pride usually reserved for new parents and looked back up at my parents, our parents, and declared, “She’s mine!” “I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” my mother said, “but she’s ours, all of ours. Our little girl, your little sister.” “Right,” I thought to myself, like anything else too pretty, precious, or delicate brought into the house that I claimed as my own because I thought these two hicks that were our parents couldn’t possibly appreciate or care for properly, this little girl would also be mine. I knew then, at five years old, that I’d have to more than just a brother. I’d have to do my big brother best to be her protector and sometimes mother, as we all tried to survive my father.

As I grew older the pure blonde hair I had been born with darkened. The coal black hair my sister had at birth continued to grow more and more blonde. As if this were an ominous foreboding we would continue, propelled from the same trajectory, along very different paths. The feast or famine cycles of our parents’ finances had already seeped into my psyche, making me into a live action version of the greedy Daffy Duck cartoon: “Its’ mine, mine, mine! Mine, I tell ya’, all mine!” My sister seemed unaffected by our parents alternating ability to provide. Her heart remained as open as my grasping hands. During particularly dire times when our father was laid off from work, mom would be unable to hide her despair as she tried to put together enough change to buy milk or eggs. My sister would have already returned to offer to our mother the coins she had shook loose from her piggy bank, while I would still be grilling the poor woman, now in tears, as to exactly when she might be able to pay back if I did loan her my change.

Based on the boys’ behavior I had witnessed at school and reinforced by my fathers’ hard work smells and violence, I decided by the second grade that I didn’t like boys and didn’t care to be one of them. They were dull, stupid, dirty creatures who seemed to only excel at breaking things and hurting people. Sadly, my perception of men from my adult vantage point has been altered very little. My sister, on the other hand, must have somehow perceived their brutish, volatile nature as powerful. To our parents’ horror, as soon as she was old enough to discern the difference between boys and girls she began announcing to anyone who would listen that she wanted to be a boy. In holiday pictures there she’d be posing for the camera proudly with her cowboy hat at an angle, her thumbs hooked in her pants pockets below her brown western pleather vest, while in the background I could be seen accessorizing one of her dolls for all I was worth. I would spend untold hours locked in the bathroom trying to arch my eyebrows with my dad’s disposable Shick razor and putting baby powder on my face in an attempt to look like my newly discovered movie idol, Bette Davis. I would be spanked soundly and sent back to the bathroom to wash my face. “Do you want people to think you look like a girl?”, my parents would ask, thinking they were shaming me. And on some level it did shame me since clearly I as trying to look like a woman. My sister, in sharp contrast, would be under the family station wagon helping dad change the oil or something. Under a car? The only way I ever imagined myself under a car was if my father accidentally backed up over me while I was doing cartwheels in the driveway. Under a car. Jesus. She would get bruises and develop callouses. My hands would remain as soft as a cloistered maiden’s. She could throw a ball, I could throw attitude. None of this is to say we didn’t play together as children, we just brought different abilities to our shared play time. She would build a fort. I would hang drapes and put in track lighting.

Each Christmas we’d hide our dismay at our parents complete denial of our requests, as well as our envy of each other’s gifts and simply correct their mistakes during heated bartering sessions. My G.I. Joe would be swapped for her Barbie. The huge, yellow Tonka dump truck I found useless was traded for enough tiny, tight, teen doll ensembles to keep Barbie in the dressing room well into middle age. The Easy-Bake Oven, though, was the prize. “I will GIVE you Johnny West, his horse, the Lone Ranger. . . mmm, okay, not the Lone Ranger. . .” C’mon village people, the masked crusader with the behind you could bounce a quarter on and the broad chest in the tight powder blue western get up was too hot to handle and too hot to let go of. “You can have Tonto and his horse, all for the Easy-Bake Oven.” She counter offered with the Barbie Dream Camper. “C’mon,” I’d reply indignantly, “what kind of supermodel really goes camping? I want the oven. “Alright then,” she bargained, “I want my Wonder Woman back and the oven is yours.” Years of practice with me had made my sister a nearly worthy opponent. “No way.” I stood firm. Nothing would wrestle Diana Prince out of my hands. My sister seemed to have an evolving and inexplicable interest in Lynda Carter and her island of origin sisters, but I didn’t care. When I practiced my amazing Wonder Woman high jumps off the back porch, the doll was going with me. “Look,” I’d say exasperated, “will you not be eating the lovely cakes I bake with butter cream chocolate frosting?” “You won’t share them?”, she’d ask, sounding hurt and bewildered. “Of course I will, IF you take the old, dusty pioneers, their horses, the sidekick Indian and give me that oven.” Of course she caved in and the pioneers, the supermodels and the two of us wore satisfied, chocolate frosted grins sitting around the make believe campfire my sister had built herself.

As a result of navigating the minefield of our parent’s house for the first decade of my life I was becoming a silent, nervous child who systematically picked my lips and tore off my fingernails until both bled. Defending myself on the school yard playground was not in my nature; defending my sister, however, was my very nature. One Summer our parents sent us to vacation Bible school at the local chapter of The Salvation Army. At the Salvation Army my sister and I were separated throughout the day with the exception of chapel and lunch time in the gymnasium. During chapel we were seated by age groups, again putting my sister out of arm’s length, but within sight. In what would ultimately be our last chapel service the somber chaplain spoke of other children in bondage; children called Israelites, not “young-in’s “. I felt sorry for these children and wondered if their parents had Appalachian roots like mine. As the chaplain droned on the younger kids grew uncontrollably restless. When one of the lower ranking officers moved in, singled out and removed my six-year old sister to the hall, I got up and prepared to follow them. I was quickly and sharply rebuked, ordered to remain in my seat. I clenched my jaw and descended back into the crushed red velvet padded pew, forcing my gaze straight ahead to the lectern while straining to hear what was happening beyond the hallway door. Moments later when I clearly heard my little sister’s crying and pleading, “I want my brother. I want my brother”, I defied the guard’s order and darted from my numbered seat and into the hallway. I couldn’t rescue my sister from much back at home, frequently, being the first born decoy was enough there. Sometimes, despite my horror and protests, she was still the victim of the violent switchings that were our parent’s spare the rod-style of aerobic exercise. I was willing to be damned though if anyone else was going to lay a hand on my sister. So when the God-loving, man-hating bull dyke of a “Captain” snatched my sister away from my immediate grasp with enough force to make her squeal and renew her tears, I kicked the bitch with enough velocity to make her swear and release my sister. I grabbed my sister’s little hand, told her everything would be alright, and commanded her to run with me. We raced down the hall for the door off of the crafts room that spilled into the alley behind the army compound. We bolted past activities coordinators still cleaning glue and glitter off of the tables who stopped us and asked what had happened. These kind, young, civilian volunteers called our parents and we were never made to return to The Salvation Army vacation Bible school. We would receive our instruction and our abuse at home as God had intended.

As we grew up our experience was similar, but our individual responses to our experience were vastly different. In our home that was dangerous and our world that was small and unjust I would escape to the safe, spacious vistas of my own imagination and my own despair. My sister somehow managed to retain both, her quick, joyous laughter and her quick, violent temper. I would internalize things, cry and wish I were dead. She would simply kick your ass and be done with it. By the time I was fifteen years old I had no reason to believe I’d have a future outside of an Institution for the Very Nervous and the Perpetually Afraid. But with the frequent support of Gloria, the chain-smoking matriarch of our next door neighbors, and a Family Services counselor, I developed the determination to not be, as Gloria put it, “my father’s whipping post” anymore. This was apparently a non-negotiable contract I had entered with him at birth and when I broke the contract I was sent away. I was packed up and driven to an orphanage four hours away. My sister cried hysterically, her ten year old heart breaking, as she struggled to free herself from our aunt that held her as our father physically pulled me out the front door. My little sister had worshipped the ground I sashayed on and now I was being taken away. It was like the white trash version of that scene in The Color Purple, as Nettie is literally ripped away from the grief stricken Celie. When my sister reached fifteen, and also broke the contract with our father that she so clearly adored, she too was sent to the children’s home. We stayed in contact frequently back then by writing letters to each other; postcards from siblings trapped in the two separate civil wars of our lives. Soon our individual struggles demanded our undivided attention and we lost touch. Our mother’s death in 1991 brought us back together briefly, but that was the last time I’ve seen my sister.

While I’ve busied myself over the years apparently attempting to lose my gag reflex with men whose sheer emotional unavailability should have choked me, my sister has fought more noble battles. When a local judge refused to allow she and her female partner of more than a dozen years to legally change and share their last name based on no precedent more substantial than his own prejudice, they would not be denied. The couple acquired an attorney and mounted a lengthy, arduous legal battle that, much to our father’s consternation, frequently made headlines state wide and beyond. “I don’t know why they couldn’t just change their names one at a time and not make a big circus about it all over the papers”, he would complain to me during one of our phone conversations. “Dad,” I’d say, purposely irritating him by responding to his presumably rhetorical question, “after mom died and you married her sister, wasn’t there a wedding announcement in the papers?” “That’s different,” he’d replied indignantly. “You’re right, dad. That’s very different, since your daughter and her mate weren’t related prior to their union.” As is his custom he would assure me that he would be praying for me and quickly end our phone call.

As a child I was so certain of my own future fatherhood that by age nine or ten I’d had a short list of possible names picked out for my future offspring. Now, at midlife, the role of being a father seems better left to those better financially heeled, more paternal and less self-indulgent than myself. No one expected my sister, the little girl who wanted to be a boy, to be a mother. A Phys. Ed. teacher? Sure. An auto mechanic? Of course. A mother? No. Well, yes. As it turns out, where there’s a will, there’s a turkey baster. My sister is now one of two proud mothers of two little girls. I’ve been made an uncle by nieces I’ve never seen.

