Last year there were over 10,000 deaths from gun violence in this country...ten thousand lives lost to guns.
No more guns...tell me that my right to bear arms is worth even one of those lives...go on try to.
I dare you.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
No More Guns
People in and around DC will be lamenting the death of a fabulous football player, Sean Taylor. His death at 24 is sad, shocking, and disturbing. A couple of years ago I may have added: but it is no surprise. Taylor had a bit of a bad boy aura around him coming out of college and some of his actions landed him in trouble with the law and with a bad public image.
But he changed that. People have lauded him for his turn around and, aside from his incredible play on the field, he was becoming a figure worthy of emulation.
But he was shot last night in his home. As I write this all I know is that he was shot by an intruder.
Shot!
Dammit, I have heard all the arguments in support of the second amendment right to bear arms and for just this once I will say I agree that it means that ordinary Joes and Janes can arm themselves as opposed to my reading of the Founding Fathers' desire to have a nation and its states capable of raising instant citizen militias.
Okay...let's just say you and I have a right to own handguns as well as automatic assault rifles.
So what the hell are we gonna do with them besides go out to the range and get our jollies off wasting gunpowder and lead by blasting paper targets?
Sean Taylor was shot by a hand gun. Thirty-three people died last April in Blackburg (the shooter was dead at the end of the shooting too! We need to count him as the perpetuator and
a victim too!) and countless young people across this country die every year because of gun violence.
Tell me then why we need guns...
I'm in favor of 'em, but see no need for 'em.
Do you?
But he changed that. People have lauded him for his turn around and, aside from his incredible play on the field, he was becoming a figure worthy of emulation.
But he was shot last night in his home. As I write this all I know is that he was shot by an intruder.
Shot!
Dammit, I have heard all the arguments in support of the second amendment right to bear arms and for just this once I will say I agree that it means that ordinary Joes and Janes can arm themselves as opposed to my reading of the Founding Fathers' desire to have a nation and its states capable of raising instant citizen militias.
Okay...let's just say you and I have a right to own handguns as well as automatic assault rifles.
So what the hell are we gonna do with them besides go out to the range and get our jollies off wasting gunpowder and lead by blasting paper targets?
Sean Taylor was shot by a hand gun. Thirty-three people died last April in Blackburg (the shooter was dead at the end of the shooting too! We need to count him as the perpetuator and
a victim too!) and countless young people across this country die every year because of gun violence.
Tell me then why we need guns...
I'm in favor of 'em, but see no need for 'em.
Do you?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Searching 4 Joy
Sunday Morning 7:20 AM and the damn phone is ringing. WTF? Who the ...would be calling here that early. Find out later on the voice mail, right?
Around nine Robert is complaining that he can't get on the internet. I show him how I get the damn thing going when the, oh shit, I can't think of the name of the device now...not the wireless router, the thingie the connects to the phone line that separates the DSL....fuck it, you know what I mean. Anyway, I use the phone, call the Verizon voicemail box and there it was (oh, BTW, the light that was blinking goes solid and then you can log onto the internet) a sweet, pre-pubescent girl's voice that only said, "hi".
Then silence...
Sweet little nuisance woke my snarly, bear-like self up. Couldn't work up much distaste for her. Probably Robert's "I'm-next-in-line" girl friend calling and then realizing it was way too early to do such a rash thing that early in the morning...
It's almost 11:00 now. I'm clearing the clutter from my office, finishing what I started when I got back from the retreat in PA and clearing space for my major project: Joy!
Joy
Joy is the center of my focus right now. Finding joy, leaving breadcrumbs along the trail for others to follow....mapping joy.
I woke up with a sad feeling, then an annoyed feeling. But hearing that softly spoken 'hi' changed that.
Oh, yeah the freakin' word is 'modem'. Whew, the mind still works...
Happy Sunday morning!
