Makropoulos: Arias and essays on art, life, politics, religion, and the end of time by a 424 year old diva

Underwater Garbage

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 19:58:04 PST

Today,

while swimming at my local aquatic center,

I noticed a clump of hair suspended, about

a foot underwater,

a band-aid somewhere near the bottom

and

a discarded flipper.

I am certain that the next time I swim,

that junk will be gone,

scooped out by the diligent pool workers

paid by the same local tax money

that made this fabulous olympic size pool possible.

No swimming tax payer would tolerate

that junk in their pool.

(tonawanda.ny.us)

So why oh why

do we tolerate this

in our oceans?

(dailygalaxy)

( earthfirst )

( sprinterlife )

This last picture comes from an article at a site called Sprinterlife,

which includes some pretty horrific other pictures.

Another chilling source of pictures of the garbage "soup"

in the Pacific come from a photographer called Mandy Barker.

I'm not absolutely sure why folks are suddenly so horrified by the amount of garbage

in our seas. We've been tossing our refuse into them for

generations. I remember once, when I was at a museum

in Girne (Kyrenia), North Cyprus, they had an exhibit of

nut shell that were found in the hull of an ancient boat

found on the sea floor -- they were the refuse

from ancient sailors eating snacks and tossing away the shells.

The problem is: our garbage today isn't biodegradable.

Sprinterlife has three suggestions on how we might curb

the increasing masses of garbage in our seas. Here they are

with a couple additional thoughts from me:

1. Recycle. My current city has launched a very serious recycling

campaign, and I'm very proud of them! They've made recycling

very easy, and more people are getting on board and thinking before they toss.

If your city doesn't do this, perhaps you and your friends and neighbors

should give your local government a good nudge to change that.

2. Stop using plastic! I refuse to drink bottled water. I'm even trying to start to buy

my milk in glass (from local producers) We should have more local folks using, and reusing

glass containers again.

3. Make the transition to using biodegradable products.

I would add: think local. If you're buying from local producers,

there is less of a need to use packaging that has to withstand

long-distance travel. After all, we think local when we think of our water:

if we want to swim in our swimming pools,

we keep them clean. If we have a water reservoir as a water source,

we work hard to keep that clean too.

The term "glocal" applies here:

what we do locally can and should have a global impact. Including how we treat our vital resources,

like water,

and energy.

I don't know if we can actually clean up the messes in our oceans,

but we can sure make a strong effort to curb it.

And I agree with Sprinterlife, we have to do it NOW!

www.plasticoceans.com

Some Thoughts on Waking: 13 February 2012

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 09:04:55 PST

Running Bodies:

( from Assembling Bodies )

On the radio today

in a story of Bahrain

the announcer described a man

trapped in his own doorway.

Sourceless gunshots held him there,

"and outside there was only

running bodies,"

the disembodied voice explained.

Running bodies - as if they were already dead,

running running running,

until the bullets relieved them

of their worry.

In frozen Hungary, old money is being burnt

to warm chilled children

and snow snow snow snow

pales deeper

the pallor

of Old Europe.

I have wondered of late

about

the popularity of zombies,

but now I know for sure

that we live in a time

of living death,

and deep in our being,

we know it.

Running bodies -- that's us --

but what are we running from?

We're running from other zombies

who think they can gain power

in the world of zombies

by killing the living dead.

Might I propose that we run to a state of not

running, not dying, but rather, living --

the world will not be a zombie world

if we see that each day it brings to us

new life.

( from brooklinrunclub )

part 2:

dice roll

( from kickstarter )

Each morning's awakening brings

a toss of the dice

and as it rolls into place

on its face

is an aspect of me --

today, my perceptivity,

yesterday, my insecurities,

tomorrow, my confidences,

and the next day, my deepest talents --

whatever the face, it dominates my play

for the day,

and if I believe the tossing hand is not mine, I am blind

to the consequences I produce for myself.

( from: stopbeatingaroundthebush )

No bother.

