Sunday, September 24, 2017

Monsters of the ID

In the news everybody blames everybody else for what is wrong with this world. The real culprit is mankind's subconscious, the Id. There are monsters that bypass the conscious mind where most people have learned to deal with injustice, racism, and prejudice -- or at least that is what we tell ourselves. We are horrified by the savage and brutal treatment of women and children -- out loud and in public -- but revert to our pernicious and un-enlightened roots of ourselves where we push women and children aside as we, the males of the species, stride to the forefront to be tended to. After all, women and children being kicked and pushed aside as we trample on them and shove them aside is the way the world works. The strongest publicly claim that we stoop down and help the weaker to safer and more stable/secure positions. The strongest publicly claim they would take a bullet for a loved one, throw themselves in front of danger, and would lay down their lives, sacrifice a limb, give up their place in line so that women and children can be saved even if it means the strongest take the fall or give up their lives to make the future safe for women and children. Isn't that why women and children get the seats in rescue vehicles first? Isn't that what men tell themselves when asked for a poll or hold up their hands to be counted for their contribution to the future?

It's a lie.

In the secret recesses of the human heart -- or in the midst of the worst danger -- the truth comes out. Men shove women and children aside as they make a bee line for the safest and best seats in the rescue vehicles. They will not be left behind. As long as they survive, all is well with the world -- and with them. If the women and children die, so what? After all, they say when it is all over, at this point what does it matter? The women and children are dead and nothing these strong and virile men can do will ever bring them back. Dead is dead. At least when the cameras are rolling and their perfidious actions are done. If you don't see it on the news or in some edited footage that fits on the 11 PM news, you believe what you see. Their crocodile tears are real and the mangled, bloody, and dead bodies remain while they weep an ocean of tears and claim, "If only I could have saved them," or maybe, "Why God? They were so innocent, so precious. Why not take me instead?"

No one saw them as they shoved the weaker innocents aside. All that is left is the record of their tears and remorse and their dumbfounded shock at the injustice of it all. Oscar winners all.

As long as they survived, all that matters is the record. No one needs to know the truth as it is only the truth as they tell it while talking out of both sides of their mouths.

Somewhere inside their minds they may even believe their distress is real. The Id, the subconscious part of their minds, is silent, has submerged once again to the depths of the mind and has been replaced by that anguished cry, "Why God?" 

I recently saw a news report where a liberal woman talked about how her husband, one of the first volunteers going to the aid of Syrian refugees in Greece had changed when he came back from refugees. He spoke about how strong, virile young men shoved injured and drowning women and children aside while these young men surged to the front of the line, ignoring the calls for help and the drowning innocents as they helped themselves first. After all, to their minds, if not to the liberal volunteers' minds, women and children were expendable. They were not.

Here in the western world, we abhor and condemn such blatant disregard for the innocent and we say so loudly and often -- in public or in front of our friends and neighbors. Who knows what we really feel when everyone is gone and we are left alone or when we fall asleep and the subconscious takes the stage? Do all of our prejudices and indiscreet opinions surge forth as we imagine the worst? Do the monsters inside of all of us take over and revel in the deaths, blood, and savagery that take center stage? Do the monsters hidden in our subconscious gibber with unholy glee once the lights are off and the stage is open and waiting?

I was reminded of what lies inside of the most generous and helpful of us hidden in the deepest recesses of the subconscious mind as I watched an old favorite science fiction movie, Forbidden Planet,  with Walter Pigeon, Anne Frances, and Leslie Nielsen. Doctor Morbius warned the rescue ship not to land as he would not be responsible for their safety. Morbius did not need their assistance and would not welcome them if the crew refused to heed his warnings.

Morbius had been alone on Altair IV for 20 years with only his work and his daughter for company. He remember what had happened to the rest of the crew of the Bellerophon. They had died at the hands of some unknown and immensely powerful force that resided on Altair IV.

The crew landed and the powerful invisible monster killed some of the crew when it became apparent that the captain, Leslie Nielsen, was determined to take Morbius back to Earth to inform the authorities what had happened to the crew of the Bellerophon and what he had learned of the original inhabitants, the Krell. Morbius refused to share his findings and was adamantly opposed to returning to Earth. That is when the attacks began.

Not even the immense power at the crew's disposal could stop the invisible monster stalking and killing them. Morbius urged the captain and his crew to take off and avoid further blood shed. The captain refused. Worst of all, Morbius's daughter, Altaira, was determined to go to Earth with the crew, sealing her fate and putting her in serious danger. Morbius begged his daughter to change her mind, but her fate was sealed.

The powerful invisible monster attacked Morbius, the captain, and Altaira at Morbius's home. When Morbius ordered Robby the robot to stop the monster, even after the ship's doctor told Morbius that he, Morbius, was the source of the danger, Robby the robot shut down, caught in a logic conflict programmed into him not to harm people. Even with further proof that the monster was a product of Morbius's subconscious, the same fate that the Krell discovered when they built the pinnacle of their science and technology and programmed a computer that work with the power of the mind, ending their technologically marvelous achievements in a day and a night, leaving on the products of their genius in the form of the machine encompassing more than a 40-mile square and plunging to the very depths of the core of the planet behind as evidence of their achievement.

The primitive subconscious mind teemed with their prejudices, fears, and imagination was unleashed by the power of their machines and spelled the end of their existence 200,000 years before the Bellerophon landed and Morbius discovered the power, boosted his IQ, and learned to access their machines. Morbius's subconscious mind was unleashed, given ultimate power, and murdered all who opposed him. Unstoppable and relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, the monsters of Morbius's Id were unleashed and he was left alone with his innocent daughter to live a life free of other people until Nielsen's crew landed on Altair IV and urged the monsters in Morbius's subconscious mind to life.

The only way to stop the slaughter and devastation was to blow up the planet and thus the Krell technology left behind.

The monsters of the Id are powerful and frightening and so much easier to see when we are faced with them in fictions and a lot less visible when they are too close to us. We see the same monsters when Babylon 5 was on TV when a university professor turned archaeologist enlists Dr. Steven Franklin's assistance in helping him to figure out what he found on Ikarra VII. It was organic technology, far advanced compared to what the Earth had, mirroring the technological advances of the Vorlon's that would propel Earth technology ahead -- far ahead.

The problem was that the technology bonded with the professor's assistant, who was willing to murder to further the advance of knowledge and science, setting loose the Ikarrans' doomsday weapon and endangering all life on Babylon 5 because the inhabitants of hundreds of worlds and civilizations were not pure Ikarran as determined thousands of years ago by Ikarran priests and politicians. The monsters of the Ikarran Id embodied in the organic technology and originating with the scientist who built the doomsday weapon were incompatible with the millions of aliens living on Babylon 5. After all, the Ikarrans died out a million years ago so pure Ikarran blood no longer existed and therefore all life was to be destroyed.

This scenario of perfection and purity has been the central theme of literature for science fiction and fantasy enthusiasts for a very long time and the ideal of purity is being played out before us right now in Europe and the Western world, and in fact all over the planet, today, right now. The measurement is determined by religion and inadequately  protected by law. Religion has done a very poor job of protecting and creating peace because the rules set for by different religions are wholly incompatible with peace as long as the monsters of the Id remain inside us and unknown to the more enlightened wisdom of the evolution of humanity. Muslims are stuck in the 7th century. Christians are stuck in an ever changing kaleidoscope of values and ethics that seldom keeps pace with modern sensibilities. The Jews do a better job of matching intent with power and generosity towards others. Buddhists with their long history of anti-violence and peaceful enlightenment lag are overturned by the origins of the people who have converted or lived their whole lives with the Buddhist teachings and succumb inevitably to the monsters of the Id. No religion currently practiced on this planet at this point in time is without its flaws and all are moot in the face of the subconscious where the monsters of the Id dwell and flourish hidden in the darkness.

Blacks blame whites and whites blame blacks. Browns blame browns and everybody blames everybody else. We try our best to live good lives keeping the touchstone of religion in the forefront, but religions made by man are also corrupted by man depending on who has the most power, the most insight, the most control and all religions made by man and purportedly based on the word of god or Allah or Jehovah, Jesus Christ, or Buddha are still the work of man and thus subject to revision and interpretation. There are moderate Muslims and there are extremist Muslims. The same is true of Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, native Americans, and every version of religion that begin and end with man. The stories abound about the origins of religion, but ultimately it is mankind writing the words down and mankind following the dictates with less and greater success. Miracles happen and are reportedly of the deity [insert name here] and thus sacrosanct . . . as long as the deity conforms with your personal views . . . and is untouched by the most basic of human emotions or view or mind or thoughts or dreams or imagination. The only thing left is LOVE.

LOVE is at the heart of all mankind and trumps everything else. Wherever you begin, if the answer is not LOVE then the answer is wrong and will end in tears and often death.

Look at a situation where you and your opponent disagree. Whatever your position, the moment you offer violence instead of listening and working together, you have failed. Even if it is an idea you disagree about or a possession you both contend over, the moment you refuse the option of sharing or using the possession or looking at the idea from each other's viewpoint, you have failed. It may seem successful if you end up with the item or the idea in contention, but you are not successful. If you win by resorting to struggling over possession or having the upper hand -- or the moral high ground -- you lose. You have failed.

The moment you lie or obfuscate or keep things to yourself, you lose. You have failed.

The moment you default to quoting chapter and verse from your religious book of choice to prove you are right and they are wrong, you lose. You have failed.

Whatever triumph you feel is fleeting. You have already lost. You have failed.