In recent years through an act of my will I’ve forgiven our now stroke-addled and rather feeble father his many mistakes and abuses. My sister, understandably, has no more use for him than she would for any other dick. My own forgiveness for the man remains an act of faith, a work in progress. I completely respect her need to avoid any contact with him, just as I did for many years. It is our separation, the lack of contact or response from my sister that turns my mind back on itself and mars my heart with hair line cracks. Perhaps it is with us as it is with the survivors of any tragedy: plane crashes or war. To look in each others’ face is to necessarily remember, re-live, re-hurt. It’s been thirty-some years now since our parents imposed the end of our decade together as children daily surviving their own special brand of Bible-based terrorism. It’s too far back to reach. If we could, if we tried, would something in us snap like a rubber band extended beyond it’s capacity and we’d lose today; the today that we’ve run so far to find, the today we thought we’d never see? It seems that is an impossible, even an unnecessary risk for the adult stranger that is my sister to take. That’s alright. Alright, cause it has to be.

I can’t see the future any better now than I could imagine what lay beyond I-75 looking out by bedroom window as a child. But now enough wreckage of the past has been cleared that if I look back over my shoulder, open my heart, and squint my eyes, on the distant horizon of memory I can see a proud little three-foot version of me holding this deliciously brand new baby girl with coal black hair and a face that shined with all the innocence of Eden. I can smell the wet, wormy aroma of our mud pies baking in the sun. Most of all, though, I remember that little girl’s laughter; so joyous, so infectious, so original, that it was clearly on loan from the land of stars. I couldn’t save that little girl, but I can set that little girl free. Ultimately, the setting free is, perhaps, the most important part of any parent’s or little surrogate parent’s job. The real dyk-otomy remains that in letting her go I can still proudly exclaim, as I did when I was five, “She’s mine!”

– PreetamDas Kirtana

*this essay originally appeared on http://www.semantikon.com via the generous and talented Lance Oditt and was later featured as a special cover edition of The Dayton City Paper, where some of my earlier essays appeared monthly and that cover is also the source of the accompanying pictures here.

** this particular publishing/posting of this older piece is dedicated to Erin, Sarah, Chase, Zachary, Jerry, Nora, Rebecca, Rick, and all of us who continue to try and heal and reclaim our souls, even as we learn to walk, even with our limp, even with broken hearts, but, incrementally and with each other’s support, Not with broken spirits.

Box of Song

“From fear inside I hid my own heart and locked the door,
With sin and shame I quivered, ol’ Satan had me bound;
But then one day I answered the gentle knock that came,
I swung the door wide open, now I’ll never be the same.

A heart unlocked is a song set free!
A song set free sets others free!
Who His love sets free is free indeed!
And Jesus is my heart-shaped key!

Now at my door stood Jesus, His arms open wide.
‘Child,”He said, “I love you. Let Me show you The Way.”
In His arms I fell, against His heart aflame;
His heart opened mine, now I’ll never be the same.”

-Albert Shepherd Johnson
“The Pentecostal Pilgrim Hymnal”,1946

“Hey babe, How are you? What’s goin’ on on the homefront?” Albert Shepherd Johnson the third, better known as Shep everywhere but legal documents, said as he entered the kitchen.

“Not too much, sweetheart. The kids are downstairs and dinner’ll be ready in ’bout a half hour. Just still workin’ my way through the final frontier that is the attic. How was work?,” Viola asked, Vee to Shep since they first dated a dozen years ago.

“Oh same ol’ same ol’, headlines and deadlines, all managed from above by stomach ulcers and free-floating anxiety. What’s in the box?,” Shep asked, nodding to the kitchen table.

“Oh, I, um, I thought you’d find this interesting. Found it up there among all the other boxes and cobwebs.”

Shep put his jacket on the back of a chair and loosened the paisley office noose from around his neck. Shep was the first in a line of generations of the Johnson family boys who wasn’t a minister. Shep’s father pastored the Full Gospel Tabernacle for nearly thirty years. For a brief shining familial moment there were three living generations of the Johnson boys during which Shep’s father had been known as Al-2. Shep’s grandfather, the Bishop Reverend Albert Shepherd Johnson, pastored the Full Gospel Tabernacle that he founded until his health declined and his son stepped into the role, and Grandfather Johnson was also a prolific and much published hymn writer. Many of his songs remain in hymnals across the land to this day. Despite Shep’s decade of work at the paper, family took Shep’s occasional leading of Sunday worship and Thursday night Bible study as vocational preparation and held out hope yet for his falling in line and taking up the cloth, calling, and tradition.

“What is it? What’cha got there, Vee?”

Vee opened the box and pulled out one of the Bishop Reverend Johnson’s notebooks, opened it to a page dated “October 3” and handed Shep his grandfather’s journal.

“Here, read this,” she said.

‘October 3rd

I reckon the only thing that saves me really, saves my mind, not just my soul, is bein’ here, here where I can hear crickets instead of cars and coyotes instead a sirens; out here away from all the lights, out here where there’s so many stars you could pert near get lost in ’em if ya’ didn’t make up your mind real good not to; all that and the man that I love and that loves me, whose real, right now love keeps me from tryin’ to live on memories alone. Ain’t no diet will make ya’ thinner faster’an tryin’ to live on nuthin’ but memories. Trust. If I don’t know nuthin’ else for sure, I know that, all the way sure.’

Shep turned his face from the yellowed journal to Vee, confusion and concern creasing his brow.

“The ‘man I love and that loves me’? What the dang? What does that mean? He prolly means one a the church brothers or Tyler Jenkins on the farm down the road. Pop still talks about how Granddad and Tyler were just like brothers.”

Vee turned a few pages in the notebook.

“Here,” she said, and Shep read,

‘November 12

You ain’t gotta be old anymore to lose everything and everybody you ever loved. Maybe you ain’t never had to be old, but most of us grew up thinkin’ you did or maybe we just deposited hope in thinkin’ it, like throwin’ good money into a bad gamble. We an’ the Lord the only ones that know when we’ve lived long enough, when the time is the right time, when it’s Homecomin’ time. When you’re old enough to have lost everyone you love an’ everyone that can love you back like you need to be loved, seems to me like you’re old enough for it to be the right time, no matter how old you are.

Too many right now moments, too many songs, and smells, and round-the-kitchen-table echos knock memories offin’ the shelves too often to not sometime think about swingin’ back on a low hung star, back to where we was young, and hope swung on a tire swing, back to where voices round the kitchen table weren’t just long ago echos. Sometimes I feel real sure if I just walked far enough I could reach that star, the one hung low just for me. It’d be a right lonely road to walk, but they ain’t been no roads but lonely roads this whole trip, at least thatin’ would finally take me some place I wanna be.

Won’t never be cold there, never lessin’ eighty in the shade; safe and quiet and warm forevermore and you’d feel good enough and happy and loved just cause you woke up right in it ratherin’ havin’ to search for it under every rock and between every lyin’ man’s teeth, greedy men that eat hearts and the the only love they got left is what still stains they teeth. No, there ya’ ain’t gotta floss left over love to get sumthin’ to live on. There, ya’ just wake up all ready in it, like a feather down love bed you ain’t ever gotta get out of, just prop up a bit to get served more a that Love you’re already cushioned in. Since I was a kid I’ve thought about the words of that ol’ song we use to sing in church, “What a Day That Will Be” and I wanted to go there and done my level best to get ready. We’d sing, “When He takes me by the hand and leads me to The Promised Land, what a day, a glorious day that will be…”

I’ve met a few folks that don’t believe in prayer or heaven; don’t believe in The Promised Land. Like Sam Barnett, that works down at the mill, a hardworkin’, bright enough man, but seems like nuthin’ south of his neckcollar is really workin’ right, like maybe there ain’t been enough traffic round the dirt a his heart to soften it up for da Lord’s tender feet. No sir, a few folks I’ve met over the years don’t seem to have no use for The Promised Land. I can’t make no sense of it, but I reckon that’s the Lord’s business, not mine. My business is sayin’ thanks for the glimpses of glory here, the sometime peeks of The Promised Land from right here – from our wasteland of hurt and greed and pain, that we try ‘an love each other through and dress it up like the Land to come.’

“Wow,” said Shep, “Guess that’s why he could write all those old hymns.”

“Yeah, and he sounds really lonely, Shep,” Vee said, before turning a few more pages, handing it to Shep, and saying, “One more?”

‘January 4

Now it’s true as the ground a grace I stand on that the Gospel love of Jesus saves my soul and it’s just as true that in moments stolen away in Kendrick’s arms down by the river, under stars sworn to silence, that my mind and body and heart are saved, too; feels like all a me can finally breathe. When his lips touch mine I know that this heart that Christ opened has a tenent, one that holds me and by loving me, invites me to my own love. Some would say that we’re the worst kinda deceivers, abominations that’ll split hell wide open. I don’t know about all that. I do know when our little Sophia died from the fever that if God hadn’t given my Kendrick to lean on that I’m pretty sure I couldn’t a been leaned on anymore. Who knows better how to hold hardworkin’ hands, relax burden-bearin’ shoulders, or support the worry-heavy head of a man than another lovin’ man? In my life there is one God has blessed me with whose embrace is never needful, whose arms are not an ask, but an answer; the one who just holds me home.