Around nine Robert is complaining that he can't get on the internet. I show him how I get the damn thing going when the, oh shit, I can't think of the name of the device now...not the wireless router, the thingie the connects to the phone line that separates the DSL....fuck it, you know what I mean. Anyway, I use the phone, call the Verizon voicemail box and there it was (oh, BTW, the light that was blinking goes solid and then you can log onto the internet) a sweet, pre-pubescent girl's voice that only said, "hi".
Then silence...
Sweet little nuisance woke my snarly, bear-like self up. Couldn't work up much distaste for her. Probably Robert's "I'm-next-in-line" girl friend calling and then realizing it was way too early to do such a rash thing that early in the morning...
It's almost 11:00 now. I'm clearing the clutter from my office, finishing what I started when I got back from the retreat in PA and clearing space for my major project: Joy!
Joy
Joy is the center of my focus right now. Finding joy, leaving breadcrumbs along the trail for others to follow....mapping joy.
I woke up with a sad feeling, then an annoyed feeling. But hearing that softly spoken 'hi' changed that.
Oh, yeah the freakin' word is 'modem'. Whew, the mind still works...
Happy Sunday morning!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Happiness Is...
Ah, simplicity is having a cute bunny to snuggle. Does it matter how old you are? Does it matter who sees, or what they may think of you?And isn't it the best thing on the planet when that 'bunny' is a breathing, warm, and loving human being?
Thank the divine for each and every person who gives you hugs. Thank the universe for those upon whom you are privileged to bestow hugs.
Who has hugged you lately?
Who have you hugged?
Friday, September 15, 2006
Baltimore office view
My client had to step away from our session for a moment and I sat gazing out the window. I was remembering he had told me a moment before that two people had been shot on that street since my last visit.
I stopped wondering why there were bars on the window after that...not that I had really given it that much thought.
My client is a Roman Catholic pastor. He is very passionate about helping the neighborhood become a decent place to live and raise families. He works in this room, in this parish office and is surrounded each day by reminders of the work he has before him.
It is a joy spending time with him and a challange as well. Going there every two weeks is almost like going home to the projects in Philly where I grew up.
How does the light get in?
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Dispatch from Cape Cod
Some adventures you never realize you're on until they stare you in the eye and tell you a story you find incredible. Or in my case, several stories, that is until you realize that you know most of them, they sounded familiar as the words were being spoken...you saw some of them in the paper or on the news, and you saw the movie, remember?
While not a photo of any great note (I'm still learning, just got the camera out of the box soon before I left for vacation!) this is my favorite of one Ed Walsh, retired Deputy Superintendent of the Boston PD. He runs a sports cards shop on Cape Cod and he's holding vintage Mickey Mantle cards in this shot. Unseen are the shots of him with Bobby Orr, Ted Williams, and some of the assorted 'bad guys' he busted over the years. Unless you spend time paying attention to the history of the Boston PD you may never have heard of him. But, as my mother-in-law loves to point out, my head is chock full of trivia.
Actually meeting someone as famous in investigative accomplishment as Ed Walsh was a rush. He joined the Boston police in 1955 and retired in 1987. I will not bore you with the number of times he won their medal of honor and other citations. The guy is a walking history of those years in Boston.
The two hours I spent with him in his shop were worth the twelve hour drive back through the remander of tropical storm Ernesto (if I thought I had made bad decisions driving up to the Cape it was just prep work for the drive back!). He should write a book!
I doubt I'll equal Fotoboy's work any time soon...but here's to trying!
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Dispatch From Chadds Ford
We left Annandale late in the afternoon and I made just about every bad traffic choice I could have getting here. First day of vacation was still fun, it just didn't matter cause we were on the road, headed north to see some of our favorite people and visit some of our favorite places.
Leon's house in Chadds Ford is situated just south of the Brandywine battlefield. It is visited by deer, fox, and various forms of wildlife. His daughter Rachel, Esther's godmother, is currently living there, Linda, his wife, came in on the train from New York City soon after we arrived. Only Grace was missing, she is apparently well on her way in relationship with a certain 'Adam' (I wondered aloud if Adam knew that he had yet to pass my approval test?).
