Stop the Madness

Sarah Palin in my opinion has a few missing screws. In her attempt to repudiate charges that her brand of inflammatory rhetoric had anything to do with the tragic shootings last weekend in Tucson, she decided to employ her strongest example of inflammatory rhetoric. In the seven-minute video she posted Wednesday on her Facebook page, Palin accused journalists and pundits of manufacturing a “blood libel” against her.


It makes me uncomfortable when she speaks with total disdain or horror. While I vehemently disagree with her political views, I watched a dose of her reality show, where she was in a gun shop, 
speaking about the crown and glory that Alaska is, delving in and showing us how the simple life is what being an American is all about. It certainly beats her frothing at the mouth over the Evil Left! That said, I’ve found nearly ever action of hers since the election intensely self-serving, (like having a reality show) mean-spirited, and purposely designed to whip up negative mass hysteria. Forget politics—this woman should be a cult leader! Can anyone name one truly positive thing she’s done to help this country since she catapulted onto the national stage in 2008?


I don’t blame Palin for the actions of Jared Lee Loughner last weekend in Arizona, she is clearly not responsible in any way for the shootings. Still, I believe the conversation with the extreme venom employed by Palin and her cronies (yes, I realize people on the left are guilty of this, too!) and the violent metaphors she uses, for example, depicting Gabrielle Giffords in the cross-hairs on a now infamous map of vulnerable Democrats and what effect such things have in our country is a valid discussion that we need to have. But instead of acknowledging any desire for cooler tempers, working together with others even if we disagree with them, or the benefits of basic civility, Palin goes on the attack yet again with her ridiculous and offensive use of the loaded “blood libel.” How she seems to relish her role as National Provocateur!

Southern California Beach Scaredy Cat

As the youngest, I swung the plastic pails and shovels carrying as much as I could. With my feet in barely-buckled sandals, I merrily skipped out the door to meet my Dad who was packing up the trunk of our convertible. The large cooler was filled with goodies for our outing: bread, mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomato, ham, swiss cheese, dill pickle spears, potato chips, grapes, bottles of coca-cola and a thermos of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. My mother came out in a straw hat, beige shorts and a white shirt tied around her small waist; with her ivory skin, black hair and full lips, she looked like a movie star. Carrying a large straw tote, filled with supplies for our outing: suntan lotion, hats, sunglasses, and under one arm carried several scratchy, mustard-colored woolen blankets from the Army-Navy surplus store. My oldest brother had gone somewhere for the day with his friend Karl. My brother Alfred, the middle child was carrying towels and comic books.

As the car reached the beach, we still had a three-block trudge to the ocean. I almost regretted arriving at our destination because it meant the finale of my daydreams. But as soon as I saw the pink sign that would welcome us, I was eager for the pleasure the cool water would offer.


At the gangplank, we removed our sandals, then my brother and I ran barefooted across frying sand until we found a spot. My parents followed. After unloading our things, my parents would settle on one blanket, and there would be another one for us. Alfred quickly claimed a place in the sand for digging, and I still shedding my sundress, with swimsuit underneath, shouted for him to wait for me. 

The damp sand was chilly from the tide. We dug a hole deep enough to accommodate our bodies, and when our work was done, we took turns sliding into the hole, being a mummy. I topped off the look by grabbing my white plastic sunglasses, placing them on him. In glee we giggled, called for our father to look, and he snapped photos of our masterpiece.


Then it was time to hit the water. A few weeks earlier my father held me in the ocean and had me kick my legs, but he hadn't sufficiently taught me how to breath, and he let me go, I panicked, and swallowed a massive amount of water. This technique worked for him as a child, in a lake, but in a deep ocean, it was crude for my sensibilities and what remained was a great fear of water.