Do I live out betrayal keeping our secret? Am I dishonest? I reckon I’m as honest as I can be without hurtin’ folks that don’t need no more hurtin’. I loved Loretta Carlene, my Elsie. I loved our children. I love Kendrick and I love God. Ain’t never been a need to short one to love the other. Ages ago, Elsie and I buried our little girl. Goin’ on ten years ago come April, I buried my wife, Elsie. Only the love of God and the sure and faithful arms of Kendrick still remain. Yes, I’ve heard the shrill, frightened voices that would damn the love that holds me up an’ I admit, I’m only confused by it. I only look at it, fascinated by it, like it was a strange bug on the window, the likes a which I ain’t never seen before, an insect, a thick green and spotted worm whose mouth is moving and whose shrill little worm voice keeps mouthing words that would damn love. Strange, hateful little caterpillar. Best to take it away from the window so it doesn’t color my view, put it in a Mason jar, put it on the shelf an’ hope that with some time and a better perspective that there’ll be a heart-shaped key even for love-damning worms. God, by Your grace. Lord have mercy.’

“Dear God,” Shep said, “So Granddaddy Johnson was gay, actually, really gay?”

“Well, honey,” Vee said, “Seems there isn’t any doubt, actually, really.”

“What do you think we should do? What should we tell the kids? What should we say to anyone?,” Shep asked, stunned.

“Well, Shep,” Vee said, her eyes half-lidded, then opening so wide and inviting that you could fall right in, like Shep had when he married her, “based on this,” she said, “I’d suggest we say that Granddaddy found a heart-shaped key in Jesus and that prolly betterin’ anyone else we’ve known, he knew that grace was sufficient. He knew it’s not even possible to short one when we give love to another. In his time, there were so many boxes, but even Granddaddy’s boxes had a song and now, unboxed, his song soars high as the stars across the nightsky he loved so much. I’d bet it soars even higher when we’re all singin’ his songs. Well, that’s just what I’d say,” Vee concluded and cast her eyes down at the old notebook, the right corner of her mouth dancing with the idea of a smile.

-PreetamDas Kirtana
16 September 2015

The Blacksmith’s Garden

**Note: This piece first appeared as a guest blog via the kindness and generosity of Zack Hunt on his blog at  http://zackhunt.net/2013/11/26/the-blacksmiths-garden-by-preetamdas-kirtana/  Zack is rather amazing: great heart and humor and lover of Jesus and neighbor (an uncommon & wonderful combination!) You should really do yourself a favor and check out his blog. Just subscribe. You’ll be glad you did. I post this, as I recover from some health challenges and, honestly, it remains a piece that still ministers to me. I hope you find some meaning and blessing here also**

The Blacksmith’s Garden – By Preetamdas Kirtana

When I was a child growing up in Pentecostal churches the phrase “turn or burn” meant mouthing a panicked sinner’s prayer or burning eternally in the Monster God’s hellfire. Today as my heart breaks again for my friend, Jerry, that phrase unexpectedly returned to my mind. Less than a month ago Jerry lost his beloved brother suddenly in an accident. Today, just minutes ago, Jerry emailed me that his sister, the remaining half of his spiritual arsenal; his shield that had worked in conjunction with the sword that his brother had been, has received another diagnosis of cancer. And what can I say? “My God,” is absolutely all I can think as the tears well up and trace the paths of their countless predecessors: tears of pain and joy, of loss and gratitude, tears of questions with no answer whatsoever, tears when there are no words left at all. I weep. I cry silently and then I notice a peculiar emptiness.

I don’t know what to do except pray, even if it’s only these simple, desperate words, “My God.” I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing and that’s where the emptiness is – right there: right where a loud, accusatory, and raging “WHY?!” would have been before. I don’t know what to do, but what I’m not doing at least right now, in just this moment, is not asking why. This leaves this space vacant, empty; this space where previously tough resentment, hard obstacles, and heart-high walls have been hammered into fine, glistening, repellent fashion by a blacksmith of isolation whose every challenge and loss blew like bellows into the toxic fire of “whys” and bitter “One day…” threats. Oh, the smoke from the noxious flames always sent signals of alarm and distressed calls for rescue, but without fail anyone, anyone, even God, who cared enough to get close enough to help, also got close enough to get burned. But now, now a cool wind blows through the blacksmith’s darkened shop and the anvil looks more like an altar. Without the the echo of the hammer and the crackle and spit of the fire I hear “turn or burn,” which, frankly, with it’s brimstone baggage seems like damn cold comfort. But on the next breeze that stirs old ash, also comes a fresh understanding in this hallowed out space. If we can, through resistance and ritual, with white knuckles and bended knee, through sometimes saltine-dry prayers and sobbing surrender, if we can just empty the space, if we can just turn from any and all questions of “why?” even for a moment, lay down the bellows, douse the fire, take off the apron and sit, we sometimes notice, perhaps in the cooler corner opposite the old furnace, a tiny green sprouting intruder of trust. It’s a strange and welcome sight, though more than a little perplexing as all I’ve really known is blacksmithing. I don’t know nothing about gardening.

I’ve grown skilled in burning offenses, glowing hot resentments, cauterized wounds, and throwing relationships like kindling. I know nothing of growing something new and tender green. The wonder of the tiny sprig of trust with it’s reaching roots and the wonder of my own unknowing amid the smell of soot and ash lights this new understanding of “turn or burn.” I can burn with questions of why. I can be consumed by the fires of needing reasons and in believing that in each denial and in every loss that my answers are gone or I can turn toward my complete unknowing, my complete lack of questions and also toward this love that has been likened to a great, Good Shepherd, this gentle, determined Gardner, who asks me, as He asked Mary, with the tomb behind her and the garden before her,

“Why are you crying?”

“They’ve taken my answers and even my questions,” I reply.

But then, in the stillness of the glory of this single seedling of trust, hardly a garden, He speaks my name.

He speaks my name and, like Mary, the Knowing of His Spirit within me springs forth and answers,

“Rabboni! Teacher!”

My Pentecostal training of “turn or burn” left my soul’s only option for vocation as blacksmith but my not knowing is, with bleeding hands and soiled knees, preparing me to be, finally, a Gardner’s apprentice, a Rabbi’s ragamuffin disciple, a faltering, failed, trembling, and faithful child of God.

But without answers and without even questions, how does that help Jerry? What does that leave me to offer my frightened and grieving friend? What it leaves is something better than answers that never helped even when they came. It leaves me brokenhearted, but faithful and willing to weep and wait in the garden outside empty tombs with the brokenhearted and weeping and waiting and to listen for the Gardner, ready to recognize the Teacher, to sit together in our unknowing until Daybreak dries our tears and we feel That Which We Felt Was Lost rise up within us and we know resurrection.

That’s all we have: brokenness, hope, and glory.

– See more at: http://zackhunt.net/2013/11/26/the-blacksmiths-garden-by-preetamdas-kirtana/#sthash.WxURtDn9.dpuf

The Resurrection…From the Back Pew

*one truly from the archives: circa 2004, but hey, it’s lighter! In-joy

My second cousin came to my very first public reading of my writing. In one of the pieces I read, I spoke openly about how dire my financial situation was at the time of that recently written essay. After the show, she, her mother, and sister showered me with congratulations and hugs. Then, her mother slipped some money into my pocket against my protests and her daughter planned a day to take me to the grocery and asked if I needed to do laundry. I pulled her close and said into her ear, “You have no idea. My socks actually stand upright in the corner, without me in them!” She laughed and we set a date to begin the mountain of laundry. This kind, generous gesture was made even more disarming by the fact that my cousin and I had enjoyed virtually no contact for years, despite living in the same city.

Two days later I stood in her kitchen as she began to cook and the first of the ‘winter laundry’ began to spin. I asked about her job and she explained that she hadn’t returned to work since the birth of her now toddler son, Little Joe. Her time was consumed daily by tending to the needs of her son and by occasional volunteer work. One of her volunteer activities is being a precinct judge and officiating at voting sites during elections. Now, after all these long years, my cousin came out to me. I had, of course, suspected, even knew this in the back of my mind. But, well, to hear her say it right out loud, well, it still cut like a knife. All the tell-tale signs had been there. She is white, very, very, white actually, married with a kid, and drives . . . a mini-van. We share an ol’-time Pentecostal religion upbringing and she still attends weekly services locally. Her family, with their backyard deck and two car garage, appear to enjoy middle-class status. Perhaps, even more telling, is her family’s holiday tradition of sending out those family update form letters that detail all of the family tragedies and triumphs with photographs since the previous Christmas. All of these signs and red flags and I chose to remain in denial, until she said it again, “Of course, being REPUBLICAN, I said that of course, I wanted the Bush campaign sign in our yard when they asked down at the headquarters.” I turned my face away, knowing it would betray me and register the shock, pain, and repulsion that I felt at her declaration. The intensity of my response was surprising, even to me. Instantly I just wanted to leave. I wanted to pack my baker’s dozen or so bags of still dirty laundry back into the mini-van, return the groceries, and have her drive me back home in stony silence. I just wanted out. How DARE here extend such kindness: invite me into her home and then casually drop this bombshell! “Oh, by the way, I strike preemptively and deny you equal status under the law. Would you pass the gravy and those potato rolls?” Great. “Bring it on”, I’d reply. This was horrible, unbelievable. I wondered if she had told her mother. She must have. No wonder the woman has had so much trouble with her heart recently. It must be just killing her. After doing her level best to raise her daughter right, to now be faced with the dark reality of her being: a Republican.

A moment later I became aware of just how snug this shoe was on my other foot. What kind of a Falwellian bigot did I sound like? Next I would instigate panic and controversy by suggesting that she and “her kind” should not be allowed to teach or adopt children. Jesus wept! So much for building bridges. I remembered again the Walt Whitman quote, “We convince by our presence,” and I stayed, despite my initially deep internal resistance. I insisted that this kindness was too extravagant and that she should allow me to do something to express my gratitude. “I could . . . wash the mini-van. I could give you some money when I get paid on Friday.” She said ‘no’ repeatedly to all of my offers, then paused. “Well, there is one thing you could do.” “Sure, what is it?” “You could come to our Easter cantata at our church this Easter.” “Alright. Okay.” I had already said that I was usually off work on Sundays. No saves there. In my mind I calculated exactly how much time I had before Easter Sunday to catch something that would render me bed-ridden and a risk for contagion, but aloud I said, “I can do that.”