Robert is in hog heaven right now, showing Leon his game playing skills in the 'cave'. I'm up stairs in the guest suite, listening to Susana Baca through Breath of Life's web portal and trying to repair my lack of attention to my writing. I've slipped off the wagon. I have struggled to complete my thoughts on 'Labels' to the point of realizing that it is more than a series of scribbling notes on a blog.
Perhaps it's a serious article, maybe a book. Perhaps a grounding concept for a photo montage or even a video presentation...a poem?
Regardless, I do have many thoughts that have spiraled out of control and I've decided to just give in and see where they take me.
Right now I'm gonna head down to the cave (Leon, like me, has his toys in the big room all the way downstairs...)his lair. Big screen TV is the major attraction. Computers, games....big boy toys. He has decided to play the grandfather role with Robert. We have had a good time ushering Robert into bigger boyhood. But right now I'm just gonna go down and play. At some point we'll eat breakfast, figure out when we'll head further north.
And go play on the sands of Cape Cod's beaches.
And eat fresh seafood, good lobster, cold crisp beer...
Why am I sitting here still?
Back attcha soon
Leon's house in Chadds Ford is situated just south of the Brandywine battlefield. It is visited by deer, fox, and various forms of wildlife. His daughter Rachel, Esther's godmother, is currently living there, Linda, his wife, came in on the train from New York City soon after we arrived. Only Grace was missing, she is apparently well on her way in relationship with a certain 'Adam' (I wondered aloud if Adam knew that he had yet to pass my approval test?).
Robert is in hog heaven right now, showing Leon his game playing skills in the 'cave'. I'm up stairs in the guest suite, listening to Susana Baca through Breath of Life's web portal and trying to repair my lack of attention to my writing. I've slipped off the wagon. I have struggled to complete my thoughts on 'Labels' to the point of realizing that it is more than a series of scribbling notes on a blog.
Perhaps it's a serious article, maybe a book. Perhaps a grounding concept for a photo montage or even a video presentation...a poem?
Regardless, I do have many thoughts that have spiraled out of control and I've decided to just give in and see where they take me.
Right now I'm gonna head down to the cave (Leon, like me, has his toys in the big room all the way downstairs...)his lair. Big screen TV is the major attraction. Computers, games....big boy toys. He has decided to play the grandfather role with Robert. We have had a good time ushering Robert into bigger boyhood. But right now I'm just gonna go down and play. At some point we'll eat breakfast, figure out when we'll head further north.
And go play on the sands of Cape Cod's beaches.
And eat fresh seafood, good lobster, cold crisp beer...
Why am I sitting here still?
Back attcha soon
Thursday, July 20, 2006
History and Prophesy
Each moment is sacred, every life precious. Your memories are transports to the past where loved ones gone still live fresh as the first time you hugged them. The bits and pieces of history, both broad and personal, are artifacts to be revered, always.
Past is prologue…
Poets and storytellers are both historians and prophets. Listen to them for what they tell you can carry you through life with a wisdom earned simply by the attention you give and the care with which you carry their messages in your head and heart.
Here is such a story. I give it to you in honor of a week I spent at a writers'workshop at the University of San Francisco with spirits intent on learning to better tell their stories.
She was a tall, elegant woman, with sorrow etched on her beauty in such a way that made her more regal. Her voice carried the soft warm fragrances of cedar from her native country and when she rose to speak of her family’s grief her essence already foretold it to us. We sat in reverence. We sat transfixed.
Her sister was the star, brilliant in mind and person well on her way to a life of promise and fulfillment. She was to be a doctor or a lawyer and hold a high position in Lebanese society. All the family’s resources went to her. Our story teller evidenced no envy in this recital. She was accepting of her status even then, long after the fact. She loved her sister wholly and rejoiced in her promise. Her sister loved her back equally. Theirs was a bond unbroken even years later.
Long after her sister’s murder by her estranged boyfriend.
He had asked only to talk with her one day, seeking for a moment of her time to perhaps say good-bye, perhaps to talk her into one more try. They never found out. He shot her in the head as they sat in his car then took his own life.