I looked around to see where the lifeguard was stationed. A suntanned teen in red bathing trunks stood at the foot of his wooden perch. He was chatting with a teenage girl in a two-piece bathing suit, but kept one hand on the whistle around his neck. Although the lifeguard was at his post, I was troubled he wasn’t scanning the beach. After a while, I quashed my anxiety, and tiptoed over stones, and shells, just enough to get wet somewhere between my knees and thighs, where I could stay on my feet.

Love never dies... it only transforms

My brother calls me with news. “I’m marrying over Labor Day. The wedding will take place in Montreal.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell him, excited for him because he loves her. Their tale is one that will have a happy ending. I go to Montreal ahead of the family so I can explore the city on my own while lodging in my future sister-in-law guest room.
The bride's mother, Hildegard, greets me at the door. She is not her  biological mother, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Hildegard is originally from Hamburg. A tall woman, she can instantly see through anyone playing games in life, and will call him or her on it when something is out of line. Fearless in stating her opinion, she is witty, and nearly always a precisionist in style.
While she makes us coffee, I peruse the bookshelves.
“You’re a reader?”
“It’s my great escape, being in my head.”
“Ach so. What are you currently reading?”
“A biography of Frida Kahlo.”
She lights up, “A painter. A lot of physical misery, she had.”
“It permanently attached her to her interior and imagination,” I add.
Hildegard is also an artist. “Interesting, my daughter told me you share astrological signs, yet she never speaks about the interior.”
“My interior is what I live for.”
“Have you ever painted, dear?”
“Yes. I prefer oils because I can play with color and texture. Painting gives me the chance to connect with myself.”
She smiles and hands me a paper map.  “A map of the city. We haven’t been here since we left, that was eighteen years ago.  I think you’ll find it surprisingly clean, safe and peaceful,” she says.
What she forgets to mention is Montreal is also eclectic. As I roam, I find the city is a hub for ethnic theater, television and film, which stimulates my thinking.
In the process of my experimentation, what I want is to make art for mass appeal. I don’t want to work for another home-builder. It’s more sales than actual designing. Innately attracted to the theater, I think that perhaps my design talent will lend itself to this arena. I establish a new plan; to offer my services gratis on my days off at a theater.
By Friday afternoon, my mother, eldest brother, his wife, and their daughter have flown in. They, too, will be staying here. 
Hildegard’s husband, has joined her. Both he and my father bear the same name, a French and a Spanish version, an unusual name and not generational.  My father having died the year before, I intuit this as an omen–a soulmate union sanctioned by the divine hand of God.
To ease any crowding, the bride and her parents stay at the home of her closest friend Diana.
In the kitchen, my mother grills fresh salmon, roast potatoes, and makes a vegetable quiche for my vegetarian benefit.  I’m dicing tomatoes for a garden salad while my oldest brother sits at the kitchen table with a map, planning day trips. “On Sunday, we can go to Quebec City. It’s a two-hour drive, and it’s historical,” he says.
That evening we hit the Latin Quarter. My niece being a teen thinks I'm cool because I expose her to the nightlife of the city.
The following morning is the wedding. The bride has left us directions on how to get to the church, by foot. I like that Canadians walk. Not only do I find it healthful and quaint, but it gives me a chance to explore the neighborhood.
During the long traditional French Catholic service, where parents join the bride and groom by mostly standing around like confused deer, I fantasize a year back in time, I would have bet my last dollar I’d be up there—but ...

The Dancing Professor

It's not happenstance that I married a musician. Nothing can transform my mood faster than a good beat; something I discovered from my father as a child.

Sometimes when he looked down, unexpectedly he’d put on music, I'd place my feet on top of his slippers and for hours we'd dip, swoop and glide across the hardwood floors in our PJ's. It became our weekend morning pastime. And in the eyes of my father I was as agile as a ballroom dancer.

My father loved music of all kinds and had a lot of rhythm, as a tall and imposing big man, he was finely coordinated, was an excellent dancer and although he did not play an instrument, he had a musical soul. He’d taught me my first steps as a social dancer and as an adolescent, I too learned this trick– dancing as a way to save myself from falling into the doldrums. For decades this is what I did immediately following my journal writing, it helped get me out of my head and reminded me that I have a body.

