TO SEE A DISAPPEARING ACT

It was already 10 pm and I was fighting sleep. I knew I wouldn’t last more than an hour in the dead of the night’s deep cold so I hesitantly set the alarm on my phone for 2 am. Within minutes I was asleep and then the alarm sounded jarring me from my slumber. I felt groggy and disoriented fumbling with my phone whose only alarm sound was shrill and grating. My house was chilly, as I’d lowered the heat before getting cozy beneath my blankets. I contemplated returning to sleep and abandoning my mission to witness the full lunar eclipse of this winter solstice but then I considered the rarity of the event and dragged myself from bed. I slipped on some shoes and my warmest down jacket then descended the stairs.

IT'S SHOWTIME, FOLKS!
At 2 am I didn’t know where I would find the best view of the moon so I flipped a mental coin and decided to start with my back patio. Once outside the cold air nipped at my hands and quickly wrapped around my legs, which were badly insulated with thin pajamas. The hooded jacket was efficient and my torso and head felt as if I were still beneath my sheets. I looked to the left and right, but the moon was nowhere to be found. Just as I was resigning to move to the front of the house, I looked directly overhead and there it was the full moon shining brightly like a huge pendant lamp dangling in the sky. The lunar eclipse had begun and a third of the moon was already obscured. I felt terribly lucky. There was a huge cloud bank in the east, but the skies over my house were clear allowing a perfect view of the occurrence.

After several minutes of watching the eclipse my neck began to hurt. I realized the moon’s coordinates had necessitated me craning my neck into an extremely uncomfortable position. To gain relief I bent forward and touched my toes allowing gravity to soothe my fatigued muscles. About fifteen minutes in, new clouds began arriving, thin and mist-like, traveling rapidly across the skies. Fortunately, I was still able to see the moon like a lighthouse beacon illuminating the skies through a veil of fog. I was in awe of how fast the clouds were moving especially since I didn’t feel a breeze. Every so often, an opening clearly revealed the moon’s disappearing act.

About thirty minutes in the moon was seventy-five percent obscured, but the cumulus clouds were growing thicker. For moments the moon seemed to blink out as if the eclipse had completed but then its brightness would return. I wondered if the clouds were causing my eyes to play tricks on me. And then suddenly, the swift moving clouds slowed to a crawl as if the moon had demanded their attention. For nearly a half hour they had been traveling east, but they were changing course inching more toward the south. I waited patiently for an opening so I could witness the moon slipping on its veil like a skilled belly dancer. Finally, an aperture appeared and the eclipse, nearly complete, had transformed the white, shining moon almost as if a crimson filter had been slipped over its entirety. The various shades of red dazzled me for a fleeting moment until the moon vanished again behind the clouds. I patiently waited but the moon or the clouds or both had decided to tease with their show. For only seconds at a time I could catch a glimpse. I had expected the moon to vanish during the eclipse as if hiding behind some black curtain of night, but this was not the case. Upon the eclipse’s completion the moon had certainly dimmed but its prominence was hardly diminished as it shined like a red ruby hanging in the sky.

THE FINAL ACT
By now I had been standing in the cold for nearly forty minutes at which point the blanket of clouds closed in like the final curtain call at a play. I massaged my sore neck and slipped back into the house, which now seemed warm and cozy. I have to admit it was difficult getting back to sleep. I awoke tired the next morning but was somehow energized by the show I’d witnessed in the cold of the night.

I WROTE A BOOK!
To learn more about Volume One of my Sci-Fi/Fantasy/
Action-adventure series, “The Unveiling,”
please visit the website at TheUnveilingSeries.com.

The Road To Tennessee - Part III

After weeks of pushing to prepare for my move I paused, allowing myself a day to work on my book. Feeling as if I were treating myself to a leisurely day I drove to one of my preferred coffee shops to order lunch. After eating I began the task of banging out pages only to be struck later in the day by mild stomach cramps. It wasn’t like food poisoning but the ache in my stomach was a definite nuisance. For nearly an hour I struggled to continue writing but then grew fearful of pushing myself too hard. Not wanting to sink any further into the quicksand of my fatigue I gathered my things, hurried to my car and drove home. It was my intention to unwind and have dinner but the ache in my stomach seemed to be growing more intense. Within two hours a sharp pain had developed on my left side. I suspected an appendicitis but quickly tossed out the idea after a quick Internet search revealed the appendix is on the opposite side. At this point I broke out in a sweat even though, to the touch, my face was cold and clammy.