This morning as I lay in wait

for my fate,

I recognized the wrist and the fist

of the gambler --

it was not yours, my friend,

nor was it an unseen shape --

indeed

it was me, and the dice

bore no mystery;

each face was

and is

a known quantity

to me.

With the proper gesture

it will fall in my favor.

So too with you.

There is no mystery;

chance is in your favor

if you know the roll

is yours.

( poohbearcoloringpages )

Diva For The Weekend -- Whitney Houston, R.I.P.

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 20:22:00 PST

It appears to me,

that with a diva like

Whitney Houston,

I can clearly say

that divas are required

to take those big risks

and end up singing about tragedy. .

. . . and to sing tragedy well

is to live it . . .

. . . to wear it with both agony and beauty. . .

Why, oh why, must some of them be destined

to die

so tragically?

A beautiful talent,

a great diva,

and

a sad, sad loss.

This Ol' Orchid Plant

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 11:58:56 PST

This past August,

I was quite obsessed by my orchids,

which hadn't bloomed in two years.

If you were following this humble blog back then,

you will remember pictures like this:

Well,

those lovely blossoms went the way

of all orchid blossoms:

they withered and fell.

But I was quite satisfied.

I expected the stalk from which they sprouted to do the same thing,

and I waited for that.

But that dear stalk remained

quite viable.

In fact,

here it is:

I paid very little heed to it, figuring it would disappear in time,

but instead,

it sprouted another branch,

and now it appears to me

that once again,

this ol' orchid plant

will bloom again:

Stay tuned!

I expect this will really begin to blossom

about the same time that

spring arrives.

Happy day to you --

winter stillness

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 09:27:04 PST

Although

we haven't had much snow,

my mind has felt numb these days.

Hibernation, I believe, is meant to be the condition

of women and men during the season of shorter days.

Words themselves seem

to have taken refuge

in the cave of my mind.

So,

I have found it very hard to write blog entries

on things like

the Republican candidates (we are, it would seem, in America's endtimes,

during which the best candidates we can muster are the ones

who embody our overindulgences and mutations),

sinking cruise ships,

Madonna's Super Bowl Half Time Show,

or men who kill their children

then light their house on fire.

The desperation of each of these silences me

and makes me simply want

to look close at each

and every day.

I actually pray

for more snow,

the earth too can slumber with me.

I know,

as you know,

that after great silence comes

sound--

in the meantime, I will write here sometimes,

on days of thaw,

or share the words of others with you

that I think

are worthy of contemplation.

Be well,

dear friends --

I'm still here!

(all photos by Makropoulos)

excerpt one: "The Sole Origin is Sound" by Hazrat Inayat Khan

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 09:07:32 PST

"The life absolute from which has sprung all that is felt, seen, and perceived,

and into which all again merges in time,

is a silent, motionless, and eternal life . . . .

Ever motion that springs forth from this silent life is a vibration and a creator of vibrations.

As motion causes motion, so the silent life becomes active in a certain part

and creates every moment more and more activity,

losing thereby the peace of the original silent life.

It is the grade of activity of these vibrations that accounts for the various planes of existence.

These planes are imagined to differ from one another,

but in reality they cannot be entirely detached and made separate from one another.

The activity of vibrations makes them grosser,

and thus the earth is born of the heavens. . . . "

(from: The Music of Life by Inayat Khan)

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 12:23:13 PST

( ebaumsworld )

We create . . . we destroy. . . . we

create we . . . . destroy we. . . . . .

. . .recreate. . . . . to . . . . . . . . . .re

destroy to . . . . . . . . . . . . recreate

to destroy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . we re

create to . . . . . . . . . . . .destroy we

recreate to . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . de

cimate to . . . . . . . . . . . .recreate . . .

we de . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .cimate to

evolve

( wikipedia - supernova )

Happy 75th, Philip Glass (Philip Glass' Hands)

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 19:49:20 PST

Yeah, he's a diva,

he's divine.

I was able to hear him perform once,
live,

right before I saw the Dhalai Lama.

In fact, I took this picture

Philip Glass' Hands --

And here, on his 75th birthday,

I share them

with you ---

Happy Birthday, Mr. Glass,
and thank you --

Skin Words

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 18:18:21 PST

( raisingredheads )

Your skin

is an organ,

the biggest of all;

it just happens to be

in open air.