On Easter morning I sat next to my cousin as the Passion play unfolded. Christ gave the Sermon on the Mount, turned water into wine, and calmed a raging storm at sea. I had visions of Ted Neeley and Mel Gibson and lamented my decision to smoke that joint before church. I can hardly stay awake. I finger my mala beads and pray to stay upright. Apparently, “cantata”, the word itself, is an ancient Latin word used only in certain religious sects and roughly translates to the equivalent of the Spanish word “siesta, or more accurately “coma”. Now, Christ was dying and I was surrounded by people who would wet themselves trying to decide whether to stone my because I had been a ‘rebellious child’ or because I’m a ‘homosexual’. My mouth was as dry as disciple’s sandal. Smoking weed before Easter service was not a good idea after all. It feels remotely inappropriate to be looking forward to the last supper so much. Maybe they’ll have communion. Wafers and juice. LOTS of wafers and juice. God, I could eat my hymnal. The munchies seem so ‘high school’ like hickies. Nevertheless, they’re here and I ask my cousin if maybe she has any little thing at all, in abundance, in that huge purse of hers to eat. She clears her throat. “PreetamDas”, she says, “this would be the crucifixion part.” I cast my eyes downward, then back to the stage and think to myself, “It’s the Passion play for Chrissake, the whole thing is the crucifixion part.”

The pre-recorded clap of thunder startles me awake from another 8 second, head-bobbing nap. Base begins to rumble from the speakers throughout the church, apparently signifying the saviors final breath on the cross. Lights flashed as the choir hummed ominously and then, suddenly, all went completely dark and silent. A hush fell over the darkened church auditorium, with the exception of random, muffled sobbing. The director held the moment, caressed the moment, then squeezed the silent, dark moment like a wet washcloth for all he was worth. When the lights came back up, Mary rushed out of a papier-mache tomb declaring that Christ’s body had been stolen and she darted up the path to tell the others. In a flash, a painted, transparent screen was whisked up in front of Mary to reveal a scarred, but resurrected Jesus. I had wondered how they would effect the resurrection. I ‘d had amusing fantasies of an unfortunate messiah crash landing into Pilate’s balcony as his Peter Pan wires got crossed.

But, as the director would have it, a veil was simply removed and Christ was revealed.

I decided not only that I appreciated this dramatic treatment, but also that perhaps this was also part of the message: Christ hadn’t flown in or even descended. His feet still touched the ground, yet He was risen. Having seen several Passion plays with my family on summer vacations, yep, including “Christ of the Ozarks, the “greatest story ever told” was not new to me. There was no surprise ending. What I did find useful was the reminder that right where we are at, feet on the ground, we are called to and able to rise. My cousin took my hand in hers and together, we sat there on our church pew, both a little bit risen.”

pdk archives March 25, 2004

Sitting Shiva for Lent: Through a Glass Darkly

Sitting Shiva for Lent: Through a Glass Darkly

I believe in the possibility of reconciliation under any circumstance, and yet there are things that we say to each other sometimes that may not be beyond the reach of forgiveness but remain beyond forgetting.

I was a skinny kid that grew up in a family of fat relatives. In an extended family where being overweight was the norm, I stuck out like a sore thumb; a thumb made more sore by frequently being made fun of and enduring nicknames mocking my body size. It was 1976. I was ten years old. Even an adult cousin that I adored would announce, “Jimmy, you’re so skinny, you look funny cuz your bones stick out.” Of course the bones she was referring to were elbows and knees. Given that kind of public derogatory announement today after years of building a fine defense and a quick, bitter tongue, I’d probably snap back that it was her that looked funny because when I stood next to her, we looked like the number 10. But, then, to suggest that visible elbows and knees were normal would have been risking switch-welted legs or a bloodied mouth. I was outweighed and outnumbered.

I was a skinny kid with a gap between my two front teeth. Braces would correct my teeth when I was older, but no stage of growth changed my underdog size. My slight size combined with my fastidiousness and what my birth mother called being “tender-hearted” got me called a “fag” by kids at school long before I knew what the intended insult meant. I only felt the way the kids said it and I felt dirty, dirty and outcast without knowing why; dirty, even before they spit on me on the crowded school bus.

When I was a kid, adults said that I’d “fill out” when I grew up. They lied about that, too. Ten years later, other gay men started dying. No one understood anything about H.I.V. then. Everyone was afraid. The government, at best, didn’t care. The church told us that we had it coming. They told us that we were being punished and we were, but not by God. We were being punished by the fear and hatred of people who left us to fight and die alone. I remember being so young and so afraid. I remember at one gathering, a young man, Jeff, carried his own drinking glass so as to not risk contagion. Jeff and countless other guys in the bars would speculate and sometimes outright accuse me of having A.I.D.S. Does anyone get “accused” of having cancer or heart disease? It was never a good time to be a skinny kid. It’s never been a good time to be a skinny gay man, even among other gay men. It was shaping up to just not be a good time to ever be me. Jeff’s personal drinking glass didn’t save him.

At middle-age now, it remains an elusive goal to hit a hundred and fifty pounds. No, ladies, it is not an enviable thing. Please stop saying that. Yes, I can “eat whatever I want”, as you so often say, “without gaining a pound”. It’s also true that if it’s not eighty in the shade, I’m cold and it hurts to sit. I’m getting closer to looking into finding an ass prosthetic; either that or I’ll be that guy that carries a pillow with him everywhere to sit on. As a rule, stress seems to effect our eating habits in one of two ways. Under stress some of us will eat everything and some of us will eat nothing. I tend toward the latter group. During a period of hardship and predictable weight loss for me five or six years ago, I was at dinner with my friend Suzanne, when she took my breath away when, while encouraging me to eat, she told me that I looked like “a poster boy for A.I.D.S.”.

I’m not often speechless.

I didn’t much want to go outside for awhile after that.

Sometimes we say things that are not beyond forgiveness, but remain beyond forgetting.

I ache when I consider the times that I know I’ve been guilty of this.

Three years or so ago I was as physically present as I’ve ever been weighing in at an astonishing personal best of a hundred and sixty-five pounds. Since our car accident last year and the head injury I suffered I struggle to hit a hundred and thirty-five pounds. As a result of that space between my two front teeth when I was a kid and the braces and the slightly off-color cap on one of those two front teeth, I’ve always been a little o.c.d. about my dental hygiene. It hasn’t paid off. None of my enthusiastic flossing or gargling with hydrogen peroxide a half dozen times a day has made any difference in the tremendous bone loss that continues to happen. Dec. 30th, tooth number fifteen, the upper back left, was extracted. Not five weeks later, number three, the back upper right had to be extracted. I now have no upper back teeth to chew with. Pending insurance approval, a partial is hopefully on the way. In the meantime, I eat soft foods and boy, do I have cheekbones. I look like I’m doing an impression of Norma Desmond in “Sunset Boulevard” now, even when I’m actually not . . . or “a poster boy for A.I.D.S.”

Those words said to us that remain beyond forgetting don’t live in our minds in a moment-to-moment or even in a daily way. They’re not predators so much as scavengers. They wait until we’re vulnerable, exhausted, and just about to give up and it’s then that the jackals of some one’s words return from the nowhere of the past in hope of feeding on what’s left of us.

I was washing my face one morning a few days ago and when I saw my face in the mirror, it broke my heart. I saw hollowed spaces and shadows and weariness and I cried looking at my own reflection. Over the course of my lifetime I’ve become rather obsessed about my appearance; not in the way that beautiful people do, but in the way that only the deeply wounded do. I’ve been grieving my teeth and terrified of getting “A.I.D.S. face”, daunted by the prospect of one more obstacle to self-acceptance and crumbling at the idea of one more reason for public rejection. Now, I was losing my hope to the sallow reflection in my bathroom mirror. When it happened again, when I washed my face and cried again at the rather Nosfertu reflection looking back at me, I decided that I couldn’t do this anymore.

I remembered that in a recent issue of AARP magazine that Cher had been quoted as saying that she had “given up mirrors”, that she “hadn’t looked in a mirror in years.” Of course she’s lying, but the idea of not looking in a mirror at all was nearly as compelling as it was frightening. You have to understand how vital, how strangely addictive mirrors are for someone like me: always one more glance, one more snip at a hair, one more disapproving look and then one more. No, you wouldn’t want to live with me and ever want to be anywhere on time, ever. I guess mirrors and cigarettes are to the life of my ego what humility and love are meant to be to my walk of faith. But now I couldn’t see past my own fear and grief, so I made a decision.

I took down the obsessively checked mirror to the right of my office door. I put the eye-level framed pictures on my desk on top of the bookshelf where I can see them but they can’t reflect my image back to me in their glass. I covered my bathroom mirror save for an eye-level strip opening about an inch and a half long by an eighth of an inch high. I can see just my eyes, just my nose, or just my mouth at one time. Mind you, I’m not throwing vanity completely out the window. I will know if that blueberry or spinach is visibly stuck in my teeth, but I won’t face self-rejection with my every reflection.

This is how I’ve come to begin this Lenten season by sitting shiva. The Jewish custom surrounding the ritual of grief dictates that mirrors be covered because mourners need not be concerned about their personal appearance, that mourners should be aware that their normal priorities have changed, and that mirrors should not be present in rooms where we pray as we are to direct our focus on God, not ourselves. I’ve been in mourning in many ways no more so than now as the shallow sand-built defenses I’ve invested a lifetime of energy in are incrementally and systematically stripped away. I mourn not only for myself, but for the suffering all around me that I feel so acutely so often. I grieve for living in a world so abrasive that I frequently feel sanded raw.