I can safely say I was officially panicked. I began brainstorming whether I should call 9-1-1 or simply drive myself to the ER [about five miles away]. I elected for the latter and quickly hopped in the car. It was 9:30 at night. It wasn’t especially warm outside but I was sweating nonetheless. I rolled down my windows and opened the sunroof allowing the wind to soothe my forehead and cheeks. During the brief drive I phoned my cousin to inform her of what was going on. By the time I arrived at the ER I was bowled over by a sharp and intense pain.

Roughly ninety minutes after my arrival I was wheeled in for an MRI only to learn I had an 8mm kidney stone that had probably just been ejected from my kidney. No one in my family had ever had a kidney stone that I know of so I was in completely unfamiliar territory. The doctor informed me it was extremely unlikely that an 8mm stone would pass on its own, which left me with two options:

#1, have a urologist send a fiber optic camera with pincers up my urethra and through my bladder into the ureter to retrieve the stone. This sounded very unpleasant to say the least. One of the nurses even made a snide comment about Roto-rooter.

The other option, #2, was to have lithotripsy, a procedure involving ultrasound where the stone is obliterated by sound waves. This would only be possible if the stone was located in a particular portion of the ureter. Luckily for me, it had likely just exited my kidney in the coffee shop so lithotripsy was still an option. The only catch was I would have to wait 5 days to have the procedure. Needless to say three days later I found myself once again in the ER totally overcome with pain and vomiting from the nausea. I later learned that my cousin’s daughter had suffered a kidney stone and the intensity of pain, in her words, was “worse than labor pain.”

The fascinating thing about the whole experience in that ER was that even in the clutches of my pain I could feel the malaise of the previous month lifting. I was in the waiting room nearly in a fetal position but somehow I felt better. The cloudiness in my head and the fatigue seemed to instantaneously disappear. Just days after the procedure the heartburn and the palpitations also subsided and I quickly realized what had occurred after that massage. I’ve always been told tense muscles trap toxins such as lactic acid. Those toxins are released when the tension is broken by massage. The massage after Tennessee had released toxins into my blood but my left kidney was impacted and wasn’t functioning properly to filter them. Once the stone was released, many of my symptoms resolved only to be replaced by the intense pain of the stone being trapped in the ureter.

A few days later I completed the lithotripsy procedure with only three weeks to spare until my move. Thankfully I am writing this blog from my new address. As Shakespeare once wrote “All’s Well that Ends Well.”

The Road To Tennessee - Part II

Just before dusk and only a day after our arrival my cousin and I took to the roads for the four-hour return drive to Atlanta. The Tennessee farm was gorgeous but our weekend trip had to be cut short due to the unfortunate passing of one of my cousin’s close friends. Truthfully, I wasn’t fully rested from the drive up as we loaded our things into the car but I decided I would take it easy the following day.

I arrived home Saturday just before midnight and threw my bags in the corner. The next morning I was tired, but was pleasantly surprised that eight cumulative hours in the car hadn’t completely wiped me out. I nevertheless knew I would need at least another good night’s sleep before I even felt close to being rested. In an effort to give myself a leg up I booked a massage for the following day. Almost without fail I manage to sleep deeply after a massage and I knew sleep would be the only cure for my fatigue.

The day of my massage went more or less as planned. I had booked the last appointment of the night knowing the relaxed state would leave me feeling sleepy. I ordered a pizza on the way home and devoured several slices before retiring to my bed. Just as expected, my slumber was deep and uninterrupted. Normally I sleep anywhere from four to six hours unless I’ve had a massage, in which case eight hours are more typical. This day however I didn’t fully awake.