Today being Saturday, I heard Lovergirl by the R&B singer Teena Marie this morning, did it ever bring back memories of tape decks and hitting repeat over and over again. And despite it being 25 years old, I still can't keep still when I hear it and love this song as much today as I did then.

http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/--2144425

Fast forward to 2011 and I'll share my listening favorite of 2010, I bought it for myself as a birthday treat, it's got a cool beat and video reminiscent of the 1980's, fun and light especially with the jump rope scene.

The musical group Les Shades are from Montreal, a city I fell in love with when I visited the summer of 1988 when my brother married. More on that trip later.

Their Chinatown album features the single, Penelope:

http://www.youtube.com/user/Chinatownmusique#p/u/1/aJMZUeGshvU

I hope you'll enjoy it and that music will do for you what's it done for me, make you glad to be alive and be a lifelong friend. Have a new year filled with happiness and abundance on all levels of your lives.  À votre plaisir!

Age of Utopias

A few weeks ago I was sent an email that included the de-industrialization of America as a national crisis. In it were facts of the United States becoming the first “post-industrial” nation on the globe. All great economic empires eventually become fat and lazy and squander the great wealth that their forefathers have left them, but the pace at which America is accomplishing this is amazing. It was America that was at the forefront of the industrial revolution. And it will be the heavily mortgaged America that doesn't produce anything – other than garbage that will not have any kind of viable economic future.

One thing I saw time and again this past year was the obliteration of photographs. Having been shown this holiday season a photograph of my maternal grandfather from 1917, as a young man, I quickly asked to make copies, before the process is wiped out. Many of our possessions that we used to own are still in our lives, but we may not actually own them in the future. Today our computer has a hard drive where we store our pictures. But even that is changing.

Photo labs no longer process Kodachrome, they have stopped developing the iconic film forever. Most people believe that this is “progress.” It seems we are losing touch with everyone and everything that constitutes History and Art.

When I was a kid, I marveled at the thought that I would be able to command a robot to take on menial tasks, but now I see the advent of robots will come with a high price- this ever increasing amount of automation comes with an end to human contact for what may turn into many hours in a day or perhaps several days, or weeks at a time, and that comes with the psychological impact of social isolation.

Oodles and Oodles of Red

I'm in a flurry of preparations, I'll let Diana Vreeland share her holiday wishes along with my suggestions for you. They are culled from her longtime column in Bazaar, "Why Don't You."

This holiday season, why don't you...

Sleep-in

Have tiramisu for breakfast

Play “Jingle Bell Rock” and boogie in your pajamas until noon

Drink expensive champagne in the middle of the day

Bake and eat sweets to your heart's content

Snuggle up with a good comedy and a cup of cocoa

Get a professional massage

Splurge on a piece of fine jewelry

Read romantic poetry in the bare under the duvet

Call for take-out

Cuddle in front of a fire

Carry around mistletoe

See a Christmas tree lighting

Take a girly-girl's hot leisurely bubble bath by candlelight

Ice Skate; or if not possible get a bike, find a hill, ride down with your feet planted on the handlebars laughing all the way!

http://bit.ly/7J9NIa

Movies, a gold-rush business

In the holiday season, Hollywood releases movies, packing them in for year-end nominations. As any studio executive will admit, there have always been box-office failures, but successes counter the losses. But does Hollywood know what we want as an audience? Or do they only know what they are giving us? 

 

One of the losses we experienced moving to the desert was we no longer saw premieres at the Directors Guild, with a respectful audience, where talking was not permitted during the show, no snacks, cell phone rings, no shuffling around until the final credit rolled. Occasionally, after the film, one of the actors who starred in it, would be in attendance for a Q&A. Three actors stand out as memorable- Shirley MacLaine who is as comical as she appears on screen, Keira Knightley who is as smart as a whip and John Lithgow who is a wonderful orator.

