Same friend, different message. Funny, this time.
The Food Fight--Biblical View
In the beginning God covered the earth with broccoli and cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and red vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives. Then using God's bountiful gifts, Satan created Ben and Jerry's and Krispy Kreme. And Satan said, "You want hot fudge with that?" And Man said "Yes!" and Woman said, "I'll have another with sprinkles."
And lo they gained 10 pounds.
And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might keep the figure that Man found so fair. And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar from the cane, and combined them. And Woman went from size 2 to size 10.
So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan presented crumbled Bleu Cheese dressing and garlic toast on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.
God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them." And Satan brought forth deep fried coconut shrimp, butter dipped lobster chunks and chicken-fried steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man's cholesterol went through the roof.
God then brought forth running shoes so that his Children might lose those extra pounds. And Satan came forth with a cable TV with remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And man and woman laughed and cried before the flickering light and started wearing stretch jogging suits.
Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with potassium and good nutrition. Then Satan peeled off the healthful skin and sliced the starchy center into chips and deep-fried them in animal fats and added copious quantities of salt. And Man put on more pounds.
God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite. And Satan created McDonald's and the 99-cent double cheeseburger. Then Lucifer said, "You want fries with that?" and Man replied, "Yes! And super size 'em!" And Satan said "It is good." And Man went into cardiac arrest.
God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.
And Satan created HMOs.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Monday, October 27, 2003
A friend of mine sent this to me. I'm sharing. That's what this is all about, right?
SUBJECT: 50 Natural Highs
Think about them one at a time BEFORE going on to the next
one.........IT DOES MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD, especially the thought at the end.
1. Falling in love.
2. Laughing so hard your face hurts.
3. A hot shower.
4. No lines at the supermarket
5. A special glance.
6. Getting mail
7. Taking a drive on a pretty road.
8. Hearing your favorite song on the radio.
9. Lying in bed listening to the rain outside.
10. Hot towels fresh out of the dryer.
11. Finding the sweater you want is on sale for half price.
12. Chocolate milkshake. (or vanilla!) (or strawberry)
13. A long distance phone call.
14. A bubble bath.
15. Giggling.
16. A good conversation.
17 The beach
18. Finding a 20 note in your coat from last winter.
19. Laughing at yourself.
20. Midnight phone calls that last for hours.
21. Running through sprinklers.
22. Laughing for absolutely no reason at all.
23. Having someone tell you that you're beautiful.
24. Laughing at an inside joke.
25. Friends.
26. Accidentally overhearing someone say something nice about you.
27. Waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep.
28. Your first kiss (either the very first or with a new partner).
29. Making new friends or spending time with old ones.
30. Playing with a new puppy.
31. Having someone play with your hair.
32. Sweet dreams.
33. Hot chocolate.
34. Road trips with friends.
35. Swinging on swings.
36. Wrapping presents under the Christmas tree while eating cookies
and drinking your favorite tipple.
37. Song lyrics printed inside your new CD so you can sing along
without feeling stupid.
38. Going to a really good concert.
39. Making eye contact with a cute stranger
40. Winning a really competitive game.
41. Making chocolate chip cookies.
42. Having your friends send you homemade cookies.
43. Spending time with close friends.
44. Seeing smiles and hearing laughter from your friends.
45. Holding hands with someone you care about.
46. Running into an old friend and realizing that some things (good or
bad)never change
47. Riding the best roller coasters over and over.
48. Watching the expression on someone's face as they open a much
desired present from you.
49. Watching the sunrise.
50. Getting out of bed every morning and being grateful for another
beautiful day.
SUBJECT: 50 Natural Highs
Think about them one at a time BEFORE going on to the next
one.........IT DOES MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD, especially the thought at the end.
1. Falling in love.
2. Laughing so hard your face hurts.
3. A hot shower.
4. No lines at the supermarket
5. A special glance.
6. Getting mail
7. Taking a drive on a pretty road.
8. Hearing your favorite song on the radio.
9. Lying in bed listening to the rain outside.
10. Hot towels fresh out of the dryer.
11. Finding the sweater you want is on sale for half price.
12. Chocolate milkshake. (or vanilla!) (or strawberry)
13. A long distance phone call.
14. A bubble bath.
15. Giggling.
16. A good conversation.
17 The beach
18. Finding a 20 note in your coat from last winter.
19. Laughing at yourself.
20. Midnight phone calls that last for hours.
21. Running through sprinklers.
22. Laughing for absolutely no reason at all.
23. Having someone tell you that you're beautiful.
24. Laughing at an inside joke.
25. Friends.
26. Accidentally overhearing someone say something nice about you.
27. Waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep.
28. Your first kiss (either the very first or with a new partner).
29. Making new friends or spending time with old ones.
30. Playing with a new puppy.
31. Having someone play with your hair.
32. Sweet dreams.
33. Hot chocolate.
34. Road trips with friends.
35. Swinging on swings.
36. Wrapping presents under the Christmas tree while eating cookies
and drinking your favorite tipple.
37. Song lyrics printed inside your new CD so you can sing along
without feeling stupid.
38. Going to a really good concert.
39. Making eye contact with a cute stranger
40. Winning a really competitive game.
41. Making chocolate chip cookies.
42. Having your friends send you homemade cookies.
43. Spending time with close friends.
44. Seeing smiles and hearing laughter from your friends.
45. Holding hands with someone you care about.
46. Running into an old friend and realizing that some things (good or
bad)never change
47. Riding the best roller coasters over and over.
48. Watching the expression on someone's face as they open a much
desired present from you.