If the end result deviates by an amoeba's cell, you have failed. You lost.

LOVE is the only answer, the only law, and the only success in life.

There is no first in LOVE.  There is no choice if LOVE is at the heart. There is no wrong if there is LOVE. Ultimately, LOVE is the only answer, the only response, the only success. There are no winners and no losers when LOVE is at the heart and soul.

The rest is Ego and the broad road to allow the monsters of the Id to take control and destroy everything.

LOVE is the only answer.

Whatever deviates from LOVE is failure and you have lost. 

We cannot afford purity. The only thing we can afford is LOVE.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

No More Lies

You may have heard about the prophecy before now, but you're probably being bombarded by Christians and end of the world doomsayers and I'll be you've even peeked at the videos on YouTube predicting the end of life as you know it -- or at least considering no need to celebrate Halloween this year because there will be no Halloween since the Red Dragon will devour the child born of the woman clothed with the Sun as written in the 12th chapter of Revelations in the Bible. With our modern technology we can see what St. John living on the Isle of Patmos dreamt and put down in writing of the End of Days. Everyone has stuck their oar in to propel us toward the end of life as well know it and Hollywood has produced more than a few movies based on St. John's Apocalypse. William Blake had a different vision of the woman clothed with the sun with the moon at her feet and painted his version, which was also included in a Hollywood movie based on a thriller writer's fear porn in Red Dragon

William Blake did more than one painting of this apocalyptic text, one that ended up as a tattoo on the back of a serial killer and had been his obsession for years sending him to the museum where the painting was protected and where he ate the evidence because he fell in love and did not wish to be forced by the Red Dragon to kill her even though she was blind and could not identify him.

Let's face it, mankind has an active and very vivid imagination. How else could mankind be held in thrall, heart stuttering in their chest in time with the chattering of their teeth as collectively mankind has pondered the mysteries sent down by God?

Maybe mankind should have kept its eyes on the sky and looked at what was written in the stars.

The best way to mark a point in time before there were clocks and watches and other time keeping devices was to keep time by marking the planetary, solar and lunar alignments so there would be no doubt. The time of the woman clothed with the sun (Sun in the constellation of Virgo) is now. Today in fact.  Wherever you live on Earth the conjunction of Jupiter emerging from the sign of Virgo, which happens once every 7000 years, is happening or has already happened above you. Even though your view of the celestial reality will not change when it happens, at least you will finally realize what has happened . . . or you can go to Google Sky or JPL's website and download their software to watch the sky and tune in for yourself. Jupiter has been going back and forth in what is purportedly Virgo's womb for 9 months, the length of a human pregnancy, and will finally emerge from between Virgo's putative legs and go along its normal course, spinning through its circuit around the sun. Since Google Sky has censored the spot where Jupiter will emerge to keep us poor humans from seeing the Red Dragon waiting to devour Jupiter as it emerges (or the man child being born of Virgo's celestial body). No doubt the man child, in this case, Jupiter, the king of planets, is the man child, although there are those who will claim Jesus Christ is the man child and this heralds his second coming (doubtful since Jesus Christ never existed as a man or a god, although Titus Flavius, Roman Emperor during the time of Christ's supposed earthly birth of a virgin -- a different virgin than the constellation of Virgo the virgin in the heavens -- would have it written differently since the Flavians, particularly Titus, originated the story of Christ, the Messiah of the Jews who was a peaceful man and urged all believers to turn the other cheek when they were struck by their enemies, and who was quoted as saying that all believers should render unto Caesar what is Caesar's).   If you will persist in praying to and rendering all to Roman fiction of a Redeemer that never existed -- unless you count bowing the head and giving all to Caesar as was his due 2000 years ago -- then do as you will. It is your choice and no amount of stuffing painted canvas into your gullet will change that as it did not change Thomas Harris's Red Dragon when he ate William Blake's Red Dragon. He would have been far more successful if he had carved the tattooed Red Dragon from his back and eaten that instead. In short, a lie that has persisted for 2000 years and to whom billions of believers have sacrificed their free will and their sanity at times is not so easily slain. 

Nor will this planet, Earth, end so abruptly as people weep, wail, and gnash their teeth at the judgment of God who never considered the end of this planet. Your imagination has been given over to more fear porn, that ecstatic and often uninformed idea that has been programmed into your brain by over two millennia of lies, obfuscations, and misdirection. What is happening in the heavens is the same thing that happened 7000 years ago and 7000 years before that as far back as the coalescence of our solar system and the subsequent emergence of beings here who came to land on this planet and created such marvelous stone monuments, pyramids, and buildings which remained long after a flood swept them away -- or at least chased them from their cities back to the skies where they were safe from the cataclysm.

Believe what you will, the facts have been in front of you all your life and more data emerge about what life was like long after the visitors left and long before you were sold a lie meant as propaganda to pacify a group of people intent on doing things their way -- or at least the way their invisible God advised them to go -- and which for 2000 years has been the source of so much violence, death, and destruction, resulting in the worship of a false god masquerading as the alter ego of a Roman family of emperors in order to gain and maintain control and pacify a region full of stiff-necked Hebrews who refused to bow to anyone but their invisible god.

The time is now. The clock has struck the hour. What remains is what will be left when mankind comes to its collective senses, gets off their knees, and stop worshiping a man long gone to dust and a man that never was and never will come again because he never came the first time. Like much of the history you believe, history is the tool of the conqueror. You can be conquered much easier than Francis Dolarhyde ate the paper version of Blake's Red Dragon and the woman clothed with the sun. Keeping it down will be far more difficult as long as you believe lies and keep lying to yourself, your family, and your children. Canvas, especially painted canvas on a prime surface likely infused with lead paint, will kill you as quickly as poisoned knife in your heart and far more painfully if you manage to choke it down. The alternative is converting to Judaism with their version of truth and lies or becoming a Muslim based on a lie and propagated by the violence when not engaged in the more peaceful destruction and slow death of taqiyya, embodied by icons like Barack Obama and Linda Sarsour. Forget Trump, you have far bigger and more lethal enemies vying for your mind and your life and they have propagandists as good as the Travian emperors who foisted their version on us first.

As for me, give me truth and no more fear porn or lies. I've costumes to design for Halloween for my grandchildren.

That is all. Disperse.

Monday, September 11, 2017

Movie Quality

No, this isn't a post about Charlton Heston or Ben-Hur or even Cecil B. de Mille. It is about being ready for his closeup to borrow a line from Sunset Strip and Gloria Swanson when she, as Norma Desmond, wild-eyed and dressed for her closeup, she asked de Mille if it was time for her to step to her spot camera ready and begin her scene.

This time, de Mille is dead, as is Charlton Heston, and Lew Wallace's 1880 novel, Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ, is once again at the heart of the above photo. The actor whose face you cannot see is Claude Heater who portrayed Jesus in William Wyler's version of Ben Hur, which was the second remake of deMille's movie based on Lew Wallace's book and starring Charlton Heston as Judah ben Hur. The point of all of this back story is the real star of the show who was created whole cloth 2000 years ago as a fictionalized character based on the many Jewish rabbis speaking out against the Roman occupation of Israel, then called Palestine. This character in the longest running propaganda scam, this Jesus ben Joseph, also known as Yeshua ben Yoseph, and star of the annual Christmas tradition, was never a person and no one will ever find his tomb or his home or anyone who knew him because he never existed, except in the minds of the Hebrew scholars and friends of the Flavians concocting this fiction to foment peace for the Romans and to force the Hebrew using their own devices and literary tricks against them. Part of the scam was to direct the monotheistic Hebrews to do what they would never do voluntarily -- it was against the dictates of their religion -- worship the son of man -- in this case, Titus Flavius, Roman Emperor who was elevated to godhood under the Roman Imperial Cult alongside all the caesars since Julius, likely due to his relationship with Cleopatra Queen of Egypt where all the pharaohs were born gods. The Egyptian people were long accustomed to worship of their rulers, but not so the Romans and definitely not the monotheistic and militant Hebrews still fighting for autonomy and rule over their own land, their own people, and their own beliefs.

The Romans would accept a statue of the current caesar in a temple where he would be worshiped without a second thought and would sacrifice and pray to the god/caesar as they prayed to the gods of their choice to intercede on their behalf and in their favor. The Romans were polytheistic and adopted the gods of whatever people they conquered and subjugated, making room for them all, as they would have done for the Hebrews had they any statues or representations of their invisible god. That was not possible as anyone in recent memory who has seen The Ten Commandments, also directed by Cecil B. deMille several times, and with Charlton Heston portraying Moses in the penultimate version as the Hebrew Moses cast onto the waters of the Nile in a basket by his mother, Naomi, when pharaoh decreed that all newborn male infants were to be massacred. Naomi was lucky in that the pharaoh's sister found the basket and the child, drew it from the water, named him Moses because she drew him from the water, and made him her son, ordering her nurse never to tell anyone of Moses's true origins. She raised him as her son beside her brother's son where Moses was educated and surpassed his cousin at every turn until the nurse told Ramses that Moses was a Hebrew, a slave, who was saved from pharaoh's edict and raised as a member of the royal family. Moses story from here is known by all, not only because they have seen the movie, The Ten Commandments, but also in Sunday school if they were raised Christian and by the world because Moses has become as legendary as Jesus.