But we moved, and the thought of not seeing movies was painful.

Being a cable subscriber for the first time, I saw movies I had never seen before. I'm even more demanding of film than I am of television. I sat there and saw generally a lot of movies where nothing circled the orbit, and there was no gravitational pull.

This morning I groaned at the Golden Globe nominations, I no longer pay them heed since they nominated Slumdog Millionaire, Sideways, Before Sunset, Dark Knight or Up in The Air. All bland, soon to be forgotten films, which had nothing unusual, but were a total waste of my time.

I haven't been stunned since Atonement, which had a beautiful plot based on a novel with a wonderful score. It made me think; once a moment is lost, it's lost. Another film of a lesser quality yet moved me was Australia, because there was a child element and the Aboriginal culture and its relationship with nature, that fueled an imaginative vision.

Don't the moguls know movies are an essential part of our culture? Instead of spewing out stories that denigrate the soul and bore the mind, when will they give us real stories? The kind that leave you speechless and in complete utter awe for hours after. Enchanting throwbacks to an era which strives to entertain its audiences with dazzling spectacle and melodrama, and all of the beauty and dark impulses that comes with it. 

 

Home to Vincent

I've never met a vegetable I didn't befriend, although I had to work at peas and lima beans but eventually chummed up to them. I like my vegies fresh and in season for optimum flavor. One thing about living and visiting different regions is your palate gets exposed to a novelty of tastes. A green that is currently available in your supermarket is Kale. I came by way of it during a trip to Amsterdam as a student, a time when I hardly ate, much less cooked. Although the Dutch use Kale in several ways integrating potatoes as a winter staple, I visited before the cold struck and got a simpler version of it. How I recall sitting in that homespun cafe, where staff brought their dogs to work. What impressed me about the country was how unpretentious the Dutch were. Years later, I made Kale adding lemon to brighten its flavor and enjoy it as a salad.

1 bunch raw Tuscan kale (sweeter than regular Kale)

2 slices country bread, or two handfuls of good, homemade coarse breadcrumbs

1/2 garlic clove

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 cup (or small handful) grated pecorino cheese, plus additional for garnish

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for garnish

Freshly squeezed juice of one lemon (1/4 cup)

1/8 teaspoon red pepper flakes

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Trim the bottom few inches off the kale stems and discard. Massage a little with your hands to tenderize and slice into 3/4-inch ribbons. Place the kale in a large bowl.
Take bread and toast until golden brown on both sides and dry throughout. Tear into small pieces and pulse in a food processor until the mixture forms coarse crumbs, or to the texture of your liking.
Using a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic and 1/4 teaspoon of salt into a paste. Transfer the garlic to a small bowl. Add 1/4 cup cheese, 3 tablespoons oil, lemon juice, pinch of salt, pepper flakes, and black pepper and whisk to combine. Pour the dressing over the kale and toss very well (the dressing will be thick and need lots of tossing to coat the leaves). Let the salad sit for 5 minutes, then serve topped with the bread crumbs, adding a little more cheese, and a drizzle of oil. Can keep in the fridge and tastes even better the next day.

Juice Joint

We begin, in true 1920' style with a man in a three piece pin-stripe suit and black derby hat with his back to the camera. He stands at the shore with the azure blue sky in the horizon in the style of surrealistic painter Rene Magritte. His eyes flash, and the last shot of the opening credits, the camera pans to the tide that recedes but his regal two-toned wingtips remain clean, untouched, opposing realities and one of the coolest intro's I've seen. A strong visual hook, engaged, I had to see more.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBTjymxdweA

When I stated in a former blog that I went years without watching television, I wasn't exaggerating. The shows I missed read like a scroll; Hawaii Five-O, Miami Vice, Hill St. Blues, Cheers, Ally McBeal, Family Matters, 3rd Rock from the Sun, Friends. I could on and on; I am bored by sitcoms, and didn't feel I was missing out–I was studying, not putting myself to sleep, feeding my mind, feeding my soul. All these shows were on network television, and the programming styles from cable to network are radically different.