This Ash Wednesday is only the third day of no mirrors, but I feel drawn to continue the sacrifice of my painful vanity for the entire Lenten season, not just because of the hurt reflected back at me right now, but also because it might help. Already, without my physical image constantly reflected back at me, from time to time I can forget what I look like and just remember that I might Feel good in any given moment. Maybe without my appearance being my constant priority my focus will begin to shift, even a little. Maybe I’ll come closer to understanding that my reflection in a thing isn’t necessary for a thing to be beautiful. How much more beauty there must be to see in the world when our identification with something or someone isn’t required for them to be seen as beautiful and worthy.

Maybe, right now, while it’s so hard to see myself through my own eyes, let alone through God’s eyes, maybe it’s best if I only see myself through your eyes and only see what you show me.

If this life is about union and communion, and I believe that it is, then our self-rejection keeps us only ever halfway to the table and nearly all of us are too malnourished to not pull all the way up to the banquet table of our Father’s love and full acceptance.

Maybe, in covering some mirrors, maybe in borrowing each other’s eyes, we might get closer to pulling up a chair to the Table together.

– PreetamDas Kirtana 3/4/15

“Hide & Seek: 5-10-15-20-Reach (out)”

My current health challenges and life stressors bring me again to the Root and roots of my faith and baby steps of progress toward improved health and more strength and energy as I continue to hope, pray, and believe that being pain-free again can be a reality. My regular doctor is a constant source of gratitude, while it will be impossible to not write about her at some point, there aren’t really words enough to say how incredible her skills AND heart are and how my life is better because of Miriam. But a couple of days ago I saw a different doctor other than my own and didn’t get what I needed. Why is it so confounding for some folks when you’re clear about what you need? Anyway, on the train home I came up with this, maybe it could be helpful for someone else when “baby steps” are again needed or maybe one or two a y’all might wanna join with me for the next 21 days. If you’re up to some baby steps with this 2 Great Commandment Preschooler, I’d love to hear your comments and experiences as we stumble along, and try to remember what immense pleasure it brings our Father, as it would any loving father, to see us learning to walk:

My own Rx:

5 – Five minutes of Affirmative Breathing
Full inhalations & exhalations. On the exhale mentally affirm what you need affirmed. This could be a literal affirmation i.e. “I’m.
safe, loved, home, forgiven, etc. Could be a portion of a Scripture. I’m fond of “blue and green”, shorthand for the still blue waters.
and green pastures of 23rd Psalm I learned from a character in a work of fiction by John D. Base. One need not be a Christian to find.
the image calming. The affirmation on the exhale is key, as without the already disciplined mind that we lack yet, silence alone can
be an entry point for negative voices and thoughts.

10 – Ten full minutes (as only a minimum, but at least 10) of singing Out Loud.
Obviously, something positive would be ideal, but with this one, the songs selected are not as important as simply doing it. If you’re
feeling low, like a motherless child, then sing that, but sing it Out Loud, don’t just feel it in silence. I’m convinced this is the other
reason God made showers. You can do it. It’s not public, not a performance.

15 – Write for a full fifteen minutes.
If you find yourself resistant or staring out the window for more than a minute, begin your time again. As with the singing aloud,
what you write is not even your concern, it could be anything from why you’re grateful to why you’re pretty certain that the world/
God/your spouse/ ex/ or mother is out to get you. “I’m feeling _______” is often a good entry point.

20 – Ideally, simply walk for a full twenty minutes.
This is the goal: walking. When weather makes this impossible, a Very distant next best would be on the floor or mat gentle.
stretching i.e. slow neck rolls, shoulder lifts & drops, gentle twisting from the waist while seated, etc.

Reach (out) – As a routine, and at a minimum, make the phone call.
Yes, even this Everyday. For those of us more comfortable and with time, the “Reach” could be sharing coffee or a meal
or much more like some form of community/church/social involvement, but again the key is that daily, so making that phone call
is basic, if not easy. Serving at the shelter or attending a meeting, etc. do fill the ask but these are rarely everyday. Bottom line:
you really will need to use the phone. No requirement on content or time, only you need to connect Live, even if only briefly. No,
leaving a voice mail isn’t enough or rather leave the voice mail, then dial again till the Live connection happens.

These are challenging for many of us, but also do-able for all of us.

What’s the goal? What do we win, earn, or accomplish? I’d suggest that those are ego-based questions, so the only answer I’d suggest is that we’ll find out, the old “more will be revealed”. Then why would we do something, anything without a goal? Ya’ gotta love our ego’s persistence (or not). The only answer is that where we are isn’t working for us so well and maybe, since it takes (depending on your phone time) only about an hour, maybe we could commit to trying a different way, this routine for 21 days and just see what happens.

Prayer? (Shhhhh, don’t let it get out, but these are all forms of prayer. Add as much and as many kinds of prayers, as often as you’d like)

PreetamDas Kirtana

Just a thought: stars

I lay in bed amazed that when I focus on the darkness and not the faintly lit lines of the walls,
that the darkness hiding the walls and ceiling merge seamlessly with the darkness
just outside the windows on either side and there appear to be no walls or ceiling or structure at all,
only stars in the darkness that indiscriminately shine remanents of ancient hope
on present war-weary hearts and joyous family gatherings with the same faint, but incessant refrain:
you are small, but you’re not alone. the sky is adorned with the goodness of the Artist.
even when you’re weary, there is wonder… and sometimes in a triumphant moment of silence
we might hear more clearly, something like a distant confidence,
if the stars can shine in their confidence of being held in utter darkness and constant motion,
even though they don’t know the joy of welcome or the warmth of embrace,
maybe we can have that confidence one day.

– PreetamDas Kirtana 2/20/15photo-16


Content-Type: application/http; msgtype=response

WARC-Identified-Payload-Type: text/html

WARC-Truncated: length

WARC-Type: response

text:
day 272 December 15, 2010

272Okay, #272 ~  Yesterday was too full of running again…and in these freezing temps it’s especially exhausting. So this shot of my water cup just felt right. A little festive, a lot moody, a little empty…

272 – another angle of paper snowflakes, all I did was hit the enhance button on the computer and well, me and Austin sort of liked it.  I mean it’s super grainy and all but Austin thought they looked like they were hanging outside, the ceiling somehow turned into the sky and it’s as if they are hanging on a clothes line outside but really they are inside the house.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

warcinfo:
robots: classic
hostname: ip-10-148-41-166.ec2.internal
software: Nutch 1.6 (CC)
isPartOf: CC-MAIN-2017-30
operator: Common Crawl Admin
description: Wide crawl of the web for July 2017
publisher: Common Crawl
format: WARC File Format 1.0
conformsTo: http://bibnum.bnf.fr/WARC/WARC_ISO_28500_version1_latestdraft.pdf


text:
sharing unending light and love with all-that-is.

Wanna lighten up? Get Your Groove On!

a message from Archangel Michael
channeled by Meredith Murphy

Remaining still is a balancing act for dealing with the ever present emotional surges that are taking place right now. These emotional surges are happening as your inner being realigns with your cellular structure and then the love-vibration flows through your new hardware and all the blocks to love; particularly SELF-LOVE get busted open! {Smile! We like this part!}

Okay, my beloved ones, but let’s talk about what it feels like to you, remembering that it’s all good…

Waves of emotions then flow through you―huge tidal waves, washing out all in their path, feeling nearly destructive in amplitude, for they are, indeed, intending and focused upon clearing all away that is of the old world.

For you see, the time is approaching when dwelling in the new, higher vibration field, will be an option for many of you most of the time. And then the focus will shift to creation. What and how you’d like to feel and experience, and the collective energetic and telepathic exchanges with others in the field and with other aspects of you as this cross pollination occurs and massive massive massive new life is created!

Awaken now from your dreams which in any way tie you to the old paradigms. Cut yourself off from television, from “news” from situations and relationships which are immersed in the old paradigms as they appear clearly in this mode to you and you will have greater ease.

You are now increasingly sensitive to that which aims to control your frequency, to control you in general. To get you to take care of it, to pay attention to it, to mute you, to disengage you at all from your amazingly interesting and expansive and expanding inner world! Increasingly you at last see that YOUR LIFE IS UNBELIEVABLY FASCINATING!! And anyone who does not share your ideals and your values feels empty and irritating to you! This much we know: you cannot elevate your vibration and not notice these amazing discrepancies between you and much of the world which still thinks the way to solve problems is to complain about them or talk about them! Which still thinks that you should take seriously what is outside of yourself rather than orienting within and continually refining your manifestation techniques and knowing you create your entire experience! Which actually doesn’t realize that this amazing collective shift in consciousness is the only game in town that you want to pay attention to, get good at or talk about!

The collective of the new earth is emerging! There has been a coalescing lately and an awakening of mirrored structures on the planet, which is the foundations of the New Earth structures. Although the awareness that these structures―social and ideological―are new and feel wonderful, the full awareness of what they do indeed mirror and how they fit into the galactic scheme of things, is still coming into awareness for most and this is perfect! The point now is this: know that all that happens within you is happening perfectly and for a reason and go very easily on yourselves as these intense intense intense feelings and emotions surface to be released in this ongoing upgrade of galactic importance takes place within your vessels.

Beyond this time there is no point in asking what else is there for you to do, for you ARE it; the orientation and focus upon Unity Consciousness and BE-ing Love is activated within your body and expanding the focus of your cells to the Omni-versal impulses of light that impulse all to create in harmonic balance and arrangements.

You are now divinely inspired completely and although much flows through you which is challenging to navigate emotionally, bring yourselves back into balance by knowing that it IS, simply, energy and as such can be gathered and used as you find your focus returning to a clear and grounded state. Then choose well and let all that you have received flow into new templates that are aligned with your designs and desires for experience!