It is no accident nor is it providence that some elements of the story of Moses are the same as the story of Jesus. It was written that way using a device known as typology wherein certain elements of stories with the history of the Hebrew people are used to create a bond, a sort of resonance, between people within the history. The story of Jesus and his birth resonate with the story of Moses beginning with the massacre of the innocents at birth. Moses was chosen by the invisible god to lead the people out of bondage just as Jesus was chosen by the invisible god to lead the Hebrews to ultimate salvation and peace by following the his example of rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar's. The entire New Testament, including the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, using the literary examples of the Hebrews to mirror their own literary tricks to fulfill what they already believed and waited for -- a military messiah to conquer Rome and end their subjugation to the Romans -- was created by the Flavians to fulfill that purpose. With what we know from our modern experiences, the propaganda has worked for two millennia, gathering believers and giving Titus Caesar what he was determined to have -- the people worshiping him as God, the son of a God (Vespasian Caesar), the son of man, the son leading all worshipers for two thousand years to a heaven envisioned by Titus and created by his own followers, among them Flavius Josephus the adopted son of Vespasian, head of the Flavian family, and a Hebrew historian, a chronicler of the times. All it took was Constantine Augustus (Constantine the Great) emperor of Rome who famously claimed to see a burning cross in the sky and determining that Rome would conquer by the cross; Christians would be the way to further Rome's territory and spread. Since the Flavians had already given the nod to Christians, the followers of Jesus's teachings, the cross was indeed the way to spread the Roman empire throughout the world. It was during the Council of Nicaea when he gathered the extant Christian writings into what is now known as the Bible, Old and New Testaments, codifying the holy book of the Christian religion and making it legal in Rome's eyes and in the eyes of the world. Constantine also ended the persecution of Christians and gave them the Roman stamp of approval as pontifex maximus. Christianity became the state religion and the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church was modeled on the Roman model.

One could say that the Rome never fell as it is described in the histories of that time, that it morphed into the Roman Catholic Church, a religion and an empire that continues to exist to this day. That is a very long time to reign over the hearts and minds of mankind, especially since the literary fiction of Jesus Christ continues to reign over all who would believe.

It is Constantine's mother, Helena, who journeyed through Syria and Palestine and pointed out all the places where Jesus preached and lived and was born. The long awaited second coming has already come and gone just as Jesus prophesied when Titus razed the Temple in Jerusalem and looted all within the temple, taking it back to Rome and placing it all on display. It doesn't take much imagination to realize that all of those artifacts (booty) are hidden in the underground vaults beneath the Vatican. The only writings that survive from the time of the Flavians, outside of their own propaganda, are contained in the Dead Sea Scrolls that have since been translated and circulated since their discovery. It is interesting to note that the scrolls are full of hatred of the Romans and nothing about the fulfillment of prophecy with Jesus's coming. There is nothing about Jesus's crucifixion or his death and resurrection just as no one mentions that in the early Roman churches in the basement was an altar for the worship of Mithras, the god who was born of a virgin in midwinter, and whose religion was the basis for Christianity, a religion Constantine celebrated and of which he was an initiate until his death. It may be because he was a believer of Mithras until his deathbed that the "11th hour conversion" was allowed by believers.

The average Christian knows none of this, although much of this is available through Joseph Atwill's book, Caesar's Messiah, the proof and the book that Atwill sat on for some time before allowing it to be published.  I still haven't finished the book as I began reading it yesterday, but I have watched Atwill's interviews and the documentary based on his findings. I spent most of the night writing much of this in my head instead of sleeping, although, except for the Flavian elements, much of this I have known from my own research and belief that all man-made religions are false and do not demonstrate anything about the actual Cosmic Creator of All. All man-made religions are created by men, perpetuated by men, and supported by women even though women have been most harmed and marginalized by these man-made beliefs since the first man decided that the goddess needed to be put in her place and a man placed in full charge. No matter what is said about God being a woman, God is now and has always been male and, until recent memory in historical times, HE ruled without a female consort.

As an atheist who believes finally in the Cosmic Creator of All (the ONE) who defies description and cannot be fashioned into an idol of stone, plaster, or any material. The ONE is beyond our understanding and does not set down laws and lists of dos and don'ts for us to follow. The ONE does not count sins and does not send us to Heaven or Paradise, Purgatory, or Hell, all of which are Roman creations and fed to us to fill their coffers with treasure. The ONE has no need of such things and I still believe what I heard and have oft repeated as a Minbari belief that we humanoid beings are extensions of the Universe (the ONE) trying to figure itself out. We are the cosmic probes sent into the void to experience all that is possible and send the data back to the ONE. The rest is a man-made understanding based on limited understanding of our role in this symbiotic exchange and religion, which I once thought was declared sacred to protect knowledge, is a tool wielded by those in power to manage those not in power in order to amass treasure and control and has nothing to do with Divine Knowledge imparted to us puny humans.

Until we die and merge once again with the ONE, we do not understand anything, much like Jon Snow to whom Ygritte said, "You know nothing, Jon Snow," because we know nothing. Like all probes, we gather knowledge and experience and take it back to our creator to download all we have learned where it will be collected, collated, and held. If we would wish to know more, we must learn more and that is best done by increasing our knowledge through experience and research (reading) and by not getting caught up in the politics and religions that abound.

In the end, Jesus Christ (meaning savior messiah) never existed as a man. He was not born in a stable nor was he visited by three wise men from the east (read the books and information on Orion's belt, Mithras, sun gods, Flavian emperors, Hebrew typology, and Flavius Josephus for starters) and given gold, frankincense, and myrrh nor did he grow up to be a carpenter or preach to the Jewish masses with the beatitudes as his text, feed the thousands with three loaves of bread and a fish, raise Lazarus from the dead, consort with Mary Magdalene, have twelve disciples, one of whom betrayed him to the Roman soldiers, was tried by the pharisees or the sadducees, had Pilate wash his hands of proclaiming sentence so the Jews had to condemn him to be crucified on a cross, laid in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, rose from the dead after three days,had his disciple Thomas doubt his existence, strike Paul blind on the road to Damascus, or call Peter the rock upon which his church would be be built and become the first pontifex maximus from which all popes have descended to become supreme leader of the Roman Catholic Church for which so many have died and fought for and gone on crusades all in the name of the son of god. It is all a literary fiction, a propaganda tool the Flavians used against the Jews in the name of Rome, a satire of Jewish beliefs, in order to master the Jews at last.or call Peter the rock upon which his church would be be built and become the first pontifex maximus from which all popes have descended to become supreme leader of the Roman Catholic Church for which so many have died and fought for and gone on crusades all in the name of the son of god. It is all a literary fiction, a propaganda tool the Flavians used against the Jews in the name of Rome, a satire of Jewish beliefs, in order to master the Jews at last.or call Peter the rock upon which his church would be be built and become the first pontifex maximus from which all popes have descended to become supreme leader of the Roman Catholic Church for which so many have died and fought for and gone on crusades all in the name of the son of god. It is all a literary fiction, a propaganda tool the Flavians used against the Jews in the name of Rome, a satire of Jewish beliefs, in order to master the Jews at last.

The demonization of the Jews is as groundless as the fiction of Jesus and the embodiment of all he stood for and died for because none of it was ever real. There was never a black Jesus because there never was a Jesus of any race or color. His virgin mother never existed just as Mithras's virgin mother never existed except in mythos of his origins. The northerners who found the resemblance of Jesus to Odin were rightfully confused because Odin and Jesus were born of the same human imagination, just from imaginations of people living in different climates and times but eating from the communal trough. All the wars that have been fought, all the people martyred, all the treasure looted and hidden are all part and parcel of mankind's nature ascribed to some omnipotent deity that exists only in the mind and as substantial as the lost city of Cecil B. deMille built to provide background for the movies he would make based on stories that enchanted and entertained him and millions of others on the screen. A movie made for us by us and lasting as long as there are those to remember. Jesus has provided more dreamers and writers more material for two thousand years and will likely do so as long as there are people who refuse to grow up and walk out of the play yard to become masters of their own lives and destinies from now until they die and return back to the ONE enlightened or clueless until the penny drops and they merge with their creator and download their data.deMille built to provide background for the movies he would make based on stories that enchanted and entertained him and millions of others on the screen. A movie made for us by us and lasting as long as there are those to remember. Jesus has provided more dreamers and writers more material for two thousand years and will likely do so as long as there are people who refuse to grow up and walk out of the play yard to become masters of their own lives and destinies from now until they die and return back to the ONE enlightened or clueless until the penny drops and they merge with their creator and download their data.deMille built to provide background for the movies he would make based on stories that enchanted and entertained him and millions of others on the screen. A movie made for us by us and lasting as long as there are those to remember. Jesus has provided more dreamers and writers more material for two thousand years and will likely do so as long as there are people who refuse to grow up and walk out of the play yard to become masters of their own lives and destinies from now until they die and return back to the ONE enlightened or clueless until the penny drops and they merge with their creator and download their data.Jesus has provided more dreamers and writers more material for two thousand years and will likely do so as long as there are people who refuse to grow up and walk out of the play yard to become masters of their own lives and destinies from now until they die and return back to the ONE enlightened or clueless until the penny drops and they merge with their creator and download their data.Jesus has provided more dreamers and writers more material for two thousand years and will likely do so as long as there are people who refuse to grow up and walk out of the play yard to become masters of their own lives and destinies from now until they die and return back to the ONE enlightened or clueless until the penny drops and they merge with their creator and download their data.