But it's not like a fabric,

not a curtain,

not a veil; it's

organic and it tells

you the tale of your innards.

( scienceroll )

These skin words so often

go so utterly unheard,

despite the clear warnings

of demise,

or simply the signs

that our skin

is changing,

aging,

or adapting to the changes

around us.

(biology-nature)

So why must we

why do we

do things like this:

( plasticsurgery )

rather than listen to this organ's song --

it's a swan song

about life

about love

about care

about food

about earth

about air

( healblog )

about heart

about soul

about generation

and re-generation.

( huffingtonpost )

There is no sin

in the skin

you're in.

Imagine what it would be like

if we did some of the same damage to

our heart

our colon

our liver

our gall bladder

our stomach

that we do to our skin?

Just imagine.

( concreteloop )

Play all your organs with care

and love

my love,

and you will live peaceably

until eternity

and you

come to meet.

(instrumentsforkids)

Today's Diva: Natalie Merchant

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 19:27:11 PST

Western New York State's greatest contribution

to the world of music:

Today's Diva: Nora the Piano Cat

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 17:02:33 PST

I haven't posted a diva video in a while,

but today I found this one:

This is one of very few entries that have made it

to both my blogs.

What else can be said???

Thoughts on Martin Luther King, Jr. day, a few days late

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:53:40 PST

So, Monday was Martin Luther King Day, and as part of it, my NPR station seemed to be continually streaming stories of the man and his cause. At one point around mid-day, I heard an interview in which an African American teacher made the claim that only black people can and should teach out race. I immediately wanted to respond to this remark, but I was driving, so that was not an option. So I mulled it over a bit, then put my pen to the page, and here I am.

When faced with the inevitable race question on a job application, the only choice I can make is Caucasian, or "White." I cannot call myself "Black" or "Asian" or "Hispanic"; and even in those times when I have applied for jobs in New York City, I could not choose "Italian American." That's right: once when I was applying for a position at a Manhattan-based university, I received a form in the mail that asked which of the following applied to me:

Caucasian

African American

Hispanic

Pacific Islander

Asian

Italian American

Other

So stymied by the inclusion of Italians, I chose "Other" and wrote in "Polish-Irish American." And perhaps that is why I did not even get an interview.

But the point remains that Race is such an overblown, misunderstood concept in the U.S.A., while it is also perhaps the most important issues for Americans to confront and discuss, and continue to discuss. To say that I, one of Northern European ancestry, have no right to teach students about race is a racist remark in and of itself, and if being the object of racism qualifies one to talk about it, then that remark qualifies me to participate in that discussion.

found at "CensusScope"

And a discussion it must be. One cannot "teach" race in any quantitative sense because that experience is so fraught with complexity, depending upon region, socio-economics, gender, and any other number of intervening circumstances. Indeed, my understanding of racial inequality is no doubt not the same as yours, and this is why to "teach" about race is to open a discussion, and to do it with great compassion to the multitude of experiences, and to the very real fact that one's own experience might be proven limited or limiting.

I have taught the topic of racism, if we can define "teaching" as I do in the previous paragraph. In my early years of college teaching, I would approach the topic through literature such as James Baldwin's "Sonny's Blues," or a favorite of mine -- the pairing of Death of a Salesman with August Wilson's Fences. Or through essays on Ebonics or rap. All of these provided, and still provide, starting points for discussion. This was the 1980's, and there may have been only one or two black students in a room of twenty to thirty students; sometimes, they were brave enough to share their perspective, and I began working on ways to make those students feel comfortable enough to share, without feeling put on the spot. I found it my job to listen, carefully, and urge others to listen carefully to each person's ideas before responding.

I don't believe I succeeded in "teaching" race; that was, after all, not my intent. Rather, my inent was, in the end, just to get people to talk and to share experiences, and by doing so, broaden each students' perceptions of this difficult topic, not to mention my own.