In 2009, I tuned in and discovered HBO, cable, which is like an art form, a visual cinema aesthetic, with stylistic authentic period pieces, wonderful sets, and excellent writing–storytelling with narrative and real acting. The pace is also slower not jumpy like network television because the close-ups require the actors to develop their inner artistic truth and convey their emotions--those of their character to the audience.

Last Sunday was the season finale of Boardwalk Empire, a show that takes place in 1920, during prohibition in Atlantic City, with the rise and fall of politician Nucky Thompson. In real life, Nucky Johnson's largesse was legendary, he was a benefactor to the poor, a power broker for the politically ambitious, and a staunch protector of mob interests -- all while serving the Republican Party.

Now I can catch up on the beginning episodes I missed and I'll stay tuned for the crime, politics and life on the boardwalk next year.

The Man in the White Suit Speaks from the Grave

Earlier this spring I saw a PBS documentary marking the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain's death. A few days ago I got an invitation to a literary event from UC Berkeley, since they published the three volume set of his autobiography. I imagine the set will be flying off the shelves for Christmas, since most people like to buy what's popular, doesn't matter what, then when they go to a party they have something to discuss that makes them hip and smart, hence a crowd-pleaser is born.

The Twain resurgence reminds me of how laborious it was to read Huck Finn, I guess I'm the only one who remembers that minor literary detail. And while I also read Innocents Abroad and Life on the Mississippi, that were also noteworthy, in my opinion they were a spin-off from his only masterpiece, Huck Finn, something that Twain admitted to. So why all the commotion?


This Twainness everywhere, marks how I would be mentally baffled and question–who says something that causes a trend and drives others? How does the initiator make their word stick and hone into the masses of psyches causing so much excitement? People love to fawn over writers once their dead. But acknowledging them while their alive, that would require a risk that rarely crosses anyone's mind. That's why book clubs like Oprah's are popular–people need and like to be told what to read. They either can't figure it out themselves, are too intellectually boring and robotic or simply don't have the curiosity to assume the task.


Regarding the autobiography, Twain forbid its official publication until 100 years after his death, which turns out to be a marketing ploy, sort of like a book embargo. In America it works, delayed gratification and exaggeration make consumers believe they have lived to see the pot of gold in the Promise Land!


While I admire Samuel Clemens theatrical nature, his prose, his publishing ventures, and jabs at social issues, I wonder if this book has not been rehashed and will it stand the test of time as being worthwhile?

An Irresistible Pathway

Wally World

I don't surf the Web as my news source but sometimes you run across a story that sparks something and makes you want to shout. Take for example the 100 year-old Walmart greeter who questioned a 37 year-old female shopper on a water bottle purchase and was pushed, causing her to injure her head in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

The customer is always right has gone too far; it encourages customers to believe they can bully into getting their own way. I've spoken my views on violence and can't understand where people get their motivation. One thing rings true; the younger generation is angry and they have not been taught to respect their elders.

What's at the core is a belief is that elders are not valuable, and should not work. With a focus on the youth culture, most elders are patronized, mistreated. They are not honored, and we have no modern rituals to bless their role.

Elders incarnate wisdom, which they happily share, in the form of stories. This wisdom can be our saving grace. Elders are helpful in providing perspective on the long-term consequences of any decision. No longer having the strength and energy for battle, they are able to see what is really important. Serving as peacemakers, they put forth solutions in which individual self-interest is better served through cooperation, promoting the best for all concerned.

This centenarian works five days a week, is self-supporting and needs her income. She plans on putting the incident behind her and return to work. Kudos for her courage. And I applaud Walmart for hiring her ten years ago.