At least il puce de Ben-Hur didn't infect the villa where Heston and his family stayed since it was as fictitious as Jesus Christ's nativity and crucifixion, except in the Italian tabloids where all such fictions are give space and ink.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday, September 02, 2017

Review: The Girl in the Tower, Katherine Arden

In the sequel to The Bear and the Nightingale, Vasya, Vasilisa Petrovna, riding Solovey becomes a traveler as she has always wished. Morozko, the Winter King, allows Vasya to go free even after he warned her that being a traveler is less romantic and harder than she believes it to be. Vasya doesn't care about the trouble. She wants to be free to go where she will and see the world, be a part of the world not bounded by the chyerti, the beings that have populated her world, nor does she wish to be burned as a witch as the priests would have her be because she is able to see what they cannot--or will not. Vasya wishes to be free of the constraints of her narrow existence and truly free to be who and what she will be.

Vasya finds herself in the midst of burned villages and kidnapped girls and rides to their rescue, invading the bandits' camp at night to rescue 3 young maidens and return them to their mothers. While Solovey leads the bandits astray, Vasya, dressed as a boy, steals in and rescues the girls, riding for their village. She ends up in the monastery where her brother, Aleksander, and many of the dispossessed villagers have taken shelter, hands over the girls to the monks, and convinces Aleksander to keep her secret from the Grand Prince of Moscow. Fighting by the Grand Prince's side, they hunt the bandits and fight alongside the people to protect their villages.

A boyar from the north wanting to avenge his own people and their villages burned by the bandits lured the Grand Prince Dmitri to the north where Aleksandr is forced to continue keeping Vasya's secret. When the Dmitri's forces return to Moscow and to Olga even Olga must keep Vasya's secret in order to keep the deception going. The priest who was determined to burn Vasya as a witch is also in Moscow. As soon as he discover's the witch is in Moscow, he will continue his desire to see her burned as a witch and he will tell everyone that Vasya consorts with demons.

Morosko, who is bonded to Vasya will continue to live on as long as she wears the jewel he fashioned from ice; he will remain immortal as long as she is his. Vasya will soon discover that she is restricted by more than social custom and that the jewel she wears is as constricting as being a girl in the society of Rus'. Into this maelstrom of deception as the world she knows is strengthened by her blood fed to the chyerti, it is Vasya's wild nature and desire for freedom that will prove the downfall of the Tatars, the bandits, Morosko, and the old ways that will save Vasya and her niece, who also shares her gift of seeing, and keep Moscow from burning to the ground in the end.

Adding details and texture to the history of Rus' and the lives of rich and poor alike, Katherine Arden shares a glimpse of what the medieval world was that provides the bedrock upon which those of eastern Europe during the time of Genghis Khan's empire and the lands where the Russians lived, bred, and died to conquer. Arden's use of fairy and folk tales from the frozen fields of Siberia and the north increase knowledge and render the world of eastern Europe and Asia in bright and fully realized dimensions that echo down through time and now in readers' hands and minds. Bravo! The history and mystery of a world most westerners never see unfolds with beauty and grandeur and comes to life in a unforgettable manner that readers will remember and be therefore enriched.  5/5 stars and the bonus of brilliance and remarkable artistry that will hold up through years of readings. Consider Katherine Arden for a permanent place among the stories you read to your children. We need more writers willing to enlighten us all with stories from the northern steppes.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

Review: Unraveling Oliver by Liz Nugent

Pity is an emotion that seems good and harmless at the first flush, understandable in the face of neglect, but becomes toxic in practice, fueling violence and serious damage if allowed to fester. Pity was the first emotion children felt for Oliver as they attended school together and sparked sympathy when school fellows invited Oliver home with them to share holidays and seasons where it seemed to them he had nothing to look forward to stuck behind at the Catholic school with the priests and never going anywhere during breaks or at Xmas. His clothes looked as though they came from the poor box, cast offs that did not fit well and had seen better days.

Pity gave way to anger for Oliver's father who was a prominent man in the parish and left his son to the priests to care for. Oliver grew up and spent time with some of his mates families, always eager to make Oliver feel wanted as he shared their happiness and family togetherness. No wonder Oliver felt he should have the life he should have when he grew up and graduated. A friendly priest also looked out for him, paying his way to college to further his education and fill in the gaps left gaping because of Oliver's father's abandonment of his only son. It was insufficient to pay for his primary schooling, especially after Oliver's father married and had another son by his new wife. At least the second son who attended the parochial day school was treated better as Oliver could see from an upstairs window that looked down at his father's house that was brought into clear focus through binoculars. Oliver's half-brother had everything Oliver lacked and was determined to have when he went to France for the summer between terms at college, working in a vineyard with Laura and her brother, Michael.

Laura was vivacious and beautiful, so like the wife Oliver would marry when the time was right. Michael was a good mate, but not acceptable to Oliver once it became clear Michael was in love with Oliver who was decidedly not interested. Living with the French family, Oliver soon made the transition to the house to work with and live with the family while Laura remained in the quarters meant for seasonal help, especially after Michael began working in the kitchens, leaving Laura behind with the African laborers who were learning to make wine and take that experience back to South Africa to begin a vineyard for their masters.

Unlike Laura and Oliver, both of whom spoke French, the African workers understood very little French and learned nothing when they were subsequently sent back to Africa after the fire that ended the Irish workers' French work-study holiday. A fire mysteriously started that burned down the chateau, killing the vineyard's patriarch and his grandson and ended everyone's summer break. Michael, Oliver, and the other Irish students went back to college, leaving Laura behind to care for Madame who had severely burnt her hands trying to rescue her father and son. Laura insisted remaining to help Madame, returning home the following spring thin and worn out only to commit suicide. By that time Oliver had moved on to another girl who was plain and biddable with a mentally retarded brother and an older mother who soon died, leaving Alice the house and her brother with Oliver. Alice had met Oliver during her summer breaks while traveling and fell in love with Oliver's stories of the prince and his magic kingdom. Alice agreed to provide the illustrations for Oliver's books on the prince and soon was folded into Oliver's life.

Nothing in Oliver's life was as it seemed to be. He worked very hard at fashioning the illusion of the happy and productive life of a children's book author living the perfect family life with Alice in her childhood home. Oliver was also instrumental in making sure her brother was placed into an institution where he could not hurt himself or others. What a shock it was the day after Oliver struck Alice, putting her in hospital and showing the cracks and chasms in their perfect life.

Liz Nugent begins with Oliver's awe-struck and smug declaration that beating his wife was necessary and right. The story of Oliver's life behind the scenes is told through different people, all of whom had played a part in building and maintaining the fictional kingdom where Oliver lived and what he became. Unraveling Oliver is a testament to pity and the force good intentions have in fashioning monsters, villains, and saviors. It is only with the widest possible view Oliver and his carefully created kingdom is at last understood and where readers fully understand who the monsters and villains are and how even villains may have redeeming qualities. Monsters are not created through the application of an abnormal brain as Igor procured for Victor Frankenstein but often through pity when all the pieces are masterfully put together. Nugent's piecing together the final picture is daunting, haunting, and nuanced where no carefully crafted piece is left out or ignored. The reader will be amazed when the puzzle comes together.  5/5 stars.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Review: Fives and Twenty-fives by Michael Pitre

I'd have to decide whether a friend would be amenable to a book that is more like a Quentin Tarantino movie jumping backwards and forwards in time without a clue which is which. Hopping around like a flea on a hot griddle takes the reader out of the story and requires time to re-acclimate to the story. Although the back and forth in movies and some books is done well, Michael Pitre does not handle this story style at all well. Even readers need sign posts to know where to go and how it all fits in and what works in movies does not always work in literature. The Quentin Tarantino story telling tropes do not work, but I only read the book once. Maybe it improves with multiple readings.

Fives and Twenty-Fives does reveal a leftist version of life and war. Pitre obviously didn't realize that his tales of redemption and friendship under fire also highlighted the conservative views of life and war. 

The reader gets a glimpse of the profit first mentality that underscores the native mentality as they put cheating Americans first at the top of their agenda. One character seeks to hide his privileged background and family money in order to fit in among college students lining up to protest inequities and lack of freedoms while doing his best to get to America to realize his dreams without owning up to the fact that he knew about the plans to bomb and massacre the Americans even though he was supposed to be their native interpreter. 

The soldiers come from both sides of society's railroad tracks and deal with being back home in different ways, some good, some not so good. 

The descriptions of home and abroad were not the same as in-country descriptions were richer and more nuanced than the American south. After all, don't readers know what life in New Orleans on both sides of the track are like? Why spend words on what readers expect and know so well? The point of life in the south is that life is no less gritty, poor, and seedy than life in the Middle East, a fact that the careful reader will not be able to miss. 

Overall, I was attracted by life in the midst of war and a close look at the collateral civilian damage and at least there I was not too disappointed. I'm giving Pitre 3/5 for his Tarantino time sense; I expected so much and got so little. What works for Tarantino fails to work for Pitre. 

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Equality of Outcome

Growing up, my mother demanded that everything be equal for her children. Everything must cost the same for birthdays and Xmas for all four of us. If she spent $100 on spend the same amount on each of the other three. That was her version of equality. She was adamant on everything being equal for all four of us, but mostly because of me; I'm adopted and the other three were her biological children. None of them would have existed, as far as Mom saw it, if she had not adopted me since she had failed to deliver a living child before I was adopted. That was, as her doctor pointed out, the outcome of adopting when failure to bear and deliver a child is the case. Her doctor promised her that she needed to develop a mother's instinct before she could conceive and bear a living child. I was the way to develop her mother's instinct . . . or at least that is how she convinced my mother, her sister-in-law, to give up the child she carried in her womb when she arrived from Michigan after her divorce on the back of her older brother's motorcycle to live with her other older brother (my dad) and her sister-in-law (Mom who had not been successful in bearing the children she so desperately wanted . . . and needed).