49. Watching the sunrise.
50. Getting out of bed every morning and being grateful for another
beautiful day.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
REMEMBER RIGHT NOW:
Somebody is watching you. Somebody is very proud of you. Somebody is thinking of you. Somebody is caring about you. Somebody misses you. Somebody wants to talk to you. Somebody wants to be with you. Somebody hopes you are not in trouble. Somebody is thankful for the support you have provided. Somebody wants to hold your hand. Somebody hopes everything turns out all right. Somebody wants you to be happy. Somebody wants you to find him/her. Somebody wants to give you a gift. Somebody wants to hug you. Somebody thinks you ARE a gift. Somebody admires your strength. Somebody wants to protect you. Somebody can't wait to see you. Somebody loves you for who you are. Somebody treasures your spirit. Somebody is glad that you are their friend. Somebody wants to get to know you better. Somebody wants to be near you. Somebody wants you to know they are there for you. Somebody would do anything for you. Somebody wants to share their dreams with you. Somebody is alive because of you. Somebody needs your support. Somebody will cry when they read this. Somebody needs you to have faith in them. Somebody trusts you. Somebody hears a song that reminds them of you." Author Unknown
Somebody is watching you. Somebody is very proud of you. Somebody is thinking of you. Somebody is caring about you. Somebody misses you. Somebody wants to talk to you. Somebody wants to be with you. Somebody hopes you are not in trouble. Somebody is thankful for the support you have provided. Somebody wants to hold your hand. Somebody hopes everything turns out all right. Somebody wants you to be happy. Somebody wants you to find him/her. Somebody wants to give you a gift. Somebody wants to hug you. Somebody thinks you ARE a gift. Somebody admires your strength. Somebody wants to protect you. Somebody can't wait to see you. Somebody loves you for who you are. Somebody treasures your spirit. Somebody is glad that you are their friend. Somebody wants to get to know you better. Somebody wants to be near you. Somebody wants you to know they are there for you. Somebody would do anything for you. Somebody wants to share their dreams with you. Somebody is alive because of you. Somebody needs your support. Somebody will cry when they read this. Somebody needs you to have faith in them. Somebody trusts you. Somebody hears a song that reminds them of you." Author Unknown
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
On Newborn Babies, and Daddy's Role
How much time Daddies take off from work depends on how much Mommie needs him. Giving birth is another beginning, actually much scarier, and if you think progesterone related incidents are frustrating now, you aint seen nothin' yet. And the worst is we KNOW we're unreasonable and we KNOW we're horrible and we KNOW you love us and we KNOW this baby will eventually learn to eat/let us sleep/stop its damn crying and we KNOW we're psychotic.....and we can't help it, can't do anything about it, and what we really want is a hug, even though we smell like spitup and babypoo, and our hair hasn't been combed in two or three days, and we need a shower so badly we can taste it. We need that hug, and for you to say something other than, "I don't know what he wants, Honey". We need you to confidently say, "Sure, Sweetheart, I can handle her. You go get a shower, take a nap for an hour or two. Junior and I will be fine," even if you're quaking in your Nikes and have no IDEA what you'll do to feed this child because Mamma's been way too tired and stressed to use that damned expensive rented breast pump, if she's even producing any milk, which neither of you is certain of right now, because the little monster acts like she's starving ALL THE TIME.
Three months should do it.
How much time Daddies take off from work depends on how much Mommie needs him. Giving birth is another beginning, actually much scarier, and if you think progesterone related incidents are frustrating now, you aint seen nothin' yet. And the worst is we KNOW we're unreasonable and we KNOW we're horrible and we KNOW you love us and we KNOW this baby will eventually learn to eat/let us sleep/stop its damn crying and we KNOW we're psychotic.....and we can't help it, can't do anything about it, and what we really want is a hug, even though we smell like spitup and babypoo, and our hair hasn't been combed in two or three days, and we need a shower so badly we can taste it. We need that hug, and for you to say something other than, "I don't know what he wants, Honey". We need you to confidently say, "Sure, Sweetheart, I can handle her. You go get a shower, take a nap for an hour or two. Junior and I will be fine," even if you're quaking in your Nikes and have no IDEA what you'll do to feed this child because Mamma's been way too tired and stressed to use that damned expensive rented breast pump, if she's even producing any milk, which neither of you is certain of right now, because the little monster acts like she's starving ALL THE TIME.
Three months should do it.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
From 8 February, 2003
Maybe it won't. But in the meantime, there will be fewer to do further damage.
And, though I may be wrong about everything, living with good intent seems preferable to strapping explosives on to destroy myself and others. However, if our Deity (if there be a Deity) is not as I imagine, perhaps explosive destruction is a correct tribute.
Inhabiting a world which I imagine means that I can imagine it the way I prefer it, in a way becoming godlike by inventing my own universe. And, reality being a perceptual thing, isn't that what we all do? Absolute Reality: the greatest myth of all.
xox, C.
"G" wrote:
Here's a scary thought, what if reducing our numbers doesn't change
human nature? Oh well, we'll keep walking in lovingkindness anyway. :-)
G
G-
And to play devil's advocate and put a bit of historic, or even geologic perspective on the whole issue, #1: There's no shortage of human beings on the planet, so losing a few hundred thousand or even several million will create little to no adverse global impact, and #2: War has always been a very effective method of population control.
We cannot destroy this planet. We can only make it uninhabitable for ourselves. The ruins of our bodies and civilizations may yet prove a resource to future species.
To create a new reality, we must begin by changing our minds. Where Understanding and Kindness are more highly valued than Power and Being Right, peace has arrived already. Let it begin here, with me.
And yet, my patience with the human race wears thin. Perhaps the future belongs to sharks cockroaches vultures crocodiles, virtually unchanged for millions of years, perfectly poised to exist for millions more. If humans can't play nice with other creatures, or indeed one another, let them perish from the earth.
Donald Rumsfeld lies. War is always an easy answer.
Michele Allioy-Marie is mistaken. We have not yet begun to evolve.
Oil may be the reason, George Bush may be the agent, but perhaps war can do what AIDS and old age and Ebola and premature birth and severe weather and natural disasters have failed to do: Reduce our numbers so that we may learn to be a tolerant, loving, harmonious flower on the face of the planet, rather than a shortsightedly destructive blight.
What is, is. What will be, will be. Let me walk steadily in the present with lovingkindness, good intent, and the everpresent awareness that I may be wrong about everything.
Thank you for thinking of me today.
xox, Cybele
"G." wrote:
I understand why we can't admit that we're fighting for the diesel which makes our trucking/shipping/entire infrastructure function. Oil is rarely mentioned in the popular media for good reason. Fear (of WMD in this case) is always the most powerful motivator of human action (or inaction). If our 18 - 21 year old soldiers were told that they're fighting for oil, their fingers might hesitate on their triggers, or pause above their bomb release buttons. But tell them this is for the Trade Center, this is for 9/11, and you've got Baghdad in ruins. ..G.
From CNN:
MUNICH, Germany (CNN) -- U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld says momentum is building towards military action in Iraq, but Washington still hopes war will not be necessary. "Let me be clear, no one wants war. War is never a first or an easy choice, but the risks of war to be balanced against the risks of doing nothing, while Iraq pursues the tools of mass destruction."
French media quoted French Defence Minister Michele Alliot-Marie as saying: "We are no longer in prehistoric times when whoever had the biggest club would try to knock the other guy out so he could steal his mammoth skin."
Maybe it won't. But in the meantime, there will be fewer to do further damage.
