First, save the words!

It's curious that we have learning institutions and scientific research and development facilities of the highest caliber dedicated to finding out the answer to the only question we all have in common, whether you are a tomato picker or an aeronautical engineer: ‘Why are we here?’ In other words, what is the purpose of mankind? Everything else is inconsequential. We have lost less essential data over the course of the last ten years alone. For example, correct language.  English, Spanish, French, German, Mandarin. If language deterioration is true of the language we know,  I’d volunteer that all languages across the world are experiencing the same tragedy.  As illogical as it sounds, there are those who think being anti-correct makes them different. Some street rappers and local fans subscribe to this belief. And yes, it does make them different- glaringly, obviously so. If I were to say to a group of philosophers that Socrates was not wise, to stand apart as unique within the group I’m sure I would have no problem distinguishing myself as one rotund idiot.

‘What is correct?’ someone will be bound to ask – and the answer is of course, subjective. In communication, correct, at least to me, would be to use the necessary vocabulary that most closely resembles the expression to be conveyed. What? Nobody remembers taking association tests? Grunts and one-syllable words do convey an image, but lets be honest, there’s a lot more to be expressed in the world than basic banality. Language is communication. This is why there are so many tragic, misunderstood miseries in the world. Language, as important as it is, and which decline we have witnessed over the course of our own generation, is one of those minor losses compared to the crucial knowledge of what our individual and communal purposes in life are? What are we here for?

The most advanced courses, the most advanced information, the most advanced teachings are available to those searching the origins of man. And the only practical reason of possessing this knowledge is to know what our purpose is. The purpose of bees (well, some of them anyway) is to pollinate. Without it, the food chain would be fatally flawed.

Did we at some point in our ancient past, know why we are here and what we are supposed to be doing here? Perhaps. We at least knew how to cut giant stones with such precise accuracy that hundreds of thousand years later they fit so tightly together that a razor blade can’t be pushed through any of the sides! Where is that knowledge today? Extinct.  Our entire economy is built around distractions created to allay the paranoia of our internal center because despite all the comforts we’ve created for our lives, we don’t know what our lives are for.

What is our purpose? What are we here to do? And most importantly, are we doing it? Considering the amount of money invested in searching for the origins of man, I believe this question has become not only important to answer but imperative. The financial support that sustains highly advanced scientific experiments suggest we must find an answer quickly. But in an effort to find this answer, science has developed tools of destruction. There’s no question that unless there is conscientious and considerable effort placed on turning things around, we are working toward our own destruction, when our mission perhaps is to populate Earth, and other planets and galaxies as well. I certainly don’t believe our purpose is to go from one Marshall store to another buying sconces during Labor Day sales.

We have come so far away from knowing our purpose in life that there are some who now suggest there is no life. Only illusion. To this school of thought I say, sorry buddies, I think. Therefore, I am. And if the simplicity and beauty of this statement doesn’t resonate with the truth that lives within all, then maybe there are some illusions walking among those of us who do exist.

What if our purpose is to look after the planet? Its animals, forests, its fawn and flora? We are failing miserably at this task. We have killed animals into extinction in order to adorn our clothing, burned and grazed forests to ashes in order to print useless papers, polluted the oceans and its creatures with waste and chemicals. We don’t know what our purpose is, but what if it is to take care of the planet? What then? How do we rate as individuals performing this task when even our verbal expressions of communication have dwindled to primitive, made-up words that have no root or foundation? How can we save the world, when we can’t save the words?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWnmCu3U09w

The Elephant Can Be Pushed!

I enjoy lampooning certain spiritual movements. Doesn’t everybody? No? Cast ye then the first stone straight at my left temple so as not to undo the do cascading on the right! It’s a hard habit to break especially for hardened cynics. This is not to say I don’t recognize the unequivocal force that acts upon us through principles and patterns not yet simplified beyond John- 9:5. There is more than a thread of truth to the belief that despite gargantuan forces of opposition, when the Lord means to use somebody for the greater good, it will do so even through great evil. Take the United Nations for instance. Often accused of being manipulated by bully member countries that shall not be named, the UN is viewed by a good many as a greedy, power-hungry organization that was primarily set up to allow its high ranks to snoop into the inner-workings of all nations. Let’s call this evil.

