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


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.


Monday, August 07, 2017

The Effect of Poppies



I was recently told by a Muslim that I had been banned by the UWI, an Israeli site that speaks out for what happens in Israel and to Israel on the world stage. I have decided to unsubscribe from the site that I have supported and commented on for years because I wanted to decrease the amount of violence and Islamic hatred that stems from the comments from Islamists in their intransigence to accept and make peace with Israel. The whole world has been caught up in this struggle to mediate peace while supporting the violence, bombings, and hatred of Islam and Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) for decades. So many leaders have spoken out and have offered to mediate between Palestinian leaders and Israel since Israel was declared a sovereign country after the British gave up their claim to the land that has been the homeland of the Israelites since they made their exodus from Egypt more than 2500 years ago. 

I found out that my email address, and consequently me, has never been banned from UWI and the the Muslim who told me so was lying to me. I didn't care about what he said, because I had not seen the message banning me because I had already unsubscribed for the reasons I described above. The only reason I questioned the banning was in order to address the reasons for the banning and make right whatever I had done wrong to end up being banned. I see now the banning was all in his mind and he was seeking to drive a wedge between UWI and me so that I would also end up hating and demonizing them. It's the same type of thing that Islamic nations have done for decades to help engender sympathy for the Palestinian cause in order to get the world to see Israel is evil and Palestinians are being punished for their sins of struggling with the Jews when nothing is farther from the truth. 

The Palestinian people are Muslims and Arabs who have been marginalized by the Islamic nations because they needed a thorn to stick in Israel's side and to garner the world's pity for their victimization. Had the Palestinians any moral right to be called Palestinians then Israel would not have been an obstruction or a problem, but the Palestinians are the refuse of wretched teeming shores of Islamic Middle East countries who have taken up residence in land that was called by the Romans more than 2000 years ago Palestine and existed as the remainders of Israeli land when Israel existed and was called Palestine by Romans. That is the problem with languages; they all have different words for the same things. Pan is bread in Italian, the modern day equivalent of Roman language which was once called Latin which is now given to the Americas to describe the difference between the Spanish and Portuguese-speaking peoples of South America, also known as Latin America in modern parlance where you can buy bread at the panederia (bread store) in countries where Spanish is spoken, like Panama where I once lived as a child when my father was stationed at Fort Gulick in the Canal Zone, a US protectorate until Panama was given back to the Panamanians and the Canal Zone was finally under Panamanian control and not US control. The only reason the US had control was because the people from the US helped to finish the canal between the Atlantic Ocean and the Pacific Ocean by controlling the yellow fever-spreading mosquitoes that flourished in the area and made it impossible for the European powers to cleave the geographically small bit of land between North and South America and provide a shorter route to the west and east coasts of the USA. The trip around the Cape (southernmost tip of South America) was longer and more dangerous than cutting through Panama when the canal was finally completed. 

Yes, crossing the United States from California to the ports on the east coast were faster, but at the time of the gold rush, the continental US had to be crossed by wagon trains, stages, and horses and there were hostile natives to battle to get the gold from west to east. A voyage through the Panamanian canal was still faster and safer once it was built.

The hostile natives called the land belonging to the United States something else in their own language and contested with the US government and their treaties by attacking wagon trains, stages, and riders on horseback when crossing lands that could've once been tribal lands belonging to the hostile natives or land set aside for the natives by US government decree as they moved the natives from their fruitful lands of the east coast to make room for settlements, homes, towns, and cities built by the European immigrants who wanted the fertile bottom land and land close to ports and shipping lanes for themselves. The European immigrants were seeking their fortune in the newly formed United States when they either fled war or persecution for religious, political, and class-based reasons. One might call them the wretched refuse of Europe's teeming shores yearning to be free as is inscribed on the gift France gave to the United States in the wake of their successful struggle for freedom from Britain. No doubt it was wishful thinking on France's part since centuries of warfare between France and Britain had resulted in change of ownership of disputed lands granted as dowry in marriage contracts or conquered in battles that stretched for centuries between the two countries. No wonder France and Britain were among the European nations that built their empires by claiming lands in spots spanning the globe, including the land that is presently called Israel in the Middle East where the remains of Hitler's Final Solution went to live with the consent of the world's nations that agreed to let the Jewish people finally go to their millennia-old home, the land of milk and honey that Yahweh, the invisible god of the Israelites, promised to them and that finally the Christian nations agreed to when the Israelites won from Britain the right to keep their homeland and bring the Jewish people home at last.

The Jews were limited by Britain's rules to how many Jews could immigrate to Israel sparking the struggle for freedom and the right to decide how many Jews would be allowed to immigrate for themselves. The Jews fought the Arabs who refused to allow Jews in their midst in their own homeland and surrounded Israeli soldiers and were determined to defeat them and exterminate the last Jews to bother them. The Arabs were less successful in fighting them face to face than they had been in providing Hitler with the solution to the Jewish problem by being the architects of the Final Solution. The Germans provided the death camps and the gas chambers by rounding up the Jews and sending them to their deaths with their famed efficiency, but the Arabs were the architects of the plan provided for German ingenuity and dispatch that created the Holocaust that exterminated 6 million Jews and nearly 10 million Christians and 4 million gypsies, what the Germans considered as subhumans to be removed from their Aryan Master Race. Neither the Germans nor the Arabs have been successful in eradicating the Jewish people. Is it any wonder the Arabs deny the Holocaust and Hitler's failure to establish his thousand-year Reich that would dominate the world? The Muslims under the Ottomans failed without the need to provide a homeland for the remaining Jews when they sought to create world wide Islamic theocracy and convert the people of the world to Islam once and for all. I imagine their failure is all part of their denial of the Holocaust, especially since they failed to convert the world in their Ottoman colonial phase.

