of late, my perception of unconditional love seems real to me. complete rainbow love that knows no barriers and conditions. to love someone exactly as he/she is without judgement and prejudice. without regret and with bucketloads of sincere love.
and that is how i choose to love. completely to all. no exceptions. no limitations. however, because every individual is unique and special, therefore the love that i share is unique and special to the individual that my Spirit chooses to welcome. "shalom" i say to thee.
but the pain comes when its specialness and uniqueness are not recognised. those whom i love dearly demand me to love them exclusively. one over all. one and only.
i decided a long time ago that someone has the ability to pour out unconditional love to more than just one individual. so do i.
when all else fails, rely on your merkabah. everything happens in perfect accordance to the Plan. so fear not and do not be discouraged. enjoy the ride. experience the experience. we are hand-in-hand in this journey. none of you are alone. thank you for dropping by. cup of tea?
September 13, 2005
September 11, 2005
hurricane katrina - our experience
the following is the eyewitness report of two paramedics, Larry Bradshaw and Lorrie Beth Slonsky, who were attending a conference in New Orleans when Katrina hit. it is lengthy, but that is because it provides a whole different story than the papers and the news.
***********************************************************************
Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's
store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The
dairy display case was clearly visible through the windows. It was now
48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt,
and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners
and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions
and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists
grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.
The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and
the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters.There was an
alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and distributed
the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic
manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and
mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.
We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived
home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or
look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video
images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists
looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.
We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of
the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the
"victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we
witnessed, were the real heroes and heroes of the hurricane relief
effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers, who
used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who
rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians, who
improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the
little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop parking
lots. Nurses, who took over for mechanical ventilators, spent many hours
on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious patients to
keep them alive. Doormen, who rescued folks stuck in elevators. Refinery
workers, who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats to rescue their
neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics, who helped
hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the city.
And the food service workers, who scoured the commercial kitchens,
improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.
Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from
members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only
infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.
On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the
French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees
like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and
shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and
friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts
of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were
pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have been
invisible because none of us had seen them.
We decided we had to save ourselves. So we pooled ourmoney and came up
with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those
who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by
those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses,
spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water,
food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the
sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for the
"imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later
learned that the minute the arrived to the City limits, they were
commandeered by the military.
By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was
dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street
crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out
and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to
report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered
the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The
Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's
primary shelter had descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole.
The guards further told us that the City's only other shelter, the
Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and squalor and that
the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked,
"If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the City, what was our
alternative?" The guards told us that that was our problem, and no they
did not have extra water to give to us. This would be the start of our
numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law enforcement".
We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and
were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not
have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass
meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the
police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would
constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The
police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in
and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across the
street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we should
walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New Orleans
Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of the City.
The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back and
explained to the commander that there had been lots of misinformation
and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses waiting for
us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically, "I swear
to you that the buses are there."
We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with
great excitement and hope. As we marched past the convention center,
many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we
were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately
grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then
doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using crutches,
elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We marched
the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up the steep incline to the Bridge. It
now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our enthusiasm.
As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across
the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began
firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in
various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us
inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in
conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander
and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were
no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.
We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as
there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the
West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no
Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and
black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not
getting out of New Orleans.
Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the
rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to
build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the
center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned
we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an
elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet
to be seen buses.
All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the
same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be
turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no,
others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners
were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot.
Meanwhile, the only two City shelters sank further into squalor and
disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers
stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could
be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape the misery New
Orleans had become.
Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery
truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so
down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on
a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts.
Now secure with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation,
community, and creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung
garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and
cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and the kids
built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic, broken
umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling system
where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce for
babies and candies for kids!).
This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When
individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for
yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your
kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people
began to look out for each other, working together and constructing a
community.
If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water
in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the
ugliness would not have set in.
Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing
families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our
encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.
From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was
talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news
organizations saw us on their way into the city. Officials were being
asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on
the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us.
Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous
tone to it.
Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was
correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of
his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the
fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades
to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded
up his truck with our food and water.
Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law
enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or
congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims"
they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay
together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small
atomized groups.
In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered
once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought
refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We
were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely,
we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law,
curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.
The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with
New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an
urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and
managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen
apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards. They
explained that a large section of their unit was inIraq and that meant
they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks they
were assigned.
We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The
airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of
humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush
landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a
coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.
There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort
continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we
were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have
air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two
filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with
any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we
were subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.
Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been
confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal
detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children,
elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically
screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.
This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt
reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker
give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street
offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the
official relief effort was callous, inept, and racist. There was more
suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.
Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, "you owe me".
Look what happens with a love like that, it lights the whole sky.
***********************************************************************
Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's
store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The
dairy display case was clearly visible through the windows. It was now
48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt,
and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners
and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions
and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists
grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.
The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and
the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters.There was an
alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and distributed
the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic
manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and
mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.
We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived
home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or
look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video
images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists
looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.
We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of
the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the
"victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we
witnessed, were the real heroes and heroes of the hurricane relief
effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers, who
used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who
rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians, who
improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the
little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop parking
lots. Nurses, who took over for mechanical ventilators, spent many hours
on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious patients to
keep them alive. Doormen, who rescued folks stuck in elevators. Refinery
workers, who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats to rescue their
neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics, who helped
hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the city.
And the food service workers, who scoured the commercial kitchens,
improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.
Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from
members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only
infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.
On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the
French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees
like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and
shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and
friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts
of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were
pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have been
invisible because none of us had seen them.
We decided we had to save ourselves. So we pooled ourmoney and came up
with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those
who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by
those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses,
spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water,
food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the
sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for the
"imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later
learned that the minute the arrived to the City limits, they were
commandeered by the military.
By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was
dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street
crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out
and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to
report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered
the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The
Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's
primary shelter had descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole.
The guards further told us that the City's only other shelter, the
Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and squalor and that
the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked,
"If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the City, what was our
alternative?" The guards told us that that was our problem, and no they
did not have extra water to give to us. This would be the start of our
numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law enforcement".
We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and
were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not
have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass
meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the
police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would
constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The
police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in
and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across the
street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we should
walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New Orleans
Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of the City.
The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back and
explained to the commander that there had been lots of misinformation
and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses waiting for
us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically, "I swear
to you that the buses are there."
We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with
great excitement and hope. As we marched past the convention center,
many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we
were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately
grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then
doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using crutches,
elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We marched
the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up the steep incline to the Bridge. It
now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our enthusiasm.
As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across
the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began
firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in
various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us
inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in
conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander
and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were
no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.
We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as
there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the
West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no
Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and
black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not
getting out of New Orleans.
Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the
rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to
build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the
center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned
we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an
elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet
to be seen buses.
All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the
same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be
turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no,
others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners
were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot.
Meanwhile, the only two City shelters sank further into squalor and
disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers
stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could
be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape the misery New
Orleans had become.
Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery
truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so
down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on
a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts.
Now secure with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation,
community, and creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung
garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and
cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and the kids
built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic, broken
umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling system
where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce for
babies and candies for kids!).
This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When
individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for
yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your
kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people
began to look out for each other, working together and constructing a
community.
If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water
in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the
ugliness would not have set in.
Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing
families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our
encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.
From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was
talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news
organizations saw us on their way into the city. Officials were being
asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on
the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us.
Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous
tone to it.
Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was
correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of
his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the
fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades
to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded
up his truck with our food and water.
Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law
enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or
congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims"
they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay
together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small
atomized groups.
In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered
once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought
refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We
were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely,
we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law,
curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.
The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with
New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an
urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and
managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen
apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards. They
explained that a large section of their unit was inIraq and that meant
they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks they
were assigned.
We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The
airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of
humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush
landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a
coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.
There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort
continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we
were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have
air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two
filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with
any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we
were subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.
Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been
confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal
detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children,
elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically
screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.