Growing up one of my father's nicknames for me was “the Judge.” I'm going to take on that role for the sake of this post; I know nothing of the assailant; but if I were hearing this case; this is what I would enforce on the perpetrator: Jail time on assault and battery charges to learn to treat people differently. Community service in a nursing care facility to remind her that she too will age. And, last, a fine, attacking another over a purchase clearly indicates she doesn't know the value of money, a hit in the wallet will remind her of it's purpose. 

Here Comes...

Yellow Rose of Texas

As a vegetarian, in an act of compassion I did not want animals to suffer, so I embraced the vegan lifestyle. I enjoyed feeling light after a meal and honestly never took to meat. Despite all the legumes and beans I ingested I didn't get enough protein and consequently there were adverse effects.

Had I delved a little deeper I would not have bought leather goods. But somehow that didn't register as cruelty, yet it is.

As a former vegetarian, and now, I have never owned a vinyl handbag (with the exception of one or two that my mother bought me as a very young child), and I refuse to buy anything but genuine leather for my feet. I love the smell of leather and I insist on quality, preferring it over quantity.

My first adolescent handbag was not leather, it was made from wood, in the shape of a box given to me by my father as a Christmas present. Whimsical, it had colorful flowers made from bright jewels, hand painted stems and a handle. I was surprised by its uniqueness and knew I owned something that I would not see elsewhere. A true piece of Art, he purchased it at Neiman Marcus, he had fabulous taste and only bought the best. Returning to school after winter break, I knew I had to create an ensemble that would showcase “my purse” so I choose to wear light colors– my beige culottes with a baby blue angora sweater accessorized by my new pendant watch. The girls (even those who didn't talk to me), marveled at my purse, fascinated by the beauty and glitz of my treasure. As I swung it around, I'd say, “But wait, there's more”, I'd open it and give a peek inside; a built-in-mirror! 

 

Last night while perusing Ebay trying to find a replacement of the Guernica tile –my only purchase from Barcelona that Steven broke, I came across Enid Collins. Originally from Texas, she was the creator of the wooden purse. Astonished by her exquisite designs, that were so eclectic back then but would also work with today's fashions, especially in summer, which indicates that good things never go out of style.

Black Thursday

The definition of materialism is a preoccupation on the material world, rather than intellectual or spiritual concepts.

When I first moved to Europe, I was inconvenienced that retail stores would close during the week at 6 p.m. A year before my arrival, a law had gone into effect that made Thursdays a day in which retail establishments remained open until 8 p.m. Weekend hours were Saturdays from 9-1, and Sundays were closed, since it was a day of rest.

Adjusting to this new schedule I began to see things in a new light; people that worked in retail were treated with respect, not worked as slaves. With everything closed at the same time, it meant people could have leisure time together. Rather than seeing a family going to the mall on Sundays, I saw family outings at the park on bikes, including a grandmother pedaling her cruiser, or families hiking, or at the public swimming pools, physical activities at no cost took precedence. But then again, Europeans choose community over convenience and clearly do things differently from us. Yet their lives seemed in many ways richer and fuller. I know mine was. Additionally, many of the museums were free on Sundays which allowed an opportunity to learn about art and develop the mind and soul.

There's something inherently wrong with American businesses open and consumers shopping on Thanksgiving day. It's sick, and a moral degradation. It robs us of the fundamental issue of the holiday- gratitude and repose.  The Pilgrims who were fleeing persecution and created Thanksgiving day have been dishonored by advertisers and greedy retailers whose message is consumption over appreciation as the road to fulfillment.

Seize the Day

To commemorate my passage into adulthood, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday with friends by coming to Las Vegas to experience what all the hoopla was about. On Friday night there were neon lights and nightclubs. Saturday there was a trip to the Stratosphere for a view of the city, shopping, then dinner and a show. By Sunday morning, over breakfast the smell of mildew carpet mixed with cigarettes and the noise was driving me crazy, I heard keno numbers being called out, and I couldn’t wait to get back on the bus and go home. I had no interest in returning.