Each moment is sacred, every life precious. Your memories are transports to the past where loved ones gone still live fresh as the first time you hugged them. The bits and pieces of history, both broad and personal, are artifacts to be revered, always.
We look on Beirut today and see what it must have looked like in the early eighties when Israel once before used massive attacks in retaliation for assaults against their country.
Past is prologue.
Our story teller related how her grief stricken family, in their tradition, buried her sister’s body in their back yard, in a beautiful garden. Moving on they transferred their dreams upon her. She was to become the star in their firmament and for awhile she tried. Went to school to become a lawyer for she was good with words but somewhere along the way those words called to her.
She was meant it turned out, to be a story teller.
She was meant to tell her family’s story to us that day and to finish her memoir from within the sadness of both her family and her nation. She came to America and went to school late in life. When we met her she was taking a novel writing class to smooth out her story. She was one of us, a soul crying out its story in all its sadness and glory. We were there in San Francisco listening to her, but her words carried us to Lebanon, during that country’s civil war.
You may not remember it, but it looked very much like it is today. One faction, one religious group vowing revenge against another for a long remembered wrong. One side supported by Islamic militants, another supported by the Jewish state. Peace loving families, like our storyteller’s, caught in the middle.
Israeli war ships anchored off the coast rained missiles down on Beirut in the early eighties, hoping to destroy their enemies. One rocket landed in her family’s back yard.
In the aftermath she and her family searched the grounds around their house for her sister’s bones so that they could be re-interred.
Can you imagine their horror and sorrow? Can you feel how hot the earth under their hands and knees must have felt?
She stood there telling us these things. But the one image I carry most vividly is this. She told us how fervently she prayed that she would not be the one who found her sister’s skull. They searched as long as they could and laid her sister again to rest.
Rockets once more fall like hot fire from the sky over Beirut. What peace do you think they find there on that family’s holy ground?
Each moment is sacred, every life precious. Your memories are transports to the past where loved ones gone still live fresh as the first time you hugged them. The bits and pieces of history, both broad and personal, are artifacts to be revered, always.
Past is prologue.
As Santayana has warned us:
Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.
Past is prologue…
Poets and storytellers are both historians and prophets. Listen to them for what they tell you can carry you through life with a wisdom earned simply by the attention you give and the care with which you carry their messages in your head and heart.
Here is such a story. I give it to you in honor of a week I spent at a writers'workshop at the University of San Francisco with spirits intent on learning to better tell their stories.
She was a tall, elegant woman, with sorrow etched on her beauty in such a way that made her more regal. Her voice carried the soft warm fragrances of cedar from her native country and when she rose to speak of her family’s grief her essence already foretold it to us. We sat in reverence. We sat transfixed.
Her sister was the star, brilliant in mind and person well on her way to a life of promise and fulfillment. She was to be a doctor or a lawyer and hold a high position in Lebanese society. All the family’s resources went to her. Our story teller evidenced no envy in this recital. She was accepting of her status even then, long after the fact. She loved her sister wholly and rejoiced in her promise. Her sister loved her back equally. Theirs was a bond unbroken even years later.
Long after her sister’s murder by her estranged boyfriend.
He had asked only to talk with her one day, seeking for a moment of her time to perhaps say good-bye, perhaps to talk her into one more try. They never found out. He shot her in the head as they sat in his car then took his own life.
Each moment is sacred, every life precious. Your memories are transports to the past where loved ones gone still live fresh as the first time you hugged them. The bits and pieces of history, both broad and personal, are artifacts to be revered, always.
We look on Beirut today and see what it must have looked like in the early eighties when Israel once before used massive attacks in retaliation for assaults against their country.
Past is prologue.
Our story teller related how her grief stricken family, in their tradition, buried her sister’s body in their back yard, in a beautiful garden. Moving on they transferred their dreams upon her. She was to become the star in their firmament and for awhile she tried. Went to school to become a lawyer for she was good with words but somewhere along the way those words called to her.