This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt
reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker
give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street
offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the
official relief effort was callous, inept, and racist. There was more
suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.
Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, "you owe me".
Look what happens with a love like that, it lights the whole sky.
September 02, 2005
my magdalena
i was visited by a Goddess.
Her aura enveloped my being as She descended upon me.
Her face is of one i will never ever forget.
eyes and smiles.
i was constantly lost, wading through the depth of Her pupils.
tasteful is the color of Her skin.
Her hair falls around Her face, all-lustrous.
many a time would i gasp at Her touch.
static electricity.
as Her breath fills my spaces, i'm lost in the scent of Life.
i would die the moment Her lips comes in contact with my skin.
Her beautiful nakedness glorified at the holiest of altars.
She invites me in.
i bow down.
i'm unworthy.
through Oneness, She is celebrated.
She awards me with the Glimpse.
my very own and personal Magdalena...
Her aura enveloped my being as She descended upon me.
Her face is of one i will never ever forget.
eyes and smiles.
i was constantly lost, wading through the depth of Her pupils.
tasteful is the color of Her skin.
Her hair falls around Her face, all-lustrous.
many a time would i gasp at Her touch.
static electricity.
as Her breath fills my spaces, i'm lost in the scent of Life.
i would die the moment Her lips comes in contact with my skin.
Her beautiful nakedness glorified at the holiest of altars.
She invites me in.
i bow down.
i'm unworthy.
through Oneness, She is celebrated.
She awards me with the Glimpse.
my very own and personal Magdalena...
August 29, 2005
my weekend
Prologue
i took a drag.
i felt like i was in a drama scene.
the spotlight was scathing the skin on my face.
"Director, kill that light, will ya? It's burnin' my corneas!"
then i realised it was the sun.
****************************************************************************
Chapter 1
a sage appeared. humble yet smug. clad in a brown hooded cloak. he stands at the rock and starts to describe something he probably has no idea about. maybe he does. but how to convince the weaklings, that's the nutcracker. he tries explaining bio-etherics the way a physics professor would explain Newton. attributes. characteristics. applications.
i'm looking at the whole fiasco from a different angle. partly interesting. partly amazing. from the start, efforts are made to penetrate the collective consciousness of the crowd. the key is to have a steady grip on their minds. you have your electrodes well-placed, you can make them believe anything.
this phenonmenon is not necessarily bad. but what is it used for? i can't believe i was once a part of this. oblivious and unknowing. i knew what i had to do. i just didn't know what for.
God loves us. whether we like it or not. whether we understand it or not. God loves us all the time. so why do we crave for God's love? why do we hunger for the need to belong? they can always show us how to belong. they use the best tool, personal experience, to convince the masses.
but how far is understanding involved? where do you draw the line between understand and faith? what is faith?
****************************************************************************
Chapter 2
same sage appeared. his breath now reeks of tea and starch. he continues his lecture on bio-etherics. now i see the catch of a belief system. everything is revealed theoretically. the sage speaks of the Love as he would speak of how good his lunch tasted. his audience may grasp his ideas on an intellectual level. but until they experience it, they may never see.
"Salvation!" cries the sage.
what about it?
"Salvation is for everyone."
is it really?
even for those who do not subscribe to your school of thought?
the Hindu priest of 50 believes in none other. who has the balls to tell him otherwise? heads will roll, i tell you.
everybody has a destination. union with God. we must keep focused on our destination. more theories. more strain on the cognitive load of the crowd. they listen agape. they lap up his words like hungry hounds back from a hunt. what are we hunting? or are we the hunted?
i believe Christ is/was an example. his purpose was to be a living example to show us all we can be. forget what he did and said. focus rather on his spirit. you will find the same essence in Siddartha, Muhammed, Guru Nanak. we focused too much on what they did/said. we should rather focus on what made them who they were. they all had the same Source. they were all made of the same stuff.