The next morning I looked at the clock, aware that I had slept eight hours but I remained strangely groggy and unrefreshed. In fact, I was more tired than I had been the night before. Luckily, I didn’t have any appointments and was free to continue sleeping. I quickly rolled over for what I thought would be another hour or so of slumber only to find my day dragging on with me only waking long to eat or use the restroom. Before I knew it, 6 pm had rolled around and I was not only still in pajamas, I was still in bed! With each hour of sleep it seemed my fatigue only deepened. I was probably in denial at the time, but when I think back about it I now realize there was an added malaise I was experiencing even if I couldn’t define exactly what it was. There was no sore throat, no sniffles, not even a full headache but I was groggy and my thoughts were murky.

To my dismay, this new feeling of unwell continued for days that quickly ran into weeks and then a month. I felt myself slipping into a cloud. After months of laboring to finish my book, it occurred to me I had misstepped. I had promised myself I would move from the outskirts of Atlanta or what the locals call OTP (outside the perimeter) for a younger and hipper address inside the perimeter (ITP).

Only months before I’d been told that Alan Ball, the author of “American Beauty” had grown up in Marietta and had based the story on his perceptions of life there. Ten years after the movie I was living in Marietta and made witness to some of the hypocrisies outlined in the film. And now I was scrambling around attempting to ready the new home while organizing the old one thirty miles away for its new occupants. Each passing day I felt like crap. To describe my state of mind as “discouraged” is the weakest of understatements. With such feelings of physical discord how would I accomplish everything that needed to be done? To make things worse new symptoms were arising daily -- terrible heartburn, dizziness and heart palpitations. And no matter how much I slept I didn’t feel rested. I reluctantly consulted my doctors but they were without answers. Fortunately by this time the answers were only days away. -TO BE CONTINUED-

The Road To Tennessee - Part I

It has been 60 – give or take a dozen days – since my cousin Jean invited me to the farm in Tennessee where she grew up. For some time I had been aware of my relatives there but we had never met so I was largely unfamiliar with that part of my family. It was a Friday afternoon. Jean and I packed ourselves into her car and hit the road for what would be a four hour trip.

I have to admit for more than a hundred miles there was nothing of major interest to see. I’d even asked about Tennessee’s population because from what I’d seen there wasn’t much of one – no houses, no buildings, just a dense canopy of trees. In addition, powerful thunderstorms were traversing through the south and we weren’t fortunate enough to avoid them. About two hours into the trip, we drove right into inclement weather. Whenever possible I avoid driving in rain but this time I wasn’t behind the wheel. I nervously sat back and tried to enjoy the ride. The downpour turned torrential completely obscuring the road but Jean’s car, a sturdy E-class Mercedes gripped the asphalt carrying us through.

Once we were about 12 miles from the farm Jean informed me there were two ways we could arrive -- the more scenic drive along a hillside ridge or by continuing along the highway, which was faster albeit a longer distance. Because it was my first time I voted for the scenic route. It was around 6pm in July and the summer days were still long with the sun high above the horizon. And then Jean turned onto the ridge.

I could hardly believe my eyes since the drab scenery from earlier had left me suspecting Tennessee was a not-so-beautiful state. For miles we had stared at a landscape of nothing but trees, highway and shrubbery and then finally I understood what my cousin meant by “the ridge.”

A valley of beautiful pastures and trees spanned for as far as my eyes could see. The brunt of the storms had passed hours before but fluffy lingering clouds spotted the sunny skies as if an artist had expertly placed them there with his brush. Yes it was July, but fragmented storm clouds littered the valley as if they had crash-landed leaving a debris of fog and mist along the ridge. The view was confusing yet beautifully mystical, magical even. The foggy hillside suggested a wintery European countryside but at the same time it was unseasonably warm and humid outside.

I can’t fully explain why but two words immediately entered my mind: “Sacred ground.” I immediately envisioned the methods used by Native Americans in determining what qualified the land as sacred. There was no way this place couldn’t have been considered so. In all of my travels I have seen phenomenal landscapes and breathtaking views but only once before (back in California) did I experience a similar reaction to the one I was having on that ridge. It wasn’t the view alone. There was an energy I felt, something I can’t readily explain.