My birth mother didn't renege on her promise even after she became engaged to Dewey because she was a woman of her word. She had promised her child (me) to her brother and his wife and, since she had already given birth twice, could have more children. It should be noted that she gave up her first child, a child conceived when her uncle raped her, to one of her husband's relatives before she conceived me after the divorce and before he obtained a Catholic divorce (annulment) in order to marry his second wife, a woman with whom he had nine children and who never knew about me . . . or so I have been told. I never asked him since I never knew him and was urged to let sleeping dogs lie.

The point is that Mom has decided when the other three children came along that we would all be treated equally, hence the way she gave gifts to us. What she couldn't control was how friends would give us all presents when they came to our birthday parties, but she had a way to fix that too. Oftentimes we (meaning I) got duplicate gifts. Mom decided that duplicate gifts would be given to my siblings while I kept one of the duplicates because it was my birthday gift after all. All of my duplicates went to my sister who was born a year and nine months after I was adopted, leaving me with one gift and my sister with all of the duplicates to be fair to her even though it was not her birthday. Her birthday was in November and I did not get any of her duplicate gifts because it wasn't my birthday. I didn't get any of my brother's duplicate gifts either (he kept them all because he was a boy) nor did I get any of my youngest sister's duplicates, but then neither did my brother or other sister either. They were too mature and would not be treated like the baby.

We all got clothes at the same time, the same number of items for each of us, but seldom (never) the same quality or style. We'd have been equal if we had all gone to the same school and wore uniforms, which would have happened if we had actually become Catholics and gone to Catholic school, but (thankfully) that didn't happen. The same amount of money was spent on birthdays and Xmas until we reached high school for my brother and older sister and me and we began to develop different talents and tastes. Jimmy kept getting Hot Wheels cars and accessories and my sister and I outgrew dolls, moving into clothes for my sister and art supplies for me.

As we grew up and moved into our adult lives, birthdays and Xmas gifts remained the same dollar amount spent for each of us, or at least that is what I was told since I spent many birthdays and Xmases far away from the others. Mom made a point to assure me that I was treated the same as the other three even though I was clear across the country and they all remained close to home. At least Mom and Dad came to visit me in Utah when they drove to California to see Jimmy off on his first long distance Navy cruise or to discuss his wedding plans when he decided to get married to his girlfriend's best friend when his girlfriend turned him down. He was on a deadline and had to follow through and get married on his 23rd birthday even though he wasn't marrying the girl of his choice. He was following in Dad's footsteps no matter what. It didn't matter that Bobbie accepted him after he broke up with Leslie who had refused to marry him as long as Bobbie would marry him on his 23rd birthday. Nothing else mattered. One girl was as good as another. They were equal because they had been best friends, a fact he lived to regret a couple of decades later. I guess the equality tree didn't fall far from the designer of equality of outcome.

Mom's quality of outcome was evident in many facets of our lives. When she fostered several children as we grew up and went our own ways, Mom made sure her foster children got the same number and cost of presents for Jimmy and the boys who were fostered because they were nearly the same age as Jimmy and Tracy, the youngest. Mom broke her own rules when it came to graduation gifts -- sort of. She gave me her high school graduation ring when I graduated high school and bought Carol, Jimmy, and Tracy diamond rings when they graduated. She explained that she attached a lot of sentiment to her graduation ring and only had the one to give me, her first born, and substituted diamonds for the other three because they only cost money and there was no sentimental attachment to diamond rings (hah! which is why she bought so many diamonds for herself over the years). I also didn't get a car when I graduated because I had already bought my own car my junior year in high school, a car I shared with my sister even though my previous car was used for a down payment my sister never had to match with money from her own earnings. I also had to give the car to my sister when I married and graduated high school because my sister would have to drive herself to school and use it to get to her job. My new husband would have to provide me with a car or I'd have to use public transportation to get to work. My problems were for my husband to deal with.

The equality of outcome also included homework. Since I'd already had the classes that Jimmy and Carol were dealing with, I was ordered to do their homework so Jimmy and Carol would pass as well as I had. I refused. I would be glad to help them with their homework, but they would have to do the work for themselves. I was punished for refusing. After all, I couldn't take their exams for them and only they could earn their own grades with knowledge they had learned for themselves. Their grades were far below mine, but, like the parents who bought presents for my birthdays for their children, Mom couldn't force teachers to allow me to take their exams or give my siblings the grades Mom thought they should have to equal my own. The grades they got were their own just as Jimmy having to repeat a year when he was left back the year he flunked. Mom could only control so much and punish me when she lost control or the world and people refused to follow her rules. So much for equality when she couldn't control the outcome.

She could and did control equality of outcome when it came to discipline. Whatever my siblings did wrong, she punished me because I was the oldest and was responsible for what the siblings did -- or failed to do. When Jimmy and Carol were banned from the neighbors' yards, Mom refused to allow me to go into the neighbors' homes or play with their children. The neighbors' children finally allowed Carol and Jimmy to visit so that I would be allowed to visit. The neighbors knew the score and were willing to suffer the mayhem and damage my siblings would wreak so that I wouldn't be punished for their errors.

The neighbors took great pains to run interference whenever feasible, taking the blame or allowing my siblings to get off without punishment just so I wouldn't be punished when Mom spread the discipline around to include me, the oldest and the most responsible for not keeping the others from mischief and error.

I alone took the blame for my mistakes and the other three got no discipline or punishment when I was caught doing wrong -- or when Mom decided I was the one at fault even when I wasn't there. Knowing about a mistake was sufficient cause for the belt or the switch and for the grounding that followed.

When I showed my parents the many scholarships from colleges I received and the offers from three of the USA's military branches, I learned that not a penny would they spend to pay for college for me because Jimmy, six years behind me in school, had to come first because he would eventually get married and have a family to support. I could wait until I got married and go to college and let my husband support me. Jimmy was the most important because he was a male. I could expect nothing unless I earned it myself or married someone who could afford to pay for college. Equality of outcome ended where Jimmy was born as a male. Jimmy would never -- and did never -- go to college with his below C level grades. After Jimmy got out of the Navy, he managed to use his GI bill to pay for technical college to cover a degree on robotics and IT. I raised children and earned my way on my own. My husband couldn't afford college either and I was too old to use the scholarships I had been offered in high school.

The problem with equality of outcome was never just with my mom, but also with the idea that four siblings, one of which was adopted, would ever end up with the same quality of life and opportunity. It might have been better for me if my cousin, Jimmy, had been adopted before I was born, but his mother, my adopted father's other sister, reneged on her promise to give him up to Mom for adoption because she did not like and did not trust her brother's wife's snobby treatment of her or her brother. Since my birth mother was low on the family totem pole (a fact not discovered until I unearthed the fact that my birth mother was the result of an extra marital affair -- oops!), my fate was in someone else's hands and not hers, although she rectified that mistake when I was 16 and she became my confidante and champion. Mom's version of equality didn't sit well with her brother or her parents who treated me with love and care in spite of Mom's unequal treatment of me when compared to her birth children. My grandparents and my uncle did their best to stand up to Mom and treat me as though I were one of their own, a feeling not shared by their offspring who had their own views of equality and outcome that were not far different from Mom's.

When you pin your life and your views on equality of outcome, you should also be mindful of equity in that outcome. We are all born with our own gifts, drives, and abilities. We are not clones and not robots. Our experiences and what we bring to the global table are different, sometimes complementary, but always worthwhile when we pool our resources in a common outcome. Some will push us ahead faster and farther and some will be of no use -- often counterproductive. What we end up with will be determined by who helped and who were little more than hurdles to overcome or ignore.

My sisters and brother and I have arrived at different outcomes in this time and place. That is as it should be. Only when the bottom line is tallied will our input be measured and stored in the mind of the Cosmic Creator. We are the bits and bytes of data are part of the Universal All.

That is all. Disperse.

Review: The Best Kind of People by Zoe Whittall

In the last few months of senior year at the Avalon Hills prep school where her father, George, was a teacher and a hero for saving students from a gunman, Sadie Woodbury watched as her father is removed from their home in handcuffs. It must be a mistake. The police are wrong. They must be. Her father, the best man in the world, whose family created the prep school and parceled up their land so Avalon Hills was born, cannot be the man police described as they read her father his rights, handcuffed him, walked him out to the cop car, put him inside, and drove him away. Her mother, a nurse, was in shock. Sadie, watching her hero, father, and teacher disappear from sight couldn't get it through her head that the same man -- her father -- hero of the town, celebrated, loving, and willing to take down a gunman intent on killing children at his school could possibly be the same one that girls from her school had accused of sexual impropriety during their last ski outing. Sadie's head was still whirling from her brand new love with Jimmy, her first ever sexual encounter -- was it moments or years before? -- whirling now from shock, anger, and disbelief. How is this possible? It had to be a mistake or the girls (there were girls) her father had been sexually involved with? Somewhere along the way, her whole family had fallen through an insane rabbit hole and ended up in bizarro land. 

George Woodbury's life and his family were in shock. How could this be? According to their lawyer -- and the Woodbury's son, who had become a lawyer and lived in New York -- George would have to stay in jail at least until Tuesday, after the long weekend, when he would appear before a judge and the case against him would be dismissed because it wasn't true. George would not be arraigned, no bail would be set, and he would be back home with his family and return to his life. Alexander was certain of that. 