In the late nineties when ethnic violence engulfed the Democratic Republic of Congo (as you read on you may conclude the term "democracy" must lose something in Congolese translation) over one million people were killed for no reason other than being born of a different tribe. Rose Mapendo, a then seemingly insignificant woman of the Tutsi tribe, had no idea one day she would spearhead a persistent movement that would bring worldwide awareness to the plight of women, mothers and wives in war-torn countries. Such are the mysterious ways of the unseen Law.


Targeted for death for being Banyamulenge Tutsis, a minority ethnic group, Rose Mapendo, her husband Moise and their seven children were arrested and sent to a Congolese death camp in 1998. They were shoved in a crowded room with no doors and no running water where Rose and the children would spend sixteen months of their lives. Moise did not survive the ordeal. He was soon taken by prison guards to be tortured and executed as Rose listened to his final moments through the prison’s wall. Her life and that of four other women, along with their children were spared because according to the guards, their bullets were not to be “wasted on cockroaches.” And so the unseen Law saved the lives of these human beings through the frugality of evil doers.

Prisoners were randomly and routinely executed and Rose lived each day with the constant fear that she, or worse yet, one of her children would be next. With every new dawn came the ever-looming threat of death. Unbeknownst to Rose at the time of her husband’s murder, she was pregnant. After months of the most terrifying existence during which she had to negotiate with corrupt, degenerate senior guards for the life of her eldest son in exchange for her first born daughter’s virginity, Rose gave birth to twins. She gave birth in silence so as not to frighten the children in the small, cramped cell; in the dark, with nothing standing between them and deadly infection than a destiny that somehow now appears preordained. With a splintered piece of old wood she cut the umbilical cord and tearing strands of hair from her head, tied them so the babies wouldn’t bleed to death.


In a humble act of forgiveness toward the men who murdered her husband and subjected her and her children to a subhuman existence, Rose named the twins after two prison commanders to show them she was not their enemy. In her culture, naming a child after a friend is a great honor. Rose has admitted to suicidal thoughts that did not materialize only because she found it impossible to leave her children unprotected regardless how attractive oblivion appeared. Her skin raw from lying in hard, coarse, cement, Rose was near death when the area's Mayor placed a call to the local chapter of the Red Cross, and it to the United Nations. It is not known what prompted the Mayor to make this call. It can be speculated that it was his fear of standing trial for war crimes, or perhaps he was truly moved by this remarkable woman’s capacity for forgiveness. Whatever it was, Red Cross personnel soon appeared at the death camp requesting to see Rose Mapendo. Full of lice, and their bodies ravaged from hunger, malnutrition and bloodied diarrhea caused by the consumption of green mangos- the only food within her reach, Rose and the children were transferred out of the death camp by the Red Cross. Since the President of the Democratic Republic of Congo had ordered the killing of Tutsis, the family was in danger for as long as it remained in the country. While the children and Rose were receiving first aid, the Red Cross took the next steps to secure their protection and contacted the United Nations. Soon after, under the auspices of this global entity, Rose and the children were rescued and eventually relocated to Phoenix, Arizona, and while it is commendable that this family was deservedly saved from death, there remains an unsettling thought as to why others in the same predicament are not? Ah, but only the Law knows what dwells in the heart of men. Such are the mysteries of the Lord.


Rose Mapendo did not forget the gruesome time she spent in the death camp, and unlike others who would have quickly sealed the memories never to be recalled again, she has instead become the voice of women victims of war. She has spoken in the White House invited by none other than the Prince of Darkness himself George W. Bush; in elite universities, in church groups, and yes, in the United Nations. She has returned to the Congo and despite the danger, her presence has lifted the spirit of those who look to her as a beacon of survival. Her message is simple: forgiveness. Whether Rose tapped one of these elusive, unseen laws through forgiveness, or her story is one of random survival, one indisputable fact stands out: she would have been dead, and her children would have faced a cruel, psychotic, short existence if the UN, much critisized as a tool of greed, would not have stepped in. Granted, one family saved is a meager contribution by an organization formed to protect the world, but in this life of seemingly random chances this woman is changing the world through her testimony wherever she goes.