Ten minutes later at the farm I happily stepped from the car and stretched my legs. It was still warm even though the storms had cooled the air. I surveyed the farmhouse to realize it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. In fact it was a ranch style home not unlike ones found in L.A. or Atlanta. Many of my relatives were waiting and I was finally able to match faces to voices I had only heard on the phone. It was only minutes before I excused myself to the restroom. I made my way to the commode and gazed through the window above it. And I witnessed the gorgeous view pictured above. I was so happy Jean had invited me to visit this beautiful place.

For a day and a half we ate farm food and breathed farm air and then unforeseen circumstances necessitated our return to Atlanta. I have to admit the quick return trip was fatiguing, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. Within 48 hours of our return I began my inevitable descent into a hazy cloud of paralyzing malaise. And to my chagrin it would be nearly six weeks before I fully understood why. -TO BE CONTINUED-

Sugar Plums, Laughter and Tears

A few days ago, my friend Andrea emailed me and inquired if I would be okay this weekend. To be honest, I read the message a few times because I didn’t fully understand why I was being asked the question. And then it clicked in that this weekend is Mother’s Day. Ironically, just today my cousin Jean asked the same question. “Will I be okay?”

Losing my mom was without a doubt the most difficult adversity I’ve ever suffered. So of course the question was valid. But here’s the thing, the challenge of living in her absence has been present every day since her passing but through God’s and her grace I cope.

I remember in grade school when I was rude and defiant to my teachers, which was rare, but when it did occur I always feared the repercussions at home. At the time I didn’t fully comprehend why, but my mother always sided with me, even when I was in the wrong.

Rather inappropriately I once stormed out of a high school teacher’s class. The following day, he called me to the front of the room and asked why I left, to which I responded, “You were getting on my nerves.” Needless to say my answer didn’t go over well. Instead of teaching, he spent ten minutes constructing a letter to the principal demanding that a parent-teacher conference be arranged. I knew such a meeting wouldn’t bode well for me and was shocked when my mother reported back. She told me she’d apologized profusely explaining that I would never behave in such a way again. To my astonishment, she continued to tell me how teachers often power tripped due to a deep-seated need for control. Her speech about me hadn’t come from a true sense of culpability about my actions but rather she had endeavored to reestablish the peace between me and this teacher. A teacher herself, she knew what she was talking about. The plan worked seamlessly and I never had (or caused) trouble with that teacher again. In some ways that was my first glimpse into the deepest depths of her love for me. She always saw a light in me even when I was in the wrong.

In the immediate days after her passing, I felt a huge disconnect with everything around me. She had literally been the conduit through which I arrived in this world. And my first taste of nourishment had come at her hand. On my first day of pre-school she was there. The first clothes I wore she purchased. Later when I was choosing a boarding school and even when I chose my college, she visited the campuses with me. She bought plants for my first apartment and explained how to prepare my first Thanksgiving dinner away from home.

My entire life had been colored by her presence and then suddenly and unexpectedly, she was gone. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t consider the enormous loss I feel. On some days, the sense of anguish alleviates, but it is never gone. In that regard, the arrival of Mother’s Day will hardly deviate from the other 364 days of the year. I miss her today, as I will tomorrow and for all the remaining days of my life. But there is beauty in my sorrow. The depth of emotion I feel stems from the joy of having been blessed with a mother who could show me true examples of undying and unconditional love. To my mom and to all mothers I bid you a Happy Mother’s Day.

Out of Focus - Part One: The Root of all Evil.

Wikipedia defines “cliché” in the following way:

“A saying, expression, idea, or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect, rendering it a stereotype, especially when at some earlier time it was considered meaningful or novel.”

“Money is the root of all evil” or moreover “The love of money is the root of all evil” is bound to be in the top 25 of most popular clichés. But if Wikipedia is right, this expression, at one time, had to have held a powerful and significant meaning. What has been lost from the expression that has now rendered it “cliché?”

Before the invention of money, a system of bartering was used where goods or services were exchanged in the absence of currency. The interesting aspect of bartering, in my mind, involves the concept of usefulness. You wouldn’t give up your cow for a goat unless you really needed that goat and vice versa. In bartering, there is a stronger sense of integrity to the transaction. Both parties make the exchange because in some way they have the perception of being made better off. In fact, a barter probably wouldn’t occur unless everyone involved felt a win-win situation was taking place. And then came money.