Britain allowed the Jews to go home in reparation for not preventing the Holocaust and defeating Hitler before 6 million Jews were exterminated and their wealth distributed to the conquering Nazis or complicit Europeans who failed to see the danger before Hitler gained power. The British could care less about the 10 million Christians and the 4 million gypsies; they had destroyed many times over those numbers during their wars, transportation of unwanted people, and colonization of wealthy lands in their heydey back when the sun never set on the British Empire. Allowing the Jews to occupy their homeland was a small price to pay. The Arabs wouldn't like it and would fight to the death to eradicate the Jews since their Final Solution failed to pan out with Hitler, but nothing much would change as long as the world could be brought to see that Israel and the Jews were still unwanted even if the United Nations recognized Israel. Once again, the United Nations recognized Israel as a sop to their conscience in the wake of World War II and helped create the country when they mandated a partition of the British protectorate of Palestine to create 2 countries: one Arab and one Jewish with Jerusalem belonging to the world and partitioned between Islam and Israel.

There is no wonder there is conflict between the Arabs and Jews. The conflict began when Abraham didn't believe his barren wife, Sarai/Sarah, would become pregnant and bear his son. That's why Sarah urged Abraham take to his bed, Hagar, her Egyptian handmaiden, so she could succeed where Sarah could not during all their long years of marriage. Hagar proved to be fertile in her youth and bore Ishmael, Abraham's first son by birth. Sarah also became pregnant and bore Abraham's first legal son, Isaac, the patriarch of the Jews and the first of Abraham's offspring. Hagar eventually left Abraham's tribe with an Egyptian soldier, taking Ishmael with her and Yahweh's promise to make Abraham's descendants as numerous as grains of sand in the desert. Yahweh's prediction for Abraham's offspring has provided this world with numerous Arabs from Ishmael's seed determined to exterminate Isaac's seed, the Jews, as half-brothers often do when legacies are to be won. The brothers contend over who will win. The Arabs believe that since Ishmael is the first son of Abraham, they should win, ignoring the fact that Ishmael may be the oldest son, but not the first legal and recognized son of Abraham. If all of Isaac's children can be destroyed, Ishmael will win by default. It's not Ishmael's fault that Sarah and Abraham didn't believe Yahweh's promise to give Abraham a son by Sarah, but Abraham's fault for taking Hagar to bed and impregnate her when Sarah urged her handmaiden on Abraham to soothe her own failure to give Abraham a son. If anyone should pay for the mistake in failing to believe Yahweh it is Sarah for doubting, Abraham for giving in to Sarah's plan and Hagar for being fertile. If only...?

If Sarah had gotten pregnant earlier and hadn't offered her slave to Abraham to bed or Hagar had refused to couple with Abraham or Abraham had refused the nubile slave, none of the struggle between the Jews and Arabs and the rest of the world would never have occurred and Israel would exist and flourish -- as it does already -- in peace and contentment, but human weakness and gods that did not provide a schedule for their predictions or specify dates and times end in errors of global proportions. Since the gods are flesh and share human weaknesses, even with their abilities to see the future, there will always be mistakes.

In the end, it's like strolling through a poppy field and becoming intoxicated on the effects of poisonous poppies. We all fall down. We all sleep. When we wake, danger awaits.

That is all. Disperse.

Sunday, August 06, 2017

Review: The Library of Light and Shadow by M. J. Rose


I've enjoyed M. J. Rose's novels, especially the more recent novels that delve into the occult and art, and find intriguing the journeys I make with Ms. Rose into what I thought was history carved deeply into marble. History is more than dates, battles, and details about the famous and infamous. History is as unfinished as art and just as surprising and awe inspiring.

As I began "The Library of Light and Shadow," I was reminded of a book I had recently read, "The Witch of Painted Sorrows," and was ensorceled once again. What began with the social whirl in post World War I New York encompassed so much more than was at first hinted at. Delphine, the artist in question, painted her subjects wearing a crimson blindfold while she sketched their secrets hidden in their souls and bringing them to life and light. The darkest secret lay within Delphine and not because she is a daughter of the cursed and haunted La Lune, a female artist who broke the chains of social etiquette and the second-hand life of women of a certain class. La Lune was so much more than being born as a woman and so much less than the daughter of courtesans.

Delphine's story begins and revolves around a life half lived based on fear -- fear of her talent, her family's legacy, and true love. While Delphine dons the crimson blindfold, she is blinded by fear and the inability to see those she loves in clear light. She fears her gift of bringing the unspeakable into the light almost as much as she fears a deep and all encompassing love she has run from Paris to protect.

Madame Calve', La Diva, a celebrated star of Opera who delves into the hidden secrets of alchemy and magic, approaches Delphine to find the "Book of Abraham" that was hidden by Nicholas Flamel somewhere in the castle she bought 30 years before, certain Delphine is the artist who works in shadows and can uncover the centuries old hiding place that has eluded her so long. Madame invites Delphine and Sebastian, her brother and manager to her castle to find where the book has been hidden.