Rose Mapendo’s life and ordeal are documented in the film ‘Pushing the Elephant’ which aired in April on PBS’ Independent Lens simultaneously with its premier at the Women’s International Film Festival in Florida, and while those familiar with her story rejoice in her physical salvation, they also question the fate of others who do not receive the mercy of their captors, and whom the UN, be it for whatever reasons, fails to protect and thereby cast doubt upon its fundamental principle of existence.

What a "Bad Hair Day" really means!

Respected beauty industry expert David Pollock recently published an insightful and interesting post about what women are feeling when we say we're having a bad hair day. I appraoched David for his permission to reprint. In addition, he has made a very kind offer available for my readers! Enjoy and welcome to a healthier life, and a fresh appearance!

Think you’re having a “bad hair day?” A “bad hair day” is the kind of day when you just feel needy, clingy, weepy, and insecure. A “bad hair day” is not about your hair; it is however, about negative thinking that influences those feelings. Negativity drains your energy. It produces negative self-talk which reinforces the insecure feelings creating a hopeless cycle. This cycle produces behavior based on insecurity, complaining, controlling, manipulating, addictions, envy, gossip, and jealousy.


Day dream about a “good hair day” instead! A day when you feel great, on top of the world and totally confident. Positive thinking produces positive feelings creating a positive cycle. This cycle produces behavior such as self-control, kindness, patience, and love. Positive thinking restores and gives you energy.


These simple steps will teach you how to guide your thoughts in a positive direction:
1. Talk about your expectations instead of experiences.
• Choose to focus on your future instead of the past.
• Nurture the possibilities within your heart

2. Visualize Your Desired Future.
• What visual is in your mind’s eye for your success? Repeatedly remember and replay this visual.
• Write your goals/dreams + add pictures to this dream

3. Find Faith Food.
• What you feed your brain affects what you believe.
• Read motivational/inspirational books and stories.


4. Replay Successes in Your Mind.
• Let go of past battles and struggles.
• Start to replay victories and talents.


5. Make Today a Major Event In Your Life.
• Celebrate yourself! Smile bigger and more often. Laugh aloud. Focus on all the little things that make life pleasurable, then celebrate them!


All you have to do to have a “good hair day” is talk about your desired expectations, visualize success, read motivational material, replay your success dream instead of dwelling on mistakes, and make today a celebration of you. It also wouldn’t hurt to call your stylist!

 

Excerpt from The Bungalow Documents

Many times I tried to leave. Return to a little bungalow in Washington State. Eventually it was a hand that put a stop to the seesaw of Libra indecisions and I had no choice but to stay. Plans were changed and every day forward became an uncharted expedition into the Twilight Zone. I would have handled it much better with servants to carry my bags. As it was, I was blessed with the care and friendship of many who in fact did carry my bags as I moved from The Entrance of the Pit of Hell, to Opa-locka, to Coconut Grove, to the Actual Pit of Hell, and finally, Ft. Lauderdale. While at it, I attempted to correct the deplorable conditions of Dade County Transit.

When I arrived in Miami last year I came prepared to stay as long as necessary. Didn’t know where or how, but heck, never known that before either and here I am. I helped Doug structure his notes and research for his book. We talked every day. Overall the day by day came and went without much hoopla. I went to promising, sporadic job interviews. In Washington this is considered quite favorable. In Miami, it seems reason for self-mutilation. In the end, each twisted knot of destiny wickedly spun away as the fickle finger of fate came around to flick me. Again. It happens from time to time.