(ahamoment)

Without a doubt, the most profound experience I ever had when it comes to learning (and teaching) about race came when I taught for a year at one of the Historically Black Universities & Colleges (HBCU) in Mississippi. Previous to this appointment, I had been living and teaching full-time in Turkey for four years, and I was grateful and excited to be offered a one-year full time appointment in the USA, even before I returned to the country. In academia, stepping out of a full-time job without another one is almost certainly the kiss of death for your career. For family and personal reasons, I had to return to America; my preference was to be in the North, but here was an offer I couldn't refuse, coming in just under the wire. So, after succeeding in getting my Turkish street cat through U.S. Customs, I packed her up in my car and moved to the Deep South. As someone who lived for over forty years in the North East, going from teaching in Ankara to teaching in Mississippi was like moving from one country to another, and neither of them were the America I grew up in.

But I quickly came to understand, albeit on a pretty superficial level, that Mississippi is part of the United States of America, and by living there, I came to love my country even more. But I also came to the conclusion that I mentioned above, that is: that race is the crucible issue in the USA, the one we must continue to confront if we are to grow as a healthy nation.

When I arrived in Mississippi, I was grateful to a fellow American who I met while living in Turkey; for simplicity's sake, let's call her "American Woman", or "A.W." A.W. had left Turkey the year before I did, and had gained a tenure track position at this HBCU, which happened to be located near her home town. Thanks to her, I secured this position. She was Southern, and white. After driving alone through about six states to get to my new job, she let me stay in her new house, which actually dated from the antebellum period, for a few days after I arrived. But she was eager to help me find my own place; she brought me to a secluded apartment community on my second day in town; she stood by my side while I signed a lease for an unfurnished two bedroom apartment there. As we drove out of the parking lot, she said to me, "Oh, this'll be a good place for you; there are no darkies livin' here."

Mind you, this was in 2003.

I moved my car full of kitchen supplies and camping gear into my unfurnished apartment the next day, and she never invited me back to her house after that. Occasionally, when she walked past my office at school (remember, she was my colleague), she would peak in my door and say "How's the job search going?" then hurry down the hall. Once or twice during the year, she agreed to meet me for lunch, but that was all. I might consider myself lucky now for her coldness, but at the time, she was the only person I knew in the entire state.

And thus I began to understand how region colored the issue of race in many subtle ways. I was a Northern White, the second generation progeny of working class immigrants, but with a Ph.D. from an intimidating Northern university (N.Y.U.) She was a Southern White Ol' Miss graduate, whose family (as she was very pointed in letting me know) had settled in this area in the early 1800s, and who had once owned quite a bit of land, and -- no doubt -- slaves to boot.

My loneliness was matched only by my great longing to return "home" -- and in my mind that was either New York State, where I had lived for over a decade before moving out of the country, or Turkey, whose people had made me feel very welcome. In Mississippi, I tried to teach lessons I had taught in both places, and was met by confusion. But I will say to this day that I was treated with great respect, as well as a large amount of fascination, by my students who were, 100%, the children of former slaves.

I could tell many stories about that year, but I will tell two, because these two taught me some vital lessons about Race in America. From the beginning, I made it a point to always refer to the majority of my colleagues and students as "African American," the term I had learned was proper during graduate school in the North, in the 1980's ad 1990's. One day, one of my colleagues took me aside and said: "Listen, you're really making me crazy with this African-American thing. To begin, I'm not African. My family was slaves in Georgia, and they were brought there from the West Indies. And somewhere in there, somebody got in with some Indians - Native Americans you'd call them - so I have plenty of that blood, too. Look at my skin. . . " (she held her dark arm against mine, which was pretty pale for want of sun) "I am Black. Call me Black. Call us all Black. That's what I am, just like you are the whitest White Girl I've ever seen." And then she invited me to lunch.

Black and White: that's what she taught me. In the Deep South, it's about the color of your skin, and the "brighter" a Black person was, the better off they were.

So I watched what I said, carefully, often going to this colleague for advice. I listened to what people called each other. One term that I heard used a lot, with my male students, was "boy." My white colleagues called young black males "boys," so did my black colleagues; the football coach called his team "boys." In the grocery store, any black male of any age whose name was unknown was called "boy."