And, though I may be wrong about everything, living with good intent seems preferable to strapping explosives on to destroy myself and others. However, if our Deity (if there be a Deity) is not as I imagine, perhaps explosive destruction is a correct tribute.
Inhabiting a world which I imagine means that I can imagine it the way I prefer it, in a way becoming godlike by inventing my own universe. And, reality being a perceptual thing, isn't that what we all do? Absolute Reality: the greatest myth of all.
xox, C.
"G" wrote:
Here's a scary thought, what if reducing our numbers doesn't change
human nature? Oh well, we'll keep walking in lovingkindness anyway. :-)
G
G-
And to play devil's advocate and put a bit of historic, or even geologic perspective on the whole issue, #1: There's no shortage of human beings on the planet, so losing a few hundred thousand or even several million will create little to no adverse global impact, and #2: War has always been a very effective method of population control.
We cannot destroy this planet. We can only make it uninhabitable for ourselves. The ruins of our bodies and civilizations may yet prove a resource to future species.
To create a new reality, we must begin by changing our minds. Where Understanding and Kindness are more highly valued than Power and Being Right, peace has arrived already. Let it begin here, with me.
And yet, my patience with the human race wears thin. Perhaps the future belongs to sharks cockroaches vultures crocodiles, virtually unchanged for millions of years, perfectly poised to exist for millions more. If humans can't play nice with other creatures, or indeed one another, let them perish from the earth.
Donald Rumsfeld lies. War is always an easy answer.
Michele Allioy-Marie is mistaken. We have not yet begun to evolve.
Oil may be the reason, George Bush may be the agent, but perhaps war can do what AIDS and old age and Ebola and premature birth and severe weather and natural disasters have failed to do: Reduce our numbers so that we may learn to be a tolerant, loving, harmonious flower on the face of the planet, rather than a shortsightedly destructive blight.
What is, is. What will be, will be. Let me walk steadily in the present with lovingkindness, good intent, and the everpresent awareness that I may be wrong about everything.
Thank you for thinking of me today.
xox, Cybele
"G." wrote:
I understand why we can't admit that we're fighting for the diesel which makes our trucking/shipping/entire infrastructure function. Oil is rarely mentioned in the popular media for good reason. Fear (of WMD in this case) is always the most powerful motivator of human action (or inaction). If our 18 - 21 year old soldiers were told that they're fighting for oil, their fingers might hesitate on their triggers, or pause above their bomb release buttons. But tell them this is for the Trade Center, this is for 9/11, and you've got Baghdad in ruins. ..G.
From CNN:
MUNICH, Germany (CNN) -- U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld says momentum is building towards military action in Iraq, but Washington still hopes war will not be necessary. "Let me be clear, no one wants war. War is never a first or an easy choice, but the risks of war to be balanced against the risks of doing nothing, while Iraq pursues the tools of mass destruction."
French media quoted French Defence Minister Michele Alliot-Marie as saying: "We are no longer in prehistoric times when whoever had the biggest club would try to knock the other guy out so he could steal his mammoth skin."
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Life is short, short.
And we are here to love each other, love as an action verb, caring and devotion in motion. We are here to build a web of connections, one to another to another to the next, all encompassing, wrapping around the whole world, the Universe, becoming the God-thing that each of us is part of but forgets so very often.
Aunt Helen, who spent three decades trying, just succeded in drinking herself to death.
Life is short, short. Even eighty-eight years is short. When you make it to your eighty-eighth birthday, only to draw your last breath and exit without kissing your sisters, eighty-eight years is somehow years, months, days...perhaps only minutes...too short.
And if I should exit the planet in the next few years, months, days, minutes, will everyone who knows me know that I love them with all the fullness of my heart, with all the power of the Universe, with all the depth of the divine, and all the breadth of diversity? I hope. I hope.
And we are here to love each other, love as an action verb, caring and devotion in motion. We are here to build a web of connections, one to another to another to the next, all encompassing, wrapping around the whole world, the Universe, becoming the God-thing that each of us is part of but forgets so very often.
Aunt Helen, who spent three decades trying, just succeded in drinking herself to death.
Life is short, short. Even eighty-eight years is short. When you make it to your eighty-eighth birthday, only to draw your last breath and exit without kissing your sisters, eighty-eight years is somehow years, months, days...perhaps only minutes...too short.
And if I should exit the planet in the next few years, months, days, minutes, will everyone who knows me know that I love them with all the fullness of my heart, with all the power of the Universe, with all the depth of the divine, and all the breadth of diversity? I hope. I hope.
Friday, September 12, 2003
6 September 2003
Home again, badly in need of another shower.
Backtrack.
She remembers the knife, finds it, and we slowly make our way out of the parking lot. A very drunk man careens at us, dodging Cory's pants, saying "Girl, you got some shit goin' on there." Nod and smile. Onto 66, with all the other joyful souls. The drive home is quieter, punctuated by Eighties songs, which we sing to.
And U say, "Baby, have U got enough gas?"
Oh yeah
Little red corvette
Baby you're much 2 fast, yes U r
Little red corvette
U need 2 find a love that's gonna last
A body like yours
Oughta be in jail
'Cuz it's on the verge of bein' obscene (Prince)
and
Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand
just like that river running through a dusty land (DuranDuran)
Cory will have driven over two hundred miles today, many of them on my behalf. Why don't we spend more time together? Because, she says, you have children, and I have a life. The two, apparantly, are mutually exclusive. She says no, she doesn't need me to drive, no, she isn't hungry and no, she doesn't kick in her sleep. Fine, she can share the waterbed, if she likes.
Backtrack.
They close with a sizable final set, the first song of which contains the following lyrics:
Realize I don't want to be a miser
Confide wisely you'll be the wiser
Young blood is the lovin' upriser
How come everybody wanna keep it like the kaiser
Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
I can't tell if I'm a king pin or a pauper
Greedy little people in a sea of distress
Keep your more to receive your less
Unimpressed by material excess
Love is free love me say hell yes
Also included is Under The Bridge Downtown, which I have always loved.
the city she loves me, she kisses me windy
I never worry
now that is a lie
Backtrack.
When we make our way to the gate, we are checked by an Asian girl, who makes Cory get rid of the tiny pocket knife she carries with her keys. Cory hides it near a trash can, hoping she'll remember to look for it on the way out. We check out the absurd prices and decide to share a beer, some local microbrew. I have learned to drink at least a few sips of any nasty brew that happens to come my way, and I make a face at the first sip of this one, but after two more, quite like it. Cory compares it to a Sierra Nevada Amber, with more body. Nod and smile. In the beer line, someone says my name, greets me, remembers me from Motion Fest. I don't recognize her; her name is Ann and she does rope work, tight and slack. Nod and smile. Pretend to remember. Pleasantries are exchanged.