For a week, Sebastian and Delphine, reside in Madame's Millau castle and strive to shine a light into the darkness surrounding Flamel's legacy, donning the scarlet blindfold to pierce the shadows and bring the past to light. In spite of her fears about what she will unleash, Delphine brings to light many hidden aspects of the castle, from a dungeon to a hidden library, but fails to discover Flamel's hidden tome. As the remaining time ticks down to the party Madame is hosting that will include Delphine's true and first love, Delphine gives into her passion and her desire to reunite with Matthieu, the love she ran from five years before when her gift showed her that she would be the death of him.

At first, I was certain that Delphine was running from Matthieu's already accomplished death. He was not dead. She had painted him blindfolded and envisioned that she would kill him and could not countenance his death by her hand. Matthieu was not dead and Delphine had not witnessed his death. She had merely seen his death at her hands and had run to New York City to make certain La Lune's curse would not find her. Delphine loved Matthieu so deeply that she was willing to walk away rather than let La Lune or her family's curse end him.

Delphine had been blinded when she was very young and her brother Sebastian had held her hand and protected her until her mother, a very powerful witch who had conquered La Lune's magic, restored her sight, and kindled the gift that allowed Delphine to use the blindfold in order to see the deepest secrets of her subjects' lives and bring them to the canvas. Her gift was as much a curse as a blessing as Delphine laid bare what she found as she saw beyond vision. One of her subjects committed suicide rather than allow her secrets to be so displayed.

Throughout the novel, "The Library of Light and Shadow," walks the fine line between curse and blessing, oftentimes never realizing Delphine, for all her talents and abilities, has never truly seen the truth. She remains blind and unprepared for what keeps hidden in broad daylight, flailing about until the light shines clearly and all of her assumptions and sacrifices have been in vain. M. J. Rose keeps the reader enthralled and appalled until the end. Truly a magical and and enthralling tale that will keep the reader guessing right up to the close. Rose brings art and the world in the aftermath of the War to End all Wars to life where every moment is as necessary as the brushstrokes that give reality to the unthinkable. Once again Rose brings brilliance to the shadows of turn-of-the-century art with magic that transcends history and reality. Rose never disappoints. 

Saturday, August 05, 2017

Age Decline or Discovering Health


I have been changing my body by changing my diet, preferring plant-based foods exclusively, especially considering how the corporate farming business keeps changing the food with antibiotics, steroids, and growth hormones, all of which have contributed significantly to the current obesity epidemic. That also does not include the way Monsanto and agribusiness have changed labeling so consumers do not know what they are getting. Canny consumers know that sugar can be listed as sucrose, dextrose, glucose, and variations of those to conceal that sugar has been used. Why not list sugar as sugar instead of hiding that you are using high fructose corn syrup to boost the sugar content? Now that people are becoming more aware of the dangers of high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) and avoiding products containing HFCS, agribusiness and corporate minds have decided to hide their light behind name changes and false advertising. After all, consumers want quick and easy and cannot always be bothered to keep up with the agribusiness trends.

What was once listed as free range has been changed to pasture raised when photos of "free range" chickens pent up in over crowded pens and eating their food from what looked to me like filthy, feces-stained pens that had no light and no access to fresh air. Free range consisted of what space was left between piled up cages that look much like chicken dungeons. The same is true of feed lot cattle, sheep, and pigs. The antibiotics were necessary in order to prevent diseases being passed among crowded and filthy confines just as antibiotics were also used with farm raised fish and shellfish, which were also confined and filthy. No wonder super bugs have emerged that are resistant to antibiotics and crop up in hospitals, clinics, and medical centers. In a way, those facilities are as crowded, although supposedly cleaner, than feed lots and confined quarters for chicken, geese, pigs, sheep, and cattle. Is there any surprise that mad cow disease arose in the agribusiness where profit is king and the consumer must be kept in the dark.

These tactics are about hoodwinking consumers -- you and me -- as the noose tightens while agribusiness and corporations keep changing tactics to maintain their profits at any cost.

Imagine my surprise after switching to Splendid Spoon, a vegan, gluten-free processing service that supposedly sources their plants from organic farmers and processed with reported care for the health and welfare of its subscribers. I began to notice that I had trouble typing and had lost a considerable level of speed. My arms felt heavier and less compliant when I worked and that was costing me money, which was almost as devastating as the lack of accuracy and problems thinking. My arms felt like lead and would not do what I expected them to do when I worked and people were commenting on my inaccuracies and errors that were unthinkable a couple of months before. How could this be happening? I know I had passed 60 and was older, but my skills had been bullet-proof for over 40 years. Was it early onset Alzheimer's or some form of physical and mental debility that came on rapidly and was not amenable to medical science -- or research.

It could be the result of not having really exercised in decades and my declining physical debility. It couldn't be due to my drastic change in diet. Yes, I was predominantly vegan, but it was good food well prepared and shouldn't have affected me adversely.

Or did it?




I added some meat back into the vegan diet and am now starting to feel much better . . . so far. I might be getting back some of my speed and I can almost discern better mental and physical dexterity returning -- or is it the result of wishful thinking? Both are possible and also likely.

I am currently between a rock and a hard place physically, mentally, and emotionally and one of my friends suggested I give up my isolated lifestyle and mingle with more people. I admit that there is a pull on me to move back to civilization and wade in the social waters with other folk and where I can mingle freely with other humans, but that is not something I have done much for nearly 2 decades. It isn't that I am antisocial or eschew companionship -- I have a full social life in Internet terms and keep in contact with friends and relatives, although I have once again deleted Facebook and prefer my own company to the bullying, back-biting, and verbal and mental demonization on Facebook.