One day in class we were discussing an essay about gender, and I decided to break the class into groups - male and female. When I referred to the groups, I called them the "Men" and the "Women." Quite frankly, I always call my students Men and Women, because, after all, at the university level they're old enough to vote, get married, and go to war. In my current classes, students giggle when I call them Men and Women. In a Black university in Mississippi during the 2003-2004 academic year, when I used these terms, it was a different story.

The women liked being called Women. They seemed to sit up straighter when they heard the term. The men, mostly football players, looked confused, and whispered between themselves, until finally one young man spoke up, in a very confrontational tone:

"Excuse me, M'am. What is that you keep calling me?"

I paused, trying to remember the last few minutes of conversation, trying to figure out what I had said that was wrong.

"I'm calling you Men," I said.

"What?" he said. He had a deep Northern Louisianna drawl that I could barely understand. (The following week, I pointed that out to him, and he told me he could barely understand me, either.)

"Man."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand what you are saying. What are you calling me?"

The women in the class chimed in then, to help me -- "She's calling you a man" -- while I wrote the word "MAN" on the board.

And for a stupefied moment, he and all the other men in the room were silent, and then he said:

"Pardon me, Miss. I didn't understand you. But yes, you're right. I'm a man."

Later, one of the young women explained to me that that was a term that young black males rarely heard applied to them.

I will let you form whatever conclusions you would like about these stories. For me, these incidents, and others, helped me realize that Race in America is far more complex than anyone can imagine. One would have to travel and live in every corner of this huge nation to experience its subtleties. But most of all, one would have to take the chance of talking and listening to how we talk or don't talk to each other. (This reminds me of another black student I had in the late 1980's - in the North East - a single mom who decided mid-semester to move back to Georgia with her toddler son. When I asked her why she expressed her concern for her son, then said: "at least in the South the racism is clear; in the North it's all hidden behind politeness.")

To teach about racism in the U.S.A.? No one person has the ultimate authority. But we all have the right - and the freedom - to share what we've experienced. What we really need to teach is how to listen, compassionately, carefully and without judgement, and how to be brave enough to admit that our own experience is only an entrance point to any true conversation on the subject.

Fluidity

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 08:37:22 PST

When creators

begin

exploring

how the most expressive medium

is fluidity itself,

then

we are truly entering a time (non/time)

when the mediums of human creation and godly creation

merge

"And the earth was without form,

and void; and darkness was upon

the face of the deep. And

the Spirit of God

moved upon

the face of the waters."

(Genesis: 1:2)

Hear and Know

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 08:54:48 PST

Somedays I wake up,

and my being is here,

so totally

pressed up against my inner flesh

like a child against a window:

whole being, flat

wanting

to get to the other side

no matter

what harm lies there.

These days I relish like a fresh cup

of coffee,

and I drink them slow - - -

Then

Other days

I wake to find

the self is in bondage

somewhere deep inside,

perhaps

on the other side

where all selves merge.

Lost in the language,

the cacophony of vowels and

full stops,

I maneuver the day, a robot

wishing for immediacy,

aware of inadequacy.

Such days

only love

can bring me home,

can bring me here;

we share

a touch

we share

a glance ---

we owe each other

a lifeline back to the moment

if we recognize another wandering,

lost in space.

These words are my hands --

the vowels my eyes

seeking to anchor you

here

and

now.

Here and Now

Hear and Know

Here and Now

(wikipedia)

My Heart's In The Highlands, by Arvo Pärt

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 17:56:15 PST

. . . where ever I go,

my heart

is with you ~

Do It Now

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 18:11:32 PST

( greenprophet )

The simple problem of humanity

is that we've built a world

- our perfect world -

so well, it hides the world

whose very imperfections whisper

the secrets we all seek.

With each inhale,

with each exhale,

with each slumbering purr and fart,

our earth speaks

the mystery of her own creation,

and our creation too.