When the band starts, I wonder if the members are having an Ugly Shirt contest, and Flea refused to play, since he appears without one. Looks like the lead singer, Anthony, with the grunge hairstyle, won, as he gets to remove his ugly shirt after the first number. The seventies-haired guitarist with the lovely backup voice wears some longsleeved western-styled monstrosity. I wonder if he has particularly ugly tattoos, or arms and chest. Scars? Bad skin? But no, halfway through the show, he opens the shirt, leaving it that way the rest of the night. His chest and belly are perfect. Not okay, or pretty good, perfect. When he does a solo, does he make love to the guitar, or is it part of his body? With Flea, the bass is not only part of his body, it's his favorite part. We are on our feet at the start of the first song, and remain there, dancing, until the lights come up. I sweat more than I did working all day at the Faire. Good; I've needed to dance for so long, I hope I pull a muscle doing it. I will hurt tomorrow, in a good way.
Security firmly squelches cigarette smoking, so it's surprising to smell pot burning. Who would risk? Someone. Later during the show, the Sheriff and others show up nearby to eject a young man from the venue, and his friends as well. It may not have been a drug bust, but we don't smell marajuana anymore.
Backtrack.
Cory arrives just as I am ready to strip, wearing unreasonably loud pants. Orange and yellow daisies on a black ground. Almost, but not quite, tacky. Loud, very loud. After a quick shower and a hastily prepared dinner (that I take in the car), we are ready to at least go for coffee. Her, not me. We talk about dating and ages, and she says something that I find very funny. "I could never even consider dating someone young enough that I could have babysat him."
The drive down to Nissan pavillion is pleasant. Cory opens the moonroof. The sky is three dimensional, and the clouds are phantasmagoric. Some formations look like flocks of fish, schools of birds. By the time we get stuck in traffic on Route 66, there is a smashing sunset going on, plus Songs of the Seventies on the radio:
Gonna keep on dancin' to the
rock and roll
On Saturday night, Saturday night
Dancin' to the rhythm in our
heart and soul
On Saturday Night, Saturday night
I,I,I,I,I just can't wait,
I,I,I,I got a date (BayCity Rollers)
The sunset is brilliantly pink. Ahead, clouds that appear to have been furrowed by a rake. Beside us, streaked clouds of pink and gold, resemble (oddly) surf and sand.
Backtrack.
Leaving Garrett with Ginny, I help Ginny fix the tent (again!), then race home. Yes, a gorgeous day, still glad to get out quickly. I will stay late tomorrow, if all goes well. And for dinner with John and his wife Jen. I let out the dogs, and the dogs next door
Backtrack.
The day is gorgeous, and the bubble solution is particularly pliable. The storms during the week have smashed flat our tent, so we fix it. The grounds are beyond greasy into spongy and treacherous. We go out anyway. The new pink stiltpants are a hit, to judge by audience reaction. We have fallen into a rhythm, a pattern. There is structure to our days. Again, I miss seeing Ken. His assistant assures me that Ken's still here, having lunch somewhere. The crowds are large and friendly. David VanDervere, whose name rings with d's and v's, is performing in our village again, after being elsewhere for more than ten years. Funny. He looks the same to me. The mudshow folk are here, fresh from Canada, as is Tom, Canada's director, married to Mary Ann, who for as many years as I can remember, has portrayed one queen or another. Still, I do recall her, when I first started, as the Hawk Lady. Many years ago, many. Even the site was different all those years ago. It is such a joy to be alive in the village today that in no time at all, it's four thirty. Hurry home to meet Cory, to trek to Virginia, to see The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Bliss
Home again, badly in need of another shower.
Backtrack.
She remembers the knife, finds it, and we slowly make our way out of the parking lot. A very drunk man careens at us, dodging Cory's pants, saying "Girl, you got some shit goin' on there." Nod and smile. Onto 66, with all the other joyful souls. The drive home is quieter, punctuated by Eighties songs, which we sing to.
And U say, "Baby, have U got enough gas?"
Oh yeah
Little red corvette
Baby you're much 2 fast, yes U r
Little red corvette
U need 2 find a love that's gonna last
A body like yours
Oughta be in jail
'Cuz it's on the verge of bein' obscene (Prince)
and
Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand
just like that river running through a dusty land (DuranDuran)
Cory will have driven over two hundred miles today, many of them on my behalf. Why don't we spend more time together? Because, she says, you have children, and I have a life. The two, apparantly, are mutually exclusive. She says no, she doesn't need me to drive, no, she isn't hungry and no, she doesn't kick in her sleep. Fine, she can share the waterbed, if she likes.
Backtrack.
They close with a sizable final set, the first song of which contains the following lyrics:
Realize I don't want to be a miser
Confide wisely you'll be the wiser
Young blood is the lovin' upriser
How come everybody wanna keep it like the kaiser
Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away now
I can't tell if I'm a king pin or a pauper
Greedy little people in a sea of distress
Keep your more to receive your less
Unimpressed by material excess
Love is free love me say hell yes
Also included is Under The Bridge Downtown, which I have always loved.
the city she loves me, she kisses me windy
I never worry
now that is a lie
Backtrack.
When we make our way to the gate, we are checked by an Asian girl, who makes Cory get rid of the tiny pocket knife she carries with her keys. Cory hides it near a trash can, hoping she'll remember to look for it on the way out. We check out the absurd prices and decide to share a beer, some local microbrew. I have learned to drink at least a few sips of any nasty brew that happens to come my way, and I make a face at the first sip of this one, but after two more, quite like it. Cory compares it to a Sierra Nevada Amber, with more body. Nod and smile. In the beer line, someone says my name, greets me, remembers me from Motion Fest. I don't recognize her; her name is Ann and she does rope work, tight and slack. Nod and smile. Pretend to remember. Pleasantries are exchanged.
When the band starts, I wonder if the members are having an Ugly Shirt contest, and Flea refused to play, since he appears without one. Looks like the lead singer, Anthony, with the grunge hairstyle, won, as he gets to remove his ugly shirt after the first number. The seventies-haired guitarist with the lovely backup voice wears some longsleeved western-styled monstrosity. I wonder if he has particularly ugly tattoos, or arms and chest. Scars? Bad skin? But no, halfway through the show, he opens the shirt, leaving it that way the rest of the night. His chest and belly are perfect. Not okay, or pretty good, perfect. When he does a solo, does he make love to the guitar, or is it part of his body? With Flea, the bass is not only part of his body, it's his favorite part. We are on our feet at the start of the first song, and remain there, dancing, until the lights come up. I sweat more than I did working all day at the Faire. Good; I've needed to dance for so long, I hope I pull a muscle doing it. I will hurt tomorrow, in a good way.