This is the way of the new earth―choose and release. Expect and be as you intend. THIS is how to create worlds! With ease and grace! Deftly knowing your own capabilities! Wow! Do you feel the amazing joy of all this? Then the question of HOW shifts to “How might I make this more interesting? More beautiful? More expansive? How might I harmonize and bring my voice into this composition in a way that adds beautifully to the mix?”

My beloved ones, I invited you before but for those who are still on the fence, I remind you again: relief will come in letting go of anything not aligned with your ideals.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to live in the way of straddling both worlds―the old and the new. Why are you trying so hard to keep those in the old world happy? Not all of you, but some of you? Do you not see that you are so much more in service to all when you just live your own dreams and impulses and know that they benefit All-That-Is innately?

There is NO service to anyone in trying to bring them along before their time, or in any way sacrificing your own good feelings to try and make someone else happy and you will increasingly not be able to do this―it is simply not loving to your own self and your energy will no longer tolerate choices like this which demean your very soul―without you noticing a backlash or sorts! The inaccurate notion that “helping” someone else is more important than doing what is FUN FOR YOU NOW is also an old paradigm and anytime you put it in play in the new earth energies and within your continually elevating frequency, all kinds of explosive things will happen as a result of the energy being focused this way.

You having fun, and playing more is the thing that will make these ridiculously strong incoming energies much more bearable. So whatever silly things make you happy―give them more credit than ever and soak them up.

Hedonism is truly a pathway you can trust and ironically, filled with love. For you need to become deeply satisfied. You need to satisfy yourself. You need to know that you can and will and how and what gives you the most joy and this seeking is what drives the creation in your life which will inspire and uplift many and pave the way for happiness for others. It is this divine allegiance to your own hearts joy that makes for the true opening to healthy collaboration and cooperation. Each of you must find the way to raise your standards and make yourselves profoundly happy! What is it that will give you this experience? What kinds of feelings and situations create a thriving YOU! These are your initial guideposts―follow along the path they create and discover the new, radiant, totally abundant, deeply loved and allowing YOU!

Do not be impatient or doubt that they will manifest! The Earth is at a pitch and your energy is connected to the unified field and all kinds of alignments are occurring moment to moment as energies enter, are allowed, are resisted, as intentions are made, focus is given. Trust the Universe to deliver and rest easy.

It is time to remove your focus from anything not aligned with your highest ideals for your experience. You have realized that much within the old paradigm was created from a different set of ideals and an understanding of the Universe and the Omni-verse and the nature of reality Et cetera, Et cetera that was limited and limiting.  Okay.  Done.

You see? That’s how easy it is to shift you into happiness. Look toward and choose what is next. We love how Abraham-Hicks says, “What feels good next?” It’s the perfect question all the time. Learn to give your allegiance to YOUR OWN ANSWERS to this question and let everything else go, and certainly anyone who doesn’t like you following your own answers to this question is living from the old paradigm and you can likewise ignore them. They can figure that out for themselves, and if they do indeed see a benefit in doing so, you can be confident that they will make whatever adjustments they need to meet their own inner needs and urges.

Lightworkers. Remember it is not your thing to change others. Just to live as light, play with light, create with light. The transmuting of energy is a thing of the distant past and the leading edge is a creative one, and it is where you are. So now, here and now, stretch yourselves up and feel the expansiveness of your being.

Feel the righteous strength of your own desire in guiding you to peace, ease and joy. When the incoming energy and the clearing nearly knocks out your vessel, then take it to the shop―get a massage, take a bath, drink lots of clean clear water and sleep sleep sleep and then nap some more. And once again, when you’re feeling more grounded, embrace your new, multidimensional nature and create.

This is the rhythm of the times. Find your groove!

I AM the Archangel Michael, and I’ve got my groove on. I know my favorite songs. Find the song which makes you dance and play it over and over and never mind if other people get sick of it or don’t even like it. Put your headphones on and dance to your own song. Find YOUR groove.

2009-2010, Meredith Murphy, Expect Wonderful | Modern Paradise Publications Unless all rights are reserved, you are free to share, copy, distribute and display the work under the following conditions: You must give author credit, you may not use this for commercial purposes, and you may not alter, transform or build upon this work. For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the the license terms of this work. Any of these conditions can be waived if you get the permission of the copyright holder. Any other purpose of use must be granted permission by the author.

2 responses

  1. Not to sure what would be my next move to make myself feel good, maybe helping the elderly in my community might be great…

    March 10, 2011 at 6:18 pm

    • Great choice to help the elderly. Your heart is a poem.

      March 10, 2011 at 6:50 pm

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


text:
Madhitter in Melbourne; Baumer on Couch

Hey Baumer,
I resisted the urge to say G’day. You can thank me latter. I’m still excited about Petra Kvitova’s play last night. How exciting to watch a close match on the WTA end – with a service hold!! It really made my night. I hope that doesn’t come across as tragic as it sounds. Of course the headlines today weren’t so nice to Stosur. “Oops I Did It Again” was The Age; “Sam’s Sorry Exit” in the Herald Sun. I felt sorry for Sam. Whenever Rennae Stubbs did the post match on-court interview, she would announce, “This is your year, Sam!” That really can’t help. And then last night the camera repeatedly showed Sam’s mom looking worried but keeping her chin up. Not only are you disappointing your country, you’re doing it in front of your mom! Although she lost, I think the sense was Kvitova played well and Sam gave it her all – it just wasn’t good enough. The Australians really seem to like Stosur; I’m yet to run into a single person who has said anything decent about Lleyton Hewitt, however. “He’s such a bogan,” is the requisite response. That’s pretty much a “redneck” to you and me. And although I’m sure Sam felt alone last night after failing to make it into the fourth round, it couldn’t have been worse than her typical evening at home. This commercial has been on quite a bit over the past weeks. It’s for Healthy Choice frozen meals and definitely made me feel the isolation of playing professional tennis. I hope Kvitova’s night at home was a little more enjoyable. I’ll catch you later. I’m heading out to watch another woman’s match between two players who must be feeling some serious pressure to deliver on the big stage: Na Li vs. Victoria Azarenka. I hope we see a few holds.
Catch you later,

This entry was posted in Australian Open and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


WARC-Identified-Payload-Type: application/xhtml+xml

text:
Game is available for registered users only! Sign Up

The Three Musketeers Slot Review

Sparks slot
Hot As Hades slot game
John Wayne slot
Iron Man 3 slot
Steamtower slot
888 casino online review
Attraction slot
Sopranos slot
Great Blue slot
Merlin's Millions slot
Game of Thrones slot
Starburst Slot
Mega Fortune Dreams Slot
Lost Island Slot
Twin Spin Slot
Super Nudge 6000 Slot
Rocky Slot
Plenty O’Fortune Slot
Mega Joker Slot
Iron Man 2 slot
Incredible Hulk Slot
Gladiator slot
Fantastic Four slot
Evolution slot
Real Play
  • Autoplay:
  • Bonus Rounds:
  • Free Spins:
  • Multiplayer:
  • Jackpot:
  • Mobile:

The slot game features 5 reels and 50 paylines. The reels are designed and enclosed within an ornate frame, through which the French countryside is visible. The graphics are of high quality and the images are very clear and of high resolution. The basic symbols of the slot game include the accoutrements of the musketeers, and these are daggers, satchel, pistols, red gloves, a crown, swords, and a diamond.

One interesting thing about the Musketeers game is that the 3 musketeers have their own bonus feature to activate. That’s not all, there is a free games symbol and there is also the yellow wild. The wild can be stacked, and it comes on reels 2, 3, or 4.

Three Musketeers Game Bonus features

Bonus features are a common component of slot games. They not only promote the game to the slot players, it enables them to play for longer periods, especially because of the free spins. The bonus features for this slot game include:

The Queen’s Diamond Bonus

To trigger this bonus, you will have to land musketeer Dartagnan on reels 2 and 4. Once this bonus has been triggered, you will have to help Dartagnan find the Queen’s diamond. You will select the correct direction in 5 different locations for Dartagnan to get to the Queen’s diamond.

In the journey to find the Queen’s diamond, you are allowed only lifelines, and you lose a life for each mistake committed. The rewards work such that the more you progress in the game, the more wins you get in Three Musketeers game.

Musketeers bonus

The way the game has been designed is that each French musketeer triggers their own bonus. The list is as follows: To trigger the Splendid Sword of Porthos, you will need to match at least 3 symbols of Porthos, and he should appear on reels 2, 3, and 5. You also need to have a sabre directly on Porthos right to active the bonus. This bonus gives you one respin and one reel is turned wild.

To trigger the Wild Muskets of Athos, you will need to land at least 3 symbols of Athos and comes on reels 1, 2 and 5. That is not all, you also need to land a pistol directly on Athos’ right in Musketeers game. Once this feature is triggered, you will receive rewards, and these are 1 respin and a random wild will be added on reels 2, 3, and 4.

To trigger the Golden Daggers of Artemis, you will need to match at least symbols of Artemis, and he appears on reels 3, 4, and 5. That’s not all because the only way to trigger this bonus is to also have the golden daggers directly on the musketeer’s right. In this bonus, you are given the option to select between a cash prize or two bags of gold.

Free spins

The slot features Free games symbols that are stacked and appear on reels 1 and 5. You only need to land at least 1 on reels 1 and 5 in any active payline. The reward for this feature is between 6 to 24 free spins. Mark you that during the free spins, the symbol of the free game might appear on the reels and you will win three more free spins. Also, note that the other bonuses can be set up within the free spins feature.

Where Can You Play the Three Musketeers, the game?

There are many places where you get to play the slot game for real money. These casinos are well established and once you make the deposit, they can give you a welcome bonus to encourage your continued pay on the site.