Organized by super-human powers, because they certainly weren’t by mine, the living arrangements materialized effortlessly. The locations were as good as if picked by Lotto. Granted, my mother couldn’t wait to have me out of The Entrance of the Pit of Hell. Enthralled over my newly discovered commonalities with the Churches of everything Jesus, it was evident that along with redemption, I had summoned nasty spiritual contenders bent on destroying any chance of a worry-free existence. It was clear I'd be tangoing with spiritual demons, goblins and other monsters. It was to be expected. I was after all, at the entrance! Even my father, blind from a stroke in 2008 warned me over the Resident Evil deep in the vortex of Lejeune Road and 3^rd street NW. I'll leave the lack of emotional connection with my parents for another post. Well, uhm, I guess the battle’s been on since I reported my crazy mother to Children’s and Family. Somebody had to do it. Like I said, another post. I went straight from the Entrance of the Pit of Hell, to a metaphor for the steps of heaven, but not quite. There, in Opa-locka I got to befriend likeminded souls. I was still spending my time in the Grove. This meant sometimes having to ride Route 27. Brawls, Racism and cockroaches! Nothing but the best for Dade County taxpayers.

Then suddenly a dream project landed on my lap and in September, I accepted to edit the content of a romantic story that had a Caribbean heroine, and elements of white magic. I did most of it between Olaf’s and Starbuck’s and late night chats with Facebook friends. Moved back into the Grove. Got things done. Especially the real tough ones like taking action to help my daughter out of alcohol and drug addiction. We’re getting there. With patience, understanding, and love. I’ve met with other parents who have gone through the same. While the success rate of rehab programs may not be something the average, in-the red, populace of Miami-Dade county can believe in, its numbers don’t lie and neither do the families. This is working and it got done when it was supposed to get done even if Route 54 doesn’t follow a real schedule.

Doug came down from Washington in November. Our Christmas in the Miami Gardens house could have easily been made into a Tim Burton feature- darkly realistic if not for the charm of the protagonists. It was our Hell. It looked nice and spacious enough but it was alive. Strange noises, sounds in the night, disembodied voices, and worse, no Internet connection. We spent New Year’s weekend in South Beach cat watching Cory and Ronald’s babies. Within minutes I had devoured an entire bag of ginger candy that had been left on the table. Maureen and Tobin from the Mad Hat Tea House in Tacoma know of my addiction to ginger candies. It’s out of my hands and God hasn’t done anything about it nor have I asked for riddance of this all-consuming and vice-like pleasure. Yummy Ginger candy! I want more!

By January I had become fully involved with the Women’s International Film Festival. It started innocently enough by acknowledging receipt of the screener copies on the festival’s online registry website. We received close to three hundred entries. Mid-month we finally moved to Ft. Lauderdale to be within a few steps from the festival’s office and we left the oppressive environment of the Pit of Hell. Sure Ft. Lauderdale isn’t Seattle, but it isn’t Miami either. The walks are nice and entertaining. The ocean is much closer – albeit with radiation contamination. Broward County Transit you ask?

Ignorance is not Bliss...

Being thirty-minutes late is a big deal in God’s plan, when God has one. I tried my best to sneak in quietly, but the door chime clanked sweetly, and before I knew it I had already forked over one of my friend Q’s five-dollar bill and I was looking for a place on the floor to sit. The visit of Ngawang Sungrab Phagyab Rinpoche had a low-profile advertisement. Those are my favorites!

I joined the mesmerized group of Grovites scattered around the spacious Windisch-Hunt gallery and trained my ear to the high ranking lama’s speech. I couldn’t quite place the language. I think because it was English. Still listening to our disheartening state of current awareness, I went around the gallery snapping what I believed to be great photos.

I spoke with Kellie from What The Flower and now I want to meet the life-changing artist Joseph Lawrence Vasile. 

After photographing the room and the lama from every conceivable angle, the lecture hadn't moved one iota and the esteemed Rimpochet lama was still stubbornly pointing out our ignorance; I acquiesced and rushed to get free sangria at Lulu’s in the hope of diminishing mine. 

Ignorant and all, I thoroughly enjoyed the time at the restaurant and continued meditating to the tune of two Dos Equix.

Then right about the time when my friend Q was writing on Lulu's suggestion card that they ought to bring back Christophe, the best chef in the world, Stereo MC came on just in case God did have something to tell me after all:

 “…get yourself connected, writing's on the wall, but if your mind's neglected, stumble you might fall.”

Halloween? You don't know the Half of It!