Zoe Whittall's novel would be barely a couple of chapters if George Woodbury was the victim of a colossal mistake like being wrongfully accused of another man's abuse and misuse of 13-year-old girls under his care on a ski trip. Whittall is a better author than that. She would not drag the reader through an emotional rollercoaster for nothing. Would she? 

Having been present when police took my father away from an anniversary family celebration in cuffs and accusing him of exposing himself in a public park and running from the police, which ramped up the severity of misdemeanor flashing to felony flight, made my interest in The Best Kind of People personal and my fascination with the subject and the emotional fallout acute as I dove head first into the novel. I was not disappointed . . . at first . . . and plunged into the Woodbury family's emotional cauldron as the waters heated up. 

I understood Jimmy's mother's boyfriend's interest in writing about the Woodbury tragedy from Sadie's perspective, not just because she was living with them and he had access to the whole family's pain and distress, but because as a writer I sympathize with the urge to get closer to the fire and risk getting burned if I get the story on paper. I didn't expect Alexander to be gay and having his first gay sexual encounter with a teacher and coach, but the only gay people I knew were salesmen and workers at the shoe store where I first worked and sex wasn't a common break room topic while sipping a Pepsi or eating a microwave burger. I had no experience of living in an exclusive community or going to prep school. My life was middle class all the way down the line. I was as eager to get to the heart of the matter as Jimmy was to write about it. My only peephole was through the eyes of those most closely associated with the family through Whittall's words. 

During the months that George was in jail, the family were roasted slowly over a barbecue, basted with regret, disdain, outrage, fear, and acceptance. Sadie's mom was anxious to put their house on the market and use the money to pay George's lawyer since the family bank accounts held far less than she imagined. Where had the money gone? 

It is never easy reading about, much less being involved, in a close knit family's destruction, especially for so little payoff. The ending seemed far too convenient and George never did get a chance to respond to the allegations nor were the allegations more than stories told by a group of girls bullied into adding their stones to the pile ready for brandishing. The individual stories about the Woodbury family were engrossing, surprising, and fascinating, but were less than equal to the rest of the story about what George Woodbury did while chaperoning barely pubescent girls on a school ski trip. Reading The Best Kind of People was rather lacking in sound and fury -- and answers -- in the long run. I give Zoe Whittall's novel 3.5 stars out of 5 for the end result . . . and lack thereof. A 21st century version of Ordinary People which fizzles like waterlogged fireworks. 

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Rejected for Reviewing

I am a professional reviewer, having worked for AuthorLink for nearly 10 years, and a consumer reviewer since nothing is purchased without someone emailing to know what I thought of their product, service, or opinions. I have reviewed several books for NetGalley over the years and haven denied access to books to read and review, but this is the first time I have been rejected and specifically asked to apply for access again. No such option is available to me on the NetGalley website. The FAQs mentioned that I could request the book from the publisher, which I have just done, but I thought I'd put my opinions out in the world for everyone to read, learn, or comment about. Why not? Is this world not a connected world where all opinions are debated, denied, calumnized, and laughed at by everyone? I might just get my wish to read an advance copy on my Kindle reader to see whether or not I will enjoy The Rules of Magic as much as I enjoyed Practical Magic or the numerous other books I have read by Alice Hoffman, even books I didn't think I would like and discovered I thoroughly enjoyed.

Hoffman is a consistently good author and her subject matter of practical magic for the characters in her books is endlessly fascinating without the over hyped sexual aspect of paranormal books and authors dabbling in the paranormal genre over the past few decades. In spite of my personal views of PDAs and the avoidance thereof, Hoffman does not go that route with her books or her characters and I do like that.

Simon and Schuster is one of the Big Six Publishers that many indie and Big-6 published writers deal with when they decide to enter the publishing world, but I will have to wait until some unknown publicist for this book here in the USA decide to read and respond to my query regarding an advance copy. Until then, I will continue to plan on reading the book when it is published in October or contact one of my contacts to do me a favor. Either way, I will of course get the book, read it, and review it here or wherever (Amazon, Good Reads, newspapers, magazines, or here on my own blog) and whenever I may. That's life and the way the pages fall.

This rejection is not the end and I still have other authors to fill my time in the meantime and beyond until this 3rd density existence is either upgrade by the Cosmic Sneeze or the Grim Reaper comes for me at length.

I wonder. Will I be able to read books -- or care about them -- when I have ascended?

That is all. Disperse.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Who Was First?

While watching an episode of First Nations, I was surprised to see stories about the Kennewick man, a prehistoric hunter-gatherer whose grave was disturbed and the bones given to a local museum, which keeps the bones under several layers of security to keep Native peoples from stealing the bones and returning them to their 9000+ year-old earth as determined by the native peoples demanding the bones be reburied so the man's spirit (manitou) can rest and return to its sacred place among "the ancestors"? 

The point of the episode was to determine who was first to make a home on American, North and South, soil. Really? Does it make a difference that there were people who came across the land bridge from Asia to the Americas as the ice-bound pathways were opened up or if they came by boat along the coast? Whether the people were from the Ainu or whatever genetic makeup to make the Americas home does not really matter, except in the egos of those with the need to be first in a pissing contest that has been going on for centuries, millennia really. According to scientists who ruled the Kennewick man not to be of the same genetic makeup of the native peoples now living in the northwest of the North American continent, but likely of the Ainu or Asian born people along the eastern part of the Asian continent is just another pissing contest, at least until a geneticist in Copenhagen proved that the Kennewick man has some genetic similarity to modern Pacific northwest native peoples though there is a marked difference in skull shape and physical features as demonstrated by an artist rendering using the Kennewick man's skull which looks not at all like modern Pacific Northwest native peoples. I'm certain the native representatives who flew all the way to Copenhagen to see how DNA was extracted from the body of a man buried over 9000 years ago were pleased when the scientist said Kennewick man was from a similar gene pool as the native representatives claiming his bones are from their ancestor and should be reburied according to their customs and practices held sacred by their people. 

What puzzles me is how much genetic material also matched the modern day Ainu people as well as modern Pacific northwestern native peoples. There was a whole section on how Kennewick man was stronger and heavier than modern native people from the Pacific northwest, which is not surprising since it is doubtful modern native people engage much in hunting, tracking, and killing their prey for food.  Rather, the most exercise modern native people get is likely at the gym or whenever they hunt for clues among library stacks and talking with tribal elders about what they remember from oral histories of their people that go back generations. Native peoples might also trot out their hunting and gathering gear for the community potlatch or celebrations for tourists or vacationers and might also practice so the natives appear authentic to modern audiences. What the scientist in Copenhagen found was beneficial for the native claims of ownership of the Kennewick man's bones when they go back to court to get a judge's verdict that they may rebury the ancient man's bones so that his spirit will rest in peace and in perpetuity. After all, they already believe the Kennewick man is their ancestor and now science has, at least for the purposes of the television episode, proven modern day natives and the Kennewick man come from the same genetic pool. In the pissing contest, looks like the natives win . . . at least for now and until the full results of genetic testing in Copenhagen are released. 

As for me, I believe the Kennewick man's spirit was gone into the Great Beyond many millennia ago and grinding his bones to extract DNA for testing is as moot as it was for the native representatives who held a native ceremony to honor Kennewick man's sacrifice of his bones to be ground up and DNA extracted. 

I believe that the First Nation peoples or Native Americans, whenever they arrived in North America, are still the descendants of Cain.  Yes, that Cain from the Judeo-Christian stories about Adam and Eve and the death of Abel by Cain. Cain was given a mark to point him out to the rest of the people on the Earth and, after much digging, I discovered the mark was being unable to grow a beard, a beard being the hallmark of men proving their right to be men. In fact, modern day Muslims still view a man without a beard as feminine and not yet a man because he has not yet reached the age when facial hair grows in perfusion. Imagine, with a belief that a man's virility and masculinity is manifested by growing a beard, how men who cannot grow beards no matter their age and virility would be viewed -- as feminine and thus not having attained the stature of men. 

By following the trail of beardless men around the world and discovering where their presence and interbreeding have left genetic traces among the indigenous people, we can also follow the trail of where the men descended from Cain and carrying their beardless genes point. The problem is that science and most historians do not and have not (at least those who publish their findings) followed the trail of Cain. According to writings left by men, the descendants of Cain lived in South and Central America and were clustered around the civilizations that grew up near the Mexican Teotihuanaco, but what do ancient writings and stories count for in modern times? Not much if the stories and the data match up and prove an inconvenient truth. Historians, archaeologists, and scientists have ruined their careers over carbon dating that proves data that are inconsistent with the accepted mainstream story regurgitated by established protocol. 

Archaeologists like Brien Foerster have been churning out data and proof that has smeared egg all over the established scientific regurgitators who in turn have called Foerster's findings ludicrous, ridiculous, and insane. Good thing, Foerster sticks by where the data leads instead of what establishment shills regurgitate. 

Does it matter who did what first when there is no pissing contest and no establishment prize to vie for? 

The more I read and research, the more I find that anomalous data is leaking out all over the place. I feel a bit like Sam from the Night's Watch who destroyed a White Walker with a dragonglass dagger where no one saw him and who looks beyond the end of his nose to recover the secret of treating Grey Scale and curing Jorah Mormont of the dread and highly communicable disease. Sometimes you have to walk away from what you thought you wanted in order to discover the correct path to enlightenment.  