****************************************************************************
Chapter 3
a white-haired priest from the East took the rock and started describing "new abundant life". he makes a general statement of how little of life that we are really living. school, church, work. is that all that we are living for? how can one decide how much of Life someone else is living? the best way to live your Life may be a total disaster for another.
i still sense strong closed-mindedness. and still lots of theories. i wonder what his reaction would be if someone asked him about reincarnation or the Divine Feminine.
new life happens all the time. everytime a child opens her eyes and realises Who She Really Is, she is born again. everytime a body dies, the soul vibrates at a new higher level and enters life in a new body, new life is born.
why do Christians tend to take certain things so literally? 6 out of 10 cannot give you a straight answer why the bible "disregards" the possibility of reincarnation. what, then, of New Life?
****************************************************************************
Chapter 4
inner healing/healing of our memories. its purpose is to let the Spirit touch you so that inner wounds and hurts may be healed. there are many hurts and wounds that have been accumulated since young. these are the result of incidences that have caused us to hold on to grudges and hurtful memories. receiving inner healing is to let go of such hurts and to allow God to initiate the healing process.
during healing, devotees sometimes "rest in the Spirit". but the Spirit touches everyone differently and each's own experience is unique. could this be a psychological effect? after hours of drilling such ideas into these minds, they are not just open, but also vulnerable. i repeat. at this point, the mind is at a state where it is "open" and vulnerable.
why is it emphasised so much that we are sinners? shun away from God's graces. not able to enter the Kingdom unless you repent.
****************************************************************************
i did not manage to finish the remaining chapters because the experience was delibrately cut short. but i would like to have a personal word with that sage, though.
i took a drag.
i felt like i was in a drama scene.
the spotlight was scathing the skin on my face.
"Director, kill that light, will ya? It's burnin' my corneas!"
then i realised it was the sun.
****************************************************************************
Chapter 1
a sage appeared. humble yet smug. clad in a brown hooded cloak. he stands at the rock and starts to describe something he probably has no idea about. maybe he does. but how to convince the weaklings, that's the nutcracker. he tries explaining bio-etherics the way a physics professor would explain Newton. attributes. characteristics. applications.
i'm looking at the whole fiasco from a different angle. partly interesting. partly amazing. from the start, efforts are made to penetrate the collective consciousness of the crowd. the key is to have a steady grip on their minds. you have your electrodes well-placed, you can make them believe anything.
this phenonmenon is not necessarily bad. but what is it used for? i can't believe i was once a part of this. oblivious and unknowing. i knew what i had to do. i just didn't know what for.
God loves us. whether we like it or not. whether we understand it or not. God loves us all the time. so why do we crave for God's love? why do we hunger for the need to belong? they can always show us how to belong. they use the best tool, personal experience, to convince the masses.
but how far is understanding involved? where do you draw the line between understand and faith? what is faith?
****************************************************************************
Chapter 2
same sage appeared. his breath now reeks of tea and starch. he continues his lecture on bio-etherics. now i see the catch of a belief system. everything is revealed theoretically. the sage speaks of the Love as he would speak of how good his lunch tasted. his audience may grasp his ideas on an intellectual level. but until they experience it, they may never see.
"Salvation!" cries the sage.
what about it?
"Salvation is for everyone."
is it really?
even for those who do not subscribe to your school of thought?
the Hindu priest of 50 believes in none other. who has the balls to tell him otherwise? heads will roll, i tell you.
everybody has a destination. union with God. we must keep focused on our destination. more theories. more strain on the cognitive load of the crowd. they listen agape. they lap up his words like hungry hounds back from a hunt. what are we hunting? or are we the hunted?
i believe Christ is/was an example. his purpose was to be a living example to show us all we can be. forget what he did and said. focus rather on his spirit. you will find the same essence in Siddartha, Muhammed, Guru Nanak. we focused too much on what they did/said. we should rather focus on what made them who they were. they all had the same Source. they were all made of the same stuff.
****************************************************************************
Chapter 3
a white-haired priest from the East took the rock and started describing "new abundant life". he makes a general statement of how little of life that we are really living. school, church, work. is that all that we are living for? how can one decide how much of Life someone else is living? the best way to live your Life may be a total disaster for another.
i still sense strong closed-mindedness. and still lots of theories. i wonder what his reaction would be if someone asked him about reincarnation or the Divine Feminine.
new life happens all the time. everytime a child opens her eyes and realises Who She Really Is, she is born again. everytime a body dies, the soul vibrates at a new higher level and enters life in a new body, new life is born.
why do Christians tend to take certain things so literally? 6 out of 10 cannot give you a straight answer why the bible "disregards" the possibility of reincarnation. what, then, of New Life?