The problem isn't fake news, although there is a lot of fake news out there, most of it promulgated and aired by mainstream media, but people's inability or reluctance to read and understand what is out there. People are lazy and averse to put themselves out there or working hard enough to notice what is going on and the mob mentality that has taken over the younger people and results in violence against parents, the establishment, government, and children, as well as peers, is increasing as our solar system collides with another galaxy while the sun is heating up and changing the planet in the system (Mars has increased air and atmosphere, Jupiter and Saturn's moons are developing atmosphere and warming sufficiently for their frozen water to shoot off in geysers, etc.). I doubt that my problems are tied to the coming Solar Event that will result in a Cosmic Sneeze that will dial Planet Earth up to the 4th and 5th densities, what the Bible calls the Rapture, but anything is possible.
Maybe it is time for me to get off my decreasing backside as I continue to lose weight on my restricted diet and dig in for my current eating habits to catch up with decades of not exercising or exerting myself beyond what I have limited myself with for so long. I am sleeping better because my diet is healthy and low carbohydrate with an absence of processed food and sugars and slowly, but surely as I keep a close eye on my body and my mind, my skills and mental functions are returning to a state that is not sliding rapidly into age and decline. I might make 150 years after all. Maybe it is all in my mind or my mind is taking control of my lazy habits and unexercised body. Anything is possible, but I prefer a more optimistic approach.

That is all. Disperse.

Wednesday, August 02, 2017

Wider View




I have gone through a lot of changes over the past couple of years. First, out of fear, I decided that the only path to peace lay by getting rid of Muslims, especially when they are migrating to Europe and settling into the cities with the hopes by the various governments that their burgeoning birth rates would result in filling the gaps that the Zero Population Group had left when the ZPG goals had been met and the aging population of socialist countries were running out of young and healthy people to pay for the elderly and shore up the socialist medicine, often called universal health care, financial bottom line. Chancellor Angela Merkel and leaders like her welcomed the immigrating Muslims with open arms -- and open coffers. Their hearts were in the right place while their minds were nowhere near the vicinity.

Muslims, purporting to be fleeing war-torn Syria, brought with them the young men who were fit and determined to find brides to fulfill their overwhelming desire for more children to become more fighters for the Islamic cause. To that end, the creation of a worldwide caliphate that stands in opposition to the European Union, the Muslim hordes descended on Europe, keeping to themselves in "No Go Zones" specifically for keeping Muslims to themselves and for themselves, except when they roam the streets looking for nubile young women, many of them still children in european eyes, to molest, rape, and bring back to their enclaves to fill their ranks by breeding and birthing more children to be brought up as Muslims determined to spread the Islamic Caliphate until all kaffirs (unbelievers) are gone and only the faithful remain to spread the Quran and Mohammed's transcription of Allah's words.

I spoke out of personal fear for the fate of mankind as the Islamic faithful spread their seed among the western civilized nations and infiltrated the bastions of democracy and freedom with their theocracy and violence.

I realize that not all individual Muslims are bent on violence and destruction. There are average people among the Islamic hordes who wish to make a good life, feed their children, and raise the next generation of average people to continue the legacy of family and community without ever getting into the jihad. After all, do Muslims not believe that the Quran is not just about Mohammed's views, but the words of the Creator of All -- Allah? Forget about the 1400 years of murders and beheadings that lie between Mohammed's faithful transcription of Allah's messenger, Gabriel.  Ignore the centuries of lives lost in the pursuit of the worldwide caliphate and the unwavering annihilation of the Jews in order to create Paradise here on Earth where the Creator of All needs human hands holding swords to get rid of everyone who has denied the Creator of All's pronouncements and must be destroyed as a gardener rips weeds from the carefully planted garden to provide room for the plants that will feed him and his family. Even the Creator of All -- Allah -- is not as all powerful as the only living Creator of All must have been to set the universe in motion and keep it all spinning, living and dying, as the mechanism of the universe spins on.

Who am I to spread more fear in the wake of terror perpetrated by zealous believers in the omnipotent and omnipresent Creator of All? Spreading my fears to the people only gives the marauding warriors of Allah power to sow the seeds of terror ahead of their hordes of faithful warriors beheading those ignorant of Allah's power and reach, making them that much easier to dispatch to clear the field. What irrational fear did the man unleash who told the future when he named my country, this United States, the United States of Islam?

My fear kept me from seeing the wider view. That same fear that hounded me as a child every time I was punished for going against God's word and that God was Jehovah or Yahweh, the same god the Hebrews followed out of Egypt and finally settled once again in Israel where the wall that remains of the Temple destroyed in ancient times stands and where faithful Jews and many penitent Christians offer their tears and prayers in fearful and hopeful anticipation of the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, the son of Jehovah/Yahweh -- or so we are told.

It is said that Mohammed was illiterate and I wonder how he managed to write the words Gabriel gave to him without the ability to read or write. Mohammed was a vicious and bloodthirsty war lord, but I wonder about that as well. The first verses of the Quran are peaceful and it is only the later verses that are full of violence and beheading. Shari'a law is as onerous and lacking in mercy as the militant portions of the Quran.

It makes sense for Muslims to learn the Quran by heart in order to brand upon their minds and hearts the words supposed to have come from Allah through Gabriel to be written down by Mohammed. How else would they understand it all? I also wonder if that is why the verses start peaceful and then become violent and full of death to unbelievers. Could it be that Gabriel was nearing the end of his patience with the illiterate herder who became a warlord or does the message of the Quran reflect the growing need for violent action in the face of failing efforts to live in peace with the fellow men?