She was meant it turned out, to be a story teller.
She was meant to tell her family’s story to us that day and to finish her memoir from within the sadness of both her family and her nation. She came to America and went to school late in life. When we met her she was taking a novel writing class to smooth out her story. She was one of us, a soul crying out its story in all its sadness and glory. We were there in San Francisco listening to her, but her words carried us to Lebanon, during that country’s civil war.
You may not remember it, but it looked very much like it is today. One faction, one religious group vowing revenge against another for a long remembered wrong. One side supported by Islamic militants, another supported by the Jewish state. Peace loving families, like our storyteller’s, caught in the middle.
Israeli war ships anchored off the coast rained missiles down on Beirut in the early eighties, hoping to destroy their enemies. One rocket landed in her family’s back yard.
In the aftermath she and her family searched the grounds around their house for her sister’s bones so that they could be re-interred.
Can you imagine their horror and sorrow? Can you feel how hot the earth under their hands and knees must have felt?
She stood there telling us these things. But the one image I carry most vividly is this. She told us how fervently she prayed that she would not be the one who found her sister’s skull. They searched as long as they could and laid her sister again to rest.
Rockets once more fall like hot fire from the sky over Beirut. What peace do you think they find there on that family’s holy ground?
Each moment is sacred, every life precious. Your memories are transports to the past where loved ones gone still live fresh as the first time you hugged them. The bits and pieces of history, both broad and personal, are artifacts to be revered, always.
Past is prologue.
As Santayana has warned us:
Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Why I Keep a Blog
Short post today.
I woke up to an email from an woman I dated decades ago. She found me from searching for me and running across my blog. We got to speak for a bit today and both of us have very vivid memories of our times together. She and her family are right down the road in Richmond, a little more than an hour's drive away.
I can't wait to meet with her, catch up, meet her husband and two children and see how life has treated her.
Some things never change. Friendship, luckily for us, is apparently one of them.
Oh, stories with Linda would definitely come under the "Labels" category. She reminded me of the times when we were out on dates and carloads of ignorant rednecks would yell 'race mixers' at us.
Funny thing: She's now a VP and General Manager of black radio stations. I knew I saw something soulful about that woman!
Almost completed the Diversity and Conflict Resolution course for the folks in Boston. Looking forward to getting in an mixing it up with younguns to see where they are with 'diversity'. I'm sure none of them rides around screaming at mixed race couples. Well, you know the one about making assumptions, don't you?
By the way, yesterday was the 39th anniversary of the Supreme Court's decision striking down anti-misegenation laws, the Loving case. Imagine the power of love in 1957 Virginia that helped a white man marry a black woman (they wed in DC where there were no such laws against their nuptuals). See http://www.lovingday.org for a little more on that particular story.
More soon.
I woke up to an email from an woman I dated decades ago. She found me from searching for me and running across my blog. We got to speak for a bit today and both of us have very vivid memories of our times together. She and her family are right down the road in Richmond, a little more than an hour's drive away.
I can't wait to meet with her, catch up, meet her husband and two children and see how life has treated her.
Some things never change. Friendship, luckily for us, is apparently one of them.
Oh, stories with Linda would definitely come under the "Labels" category. She reminded me of the times when we were out on dates and carloads of ignorant rednecks would yell 'race mixers' at us.
Funny thing: She's now a VP and General Manager of black radio stations. I knew I saw something soulful about that woman!
Almost completed the Diversity and Conflict Resolution course for the folks in Boston. Looking forward to getting in an mixing it up with younguns to see where they are with 'diversity'. I'm sure none of them rides around screaming at mixed race couples. Well, you know the one about making assumptions, don't you?
By the way, yesterday was the 39th anniversary of the Supreme Court's decision striking down anti-misegenation laws, the Loving case. Imagine the power of love in 1957 Virginia that helped a white man marry a black woman (they wed in DC where there were no such laws against their nuptuals). See http://www.lovingday.org for a little more on that particular story.
More soon.
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