Security firmly squelches cigarette smoking, so it's surprising to smell pot burning. Who would risk? Someone. Later during the show, the Sheriff and others show up nearby to eject a young man from the venue, and his friends as well. It may not have been a drug bust, but we don't smell marajuana anymore.
Backtrack.
Cory arrives just as I am ready to strip, wearing unreasonably loud pants. Orange and yellow daisies on a black ground. Almost, but not quite, tacky. Loud, very loud. After a quick shower and a hastily prepared dinner (that I take in the car), we are ready to at least go for coffee. Her, not me. We talk about dating and ages, and she says something that I find very funny. "I could never even consider dating someone young enough that I could have babysat him."
The drive down to Nissan pavillion is pleasant. Cory opens the moonroof. The sky is three dimensional, and the clouds are phantasmagoric. Some formations look like flocks of fish, schools of birds. By the time we get stuck in traffic on Route 66, there is a smashing sunset going on, plus Songs of the Seventies on the radio:
Gonna keep on dancin' to the
rock and roll
On Saturday night, Saturday night
Dancin' to the rhythm in our
heart and soul
On Saturday Night, Saturday night
I,I,I,I,I just can't wait,
I,I,I,I got a date (BayCity Rollers)
The sunset is brilliantly pink. Ahead, clouds that appear to have been furrowed by a rake. Beside us, streaked clouds of pink and gold, resemble (oddly) surf and sand.
Backtrack.
Leaving Garrett with Ginny, I help Ginny fix the tent (again!), then race home. Yes, a gorgeous day, still glad to get out quickly. I will stay late tomorrow, if all goes well. And for dinner with John and his wife Jen. I let out the dogs, and the dogs next door
Backtrack.
The day is gorgeous, and the bubble solution is particularly pliable. The storms during the week have smashed flat our tent, so we fix it. The grounds are beyond greasy into spongy and treacherous. We go out anyway. The new pink stiltpants are a hit, to judge by audience reaction. We have fallen into a rhythm, a pattern. There is structure to our days. Again, I miss seeing Ken. His assistant assures me that Ken's still here, having lunch somewhere. The crowds are large and friendly. David VanDervere, whose name rings with d's and v's, is performing in our village again, after being elsewhere for more than ten years. Funny. He looks the same to me. The mudshow folk are here, fresh from Canada, as is Tom, Canada's director, married to Mary Ann, who for as many years as I can remember, has portrayed one queen or another. Still, I do recall her, when I first started, as the Hawk Lady. Many years ago, many. Even the site was different all those years ago. It is such a joy to be alive in the village today that in no time at all, it's four thirty. Hurry home to meet Cory, to trek to Virginia, to see The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Bliss
Friday, August 29, 2003
Shadows cross my eyelids as small feet race past, kicking sand onto my arms, my belly. Something drives the seagulls into a frenzy. They shriek, descend, rise, wheel, flap, outraged and furious.
A pod of dolphins swims past, followed by a pelican, followed by an inflatable canoe, propelled by a double ended oar wielded by the human inside it. More humans stand, lined up against the surf, yelling "Dolphin! Dolphin!" in the same tone of one screaming "Shark! Shark!"
I race across the sand, charging a pack of gulls, forcing them to flight, just because it feels so good to run. I arrive breathless at my blanket, sprawling on my back, watching the jolt of pulse in my stomach as it rises and falls with each breath.
The surf is louder, the tow stronger, the waves larger than they've been all day. I have finally sprayed suntan oil onto my overheated body. I feel it crawling down, across, my thighs.
I hunker down at water's edge, crouching, gathering shells, smacked in the face every so often, gathering shells, gathering shells. I love what these chipped fragments represent: the constancy and the transience of matter. From shell to shard to sand, manufactured into glass, to shard to driftglass, to sand again. Ashes to ashes? I think not. Sand, always sand.
A formation of geese soars through my field of vision. Two others have passed, but this one is perfect in its symmetry. I watch it until it vanishes in the mist.
On the line where sea meets sky, a tanker sits, motionless. Of course it is not motionless, I saw it approach. It must be moving. The sea is flat and still like rippled glass, frothy only at the edges, and beyond imagining in its hugeness. Still, I know I can swim out to that ship. I can! I will! I won't; the water is too cold. Gulls dive from the wooden pier, hunting, then float like decoys, bobbing atop the breathy rise and fall of imperceptible waves.
The sun moves, the wind changes. The sea that reaches the beach now originates from a different place. The water is greyish brown where it once was jade green, less cold, and smells of death.
The ship has disappeared from view.
28 August
Day at the beach was wonderful...sun shining, surf smashing, seagulls screaming...
Alaina runs headlong at the pigeons and seagulls, chasing them into flight, falling, sprawling facedown into the sand, rolling, rolling...I'm a french fry, I'm a cinnamon roll! Racing to the water, running into the waves, jumping, diving into the surf...
Garrett, wheedling for a special surf shirt called a "rash protector", straps his boogie board tether to his wrist, and tows it out further than we are quite comfortable with, searching for a wave to ride.
I greet the sea, coat my body with salt water, walk on the granite jetty, stroll the Boardwalk, search the beach shops, watch the humans interact with each other and the setting. A biker with Lone Wolf tattooed across his back, and arms decorated like sleeves arrives with two preteen girls, a chubby blonde one, obviously his daughter, and a thin too-early gorgeous brunette, who seems overly self-contained. They strip and race, exhuberant, to the sea.
I am lulled into a stupor by creeling gulls, crashing sea, children shreiking, the electronic bleat of the foghorn on the jetty. Every now and then, the world quiets, a moment between the rhythmic roaring of surf, as though the sea draws a breath.
A pair of nine year olds toss a football, whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack. Wait, one of them says, and pauses to tug the bottoms of her swimsuit into a more comfortable position. The other, in a rainbow tank suit, sighs and tosses hair over her shoulder. Whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack.
Heavy raindrops, cold and driven, a noisy, sparking sky, chase people from the Boardwalk. Rain across the ocean blurs the line between sky and sea. The sky flashes madly, reaching out to touch the water.
It was fabulous.
26 August
A pod of dolphins swims past, followed by a pelican, followed by an inflatable canoe, propelled by a double ended oar wielded by the human inside it. More humans stand, lined up against the surf, yelling "Dolphin! Dolphin!" in the same tone of one screaming "Shark! Shark!"