There’s no neighborhood like Coconut Grove. Without a doubt the most laid-back, chilled hidden nook in the city of Miami. Even the newly transplanted soon realize how easy it is to fall in step by simply appreciating the creative spontaneity of this quaint, and cool little community. 

Yesterday was just like any other Saturday in the Grove. I got going at the crack of Noon and started the day with a slow, clumsy walk to Lulu’s for an invigorating giant bowl of fruits followed by a thorough inspection of the hip consignment/thrift/treasure/awesome new and secondhand shop Evaar! The Sale Rack! Where I eventually dropped the savings from Lulu’s but oh, so worth it. 

While browsing Commodore Street I decided to snap a few photos. I wanted to post them on Facebook so my boyfriend and my kids could see them because I know it will make them smile! Got a nice shot of the old Laundromat by the Post Office, and Coconut Grove Elementary School right across. 

The day was bright and breezy. I made my way to CocoWalk and turned on Virginia towards the still mesmerizing Mayfair Hotel. This hotel doesn’t cease to amaze me. Its design is so classically timeless. Passed ‘Olaf’s’, which is really ‘The Grove Spot’ but affectionately I suppose we acknowledge it belongs to Olaf. The Grove Spot is the place to watch an important football match. Not a boxing match on Showtime though. Olaf if just not splurgey like that. For a boxing match you might get lucky at the Three Stogies, but if you want to watch Dexter you’re out of luck. 

Next in sight are the Fire Station and the Grove Villas. Coconut Grove can boast to be the only fire station whose firemen will go on a call for an animal, but the Grove doesn’t roll like that. The Grove prefers to keep under wraps the subtle pleasantries reserved only for its inhabitants.

Then came the apartment building where I lived. I took photos from different angles. I was tempted to knock on the door and get some inside photos too. I couldn’t stop by the building and not walk across to the Krishna Temple for a visit. One Monday morning in late December of 2004 I hastily introduced myself formally to them and I had always meant to come back out of gratitude.  It is the Christian thing to do.

Walking back to Main Street along Virginia I snapped a few shots of the Ritz in the distance and made my way to the Mayfair Promenade Shoppes. My intention was to go to the WIFF offices and enter the latest submissions we’ve received. 

The films I've watched so far have been jolting one way or another. I look forward to March 30 through April 3rd! Save the date ladies and gentlemen lovers of film, because the 2011 Festival is filled with treasures of the raw richness of film! The ones I have viewed at least, kick A.

Suddenly the music was sounding pretty funky and the motorcycles were revving. What is going on? The bikes were all over the place and they looked  nice. Click, click, photos. Harley Davidson had a stand, of course, but the guy manning it was on his cell phone and I didn't look like I'd be buying a new dog collar anytime soon. Maybe he has seen the South Park ‘biker’ episode. In which case I don’t blame him for cowering in the shade. 

I approached an unsuspecting man who had his back to me.  He obliged for a photo. Victor. He said they are all a group of bikers who text each other about events and show up to support it. Pretty neat. It's nice to see something different. In this case friendly, well-spoken (or at least texter) bikers. I like the style. No RSVP required. Victor has been riding for seven years and prefers the highways of Wisconsin and not the insanity of Miami roads. Duh. "Tell me about it, stud". I trade this sunny day for a Tacoma harsh winter, fog-engulfed one anytime! 

What’s going on is a special event indeed. The Down’s syndrome Association of Miami was having a domino tournament to benefit the association. The place was favorably attended at least while I was there and that was pretty late in the day.

The domino players all looked pretty serious about their pieces and I’m sure as tempting as a “forro” might have been, nobody cheated and no shouts were heard. The word on the street is that Calle Ocho and Grand Ave domino parks have nothing on these players.

There were several national sponsors but the local one was The Three Stogie’s (Agh! They’d be so great if they’d only show Dexter!). The jamming music was provided by DJ Jammin’ Joel Capo whom I’m going to befriend on Facebook because he is just that cool.

Viva le Coconut Grove, man. Thank you Down’s syndrome Association for a memorable day!

October 9, 1940 seventy years ago...

... a man was born who touched the world,

and made it think

made it sing

made it wish

and made it Imagine

John Lennon, you are not forgotten.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fx2gQeXurKc