We fumbling creator creatures,

so self important in our mimicking

of the sublime voice that breathed us into life,

and

in our petty perfecting of this temporary place

this material space

built with expendable ingredients,

that we don't see the aging mechanisms behind the curtain

on the stage of our pursuits.

( dogugaeshi )

Be brave now,

dear friends,

live simply on our planet home.

Now,

dear friends

Now.

Father Reason, by Rumi

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 17:31:46 PST

astronomydvd

The universe is a form of divine law,

your reasonable father.

When you feel ungrateful to him,

the shapes of the world seem mean and ugly.

(this and upcoming images from drwcampbell )

Make peace with that father, the elegant patterning,

and every experience will fill will immediacy.

Because I love this, I am never bored.

Beauty constantly wells up, a noise of springwater

in my ear and in my inner being.

Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms

of those who have submitted to the mystical life.

Leaf sounds talk together like poets

making fresh metaphors. The green felt cover slips,

and we get a flash of the mirror underneath.

Think how it will be when the whole thing

is pulled away! I tell you only one thousandth

of what I see, because there's so much doubt everywhere.

The conventional opinion of this poetry is,

it shows great optimism for the future.

But Father Reason says,

No need to announce the future!

This now is it.

This.

Your deepest need and desire

is satisfied by the moment's energy

here in your hand.

(pakistantimes)

The Birthday Boy in the Year of the Palindrome

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 15:05:53 PST

So,

I know you've all been wondering where I've been,

and

if I could possibly ignore David Bowie's 65th birthday,

which is tomorrow.

Well, in answer to where I've been -- it's hard to say --

I haven't been in cyber land, but I've been restoring myself

inside myself.

My hands are aching to write, though.

And in answer to the second point,

of course not.

Here it is,

the beginning of 2012,

and Mr. Bowie is turning 65 --

it seems only right to offer

a palindromic video:

Peaceful Christmas Wishes To The World, from Makropoulos

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 11:17:08 PST

Whether you believe the story or not,

the sentiment of it is important:

Peace on Earth,

Good Will To All --

on this Christmas,

during this tumultuous time,

may we all find the Jesus within us all.

As I've said so many times before,

if only we could all do that,

Jesus would come

again,

or truly,

for the first time.

Beside Myself

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 08:10:43 PST

I'm standing beside myself

and staring

up a long, cold concrete stair,

walking beside myself,

doubly visioned,

doubly

unaware --

momentarily divided in two

by the tilt of the earth

by the pull of the moon.

My other self,

my darker self,

the self I like to hide

for a moment illumines,

its unbearable brightness

filling my mind

lighting the truths

about me

about life.

These are

the truths that I hide

because they're so large,

no one could bear

to stare

at them daily.

But when I'm beside myself,

when I'm split in two,

I see what lies hidden,

and I see

what hides it, too,

unbearably.

You too.

( williams )

Have no fears.

Even in this weight of stark

self division, we are turning
back towards coherence;

even as we are moving

into the darker days,

each imperceptibly longer,

the sun is moving too,

planning its return --

Prepare yourself

for that time, when

we can be whole, and gaze
at the beauty of earth again,

and revel

in the gifts that it gives.

This solstice,

this Christmas,

give the gifts of a child -

of peace and love,

and wide-eyed honesty, so

the next time your self divides

you are happy

with what you see.

forbidden fruit

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 15:45:25 PST

( knoxnews )

There's always been a forbidden fruit,

and there always will be.

There's always something that

within our conscience,

we know we should not do.

(Our conscience, by the way, is that ever flowing,

border crossing,

spiritual entity

that both dictates our individual actions

and unites human - kind.

Essentially, our conscience

is the essence of the Creator

that we all share.

)

The moment of The Fall was

the moment of evolution

during which

humans recognized they could discriminate,

understand,

and make decisions

that are both in tune with the

and,

more significantly,

contrary to

the will of the Universal Conscience.

It set us in motion to become
Creators
in our own right --

So, to reinterpret

that story that I love to interpret

and reinterpret so much:

some early humans

with the initials A and E

once upon a time

were the first to have the capacity

to make a choice

to ignore the voice of Conscience

and do something contrary to the wishes

of the Universal Good,

and then, they also chose

to pretend that what they did

was just fine.