I race across the sand, charging a pack of gulls, forcing them to flight, just because it feels so good to run. I arrive breathless at my blanket, sprawling on my back, watching the jolt of pulse in my stomach as it rises and falls with each breath.
The surf is louder, the tow stronger, the waves larger than they've been all day. I have finally sprayed suntan oil onto my overheated body. I feel it crawling down, across, my thighs.
I hunker down at water's edge, crouching, gathering shells, smacked in the face every so often, gathering shells, gathering shells. I love what these chipped fragments represent: the constancy and the transience of matter. From shell to shard to sand, manufactured into glass, to shard to driftglass, to sand again. Ashes to ashes? I think not. Sand, always sand.
A formation of geese soars through my field of vision. Two others have passed, but this one is perfect in its symmetry. I watch it until it vanishes in the mist.
On the line where sea meets sky, a tanker sits, motionless. Of course it is not motionless, I saw it approach. It must be moving. The sea is flat and still like rippled glass, frothy only at the edges, and beyond imagining in its hugeness. Still, I know I can swim out to that ship. I can! I will! I won't; the water is too cold. Gulls dive from the wooden pier, hunting, then float like decoys, bobbing atop the breathy rise and fall of imperceptible waves.
The sun moves, the wind changes. The sea that reaches the beach now originates from a different place. The water is greyish brown where it once was jade green, less cold, and smells of death.
The ship has disappeared from view.
28 August
Day at the beach was wonderful...sun shining, surf smashing, seagulls screaming...
Alaina runs headlong at the pigeons and seagulls, chasing them into flight, falling, sprawling facedown into the sand, rolling, rolling...I'm a french fry, I'm a cinnamon roll! Racing to the water, running into the waves, jumping, diving into the surf...
Garrett, wheedling for a special surf shirt called a "rash protector", straps his boogie board tether to his wrist, and tows it out further than we are quite comfortable with, searching for a wave to ride.
I greet the sea, coat my body with salt water, walk on the granite jetty, stroll the Boardwalk, search the beach shops, watch the humans interact with each other and the setting. A biker with Lone Wolf tattooed across his back, and arms decorated like sleeves arrives with two preteen girls, a chubby blonde one, obviously his daughter, and a thin too-early gorgeous brunette, who seems overly self-contained. They strip and race, exhuberant, to the sea.
I am lulled into a stupor by creeling gulls, crashing sea, children shreiking, the electronic bleat of the foghorn on the jetty. Every now and then, the world quiets, a moment between the rhythmic roaring of surf, as though the sea draws a breath.
A pair of nine year olds toss a football, whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack. Wait, one of them says, and pauses to tug the bottoms of her swimsuit into a more comfortable position. The other, in a rainbow tank suit, sighs and tosses hair over her shoulder. Whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack.
Heavy raindrops, cold and driven, a noisy, sparking sky, chase people from the Boardwalk. Rain across the ocean blurs the line between sky and sea. The sky flashes madly, reaching out to touch the water.
It was fabulous.
26 August
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Neither of these are mine, but they are both so wonderful, they deserve to be heard. Important messages, indeed.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” -Albert Einstein
DEAR INHERITOR OF THE RIGHT TO EXPERIENCE WILD, FREE, UNBOUNDED JOY:
You are potentially a genius. Perhaps not in the same way that Einstein and Beethoven were, but still: You possess some brilliant capacity or set of skills that is exquisitely unique. You are a masterpiece unlike any other that has ever lived in the history of the world.
Furthermore, the precise instructions you need to ripen into that glorious state have always been with you: from even before you were born. In the words of psychologist James Hillman, you have a SOUL'S CODE.
You might also call it the special mission that the Goddess sent you here to Earth to carry out; the divine blueprint that contains the open secret of how to be perfectly, gracefully, unpredictably yourself; the master plan that is your heart's deepest desire.
My agenda -- my joy and pleasure -- is to help you know and express your SOUL'S CODE. I yearn for you to know who exactly you are and to be able to express that uniqueness in ever-more satisfying ways. Whether that means showering you with unconditional love or gently kicking your beautiful ass, I want to find out how and do what it takes.
Now let's leap to the next level of our educational celebration with this amazing truth: It's your birthright to enjoy regular conversations with the Divine Intelligence. Every day, you have the power and the privilege to ask The Source very specific questions about what you need to do NOW in order to activate more of your soul's code -- and then receive a very specific answer.
So what question will you ask the Divine Intelligence today?
–Rob Breszny
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” -Albert Einstein
DEAR INHERITOR OF THE RIGHT TO EXPERIENCE WILD, FREE, UNBOUNDED JOY:
You are potentially a genius. Perhaps not in the same way that Einstein and Beethoven were, but still: You possess some brilliant capacity or set of skills that is exquisitely unique. You are a masterpiece unlike any other that has ever lived in the history of the world.
Furthermore, the precise instructions you need to ripen into that glorious state have always been with you: from even before you were born. In the words of psychologist James Hillman, you have a SOUL'S CODE.
You might also call it the special mission that the Goddess sent you here to Earth to carry out; the divine blueprint that contains the open secret of how to be perfectly, gracefully, unpredictably yourself; the master plan that is your heart's deepest desire.
My agenda -- my joy and pleasure -- is to help you know and express your SOUL'S CODE. I yearn for you to know who exactly you are and to be able to express that uniqueness in ever-more satisfying ways. Whether that means showering you with unconditional love or gently kicking your beautiful ass, I want to find out how and do what it takes.
Now let's leap to the next level of our educational celebration with this amazing truth: It's your birthright to enjoy regular conversations with the Divine Intelligence. Every day, you have the power and the privilege to ask The Source very specific questions about what you need to do NOW in order to activate more of your soul's code -- and then receive a very specific answer.
So what question will you ask the Divine Intelligence today?
–Rob Breszny
Saturday, August 09, 2003
Audition Notice for Watergate! the Musical
Yes, you read the title correctly, WATERGATE! THE MUSICAL is casting for a premiere full scale workshop production to go up in March 2004 in the 900 seat Mainstage Theatre at Chesapeake Arts Center. The music is great and the story is done with wit and passion, based on the historical events. We are seeking strong actors who sing who would like to be part of this original and unique project from the ground up. If you know of other performers who would be interested, please pass on this information. Details follow.
Chesapeake Arts Center
ON THE MAINSTAGE:
Watergate! the Musical, written by Cybele Pomeroy, music by Jason Brown.