Decades later, Steven and I are driven here by a realtor and I don't see anyone outside. My husband Steven says, “you won't like the architecture” referring to the tract style homes. Knowing I could turn an ordinary house into a palace of beauty, I said I'd give it five years.


I never thought I would live in Las Vegas. I find casinos repulsive. They look like morgues for the half dead. I don’t like the light or the décor, or the pallor of the people, the look of absolute desperation and the lifeblood just draining out of them as they sit at these machines.


Next month, I will have fulfilled my promise. Hallelujah! I can hear the choir sing! As creative types, Steven and I have been two fish out of water. The good that has come from this adventure remains; it's kept me writing and working. And although it sounds schmaltzy there hasn't been a student that I've not tried to reach in some way. It's easy to fall in love with their enthusiasm and take an interest in them. They, along with the administrative support at CSN that I've received have been my salvation.  And when the time comes, I will leave this desert having found comraderie.


I love teaching; my heart is in it. I enjoy the immediacy of it and I have the opportunity to be a listener, a facilitator, a connector to people. And to me, the art of dissolving boundaries is what living is all about.

For the People, By the People

Abraham Lincoln was an idealist. Fast forward a hundred years later, and idealists gave voice to our government as to how things should be run, ethically and morally. However, the last few decades it's as if the masses lost their initiative and fighting spirits faded which paved the way for the nation to be in a financial crisis stemming from involvement in fighting two wars, thanks to George Bush. In the shadow of war, corporations got greedy. Our nation controlled by a system of credit was and is in the hands of a few, where we are no longer a Government of free opinion, conviction or vote of the majority, but a Government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men. The truth is, when too much money got into the hands of only a few, it's as if we created a monarchy obliterating the middle class.


One man who has the courage to speak his mind and organizes others, and fights against the injustice behind corporate greed is Bruce Marks, a former union activist and currently the CEO of the Neighborhood Assistance Corporation of America (NACA). 

NACA aims to be a reformer of the banking and lending industry. There activities include enacting local and state legislation and regulations to address sub-prime and predatory lending. Ascending to Capitol Hill amidst a hearing watch the video of a fighter who questions if the nations foreclosures are done in accordance with the law, as he presses for the committee to hear from homeowners. A fight has to ensue and go on! Without it, it raises even a more frightening outcome- what will happen to a country filled with people deprived of their property and their children homeless in a country conquered by banks and corporations?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAqur27v_i0

Window on the River of Time

Teddy Roosevelt said that all Americans should try to see it. He visited it to hunt and enjoy the scenery. He also declared: “We have gotten past the stage, my fellow citizens, when we are to be pardoned if we treat any part of our country as something to be skinned.” He was referring to the steep-sided canyon carved by the Colorado River in Arizona known as the Grand Canyon.


When I visited it, we managed to park, and walked to the rim, the scale of the sight off the edge was so great it was hard to muster a response. It was so vast, and so familiar from pictures, it might just as well have been a picture. What impressed me most was the Babel of languages audible among the visitors pouring off the tour buses. It sounded like Times Square on a Saturday night, with every continent represented in the hubbub.


Although the canyon is a desert, it was spring and it was an oasis – a place of peace, sequestered from the rest of the world.


To experience the canyon, you have to leave the rim. The frustration aroused by the bigness, the grandness, on a rim-only visit becomes a liberation once you drop down. The modern world falls away. It’s a trip out of the human realm, deep into the geology of the earth. Layer upon layer of the earth's crust is revealed, stratum by stratum: the Toroweap limestone, the Coconino sandstone, the Red-wall limestone, the Tonto Group; the Vishnu schist deep down, close to two billion years old, nearly half the total age of the planet – the stuff that is under our very feet as we go about our lives is laid bare here. And in the silence and stillness, in the solitude of the canyon, it’s all the more impressive.