The point of all these ruminations is that of the limited and narrow view. I know little about Mohammed or the Muslim customs and I freely admit that. I have read some of the Quran and have had verses forced upon me by Muslims determined to show the wisdom of Allah. There is some evidence of wisdom in the words, but nearly all the wisdom is as nebulous as the peace purportedly at the heart of the Quran. If there was inherent peace in Mohammed's transcription of Allah's words through Gabriel it is negated by the violence and history of Mohammed's life and the actions of Muslims acting on the transcribed words. One could say that Muslims are peaceful among themselves, but that is a lie. Muslims murder, maim, and destroy Muslims as frequent as the heart beats and the lungs fill with air. As murderous as Muslims have been in their 1400-year jihad, they have been more so among themselves.

Have you ever heard of the Sufi? In popular culture, Danny DeVito, in the movie, Jewel of the Nile, was found by Sufi and taught their philosophy of nonviolence and peace. Danny became a much less vicious and murderous thief under their peaceful influence.

Sufis are an unpopular and peaceful sect of Muslims who seek enlightenment through poetry, music, and dance (whirling Dervishes) and have been repressed and constricted for decades. If the Muslims want to prove their peacefulness, they would welcome and promote Sufism instead of treating Sufis like unwanted, sinful, and reviled Muslims and spend more time emulating Sufi culture because the Sufi have gleaned the peaceful heart of Allah instead of promoting more violence, more destruction, more murder, more rape, and more sinful pursuits that should be anathema to the Creator of All if Allah is such. Allah is the name of the moon god Mohammed chose as the name of the Creator of All, but maybe it was a words that Mohammed could spell and thus was able to transcribe in his illiterate way.

I've no idea what was in Mohammed's mind since he lived more than 1400 years before me. Although his thoughts and words were written down, I have my doubts that time, translations, and the meaning at the heart of the words the Creator of All gave to Gabriel before he whispered them to Mohammed to transcribe once he learned to read and write, and that does not take into account the 6 versions of the Quran written and passed out to people in their own languages.

My advice for Muslims is to take a step back and realize you have been had just as the Jews/Hebrews, Christians, and all followers of religions based on man-made religions have been had. Maybe that is why Islamic people have so much pent up rage that motivates them to murder, behead, maim, and annihilate their neighbors as they seek to destroy children and lives all over the world.

It is said, the unexamined life is not worth living and it seems the Muslim/Islamic life is not worth living at all especially when they are being used as pawns by unscrupulous powers that play on their fears and violent tendencies in their ignorance and slavish devotion to the worst version of the words supposed to be from the Creator of All's lips to Gabriel's lips whispered into an ignorant herder's ears to write down when he could not write and eventually became as vicious as any illiterate man attempting to learn the skill of reading and writing without a proper teacher or any experience in wisdom or facility with languages. Maybe it is time to take a broader look at these divine revelations and see them as just another version of man-made gods exerting their all too human vices on the ignorant and weak-minded people.

It is for this reason that I gave up my childhood training and all of my delving into hidden magic, alchemy, and religion and chose to become atheist. At least now I am on the right track at last and it only took me nearly 60 years to figure it out.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

In Pursuit of Truth


The phrase "skeletons in the closet" refers to shameful secrets. But how did I know my biological mother, my aunt to the outside world, didn't know she wasn't her father's child? She didn't know and neither did I.

It all started when we were discussing blood types in our family. Her brother, my adopted father, was A-positive and her sister-in-law, my adopted mother, was O-negative. Mom was proud of her blood type because it comes from her eastern European heritage, people of privilege and wealth, and she felt it made her special. It wasn't special to me or my adopted siblings because it wasn't special, except when it came to giving blood for the Red Cross. People with O-negative blood are less available than me with my A-positive blood type became A-positives are far more numerous on this planet than the O-negative. People with O blood types can donate to everyone but can only receive transfusions from other people with O blood types, and only with O-negative blood types for the select few with the Rh-negative factor in their blood. Mom spent a lot of time getting typed and cross-matched during her lifetime because she had pernicious anemia and, during the latter years of her life, had to receive monthly transfusions since her anemia was chronic and pernicious. When Mom had her kidney removed and the doctors predicted the remaining kidney would fail soon (the kidney didn't fail in the 30+ years with just one kidney and in spite of the hemangiomas (blood tumors) on her liver and kidneys - and likely the reason for her anemia), and we all, the children, 3 natural children born of Mom and 1 adopted (after she miscarried numerous times and had been unable to carry a child to term in the first 5 years of her marriage) to help take off the pressure of the inability to carry a child to term, discussed who was a match and could donate one of their kidneys if hers failed so she wouldn't have to go on a donor list since blood relatives with compatible blood and tissue types meant she had a ready made donor.

The Rh-negative factor in blood types has now come to mean the person with such a negative blood type is related to the global elites, the wealthy rulers of the world like the Rothchilds and British blue bloods, are special people who were direct descendants of the Adams and Eves who were genetically enhanced humanoids with alien DNA. The descendants of the master race that gave a genetic boost to the humanoids created from apes.

If Mom ever knew that my biological mother with her AB-negative blood was also of such master race descent, she didn't get the chance to have my hillbilly forefathers on a level with her eastern European poor relations with their elite blood type with the negative Rh-factor. That would have rather changed my Mom's attitude, although she would still have found a way to lord it over Dad's low class, cousin-marrying relatives. For me, the discovery was very different.