When money enters the equation, perspectives often become blurred obscuring the concept of usefulness. When in pursuit of money, it’s not unusual for people to forgo their passions for careers they have no interest in. Take the salaries of doctors and lawyers and exchange them with what a teacher makes. I guarantee we would see a huge shift in the type of degrees pursued in college. Not because of some philosophical shift in people’s inner passions but because money is a big motivator and when dollars are involved, sense and purpose are oftentimes thrown to the wind.

In our current economy, we are all aware of how companies revere their own products and employees. When cash is at stake, even the most loyal and productive of workers can be relinquished at the drop of a hat. Or the products are compromised in order to save the bottom line. How many times have we heard of pharmaceutical companies releasing drugs they knew were dangerous? Or industrial companies that knowingly pollute the air and water all because it would be too expensive for them to do otherwise? And no, I don’t have delusions about the ways of the world. In order to operate even a non-profit must make money. But let’s celebrate businesses that add value, not pollution. Businesses that enrich rather than poison with toxic medications.

In many ways, the corporation has become a poster child for weak principles. For decades the trend has been to create disposable, cheaply made products that only last a few years. Turnover is the goal and it doesn’t matter if products aren’t durable. In fact, it’s better if they aren’t because it’s a way to keep customers circulating through a revolving door. Production and sales equals dollars even if it’s to the detriment of the environment we live in. So what if landfills are overflowing and productions processes are toxic. As long as money is being made, in the eyes of the corporation, the future is seen as bright.

These are a few reasons why the love of money is considered to be the root of all evil. The pursuit of wealth enhances qualities like greed and selfishness, transforming them into behaviors many of us regard as normal, both stereotyped and cliché.

Please Sign On The Dotted Line

Most of us think of a contract as a piece of paper such as a lease, an automotive loan or a mortgage. Typically, these are all written agreements and when signed by all parties, they are legally binding. And not to forget the verbal agreement, which is also enforceable by law but can’t be used to amend anything in writing.

But there is a third agreement that most of us never consider. The tacit agreement. Webster defines “tacit” as follows:

1 : expressed or carried on without words or speech.
2 : implied or indicated (as by an act or by silence) but not actually expressed .

While we may not be aware of it, each of us has repeatedly entered into and broken tacit agreements. The behavior is a source of arguments and discontent everywhere. Just because we didn’t write it or speak it aloud doesn’t mean we didn’t agree to it. I liken it to co-signing. Most co-signers don’t expect to honor the agreement. They’re just co-signing to provide an opportunity for someone otherwise unable to enter an agreement. In reality, a co-signer, when he or she signs on the dotted line, is also in agreement that they will abide by the terms.

A common tacit agreement, which is frequently breached of course involves exclusivity in dating. Oftentimes in the early stages of a relationship, there is an unspoken agreement of monogamy. But an opportunist, if he or she chooses, will use the fact of it being unspoken to breach the agreement and see other people. Yes, both parties assume monogamy but because it is tacit, a get out of jail free card isn’t hard to come by. Many times people like to hold off on the “exclusivity talk” because it offers a loophole to the tacit agreement.

Several years ago, I remember feeling annoyed with one of my best friends because we only spoke if I called. But the truth is this dynamic had existed for years. Looking back, I now realize I had entered a tacit agreement that I would be the one calling. I had co-signed on the unspoken dotted line and it wasn’t fair of me to be upset about something to which we had both agreed. Ironically, I tacitly changed the agreement by curtailing my calls and transforming the relationship into one that didn’t seem so one-sided.

Each of us should endeavor to look at distasteful relationship dynamics and recognize whether or not we co-signed for undesired behavior. In many circumstances we will find we have, in which case we will need to renegotiate the deal. This can be done tacitly, but is probably better when spoken. And for the real sticklers, the written agreement is always an option.