As a child, I spoke out against seasoned establishment historians when I espoused the idea of world wide trade and communication between the continents and the trading of information and building techniques of pyramids that are found in every continent around the world. I also pointed to the megalithic ruins along the coastline of South America that depicted black people having settled in South America. I championed the diffusion theory of why there are pyramids on every continent while the establishment regurgitators maintained pyramids were discovered and built spontaneously by every civilization out of a desire to imitate Nature; they built pyramids because Nature demonstrated that wind and the elements created pyramids that mankind decided to mimic. Anything else was pure poppycock, like black people sailing across the Atlantic Ocean and landing in South America to build cities and statues that looked like black people from Africa. Nothing else was possible. Evidently these regurgitators also pooh-poohed Thor Heyerdahl's crossing from Africa to South America in a papyrus boat as well. After all, Heyerdahl was a modern man and ancient man was less sophisticated and technologically lacking than Heyerdahl. Tell that to the red-headed and blonde-haired Polynesians with white skin who traveled from Persia (modern day Iraq) to South America and thence to New Zealand where their descendants still live. 

Moana a new Disney movie illustrates that the Maori were voyagers who came to Easter Island and the islands in the Pacific Ocean, stayed a long time, and were finally roused out of their comfort zone and back onto the voyaging ships and outriggers that carried them throughout the Pacific Ocean to begin civilizations through the Pacific Islands from New Zealand. If Disney can learn from the past then so can modern man even if they are scientists and historians who have been regurgitating the establishment version for their whole academic lives. 

Moana, an 8-year-old Maori girl and the fantasy Disney studios attempted to cash in on is not the point. The point is that DNA proves that people from Persia/Iraq sailed to the Atlantic side of South America, trekked across the continent, and launched from the Pacific side of South America to leave their statues and stories of red-hatted and yellow-hatted Moai (gods) behind which historians are just beginning to figure out although the proof has been in front of them for hundreds of years. These red- and yellow-haired white-skinned Polynesians were part of the world wide web of travel and trade that carried the pyramids around the world and likely also carried the descendants of Cain who was cast out beardless to wander across Europe and Asian and then to the American continents to leave their DNA and their generations behind. 

Who was first? The intrepid adventurer who was obeying some collective impulse generated by the morphic field/source field of the planet or an over-weaning curiosity that kept the adventurer moving ever forward into the unknown. 

That is all. Disperse. 

Tuesday, August 08, 2017


Enough is a difficult concept for humans. What we see is what we want . . . for now.

Much of our desire for more starts with our parents and what they modeled for us. We as children do not take the time or have the experience to understand that they did not get what they had overnight or as children unless they were born into wealth and privilege. Parents have to grow up and obtain what they have by the time they have children . . . at least in families where children arrived once the parents had found jobs, each other, and then had children. That situation is different for each family when many children are born to unmarried mothers and raised by their grandparents, aunts, or the system. Children of poor parents are raised with the reality that their needs are provided by the government through welfare or the generosity of their grandparents who may also be on government subsidies, social security they earned and put into every paycheck or continued on welfare from their childhood until they were old enough to sign up for social security when they reached the appropriate age. If social security followed welfare, there may be only the minimum rate since they either did not work or did not earn enough because they did not work enough.

Whether children grow up in middle class or lower class families, what their caregivers (parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, or foster parents) have and what they teach the children is what the child carries into their adult life. Often the behavior is plenty at the beginning of the month petering out to little or nothing at the end of the month. Every month is feast and famine depending on the time of the month and the spending habits of the guardians.

In middle class families, children are brought up with their guardians' attitudes and behaviors about spending and that varies with their guardians' attitudes and behaviors and how they were brought up and what they achieved in their lifetimes.

In the USA where the prevailing attitude comes from the idea that the USA is all about profit, often at any cost and no matter who it helps or harms as long as there is profit.  Once again, it is feast or famine. Movies do not help generally since movies are all about the rewards and benefits of the end result -- love, relationships, family, children, success.  Success is measured in profit. No matter how one gets to the reward, everything, outside of religious beliefs, and often due to religious beliefs rooted in the system of reward and punishment, the bottom line is much like a version of Santa Claus's naughty and nice list. Naughty and nice sounds a great deal like reward and punishment where the end result is presents under the tree or in the stockings or a lump of coal, possibly even nothing if the child's parents are poor, have no credit cards, and live on the dole (government handouts).

No matter the situation, when you're a child there is never enough. Parents either lavish their children with presents or favor one child over the others, creating sibling rivalry and unhappiness. Enough for one or two is very little or low quality for the child who does not enjoy the parents' favor.

When I was a child, my younger siblings were favored more than I was because I was adopted from a mother who was less successful and less class-wise than my adoptive parents. When I learned I was adopted at the age of 10 and my mother was revealed the difference in what I received versus what my brother and sisters got finally made sense. Until the age of 10, the differences were not as obvious as they became after I was told I was chosen and hadn't been foisted on my parents by the luck of the draw -- or so the newspaper clippings about children who discovered they were adopted (chosen) demonstrated when the news was dropped in my lap. Not only did I not look like my younger siblings, but I was actually their cousin. My mother was my adoptive father's younger sister who gave me up so my adoptive parents, who were better off financially, could give me so much more than my birth mother could afford. My birth mother thought she was making certain I would have a good life full of the things she could not give me. Nothing was farther from the truth.

The fact is that I was the second one of my adoptive father's sisters who was pregnant and in difficult circumstances. The relationship -- or lack of a relationship -- between his wife and his older sister was not good and the sister reneged on her promise to give up her young daughter and newborn son  to her sister-in-law even after the daughter and son had lived with my adoptive parents for a little while. Their mother demanded her children back and that was the end of children for her brother's wife who was unable to bear a living child after a couple of miscarriages during the first 5 years of their marriage.

Lo and behold, another sister turned up on their doorstep, newly divorced and riding the back of her oldest brother's motorcycle, having come all the way from Michigan to Columbus, Ohio pregnant and without sufficient education and resources to provide for the coming child. She, however, was willing to give up her unborn child when it was born in exchange for staying with her brother and sister-in-law who promised to pay for all of her medical bills when the child was born. She progressed from salad girl at a local restaurant to student at a secretarial school and eventually to an unwed divorcee with marketable skills and a future as a secretary. Her future prospects had changed, but she gave her word to her brother and was a woman of her word. After all, the couple had paid for her schooling, gave her room and board during her time in Columbus, and paid all of her medical bills while her pregnancy continued. Her word was her bond and, despite what her older sister said about her experiences and taking back her own children from her sister-in-law, she was going to follow through. What choice did she have?

Even though she met a man who wanted to marry her and was determined to be a good father to her child if she would keep the child and go back on her promise, she was going to keep her promise and give her child up to her brother and sister-in-law so that they could finally have a child of their own. After 5 years of disappointment and miscarriages, things did not look good for her sister-in-law to have a child of her own. Maybe adopting her child and giving that child all they could provide would give her sister-in-law a child she could lavish her love on and make her brother and his wife happy at last. They could be a family at last.

The oldest brother who brought her to Columbus to live was also married and wanted to adopt her child when it was born. He and his wife did not have any children yet and wanted to offer her child family and love, but her brother was unreliable in her eyes. He was less stable than the brother to whom she had promised her child and with whom she lived. The oldest brother, Don, rode motorcycles and did hill climbing races on his motorcycle. He was reckless even though he usually won, but reckless could also mean dead one day. Her other brother, Jim, was in the Army and reliable, the kind of man who would not end up dead falling down a muddy hill off his motorcycle or from a knife or gunshot wound if one of his fights ended badly. She was glad for all that Jim had done and felt good about giving her child to Jim and his snooty wife. They would provide her child with everything a child could want and they had so much love to give. Why else would they have turned to adoption if there was any other choice.

Ginny's doctor said that often adopting a child would help the mother get pregnant with her own child because all the pressure was off while frantically trying to get pregnant. Ginny would gain a mother's love and might end up with a child of her own after her child was born and Ginny satisfied her need to be a mother by mothering the child she carried. Her fiance tried to convince her to keep her child, thank Jim and Ginny for their help, and he would help pay them back for all they had done for her when she arrived pregnant, insufficiently educated, and alone without a job or skills to support them both.

She felt she owed Jim and Ginny and she had promised. She could have more children with her fiance after they were married while Ginny could not have children at all. They had done so much for her, helped her to secure a better future, and had paid for her schooling and her medical bills. She would keep her word and Jim and Ginny would finally have a child to love and care for.

She went through with the plan, denied Don her girl child, married her fiance shortly after she landed a good secretarial job. The die was cast and she would still be a part of her daughter's life. Ginny and Jim promised as much.

Life continued. She eventually got pregnant and gave her new husband a son, saw her new daughter whenever Jim and Ginny were in town, either to see her family or when they were stationed in Columbus, and watched her daughter grow up among Ginny's own children, two girls and a boy (at last).  Children followed her daughter's birth. Ginny got pregnant on her daughter's first birthday and delivered a daughter 9 months later. Five years later, Ginny delivered the son she always wanted and 10 years after her daughter's birth a second daughter was born a few days before her daughter's tenth birthday. That year, 1965, Ginny had to have a hysterectomy and could have no more children, throwing Ginny into menopause and ending the ability to get pregnant again. Ginny still wanted more children and fostered a few more children, mostly boys, but a brother and sister when her youngest daughter and son were teenagers. The brother and sister, two of a family of four siblings who went into the system and were fostered out, were nearly the same age as Ginny's two children. Everything seemed fine. Her daughter graduated high school, got pregnant, and married at 18, following her new husband from post to post as she had followed Jim and Ginny while growing up. Her daughter's husband was Air Force, but evidently the uniform was what caught her fancy and not the branch of military.

