2012 – good time to journey it from wake up to wake up. KYMATICA is pretty good. Pretty good.
Mother Dominique was from the Phillipines. She was my 4th grade teacher at St. Ambrose. (or St. A’s as we catholics were used to subtexting our institutions in those days). Mother D was a kind, selfless, love encouraging woman who spoke with this small accent somehow transforming into a hesitant manner of speaking that made her sound all the more intelligent and reasonable. In point of fact, when I was growing up, the priests and nuns absolutely were (sometimes the most) intelligent people in my life…. always marking their exclusivity of consciousness to a sky goblin and confusing the hell out of my struggling, developing, critical thinking process. I never quite bought the whole drama because the strict discipline hypocritical insincerity and demonstrative ugly in catholic retribution; a constant … especially in schooling children… exuded all the damn time from nearly every priest (and more than a few of the nuns). Classic education, if self inhibiting, morally elitist, guilt anchoring and futuristic-ally of the self destructive. Contrarily they effectively anchored in me a need, perhaps now it’s called a way of life or compulsion, to define the dynamics of eternity. And these days, the women of the chruch, especially in America, where a current Inquisition is underway on all orders of nuns (who are now primarily admins for charities or highly touted academics), as women of “the cloth” are less than useful to the vatican. Pedophiles are more significant. You follow?
But the ‘holiday’ message in this post is the value in nostalgia … like my little sisters’ winding ceramic three nuns brick a brack for christmas that sings “dominique” (that old sixties tune Debbie Reynolds made large in USA of the EU nun who has since come out as an activist against catholic repression / child abuse and as noble lesbian)… the nostalgia of childhood embraces us all at this time of the year. This is my homage to the good nuns… of which there are still boatloads globally! I’ve been sent a few articles from ole pals showing the activism of certain nuns in OCCUPY! I am the witch in cowboy boots who is dedicated to making a better world than the one I was born into, politically and sociologically, due to in no small way, the selflessness and kindness of a few nuns. Funny? Hilarious! We women are needful to hang together… the Goddess is returning to our awareness. So, here’s to the nuns of all orders left in christ churches who might seed the evolution that 2012 will require.
On another note: “It’s a Wonderful Life” usually plays two days before or tonight … and it played a month ago. Do you wonder why? Banksters and corporate messengers won’t have it. I’m just going to share a scene that explains much of my own business plan….. Goddess love me, I’m a schmuck with being ‘cut throat’ until you put a real blade in my hand. LOL Merry Christmas (if that’s your way). Happy Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Pagan, Janian, (all of the rest) etc. With hope I look to a more Earth aligned future where the Georgian calendar that disrupts so much of our natural harmony is abolished for a natural timing sequencing like the T’zolkin. Good bye to the old time. Hello to Indigenous time. 13 moon calendar and Indian time to run by. Says I…..
- Tapping Our Emotional Spiritual Intelligence (ESQ) (heninuraini.wordpress.com)
people are just Tharn.
you know “tharn”? read Watership Down.
an excellent representation of our society…as it burns out..
comparatively with a warren of rabbits living close to a farm where they are cursed with a ‘feast or famine’ lifestyle. and
so are we.
when the farmer discovers a rabbit, he sets a trap, the young rabbit is caught in it, he becomes paralyzed with fear, he becomes dinner for the farmer’s family. that pralyzed with fear behavior? it’s THARN. and that’s the majority of American right now. tharn.
I am tempted to turn completely within. to let go of karma and creative enthusiasm. to remember the dreams i dreampt as a child in which
all your ways are known to me.
- Watership Down by Richard Adams (alleganylibrarycollections.wordpress.com)
GULF SHORES, Ala. — A 55-year-old charter fishing captain preparing Wednesday morning to launch into another day’s work with the oil spill cleanup sent his crew members on an errand at a Fort Morgan marina and then, while they were within earshot, shot himself in the head, authorities said.
[But then, two months ago, the leaking BP oil well began pouring crude into the waters where he took families fishing for snapper and amberjack.
On Wednesday morning, Kruse drove to his boat as usual. As the deckhands prepared for the day’s work, Kruse, as the captain, was supposed to turn on the generator. But after a few minutes, the crew members said, they didn’t hear anything and went looking for him. A deckhand found him in the wheelhouse, shot in the head.
“We’re seeing already an increase in suspiciousness, arguing, domestic violence. . . . We’re already having reports of increased drinking, anxiety, anger and avoidance,” Howard J. Osofsky of the Louisiana State University Health Sciences Center in New Orleans said during a two-day hearing this week on the physical and emotional impact of the spill.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. – Walt Whitman
CHICAGO — President Barack Obama said Saturday that the failure of BP’s latest effort to stop the damaging flow of oil into the Gulf of Mexico is “as enraging as it is heartbreaking.”
I feel for him. I Hope for him. I Hope for my Mother Earth.
It’s over, you are ruined… selling out ruins you.
Observe: the most talented photographer in the last two generations: Annie Leibovitz >>
He died in his sleep.
He has tried to cross for years, but just lately, he had seemed to give up the ghost. He seemed to be at some kind of peace with life. He kept his hair long, blond, sometimes tangled because he worked ceaselessly when he found a project that he felt was going ‘somewhere’. A new design in glass… a new piece of furniture from telephone wire spools… a new contraption that will water sections of grass… a new set of waves coming in.
He drown from his aspiration. He went peaceably. No pain, he spent too long too much too often in physical pain… he pain was over. Pipeline was coming up, Peter Gunn played for the beachcomber, once – last time. His home is Wiamea. His song is something by the Indigo Girls and his progress is the relentlessness of the waves… he’s gone Home.
This salty taste isn’t the sea, darln’… I miss you, beachcomber.
Swing by now and then and let me know how fine the waves are?