I was surprised that my biological mother's first husband married her knowing that she was pregnant with one of her uncle's children by rape and he married her anyway because he loved her that much. They were still in high school, though the marriage didn't last once Rhonda was born nearly 3 years ahead of me. I had always thought of Rhonda, the child my biological parents gave up for adoption to someone among my biological family's relatives because they could afford to have her damaged heart operated on, as my only full relative. I was wrong. Rhonda was a half sister, and suffered from the same genetic defect that has cropped up in the Cornwell family line throughout our history, a leaking heart valve. Many of my cousins either lived with the condition or, like Dad, suffered with it for decades. Dad's leaky heart nearly cost his life when the valve failed and the heart nearly exploded, drowning Dad in blood from the faulty heart.

At any rate, I recently found out that Jack Ford, my biological father, who divorced my biological mother and needed to get a Catholic annulment of their marriage in order to marry someone else, had 9 children by his second wife. I was not allowed to look for him or tell him I was born because I had promised my parents and my aunt when I was barely a teenager. As much as I wanted to know about my father and my other half-siblings, I kept my word and respected their wishes, keeping silent and keeping my surreptitious investigations on the down low. Since my parents died, I have been far more interested in talking to my biological mother and finding our more about my conception and the truth about where I came from and what really happened when I was conceived in the wake of the divorced and Catholic annulment. My biological parents were not done with each other, probably to the chagrin and anger of my biological father's mother, and in the renewed closeness that developed between my biological father and mother, and while he was engaged to another woman, a Catholic woman of wealth and family, I was conceived. He was probably buttering her up, or at least taking one last walk down memory lane with his child bride, now his ex-wife, as he readied himself for another marriage in his early 20s. He didn't stick around and I still do not know if he ever knew I had been conceived and born before being given up for adoption to my biological mom's brother and wife, but the Catholic priest who interviewed her to discuss the finer points of the Catholic annulment process, which she agreed to, knew she was pregnant and soon moved back to Ohio from Michigan, riding on the back of her oldest brother's motorcycle.

Into this nearly full closet of skeletons about 50 years later, I asked questions about what happened in 1954 while she was pregnant with me and before she moved back to Columbus to live with her other older brother, my Dad, and signed me over to my soon-to-be adoptive parents while living with them. I knew about her going to secretarial school to get an education she could turn into a career as an administrative assistant, but through all of the sordid sounding details, I didn't know much about her blood type and how that fitted into the story I remembered Dad telling me when I talked Dad into writing about his life and growing up in a one-room log cabin with 5 other brothers and sisters during the Great Depression when his father was bootlegging moonshine in the southern Ohio hills.

Turns out, after his mother died in the wake of giving birth to fraternal twins, Doral and Dorothy, likely of infection since the twins were born at home in the one-room cabin situated behind the tobacco fields in Hillsboro, Ohio, there had been a time when my grandmother, Edith Cornwell, and my grandfather, Cary Cornwell, hit a rough patch and left Grandpa and the 6 kids behind, moving to Columbus to be with her family. She got a month-long vacation from the noise and clamor of the 6 kids until Grandpa packed the kids in the truck and drove to Columbus, on the west side of town, to get Grandma and bring her home to the family. Since Dad was 10 years old when Grandma died, he couldn't have been more than a year or two old.  My biological mother was born five years after Aunt Wilma and 3 years before the twins. Aunt Anne didn't know about Grandma leaving the family and going to Columbus to take a break with her family, but that isn't what led to letting the skeleton out of the closet. That came when she told me about her blood type, AB-negative.

I already knew that Dad's family all had A-positive blood type, just like me, so Aunt Anne having AB-negative was no recessive gene showing itself in the genetic roulette wheel lottery that is spun when children are conceived. The AB-negative blood type, the story of Grandma's impromptu break from the kids, and Aunt Anne telling me she had always felt out of place in her family and ignored by Grandpa when he kept Aunt Wilma close to him, even though he had given up Aunt Dorothy, Doral's remaining twin when he died a few weeks after he was born began to spin the curiosity wheels in my mind. I was studying blood types and genetics at the time and I wanted to know how Aunt Anne ended up with AB-negative blood.

You don't get a recessive blood type gene of the rarity of AB-negative without a parent being the originator. Grandma, Grandpa, and all the children were A-positive, so Aunt Anne popping up with AB-negative is not possible . . . unless Grandpa was not her father. But how? How about when Grandma moved to Columbus to stay with her family?

I'm a writer, so the possibilities were curious, but not endless. There are few ways for a child to end up with an aberrant blood type and the only way is that Aunt Anne had a different father.

At first, I thought Aunt Anne would be glad of the news. She wasn't. Finally knowing why she was treated differently and it was due to Grandma having an affair, or a one-night stand or being raped, did not make her happy. All it did was underscore her belief that she was treated as though she was odd had nothing to do with spending her childhood being bounced from pillar to post and never raised by Grandpa, and likely everything to do with not being his child at all, but the child of another man Grandpa may or may not have known. At least Grandpa didn't hold a grudge long since there is no question that Doral and Dorothy, the twins, were his biological children.

Grandpa went to prison for moonshining for 2 years, but that was after Grandma died, and not during the 5 years between Wilma and Anne's birth. That 5-year span in the otherwise regular birthings of the other 5 children were filled with Grandpa working in the fields and sticking close to home when he wasn't up in the hills making moonshine and avoiding revenuers (government men cracking down on people making moonshine in their stills) and Dad told me how Grandpa tested his moonshine batches out on his kids. Dad was still a small child when Grandpa tested the moonshine on him.