This narrative is about enough, but what leads up to what constitutes enough in my case is born of how I was raised.

I was born of a poor mother I didn't know until I was 10. By that time, my mother (who I was raised to believe was my aunt) had become a woman of means. Her husband was a butcher for Kroger's and a sheriff on the weekends while she was the secretary of the manger of an apartment complex. She handled all the administrative work in the rental office and managed the maintenance staff, a far cry from the Bliss Business College graduate who was engaged and recently gave birth to me.

My adoptive parents were successful. Dad was in Admin in the Army and had been an interpreter working in the JAG (judge advocate general's office) traveling all over Europe and had been stationed in Panama at Fort Gulick when I was in 2nd grade. Mom didn't work when we were stationed overseas, but did work when we lived in the USA. She was also the child of a very wealthy man who, through alcohol and infidelity, had lost all of his money. Grandpa went to work for the State of Ohio in mental health, working on the Hilltop in the men's ward on Broad Street. His wife went to work for the State and worked second shift at the women's facility in the secured ward at the same facility in the older building where the doors were always locked and the patients secured.

Mom had been brought up in a small northern Ohio town where Grandpa was the sheriff, the mayor, and the biggest property owner in town. He owned several businesses, one of which was a coal company where his brother, Homer, worked delivering coal for years until the business was sold to pay debts just as the residential use for coal dwindled. Mom had everything she wanted because her parents gave her everything, which was not surprising since her elder brother, Jack, died in 1950 from leukemia and her younger sister, Joan, was a ward of the State and lived in state institutions until the mid-1970s when state institutions dumped their residents into the population to either live in group homes or with their families. Aunt Joan ended up living with Grandpa and Grandma. Mom's other brother, Bob, had already married and made a life for himself as a machinist working for a big government contractor. Mom, however, continued to be spoiled by her parents as the "oldest" child and took full advantage of her parents' generosity, sometimes living with our family when we were stationed in the US and while Mom was pregnant with my brother, Jimmy, but not when we moved back to the US and were stationed in Virginia where Tracy, the boy who was born a girl before Mom's hysterectomy.

Until I was 10, the first of Mom's children, Carol Sue, and I got exactly the same gifts. Mom was convinced that she should make sure we each had the same no matter what our preferences were. Everything was duplicated, one for each of us. The dolls were either blonde like Carol or brunette like me, but otherwise were the same doll in every other detail.

Everything changed when I was told I was adopted. In spite of the sheaf of newspaper clippings about adopted children (then adults) were from the perspective that the adopted felt they had the best kind of life available. Many of them said the same things, they were chosen by their parents not the result of whatever was given by the pregnancy lottery as the luck of the draw. Mom had told me the same thing, "We chose you out of all the children because we wanted you." It wasn't until many years later that I found out they had almost adopted two other children, cousins like me, who had lived with them until my birth mother showed up pregnant and promised to give me up when I was born. When I found out, it finally made sense that those children were the favorites because for a time they had lived with my parents before Aunt Edith took them back. All of my life, Mom had favored them over me just as she favored her own biological children over me.

My sense of self and views about life were drawn from the feast and famine situation where the feast began when I was born and was replaced by famine after discovering I was adopted. I was taught a reward versus punishment system where I was punished for not being hers and only rewarded when her own children were rewarded and I was allowed whatever was left. I was the first punished when her children were bad because I was the oldest and should watch over and take care of her children. I was praised whenever I won awards and accolades at school, but was not paid for my grades as the others were because paying for my grades would bankrupt my parents. I was told I should understand because I was the oldest and always made good grades. I couldn't understand how 10 cents for an A and a nickel for a B would bankrupt my parents since the list of subjects being graded was seldom more than a dollar. Of course, my siblings were rewarded with money because their grades were Cs, Ds, and Fs and Fs were never paid. Punishment and grounding followed Fs and I was ordered to help them with their schoolwork (do their work when essays and writing were part of the assignment). I refused to do their work since I argued, "They will learn nothing and won't be able to pass tests if I do the work for them." I couldn't -- and wouldn't -- take their tests for them anyway. Mom relented at last.

Mom's plan for keeping things equal failed long before I was told I was adopted because she couldn't control what friends would buy for me when it was my birthday. Instead, Mom decreed that Carol Sue would get duplicate gifts and I would keep one of the duplicates for my own since it was my birthday. As we got older and there were fewer birthday parties, Mom denied my birth mom the right to buy anything for me unless she also bought gifts for my siblings so everything would be equal. The only gift I got from my birth mom, Aunt Anne, was Heidi by Johanna Spyri and the electric rollers she bought me on my 16th birthday. Luckily, I only got one set of electric rollers. She bought Carol Sue her own set of electric rollers the following week. Everything was supposed to be equal even though Carol Sue's birthday was until November and mine was in February.

The only time I got a Christmas gift that wasn't the same as Carol Sue's, or cost more than Jimmy and Tracy's gifts, was when I received an easel and paints when I was about 14. I had learned to draw and painted (watercolor and oils) and Mom decided I had some talent. I learned I could draw when I was in the 4th grade and saved the comics from the Sunday paper every week to draw the comics that interested me. I took art in high school and earned a scholarship to the Art Academy when I was in junior high school. I copied paintings at museums and those few hanging in our home and gave away a ship I painted to my junior high school vice-principal when I drew his name to be his Christmas Angel.

I planned to study art in college, but was told that wasn't allowed because artists don't make enough to support a family and I should set my sights on getting married to someone who could afford to support a family because otherwise I would never make it. Good thing I already had a job in data processing when I was informed I wasn't going to college since Mom's first priority was making sure there was enough money so my brother, 6 years behind me in school, could go to college as he would have a family to support.

I had also planned to be writer until Mom searched my room and found my journal, punishing me for everything in the journal she didn't approve of and she didn't approve of much, especially the days I ranted about how she treated me and punished me for my siblings' mistakes which I had not caught and stopped before they were discovered and my parents had to pay for whatever they stole or damaged.

Maybe it was a good thing I got pregnant the first time I had sex and got married soon after being discovered because I had at least managed to find someone to support me even if Mom took my hard earned life savings to pay for the wedding even as she vetoed the white dress I picked out. Since I was not a virgin, I had no right to wear white, but white was all J.C. Penney had and I bought it. She rectified the white dress by sewing purple ribbon on the cuffs and around the neck so everyone in church who thought I was a virgin would know I was already a fallen woman. Mom swore up and down every time the subject came up that she did not sew purple ribbon on the dress until I dug out the dress and handed it to her. The purple ribbons were faded, but quite obviously still purple. "I don't remember doing that," she said. "You must have done it later."

I got Mom's plain gold class ring from when she graduated from high school as my big gift. Carol Sue, Jimmy, and Tracy all got cars and diamond rings for wedding presents. Carol Sue also got a bedroom set to help Carol Sue and her new husband furnish their brand new house. But at least I had Mom's prize possession, her class ring.

When my husband and I asked my parents to help us with the down payment for our first house, Mom said no. Carol Sue, Jimmy, and Tracy were all helped when they went to buy their first homes. Mom even gave Grandma's house to Jimmy and his wife even though Grandma had given it to me. When they sold the house, the money they earned they used as a down payment on their next house. Meanwhile, I never bought a house and we lived from paycheck to paycheck with our three children, except for the time we lived in base housing.

The point of all this is that I never believed I had enough. I always wanted more. I wanted what my parents had. I wanted my own home and we could never afford the down payment on a house. My husband's parents nearly lost their house when his mother failed to make the mortgage payments because she spent the money on herself. His dad had to work extra hard to pay the back payments and get back on track; they couldn't afford to help us when they had to protect what they already had with three young daughters still in school and living at home.

Growing up with a feast/famine attitude, I never had enough. With 2 divorces behind me, I kept the feast/famine attitude long after the kids were grown and gone. I never had enough when I could finally afford it, going into debt to get everything I wanted since all I had was what I could earn. Since my career went into the toilet with what I could earn because no one was paying much for trained and educated workers since much of the work could now be done with minimal human input, it's a good thing I don't need much.

I have finally reached the point where I do not need much, outside of unprocessed food and well water. I make enough to get by, but I have more than enough from my accumulation phase. Instead, my needs are simple, good, clean, organic food which I grow myself when the weather is good, and clean well water without fluoridation or additives. Since I have my own well, I also don't get the insufficiently processed city water full of anti-depressants, mood elevators, and narcotics that are part of the city water that is full of such Big Pharma drugs that have gone undigested through people's digestive systems and have been excreted in urine. The reclamation of gray water is not fine enough to eradicate these drugs from the water and is not part of every city's water system, continuing to treat those who do not drink bottled water that still contains water from such contaminated sources and marked as coming from springs and soft drink bottling companies that are not regulated or tested frequently and accurately enough. After all, the point is profit and not truthful marketing and advertising.

Good thing I have enough. Bad thing that the average consumer is still a slave to the easy credit and highly processed (or inadequately monitored and tested) food and drink where the bottom line is still profit at all costs. Forget about people who own stock in food and drink companies/corporations. It's not like it is in the movies, like Solid Gold Cadillac, where some nice person is involved in shareholder relations and cares about them and what the company does with its money and how much it pays the board. We long ago reached the point where shareholders and board members cared about consumers -- the average consumer -- and what their products do as long as they make a profit in a world where there is never enough. Ask Donald Trump, Obama, and Bill Gates who much of their wealth they put back into circulation and give to the poor, ill, and destitute. There is never enough.

That is all. Disperse.