If you are looking for where to play the Three Musketeers slot, you should check out the Winner Casino, which offers a great bonus for the first deposit made on the site. Another online casino worth checking out is Paddy Power. Bet365, Roxy Palace, Jackpot City, Gala Bingo, 888 Casino are other huge online casinos that feature this slot. These are just some of the online sites available where you can enjoy the game.

Play the Three Musketeers slot for Free at

Playing the slot with real cash is for the professionals or those who’ve had some experience with the slot game. However, if it is your first time accessing the slot game, then we suggest you familiarise yourself with elements of the game. The only way to do this is to use the demo game mode, which allows you to play for free. You can play the Three Musketeers games for free at

How To Win At The Three Musketeers Game

You need to understand that all the bonuses of the slot are set up bu the scatter symbol. If you know this, you will realise that it is not a must for you to activate all the 50 paylines for you to trigger the bonus.

The slot game contains great graphics and animations. Another plus for the slot is the numerous bonus features. It is one of those slot games that you really need to check out. The Three Musketeers play for the free option is right on this page, try it now!

Additional Info
  • • Launch: 2014
  • • Software: Quickspin
  • • Slot type: Video Slot
  • • Reels: 5
  • • Min. bet: $0.01
  • •Max. bet: $4
  • •Payout %: 96,64
The Three Musketeers Slot Review

The Three Musketeers game is a popular video slot game that is playable online. The game plays on Quickspin platform. Playtech have once again demonstrated why they are the best producers of slot games in the industry. They released the Three Musketeers game and the Queen’s Diamond, which is a top quality slot game featuring the famous French characters and their quest for more royal treasures. The game is packed with interesting rewards and various bonus features.

No comments yet..
Login via:
or Login via e-mail:
More comments


text:
 A divided Palestinian neighborhood, torn in two by an Israeli highway | +972 Magazine A divided Palestinian neighborhood, torn in two by an Israeli highway

Appreciate this article? +972 depends on your support.

Click here to help us keep going

Analysis News
Visit our Hebrew site, "Local Call" , in partnership with Just Vision.

A divided Palestinian neighborhood, torn in two by an Israeli highway

Beit Safafa is a Palestinian neighborhood just south of West Jerusalem, inside annexed and occupied East Jerusalem, all within the boundaries of Israel’s vast Jerusalem municipality. It is situated between the Green Line to its northern perimeter, and the Israeli settlement of Gilo on its southern perimeter. (To find Beit Safafa on Ir Amim’s map below, move your eyes directly down from “West Jerusalem” and you will see it, just below the Green Line.)

Greater Jerusalem Map (Ir Amim)

Until 1967, Beit Safafa was divided between Israeli-controlled West Jerusalem and the Jordanian-controlled West Bank. Train tracks ran through it along the 1949 Armistice Lines. When Israel occupied East Jerusalem, Beit Safafa came entirely under Israeli rule and despite what Israeli governments will tell you, it was not united, but rather torn apart once again: most of its residents became permanent residents, but a minority in the northern part received Israeli citizenship, instantly giving the same neighborhood’s population very different political rights.

Beit Safafa, which has a population of just under 10,000, is now facing it’s third major bisection, this time by a highway being constructed by Israel that will literally cut through the neighborhood. Highway 4, or the Begin Highway, is a Jerusalem ring road intended to create one continuous stretch of highway from the Gush Etzion settlement bloc south of the city to the Givat Ze’ev settlement bloc in the north.

It would ultimately link the West Bank’s two most controversial highways: the Tunnel Road connecting Gush Etzion to Jerusalem in the south and Road 443, a.k.a. the Apartheid Highway, which routes settler traffic north of the city to Tel Aviv while denying access to Palestinians. The width of the road planned to cut through the neighborhood ranges from 33 to 78 meters. Part of it will exist as a six-lane highway and other parts could have as many as 10-11 lanes.

According to Ir Amim, which has published an excellent fact sheet on the issue, the municipality has found a way to bypass the necessary procedures that require public inclusion, making it impossible for Beit Safafa residents to formally object to the plans. As Nir Hasson recently reported for Haaretz:

The road is based on a general plan dating from 23 years ago, that the courts decided was detailed enough to enable construction to start. Under Israeli law, you can get compensation only if you prove that a specifically approved plan caused you damage. In this case, the villagers would have to have appealed against the plan back in 1990.

On December 12, 2012, 15 Beit Safafa residents filed an administrative petition against the Jerusalem Municipality and its construction company, Moriah, which was rejected last week. They plan on appealing to the Supreme Court.

For weeks now, residents have been regularly holding protests at the construction site, which police have been dispersing with force. Residents have also complained of harassment and collective punishment by the authorities, for example stepping up fines for illegal construction and arresting residents for organizing labor strikes.

Yesterday (Friday), activists reported that police exerted excessive force, using stun grenades gas, tasers and pepper spray, violently arreesting eight people and injuring 10. One of the eight arrested is a minor who has since been released. The rest are still being held in Jerusalem’s Russian Compound. Here are several videos taken by protestors:

How can the Israeli regime really think building this highway in this manner on occupied Palestinian territory is safe for anyone? Is it really going to guarantee long-term security for Israeli Jews to safely and freely travel between Jerusalem and the settlements?

Does Israel really think it can unilaterally implement policies that violate human rights – not to mention the civil rights of its own residents and citizens – forever without paying the price?

Before you go...

A lot of work goes into creating articles like the one you just read. And while we don’t do this for the money, even our model of non-profit, independent journalism has bills to pay.

+972 Magazine is owned by our bloggers and journalists, who are driven by passion and dedication to the causes we cover. But we still need to pay for editing, photography, translation, web design and servers, legal services, and more.

As an independent journalism outlet we aren’t beholden to any outside interests. In order to safeguard that independence voice, we are proud to count you, our readers, as our most important supporters. If each of our readers becomes a supporter of our work, +972 Magazine will remain a strong, independent, and sustainable force helping drive the discourse on Israel/Palestine in the right direction.

Support independent journalism in Israel/Palestine Donate to +972 Magazine today
View article: AAA
Share article
Print article

    * Required

    1. Palestinan

      Israel is building facts on the ground ,tearing Palestinian neighborhoods and villages apart,turning the life of the unwanted non-Jewish indigenous population into hell to force them to leave and basically judaizing whatever can be judaized ,ignoring the Palestinian existence or more accurately working against it.They are finishing what their parents and grandparents have started a century ago.And its all done in the name of “secughity”.

      Reply to Comment
    2. The Trespasser

      For nearly 100 years Palestinian Arabs can’t come to a wide understanding of one simple fact – killing Jews does not pays off well.

      Obviously, you wouldn’t expect Jews to sit and wait while you come to such cumbersome realisation, would you?

      Reply to Comment
      • Zephon

        Monkey logic alert!

        Palestinian and Arab are antithetical definitions. Any ARAB Jew will tell you that – silly chimp.

        Still waiting to be proven wrong.

        Reply to Comment
        • The Trespasser

          Article 1. Palestine is an Arab homeland bound by strong Arab national ties to the rest of the Arab Countries and which together form the great Arab homeland.

          You are wrong as usually, Mr. Tapeworm.

          Reply to Comment
          • Zephon

            Still waiting to be proven wrong.

            You have yet to provide what your definition of Arab is – silly chimp.

            Reply to Comment
          • The Trespasser

            Proving you anything is waste of time, Mr. Tapeworm.

            Reply to Comment
      • Danny

        From your grammar and diction, I would guess you are an ex-Soviet emigre (or something to the effect).

        Have you ever considered returning to your native land?

        Reply to Comment
      • Rauna

        Why Palestinian Arabs have to pay the price? It was the nazis who slaughtered the Jews

        Reply to Comment
    3. Kolumn9

      There was a 20+ year old plan that was approved and discussed already with the residents of Beit Safafa. In the meantime the residents built houses illegally within close proximity to the future route of the highway. Now they demonstrate that their houses are going to be near the highway and get attention from the usual crowd that likes to demonstrate against Israel for any and all reasons.

      Nobody’s rights are being violated. This is all nonsense produced for the politically illiterate and gullible.

      Reply to Comment
      • directrob

        “This is all nonsense produced for the politically illiterate and gullible.”

        I assume this refers to your own contribution?

        Reply to Comment
      • Palestinan

        Illegal in the eyes of who exactly ?

        Reply to Comment
        • Kolumn9

          Illegal in the eyes of the only sovereign that exists in East Jerusalem regardless of whether that sovereign is Israel or the IDF.

          Reply to Comment
      • Y-Man

        Yeah, Palestinians’ rights are totally not violated by a four-and-a-half decade military occupation. Okay.

        Reply to Comment
    4. rsgengland

      The term ‘Apartheid Highway’ is very interesting.
      What were the reasons for making it for Israelis only (that does include Israeli Muslims and Christians), but excludes Palestinians.
      Could it possibly have been restricted due to violent Palestinian actions against Israelis (stone throwing is a violent act that can and does kill).
      Apartheid means the legal suppression of people on the basis of race and/or religion.
      I would counter that this situation has arisen for security and safety reasons, mainly due to violent Palestinian stoning of Israeli vehicles on this road.

      Reply to Comment
      • Gearoid

        It is against international law to build infrastructure in occupied territories that ONLY serves the citizens of the occupier. Unlike the other violations rightists make up some fuzzy distortion for, this one is plain and clear.

        It CANNOT be built only for Israeli citizens. Period.

        Also, the security excuse has been abused so thoroughly by disgusting colonialists it’s hard to credit anyone that brings up “security” anymore.

        Reply to Comment
        • labhras

          “It CANNOT be built only for Israeli citizens. Period.” Gearoid

          Clarification—as there are only Jews living in the Illegal sttlements these are Jews only Roads.

          Further proof of Apartheid Israel.