For whatever reason, and lack of connubial bliss was not one of them in the years before Anne's birth, Grandma and Grandpa weren't getting connubial at all and there was no need to take a break from the house full of children until the 5-year lack of children and pregnancies between Wilma and Anne. Whether Anne was conceived during her stay in Columbus or was pregnant when she left for Columbus, someone with AB-negative or B-negative blood type was intimate with Grandma and she was left with a bun in the oven. The bun in the oven turned out to be Anne and now, nearly 80, I had solved the lifelong question of why she was different than the other 6 children and maybe why Grandpa didn't let Anne live with him after Grandma died. That is a very big and very hidden skeleton in the family closet and since most of the relatives, including Dad, are dead, I cannot verify what I now know to be the truth.

For me, the truth and the information is of paramount importance, though I have never punished or thrown a fit about not knowing that Rhonda, who I thought was my only full blood relative, is only a half-sister just like Jeff and Timmy are my half-brothers from when Anne married Dewey after I was born and I never met or knew about Jack Ford's 9 children, or they about me. Looking at things in that half-light, maybe the truth and the information is of less importance than I knew or realized. My family, at least on Dad's side, were not much into telling the truth or passing out important information. It would take me a very long time to publish what I have found out over the years. Not that there aren't gossips in my family and Dad was the biggest gossip -- or so I thought until recently -- and Mom was just as big a gossip, especially when it showed others in a bad light so she could revel in her pre-eminence and importance. Too bad I didn't know about Anne's hidden secrets about her biological father or that much of the family either didn't know or had forgotten about Grandma's infidelity. That is one bit of information much of the family would have passed around like Great Grandma Cornwell's corncob pipe they kept hiding from her because she smoked it all the time. It isn't as if the rest of the family didn't smoke or drink, but Great Grandma Cornwell was forbidden to smoke in the house in case she set the house on fire, like when she hid her corncob pipe in the side of her favorite chair.

I had been the subject of family gossip from the time I could walk and talk at the age of 7 months (I was quite precocious). Great Aunt Betty and some of the others of that generation took great pleasure in announcing that I had arrived to visit, not Jim and Virginia's oldest, as I was, but as Anne's daughter which I didn't know about until I was 10 years old and Mom was forced to tell me or risk Aunt Edith and her daughters telling me I was adopted before she had prepared me with her newspaper clippings about adopted children who thanked their lucky stars they were adopted by good people, a file I received when I was 10 years old and read through before Mom broke the news that I was adopted. Finally! every question I had about why I was treated like Cinderella by an evil stepmother while my brother and sisters were cherished and treated with lavish attention and love. No matter how many times Mom told me, "I adopted you because I loved you, not like the others whatever we got." I had daily proof, just as Anne did when she was growing up, that I was not loved, but treated like a duty Mom had to bear because she took me in as a newborn baby they took in because Dad's sister was pregnant and they had no chance of getting pregnant after 5 years of marriage. I used to imagine I was Cinderella and Mom was my evil stepmother who resented my existence, but did what she viewed as right by me even while punishing me every day for not looking like the children that followed me within a year of my birth.

Because I imagined Aunt Anne had felt as out of place as I did, I decided to tell her she was illegitimate and that is why she was treated differently and wasn't allowed to live with her father after her mother died. She was not his child.  Her biological father was not the same as the other 7 children of her family. Yes, there was a reason she was different, looked different from the other children, and was treated differently, as if she were not from the same family and didn't share the same mother. They did not all share the same father, but I didn't know who her father was, just that he would be the man who had AB-negative or B-negative blood. There weren't enough relatives around to ask who he might be and they likely didn't know about blood types and Rh-factors because that information did not become public knowledge until the 1950s and 1960s and there were no helpful DNA tests available to the public then. It would've been so much easier had public-available DNA testing kits available then.

Aunt Anne was not pleased.  She cried. Unlike me, she didn't appreciate knowing the truth or finding out that, yes, she was different from her brothers and sisters because she had a different father. As hard as I tried, I didn't not offer her peace of mind and the knowledge was not welcome. I had broken her heart and for a moment I wished I had left the skeleton hanging hidden in the back of the closet.

For me, as unusual and difficult as the truth can be, I prefer the truth to not knowing what is really going on. I wasn't pleased when I realized that Mom always disliked me. I already knew that by the way she treated me when I was growing up and until the day she died. Mom told me to my face one day when I was out at their house and she told me point blank, "I've never liked you." Dad was more stunned by the declaration than I was. I'd always known even when she tried to cover the truth by pretending to make a joke or calling a couple days later to let me know she was kidding and didn't mean what she said. I already knew the truth and hearing the truth set me free from years of physical and mental abuse. Aunt Anne had the truth and she finally knew what I experienced growing up and how Mom treated me. I didn't blame Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne did blame me for turning her world upside down and turning her into an illegitimate child from a forgotten and misused child who had the bad luck to be still a young child of 3 when her mother died.  She got no relief from the scientific facts and she did not welcome me with protestations of thanks. My pursuit of the truth and my all too accurate memory were as bad as having written a book where an 80-year-old woman learns the truth from the child she gave to her brother and sister-in-law in hopes that they would provide a better life than she could provide with her limited funds and education even while her brand new fiance told her he would happily raise her child and that she did not have to give the child up.