Production run: March 19 through March 28, 2004. Watergate! the Musical is an original musical comedy with a satirical tone. The show is told from the point of view of the employees at the Watergate Hotel.
Director: C.J. Crowe Music Director: Jason Brown
Auditions will be held on Thursday, September 4nd (7:00 to 9:00 p.m.), Friday, September 5th (7:00 to 9:00 p.m.) and Monday September 8th (7:00 to 9:00p.m.). In the event that neither audition date is open, contact C.J. Crowe (410.636.6597) or email: CJCrowehome@aol.com to arrange for an appointment. Prepare a contemporary monologue of no more than one minute (comic or dramatic). Show up having prepared 16 to 24 bars that best demonstrate your vocal range. Please supply sheet music for accompaniment.
Roles available
Most available roles are for actors, singers and dancers playing age ranges from 30-60 years old.
The White House:
Richard Milhous Nixon Thelma “Pat” Nixon
John Mitchell Martha Mitchell
John Wesley Dean III Maureen “Mo” Dean
H. Robert Haldeman Rose Mary Woods
Ron Ziegler John Ehrlichman
Charles Colson
Plumbers UnitG. Gordon Liddy E. Howard Hunt
James “Jim” McCord Bernard “Macho” Barker
Tony Ulasewicz Frank “Franko” Sturgis
Eugino “Gino” Martinez Virgilio “Villo” Gonzalez
Watergate Staff:
Concierge
Rovere, Barkeep and Waiter Frank Wills, security
Betty the Barkeep Charlie the Doorman
Bellhop Maid
Shoeshine Boy Beautician
Washington Post Newsroom:
Carl Bernstein Bob Woodward
Katharine “Kay” Graham Ben Bradlee
Office Boy Office Girl
There are also a variety of ensemble roles with strong cameo potential; mostly for singers and dancers.
Yes, you read the title correctly, WATERGATE! THE MUSICAL is casting for a premiere full scale workshop production to go up in March 2004 in the 900 seat Mainstage Theatre at Chesapeake Arts Center. The music is great and the story is done with wit and passion, based on the historical events. We are seeking strong actors who sing who would like to be part of this original and unique project from the ground up. If you know of other performers who would be interested, please pass on this information. Details follow.
Chesapeake Arts Center
ON THE MAINSTAGE:
Watergate! the Musical, written by Cybele Pomeroy, music by Jason Brown.
Production run: March 19 through March 28, 2004. Watergate! the Musical is an original musical comedy with a satirical tone. The show is told from the point of view of the employees at the Watergate Hotel.
Director: C.J. Crowe Music Director: Jason Brown
Auditions will be held on Thursday, September 4nd (7:00 to 9:00 p.m.), Friday, September 5th (7:00 to 9:00 p.m.) and Monday September 8th (7:00 to 9:00p.m.). In the event that neither audition date is open, contact C.J. Crowe (410.636.6597) or email: CJCrowehome@aol.com to arrange for an appointment. Prepare a contemporary monologue of no more than one minute (comic or dramatic). Show up having prepared 16 to 24 bars that best demonstrate your vocal range. Please supply sheet music for accompaniment.
Roles available
Most available roles are for actors, singers and dancers playing age ranges from 30-60 years old.
The White House:
Richard Milhous Nixon Thelma “Pat” Nixon
John Mitchell Martha Mitchell
John Wesley Dean III Maureen “Mo” Dean
H. Robert Haldeman Rose Mary Woods
Ron Ziegler John Ehrlichman
Charles Colson
Plumbers UnitG. Gordon Liddy E. Howard Hunt
James “Jim” McCord Bernard “Macho” Barker
Tony Ulasewicz Frank “Franko” Sturgis
Eugino “Gino” Martinez Virgilio “Villo” Gonzalez
Watergate Staff:
Concierge
Rovere, Barkeep and Waiter Frank Wills, security
Betty the Barkeep Charlie the Doorman
Bellhop Maid
Shoeshine Boy Beautician
Washington Post Newsroom:
Carl Bernstein Bob Woodward
Katharine “Kay” Graham Ben Bradlee
Office Boy Office Girl
There are also a variety of ensemble roles with strong cameo potential; mostly for singers and dancers.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
On Becoming Who You Want To Be
(a letter to my friend Steven, specifically, and to everyone else in general, changing details as is appropriate)
Get off your sorry ass and think about the biz of your career? This should not be a problem for someone as focused and disciplined as yourself. The question is, what do you want to do?
It is enough to think about the way you want to live and work without worrying about paying the bills. The universe is a generous place. If you want to make half your yearly income (or all of it) from performance, simply make up your mind, wish it, then let the universe and the beings that inhabit it go to work. Whether you believe in this sort of thing or not, it works.
Synchronicity. Make your wishes, then wait for the "coincidences."
The first hard part is framing the wish.
The second hard part is letting go the illusion of control.
The final hard part is waiting for materialization. In the meantime, just do the work and hold your goals and dreams in mind.
Don't envy the folks on p'net. They're a drag. They remind me of college kids drinking beer and lighting farts. We, you and I and Rosman, and a bunch of others who rarely post, have managed to create stability, commit to raising young humans, and otherwise make a somewhat larger contribution than cracking jokes and throwing shit around.
I watch Michael and admire him for thinking always about what will look funny, be funny, play well. I see the intense energy you give to your craft, and the technical skill you've attained. I know plenty of people who are constantly working to add one more ball or another illusion. You people live and breathe this stuff. I am a dabbler.
I specialize at looking good in costume. For corporate meet and greet, that's enough. I have sufficient skills to get hired at any RenFest in the country, except for busking, which is the only way to get paid well at many of the Faires. So I do Maryland and Pennsylvania, where they pay adequately, no busking. It's small, but it's enough.
My chosen field, the one I work at, the one I turn down paying gigs to devote time to, is theater writing. I say my chosen field, but it chose me, not the reverse. And since my health has conspired to keep me home, I take that as a signal that I need to spend less time running and more time composing. There are things that I have had to make extra effort for, make choices about, say no to.
It's uncomfortable, but growth often is. And when I realized that my dreams were not of cruise ships, Ceasar's Palace or a Command Performance, I had to reasses where I was putting my energy. My dreams are of a Pulitzer, a speech at the Tony Awards, pulling up in a limo to attend the opening of my show on Broadway.
So I dream, visualize, do the work and wait for to be rewarded for my dilligence and honest committment to goals. I am ambitious and energetic; so are you. Have faith, ask for what you want, and when it comes to you, say yes.
At this point, maybe you're convinced I'm a complete flake. You might be right. But why pretend to be cool when I'm having so much fun being in touch with my inner dork?