I have always found geology astonishing, beyond human comprehension pointing directly to our Creator. Standing before geological history makes me ask these questions silently- were these hundreds of square miles of limestone hundreds of feet deep truly formed by trillions of marine creatures dying? Could a river really carve out a gash this deep? How could the Colorado River in a single day before the construction of the Glen Canyon Dam, carry away 380,000 tonnes or more of silt?


It was such a vast landscape it seemed it might go on in pinnacles and gulfs for hundreds of miles. With endless new levels, new shears, shelves and tables to descend, then all of a sudden, there was the bridge again. I could see its individual railings, and as we approached, through a tunnel hewn straight through the rock, the thick, deep air beside the rushing river was like a balm. Whether it was the late afternoon light, the fatigue, or the relief of getting down, I found myself wallowing in a wonderful endorphin bath. The world went glassy. The canyon cliffs and trapezoids and pinnacles of rock all became resonant. I watched myself walk, as if the real me were a deep witness to my life, rather than the one who apparently lives it.


Once you’ve been down into it, you understand, at least a little and are humbled by its beauty, both haunting and magnificent.

Shakespeare Sonnet 73... "Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”

After my visit to Stonehenge which included a lunch stop in Salisbury and shopping in Bath, where rows of buildings are made out of sandstone and nothing is painted except for doors, I headed toward my next destination. My flu bug going into full swing, I slept on the tour bus. A month prior, in keeping with English themes, I had devoured reading Holy Blood, Holy Grail, in one sitting until the wee hours, engulfed by the conspiracy theory with my taste for the occult and anything that concerns the unexplainable. With a fascination toward myths and legends I was on my way to Glastonbury, a city which has been a New Age community, rich in history.


A notable landmark is Glastonbury Tor, a Celtic word that means hill. It's where King Arthur and Lady Guinevere coffins were discovered, and may be a possible location for the Holy Grail, since Joseph of Arimathea is said to have arrived in Glastonbury, stuck his staff into the ground, and when it flowered miraculously it became Glastonbury Tor. Also, the presence of an astrological landscape zodiac around the town has been carved along the hedgerows and trackways along with a collection of ley lines. It's an enchanting place with amazing streets lined with alternative shops filled with crystals, gems stones, mineral baths, funky clothes, cafes with homemade food, books, paintings, and hand crafted products. I saw ads for healers, meditation, yoga, drumming classes, and festivals of just about everything imaginable.


After I arrived having spent a day in bed nursing myself back to equilibrium, I couldn't get myths and mystery out of my head and went for a walk to Glastonbury Abbey to visually take in the ruins. On the grounds I saw a tree that contained the Holy Thorn, pronounced dead earlier in the year and cut months after my fortuitous visit.

Lady of the Lake

After reading Mists of Avalon in 1991, I was enthralled with all things Arthurian, since author Marion Zimmer Bradley captured a layered story relating the legends from the perspective of the female characters. I was delighted that it was almost a 900 page read, since I was rooting for Morgaine, the main character and priestess to save her matriarchal culture in a fight against patriarchal Christianity. It was highly original and such a convincing Saga that it influenced me to buy myself an Edwardian ring, and to return to England with a special itinerary. Later that year, while visiting I got a stomach flu which dampened the visit, but I trudged on determined to experience as much as possible.

With a fever and chills I boarded an early morning tour bus (a testament to my determination) to southern England, to the plains of Salisbury and had my sights on Wiltshire, to see Stonehenge, a prehistoric monument and one of the spiritual wonders of the world. Built at the same time the pyramids in Egypt were under construction, Stonehenge contains a giant circle of thirty stones, some weighing as much as 45 tons, with five inner horseshoe stones, an incredible feat of engineering that were most likely built for some ceremonial use. Several yards directly in front of it is the Heel Stone. Why it was built and how it was used has puzzled Archaeologists and remains one of the unsolved mysteries of the ancient world.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qldJvDUO1b4