What webs we weave when first we practice to deceive and even more complex webs we weave even when the weavers die and leave the web to be completed by future generations. Such webs should be left to disintegrate with time and hidden with the dust of hidden skeletons never meant to be revealed. Sometimes the pursuit of truth is not always welcomed with relief and happiness. Sometimes the truth can destroy when it was meant to heal.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Pacifiers and Blankies


We often forget that not everyone progresses or evolves at the same rate.

Some people hang onto their blankies and pacifiers long after others have grown up and stopped needing such comforts. They forget why they needed pacifiers and blankies, or a favorite toy, until they have children of their own, finding the toys and tools in the attic packed away or on a garage sale or secondhand store table. The memories flood their minds and good feelings flood their hearts -- or they don't. There are also some people who don't remember their childhood with fond memories or don't care about childhood. They rushed to become adults and put the past behind them without a second thought.

Everyone learns and grows at their own pace, even putting the past behind them and looking on people who cling to the fond memories with disdain or regret.  There are people who cannot put up with such ignorance or fantasies and stomp all over other peoples' comfort zones, dragging them into the harsh and cruel light without a second thought.  Such people have no tolerance for malingering and those who cling fiercely to their past or to a newly won present because the past was, to their minds, ignorant and self indulgent.

It takes all kinds to make a world and there is room for all -- as long as there is room for dissent and growth.

There is no shame if people lag behind or cling to their comfort zones. Everyone takes their own time to get to the same point -- unless there is violence forcing the issue.

Whenever I hear or see people clinging to their man-made gods and leaders I am anxious for them to catch up. It's like visiting a familiar spot and the companions are dawdling along taking their good old-fashioned time when the leader, the one who has been there before and wants to share it all NOW and not later when they get to it, resists the urge to grab them by the hand or arm or lapel and drag them forward. In my zeal, I forget what it was like when I visited the first time, overwhelmed by everything and wanting to soak in every view and moment, wallowing in the experience.

In essence, it is like being so anxious to drag a child by the arm across the space between us and not kneeling at the proposed finish line, arms out, hands held out so the child can grab hold if s/he stumbles or falls. Children, when they take their first steps, are uncertain of how to walk and grab onto everything and anything to get from one place to another. Even adults and older children who have walked before and are faced with walking after long convalescence or immobility, take time to get up to speed. Patience is required to get them through the first tentative steps, and the care and love you feel for them make you more patient and less anxious for the rough patch to be over. The look on their faces when they take their first sure steps makes it all worthwhile and that makes the frustration and waiting worth the effort.

It took me more than half a century to get to the point where I cast off the shackles of religion and dared to say I no longer believed. I hedged my bets, saying prayers from my childhood and believing it was all right to whisper thanks to gods I had not believed in for a long time our of respect for what I had been taught as a child. I thought, "It couldn't hurt."

What if? My token prayers were going thru the motions and I didn't believe they would make a difference, but what if I was wrong. Couldn't a token prayer make the difference if I was wrong?

We all hedge our bets. It seems safe.

When I asked questions all through my life, I was always told, "Because God said so" and "that's the way it has always been." God knows all and we are not gods came up frequently while I answered, "If God is all powerful and knows all, why would he give me a mind that questions if he didn't want me to use it?" All I got was condemnation and recriminations. Many times, I folded under the pressure to fit in and follow the leaders even when I knew they were wrong.

I often keep my mouth shut and my questions and thoughts to myself so as not to offend or stir up trouble. I am less careful about that as I get older. I am reconciled that I have moved beyond their limited understanding and cannot force them to see and know what I do.

In many cases, it would be like taking a child's favorite toy or blanky from them or snatching the pacifier from their mouths because I think they should give them up. Patience is still needed, although time is running out. The Big Moment is nearly upon us and they will miss it.

Yes, they might miss it as they have missed such moments in centuries past. We all will not arrive at the final destination at the same time. Some will be left behind just as they are in the "Left Behind" series of books based on the Christian belief of The Rapture.

Some people got it right, but so much of the End Times has been obscured by imagination, fear, and misunderstanding, just as people who have deified Jesus Christ, Mohammed, and Buddha. These prophets and ascended masters were not meant to be deified because they were not gods or demigods. They were people who saw the narrow road and tried to teach others to see and walk the same road. The followers didn't have the same level of understanding and were unable to follow or to travel the narrow road. They will understand when they died and ascend or when they are reincarnated in future lives and finally get it.

Not everyone grows and matures at the same rate. Some will be left behind. In fact, many will be left behind because they were distracted or focused on the wrong lesson or message. What remains will deify the teachers and ascended masters, build religions around their half-understood or barely understood teachings or, more often, use what is left to enslave others who don't get it yet, and the cycle continues like the Wheel of Life or Fortune turning over and over until the wheel turns and you catch it. If not this lifetime, then the next or the one after that. We evolve at our own rate just as children learn to talk and walk at their own rate. We learn or we wait according to our understanding and our abilities.

As marvelous as the path that Jesus Christ, Mohammed, and Buddha walked, they tried to teach others, and their lessons are still being taught, but all the diversions, bells, and whistles are hurdles to be climbed over or walked around until the road lies clear before us. We choose whether we focus on the road or the hurdles. It is up to us. We will follow the narrow road or we will get caught up in the hurdles and the misunderstandings. Whichever way we travel, eventually we will get there. I wish you all good traveling and clear vision and, if you need to cling to your pacifiers and blankies, we will all wait for you at the end of the path.

That is all. Disperse.