Thus began

the game of deception that we call Civilization.

( igniq )

We have made the terrific mistake

over the centuries

of believing that our conscience

is individual,

when in fact

it is the steady constant

that provides universal ethics

for harmonious living.

The voice of God

screams out from the depths

of the You

you currently occupy;

it demands

that You cooperate

and collaborate

with your fellow Humans

(and the other animals, as well).

We have stifled the Voice Inside for far far

too long.

If you hear a voice screaming

in your head right now,

as I do,

a voice you cannot ignore,

it is the voice of our shared consciousness

and our source

demanding to be heard.

Listen to it.

The Dream That Must Be Interpreted (by Rumi, illustrations by Odilon Redon)

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 14:15:39 PST

( oceansbridge)

This place is a dream.

Only the sleeper considers it real.

Then death comes like dawn,

and you wake up laughing

at what you thought was your grief.

But there's a difference with this dream.

Everything cruel and unconscious

done in the illusion of the present world,

all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

It stays,

and it must be interpreted.

All the mean laughing,

all the quick, sexual wanting,

those torn coats of Joseph,

they change into powerful wolves

that you must face.

The retaliation that sometimes come now,

the swift, payback hit,

is just a boy's game

to what the other will be.

(this, and the above, from
artunframed )

And this groggy time we live,
this is what it's like:
A man goes to sleep in the town
where he has always lived, and he dreams he's living
in another town.
In the dream, he doesn't remember
the town he's sleeping in his bed in. He believes
the reality of the dream town.

The world is that kind of sleep.

artinthepicture

The dust of many crumbled cities
settles over us like a forgetful doze.
But we are older than those cities.
We began
as a mineral. We emerged into plant life,
and into the animal state, and then into being human,
and always we have forgotten our former states,

except in early spring when we slightly recall
being green again.

venu

That's how a young person turns
toward a teacher. That's how a baby leans
toward a breast, without knowing the secret
of its desire, yet turning instinctively.

Humankind is being led along an evolving course,
through this migration of intelligences,
and though we seem to be sleeping,
there is an inner wakefulness
that directs the dream,

and that will eventually startle us back
to the truth of who we are.

canvaz

just a pair of shoes

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 00:04:54 PST

I can't believe it has taken me

over a week

to post this entry . . . .

I am still around!

But the world has been way too much with me. . .

to all the readers who pass by this page

either purposefully

or by happen-stance,

I promise:

I'll be back to regular blogging,

and regular visits to your blogs

very very soon . . . .

( harpers )

About a week ago,
I was part of an organized discussion,
where the leader proposed we all contemplate the topic
of shoes.

Quite frankly, I didn't think the conversation would last all that long.
But we all quickly came to realize that one should
never underestimate
the meaning of
a shoe

This conversation was part a training session
for group leaders
in a spiritual context,
so nearly everyone considered the sacred places
where we take them off --

( islam.about )

This seemed far too obvious to me; my mind
went to symbolic shoes,
magical shoes,
not to mention
my own shoes, too.
These are the shoes I am wearing right now:

( zappos )

They are also the shoes I was wearing on the day,
when I contemplated shoes. As I sat there thinking about them,
I could suddenly feel them --
feel my feet inside of them,
and the ways the shoes held my feet:
comfortably, inconsequentially --
minimal support but enough
to get by.

'Tis true:
shoes do
say a lot about me and about you.
In fact, we talked for quite some time
about the Meaning of Shoes.

I don't have a lot of shoes,
but the shoes I do have I buy for walking;
I have very few shoes
for decoration only --
I take shoes seriously, and I don't give them up
easily.
Because I wear my shoes well,
and by the time they are unredeemable,
they are so full of stories that I cannot part with them.
I have more old shoes than I have
photo albums, not to mention
more old shoes than I have
new shoes.

I am no Imelda Marcos
.

. . . and yeah, I have big feet.