Sounds like you're on the cusp of making changes or resigning yourself to misery. You know which one I hope you choose.
(a letter to my friend Steven, specifically, and to everyone else in general, changing details as is appropriate)
Get off your sorry ass and think about the biz of your career? This should not be a problem for someone as focused and disciplined as yourself. The question is, what do you want to do?
It is enough to think about the way you want to live and work without worrying about paying the bills. The universe is a generous place. If you want to make half your yearly income (or all of it) from performance, simply make up your mind, wish it, then let the universe and the beings that inhabit it go to work. Whether you believe in this sort of thing or not, it works.
Synchronicity. Make your wishes, then wait for the "coincidences."
The first hard part is framing the wish.
The second hard part is letting go the illusion of control.
The final hard part is waiting for materialization. In the meantime, just do the work and hold your goals and dreams in mind.
Don't envy the folks on p'net. They're a drag. They remind me of college kids drinking beer and lighting farts. We, you and I and Rosman, and a bunch of others who rarely post, have managed to create stability, commit to raising young humans, and otherwise make a somewhat larger contribution than cracking jokes and throwing shit around.
I watch Michael and admire him for thinking always about what will look funny, be funny, play well. I see the intense energy you give to your craft, and the technical skill you've attained. I know plenty of people who are constantly working to add one more ball or another illusion. You people live and breathe this stuff. I am a dabbler.
I specialize at looking good in costume. For corporate meet and greet, that's enough. I have sufficient skills to get hired at any RenFest in the country, except for busking, which is the only way to get paid well at many of the Faires. So I do Maryland and Pennsylvania, where they pay adequately, no busking. It's small, but it's enough.
My chosen field, the one I work at, the one I turn down paying gigs to devote time to, is theater writing. I say my chosen field, but it chose me, not the reverse. And since my health has conspired to keep me home, I take that as a signal that I need to spend less time running and more time composing. There are things that I have had to make extra effort for, make choices about, say no to.
It's uncomfortable, but growth often is. And when I realized that my dreams were not of cruise ships, Ceasar's Palace or a Command Performance, I had to reasses where I was putting my energy. My dreams are of a Pulitzer, a speech at the Tony Awards, pulling up in a limo to attend the opening of my show on Broadway.
So I dream, visualize, do the work and wait for to be rewarded for my dilligence and honest committment to goals. I am ambitious and energetic; so are you. Have faith, ask for what you want, and when it comes to you, say yes.
At this point, maybe you're convinced I'm a complete flake. You might be right. But why pretend to be cool when I'm having so much fun being in touch with my inner dork?
Sounds like you're on the cusp of making changes or resigning yourself to misery. You know which one I hope you choose.
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
To my dear friends all over the world,
When I returned from rehearsal this evening, my computer informed me that twenty minutes ago, Operation Attack Iraq had begun.
This, of course, makes me very sad because so few are in favor of this action, and so many are affected by it. I do not attempt to understand the real reasons behind this, nor even the pretended reasons. It's not my job to know "why" things happen as they do.
It is my job to give comfort when I can, share joy where I may, and spread light as much as I am able.
On this eve of war, we, members of the global community, have a responsibility to remember that we must all love one another.
Yes, even Saddam Hussein, and George W. Bush.
Perhaps concentrating on sending love-thoughts to everyone, those who are fighting, those who are defending, those who are protesting, and those very lucky few who have no idea what is going on, may help heal this anger, negativity and strife.
This is not just about the Middle East, oil, or a superpower making a superpower play. This is about everyone everywhere learning to coexist peaceably. No more fighting in Ireland, or Israel, or Africa, or the Eastern Block. Let us have peace. Let us have kindness and understanding, or at least tolerance.
Combat does not heal wounds. Only time, energy and Love can do that. To that end, my far-off friends, I ask that each of you, sometime in your day, each day, will send a loving thought to someone. This can be a wish, a hope, a prayer, or a spiritual message, to someone you know, to someone you've heard of, to a certain battalion, to an entire nation, to women who fear for the lives of their children, to photographers and journalists putting themselves in harms way for the sake of our feeling informed, to cancer patients or burn victims, to entertainers who hope to distract us and raise our spirits. If you can send more than one thought a day, please do. If you can encourage your friends to send love thoughts also, you widen the circle of light and hope with each new link and contact you make.
Please, understand and absorb this message, and send it to those who might like to participate in this simple, non-denominational, unstructured, warmhearted mental action. More love can never harm anything.
Thank you for allowing me to share with you.
I love you all, and keep you in my thoughts and close to my heart each day.
xox, Cybele Pomeroy, Baltimore, Maryland, USA, 19 March 2003
When I returned from rehearsal this evening, my computer informed me that twenty minutes ago, Operation Attack Iraq had begun.
This, of course, makes me very sad because so few are in favor of this action, and so many are affected by it. I do not attempt to understand the real reasons behind this, nor even the pretended reasons. It's not my job to know "why" things happen as they do.
It is my job to give comfort when I can, share joy where I may, and spread light as much as I am able.
On this eve of war, we, members of the global community, have a responsibility to remember that we must all love one another.
Yes, even Saddam Hussein, and George W. Bush.
Perhaps concentrating on sending love-thoughts to everyone, those who are fighting, those who are defending, those who are protesting, and those very lucky few who have no idea what is going on, may help heal this anger, negativity and strife.
This is not just about the Middle East, oil, or a superpower making a superpower play. This is about everyone everywhere learning to coexist peaceably. No more fighting in Ireland, or Israel, or Africa, or the Eastern Block. Let us have peace. Let us have kindness and understanding, or at least tolerance.
Combat does not heal wounds. Only time, energy and Love can do that. To that end, my far-off friends, I ask that each of you, sometime in your day, each day, will send a loving thought to someone. This can be a wish, a hope, a prayer, or a spiritual message, to someone you know, to someone you've heard of, to a certain battalion, to an entire nation, to women who fear for the lives of their children, to photographers and journalists putting themselves in harms way for the sake of our feeling informed, to cancer patients or burn victims, to entertainers who hope to distract us and raise our spirits. If you can send more than one thought a day, please do. If you can encourage your friends to send love thoughts also, you widen the circle of light and hope with each new link and contact you make.
Please, understand and absorb this message, and send it to those who might like to participate in this simple, non-denominational, unstructured, warmhearted mental action. More love can never harm anything.
Thank you for allowing me to share with you.
I love you all, and keep you in my thoughts and close to my heart each day.
xox, Cybele Pomeroy, Baltimore, Maryland, USA, 19 March 2003