          Reply to Comment
          • Abe

            Well that’s not the most clever remark, is it? Beit Safafa’s residents who approved of this road (that will directly and positively effect the economy of all) is accessible to the residents of bet Safafa as well. So; absolutely no proof for the r i d i c u l o u s claim of “apartheid” . Let’s not accept this “s t u p i d-heid”

            Reply to Comment


text:
The future of New York City and one more problem with suburban sprawl

In my New York Times this morning, there was a surprisingly fascinating piece of propaganda inserted by the PlanNYC2030 people. It was a clear, well-organized, and compelling brochure [PDF]. It laid out several reasonable goals for New York City to realize between now and 25 years from now.

It fully convinced me that New York City needs to plan now for sustainable, healthy, livable living into the future. I'm not sure what it was supposed to do beyond that--prime me for MTA fare increases to subsidize construction of new lines and repair of existing ones? Prime me for higher taxes? I mean, it wasn't very difficult to convince me that New York City needs to clean up empty polluted lots ("brownfields"), build more affordable housing, maintain existing and construct new public transportation stations/subway lines, and make sure that every child lives within ten minutes of a playground. After perusing the website, I see that there are ten suggestions [PDF] for increasing the sustainability of life in New York City. They all seem reasonable, and if 8.2 million people all did some, most, or all of these things, New York City would clearly be better off for it.

I have mixed feelings about cities, especially New York City, although I am clear on typical American suburbs. I don't like 'em. I was lucky enough to grow up in a suburb that really functioned more like part of a city. It had many parks, excellent public transportation, sidewalks everywhere, and, at least in my neighborhood, mixed residential-commercial zoning. (That is, one could pick up milk and bread at the little grocery store down the street.) Our six-person family always had one car, which my mother used to bring us to school and activities, and to get to work. My father walked or took public transportation to work (about three miles away). If I wanted to go to the movies or shopping with friends, I walked or took public transportation. When I was in summer school in high school, I walked to and from school (about a mile). I also had the suburban advantages of a stand-alone house with a large backyard, and plenty of trees, fresh air, and quiet. I'm not sure how many places there are in the world where one can live that way.

The suburban lifestyle very briefly described in this Scientific American article is anathema to me. I spent nearly every summer of my childhood in Palo Alto, California, and while I loved the wide, quiet streets, fresh air, and financially-sound municipality, everything with the exception of the grocery store seemed so far away! One could ride one's bike around and around the many cul-de-saqs, but to really go anywhere, you needed to be driven.

The suburban culture of driving is so pervasive that people drive even when walking is possible. I was surprised, when I was in Palo Alto recently and walked to the grocery store, that they packed everything into one bag. In Manhattan, they always pack groceries into two bags unless you specifically ask for one, assuming that you'll be walking some distance. It's much easier to walk with two equally-distributed bags of groceries than with one heavy one. At the time, I was carrying milk and other heavy things, and it was hard to carry it all in one bag, mostly because the plastic handles were really cutting into my hands. I ended up carrying it in both arms in front of me, which felt sort of silly. There was really no reason for me to drive to the store for the amount of groceries I was buying, although I'm sure that most suburbanites would. Something similar happened when I was in another spread-out, sidewalk-less suburban environment. I needed to get from the house where I was staying to the shul, and it was a five or ten minute walk. It was a little bit chilly out, but I would never think of driving that distance. My hosts thought I was sort of whack for preferring to walk it, but they let me!

When people in New York question my mile-long trek to Fairway and back, often carrying heavy groceries on the return trip, I joke about it being my weight-bearing exercise for the week. Weight-bearing exercise is particularly important for building strong bones. Ingesting calcium isn't enough. Sometimes I even do bicep curls on the way back. I don't really have time to stand around in the gym doing bicep curls, but I need food anyway, so I figure that this works just as well if not better.

In addition to the fact that adolescents living in cities or tightly-packed suburbs seem to weigh less, there is also the issue of environmental impact. PlanNYC2030 includes a section on the "greening" of New York City and promotes the idea that urban living is best for the environment (more people living closer together means: less energy waste, less rural land taken over from animals for people, more efficient delivery of goods and services, etc.). The problem for me, and one reason why I don't plan to live in NYC forever, is that while it may be best for the environment as a whole, it might not be better for the individual living in the city. The soot levels in New York are much too high. New York City is the third-most polluted city in the US if measured by the exposure burden of air pollution on children. The air we breath is very dirty [PDF], although not as dirty as it once was.1

In conclusion, my ideal living environment would be a walkable city, where a family needs only one car, and where you can walk to the grocery store and do bicep curls on the way back should you desire. I would love to live in a city with excellent public transportation for getting to places that are too far to walk. I would love to live in a city that's not as noisy or smelly as New York City. I would love to live in a city with a lot of parks and green spaces.2 Based on the PlanNYC2030 people's literature, it looks like they want New York City of 2030 to be that city. I wish them the best of luck!

As for myself, I still feel that New York City, no matter how green it becomes, will still ultimately be too large, fast-paced, and expensive for me.

1. I just looked up San Mateo county on Scorecard's website, to see how Palo Alto compared to New York City. There didn't seem to be a way to directly compare the air pollution in the two counties, but it did say that "Based on EPA's most current data, this county ranked among the dirtiest/worst 10% of all counties in the US in terms of an average individual's added cancer risk from hazardous air pollutants." So I guess my idyllic childhood memories of Palo Alto don't stand up to science. And, now that I think about it, I remember my grandfather showing me the grey haze rolling in over the hills and telling me that it was air pollution.

2. I guess I would also really love to live in a city that has apartments, town-houses, and stand-alone houses with backyards, even though that's probably my lowest priority. (I just can't imagine living in an apartment forever, and I like the idea of having a yard for playing in and growing things in, either back or front.)

Categories: New York City, environment

1 comment:

David said...

Washington, DC meets some of these - it's a remarkably walkable city, with good public transit, and a variety of different housing options (apt, townhouse, free-standing).

It doesn't have the market density of New York- one of the things I have always thought was neat about NYC was the markets on oodles of corners - I've never needed to go more than three blocks for milk.

Join us... all the cool people are doing it... ;)


text:
Tuesday, 11 April 2017

Remnants (Brandon Fisher FBI Series Book 6) - Carolyn Arnold

All that remains are whispers of the past…When multiple body parts are recovered from the Little Ogeechee River in Savannah, Georgia, local law enforcement calls in FBI agent and profiler Brandon Fisher and his team to investigate. But with the remains pointing to three separate victims, this isn’t proving to be an open-and-shut case.

With no quick means of identifying the deceased, building a profile of this serial killer is more challenging than usual. How are these targets being selected? Why are their limbs being severed and their bodies mutilated? And what is it about them that is triggering this person to murder?

The questions compound as the body count continues to rise, and when a torso painted blue and missing its heart is found, the case takes an even darker turn. But this is only the beginning, and these new leads draw the FBI into a creepy psychological nightmare. One thing is clear, though: The killing isn’t going to stop until they figure it all out. And they are running out of time…

What's really great about this book is that it is part of a series, in fact it is the 6th book of the said series but like a little glorious present, stands alone and its such a great way to be so that the reader doesn't feel like they've missed out on anything if they haven't read any of the series up until this point.

Carolyn created a nightmare that could turn and empty the stomachs of anyone. The Little Ogeechee River is washing up body parts and FBI profiler Brandon Fisher and his team are called in to investigate. It gets even worse, these parts belong to more than one victim. Brandon definitely has his hands full profiling this killer. The bodies are unidentified, there are no clues and by the hour, the body count continues to rise and the mutilation becomes even more disturbing.

The story switches between Points Of View, this only deepens the hold on you as a reader, you burn just to know who's world you're seeing this all from, you just cant put the book down until you know for sure. I didn't feel 100% connected to any of the characters, I was just enough to want them to be safe and on guard and that was satisfying for me,. The POV changes from Paige who is a member of the team, Brendon himself and a 3rd person who you soon find out to be part of the crimes. I felt that in this book/ series it was a good thing to not get 100% attached to characters just because its much easier that way so the changes in POV don't annoy you and keeps me as a reader intrigued and maintains the mystery.

What I did like about our MC Brandon Fisher is that he is not the typical hero you're used to, he doubts himself and often wonders about his personal life and  comes to questions his decisions as well as worrying about his partners and his boss. Unlike most heroes you see in his position, he has a weak stomach and gets queasy at the scene of violent crimes. He has times at which he can can be reckless but he has a sense of humour and is great at convincing people and has a great ability to read people and gain their trust. Its just great to see because although he's a main character, a man who had a whole series to his name, he isn't strong 100% of the time, he has flaws and makes mistakes. I just wish I had read the previous books in the series just to get more background on the characters etc. just because if I had, I might have connected to them more.

I found that Carolyn's writing was not only engaging, but easily painted a picture for the reader. There was never a time that I felt as though she was talking about things that were over my head, the use of the proper terminology when it came to forensics etc. just made it that more real and believable.
I loved how the plot unravelled and how the relationships between the team were shown, it's actually quite nice and to have seen the dynamics of the small group for a change instead of seeing nothing at all. I thought at several points that I had it all worked out, that I truly knew who the murderer was but in the end I was off by miles because I definitely didn't see the twists and turns coming. You're constantly on edge wondering what's next Its full of grit and gore and the end will satisfy you.

An easy 5/5 from me and I look forward to picking up and seeing more of Carolyn's work and I'll definitely be watching out for her name on the top list of the Crime/Thriller/Mystery list in the near future.

Thank you to George who is a book Publicist at Hibbert & Stiles Publishing Inc who provided me with a copy which I was to write an honest review.

  1. Thank you for reading and reviewing REMNANTS, and for sharing it with your readers. I'm thrilled that you loved it.

    1. I loved it. An honour ❤ Glad you liked what I had to say xx