As I sat there thinking
about shoes,
beyond my own shoes,
a collage of symbolic shoes
crossed my mind --
shoes that have trod the pages of popular,
and unpopular
culture for centures, and I was amused
and amazed by the stories
they told,
far more than the average library.

For me, when someone leaves my life
for whatever reason they might
leave,
the hardest thing they could leave behind would be
a pair of shoes --
I would have to look at them
every day,
maybe
twice a day,
until I got up the nerve
to pick them up
and get rid of them.

In their emptiness,

shoes imply stories,

some finished,

some in progress,

some yet to start.

So as I contemplated this humble

entry on shoes,

I started looking for pictures of

interesting shoes ~ ~

Well, here are a few,

only a few

Read on, and let their emptiness
fill your mind with images of where
they may have been:

( bible-archeology )

( lizciokajlo )

( costumes.org )

( prior two photos from arttatler )

( indiashoes )

( americanduchess )

( newworldorderreport )

( fashionfabulous )

(lulusvintage)

( catsmidwestmayhem )

(above two pictures from jerzygirl45 )

. . . . . and . . .

Shoes are magic,
never forget it,
shoes can take you
anywhere
you want to be.

Like a Prayer: To My Mother

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 21:13:27 PST

( susanwrotehere )

Hanging up the phone tonight, after talking with my ancient mother, I said to her, as I always say: "I love you." Obligatory, yes, and yet, I know I truly mean it. I know that if tomorrow, if I had not said it, and if I were to receive the call that told me she has finally departed this domain, I would tear myself apart for not having said those three words to her the last time we spoke on this beautiful planet.

Those three words are an obligation, and yet they are all I want to have ever said to my mother, because they summarize all of my messages to her, over the years, over the decades, over the centuries: my messages of hope, of expectation, of disappointment, of demand, of guilt, of sadness, of hurt, of happiness, of intentions, of plans, of relationships, of joys, of men, of women, of children, of change, of desire, of despair, of impatience, of patience, of giving up, of acceptance, of life, of life, of life --- all those messages I've ever shared with my mother over my multiple lifetimes, which she has listened to so patiently, are best summed up with one message: I love you. And so I say it, dutifully, every night when I call her before she goes to bed. It's true. I do. Like a nighttime prayer, I call my mother, listen to her litany of pains and changes in her aching aging body, and then I say "I love you," and "sleep well."

( terawarner )

I love you. What does it truly mean to say that? In the long term, when you've lived as long as I have, it is to say this:

You have a place in my heart.

No one else has that place --

only you--

and when I visit it, I am

with you.

The mystery and the magic lies

in this:

my heart has more places

than I can count,

and each has a different shape

and size

that can only be found

when its occupant is found --

In other words,

dear reader,

I did not know that place existed

in my heart, that place

the size of you

until I met you, and then

there it was --

beating, throbbing, flexible, growing

that place in my heart

that was made for you --

that was waiting for you --

No one else will fit there,

and it will endure,

as long as I endure--

This

is what it means when I say

I love you,

and I do ---

who

ever you are, my many

silent ethereal, virtual friends --

love you ---

read it every night

before you go to bed

like a prayer.

( activityvillage )

Turkeys Revolt!!! (Happy Thanksgiving)

HILL1362@roadrunner.com (Makropoulos) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 12:43:19 PST

So sorry I haven't been here for a little while --
it's a busy time of the year for me,
not simply because the holidays are starting.

It's just the nature of the business I'm in.

Anyway,
I was cleaning and stuffing a turkey this morning,
when I was approached by a four year old
who climbed up on a stool and looked very closely
at the beast in the sink.

"What do you think?" I asked him.

"I just want to look at the turkey," he said,
"but I don't want to eat him. I really feel sorry for him."

I tried to come up with a good reason for eating the beast,
including the fact he was raised free range,
and fed natural foods,
there on a beautiful farm
somewhere in Upstate New York,
but I realized by the look on the child's face
that I was presenting a very convincing argument
for keeping the bird alive.

Oh, well.
I'm still eating turkey tonight.

But I did want to see how the turkeys themselves feel
about the ongoing abuse against them.
And I may have found a few answers:

hey, happy thanksgiving!