****************************************************************************
Chapter 4
inner healing/healing of our memories. its purpose is to let the Spirit touch you so that inner wounds and hurts may be healed. there are many hurts and wounds that have been accumulated since young. these are the result of incidences that have caused us to hold on to grudges and hurtful memories. receiving inner healing is to let go of such hurts and to allow God to initiate the healing process.
during healing, devotees sometimes "rest in the Spirit". but the Spirit touches everyone differently and each's own experience is unique. could this be a psychological effect? after hours of drilling such ideas into these minds, they are not just open, but also vulnerable. i repeat. at this point, the mind is at a state where it is "open" and vulnerable.
why is it emphasised so much that we are sinners? shun away from God's graces. not able to enter the Kingdom unless you repent.
****************************************************************************
i did not manage to finish the remaining chapters because the experience was delibrately cut short. but i would like to have a personal word with that sage, though.
August 21, 2005
the next cycle
i have just entered the next new cycle. 22 years has indeed been a journey. colourful, fascinating, disturbing, joyful, unpredictable, incomparable, out-of-this-world. those are a few of the adjectives i'd use to describe what it has been. needless to say, it has been one great ride. a long long road. bumpy. slopes. ruts. and the inevitable tulips amidst green hedges.
looking back. many events mark my timeline. some of them bring back smiles while some i'd rather forget. i have done some good things. i have done things which i am not proud of.
looking back. many events mark my timeline. some of them bring back smiles while some i'd rather forget. i have done some good things. i have done things which i am not proud of.
there are individuals whom i have loved, offended, hurt (emotionally and physically), abandoned, shared my life with, missed. i'm also aware that there many who would die for the chance to put a bullet in my head.
in the past, i have spent too much of time thinking that i'm right. looking back. i have wronged so many. i have taken from the innocent. i have been the cause of many a tear. i almost hate the person i was. i have a right to. and i perfectly understand when i am hated.
for these and many more reasons, i can be sure that eternal damnation is my only destination. unavoidable. the hand no longer strokes. it now grips a dagger.
happy birthday, rainchild. may the good lord bless you. or not.
in the past, i have spent too much of time thinking that i'm right. looking back. i have wronged so many. i have taken from the innocent. i have been the cause of many a tear. i almost hate the person i was. i have a right to. and i perfectly understand when i am hated.
for these and many more reasons, i can be sure that eternal damnation is my only destination. unavoidable. the hand no longer strokes. it now grips a dagger.
happy birthday, rainchild. may the good lord bless you. or not.
August 18, 2005
look ma, it's my clone!
jo, shaman and i were having an avid discussion on human cloning, its possibilities and its implications. all three of us were from different points of view; whether it was alright, what would it be used for and, of course, whether God is okay with it or not.
now say you were cloned and your clone grows up to be a perfectly healthy human being. he/she sees life just as you see it. emotions, dreams, hopes, tears. all-human.
do you think your clone would have a Soul?
Soul = God-given spirit.
we decided that the only surefire way to determine if God is okay with cloning is to see if clones have Souls. if they do, then God is okay. if they don't, then somebody's gonna get hurt real bad!
now say you were cloned and your clone grows up to be a perfectly healthy human being. he/she sees life just as you see it. emotions, dreams, hopes, tears. all-human.
do you think your clone would have a Soul?
Soul = God-given spirit.
we decided that the only surefire way to determine if God is okay with cloning is to see if clones have Souls. if they do, then God is okay. if they don't, then somebody's gonna get hurt real bad!
August 12, 2005
like light to the flies
behold our beloved revels
in tragedy
self-denying abhorence for bloodshed
behold hypocrite
those who run will be burned
devoutly wished for blinded eyes
this tragedy's like light to the flies
this seems to suit you better
bleeding out the eyes
hope's left in chain suspension
holding onto lies, to make the truth
- Trivium "Like Light To The Flies"
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