Don't Get It Twisted

Months ago, I decided to stop following news on health care reform. It just seemed too much of a circus. Each week, if not each day, the media flip-flopped, portraying different angles on the story. It’s going to pass. It's not going to pass. It’s going to pass. At the end of the day it was dizzying and left me with that childhood feeling of “eeny meeny miny moe.” If reform of any kind were going to occur, it seemed it would only be on the luck of a draw.

The whole debacle left me questioning our politics and more importantly our value system. How did the things we care about become so unforgivably skewed? I remember when Janet Jackson performed at the 2004 Super Bowl and exposed her breast. It turned the media on its head forcing networks everywhere to be super diligent about language and nudity.

I find it peculiar that the human form and unsavory language are such magnets for outrage, but violence is seen as completely acceptable. Just last week, I turned on the TV while eating lunch and stumbled onto the movie “30 Days of Night.” The film was nearly over, but I’d flipped to it just in time to see someone being decapitated. By American standards, images of murder and dismemberment on the airwaves [at noon] are not seen as problematic, but the sight of a nipple or the utterance of a curse word cannot be tolerated. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this seems a little backwards if not ludicrous.

Now that the health care bill has passed outraged opponents have attempted chaos with random acts of vandalism and incivility. There was even talk of death threats against democrats who had voted for the bill. Are these the actions and values of a supposed civilized world?

Before the bill’s passage, political respect, courtesy and diplomacy seemed to have flown out of the window. Consider Congressman Randy Neugebauer’s uncontrolled outburst when he yelled out “Baby Killer!” during a fellow congressman’s speech. Or even more egregious when the president was interrupted by Congressman Joe Wilson yelling out “You lie!” How do we, as a society, foster respect for one another when our political “leaders” lack it toward each other? It’s disturbing to live in a population where so many people are supportive or apathetic toward something like war, but when it comes to universal health care they become proactive and put their foot down to say no.

Not too long ago, I was engaged in a conversation about relationships and the idea was thrown out, “Is it better to be right or to be happy?” I didn’t immediately grasp the concept of this idea, but I understand it today. We sometimes become so focused on being right that we end up compromising not only the integrity of the relationship, but also of the issue at hand. No one is happy (including us) but then we grasp at straws trying to take solace in the fact that we at least proved ourselves right.

Backwards? Ludicrous maybe?

Cracking The Shell

When I was a kid, I received some very unintentional training from my parents. They had this way of saying, “Don’t tell anyone” about events that were occurring in our lives. I remember them looking at new cars and saying, “We’re thinking of buying a car, but don’t tell anyone.” Around the same time, they wanted to rip out our back yard and install a pool. The story then became, “We’re thinking of getting a swimming pool, but don’t tell anyone.” And then the biggest “don’t tell anyone” came when I was twelve and we moved to West Africa where my father had taken a job. Years prior to that, he had discussed the idea and of course my instructions were “We’re thinking of moving to Africa, but don’t tell anyone.” For the most part, I obeyed these requests, but later resented them. These were events that also affected my life, but I was being asked to withhold them. It took me until college to realize I had grown into a secretive, young man. And it’s not that I had any secrets of note, but I had become a withholder with regard to what was going on in my life.

The irony is, years later, my mother would always tell me “You never talk.” And she was right. I could sense when she was trying to get me to open up and even though I was making an effort, I was still aware that from her point of view, it was like pulling teeth.

Luckily, this behavior never interfered with my ability to make friends, but it certainly got in the way of me forming intimate relationships on either romantic or platonic levels. For over a decade, I struggled to break out of the shell I’d formed and I’m happy to report that many years ago, I did break down many of those walls. I successfully jumped from the team of withholders and am now a proud member of “team-communicators.” And believe me, life, love and relationships of all kinds are much more fulfilling when you’re a communicator.

The more I’ve opened up, the more obvious it becomes who the withholders are. I have friends who I can talk to for an hour and still not have any idea what’s going on in their lives. These are withholders. Withholding actually requires quite a bit of energy and skill, but at the end of the day, it’s exhausting. A communicator’s life is much easier because there is no need to build walls and create smoke screens.

And withholders, no matter how good they are, should know they will rarely fool a communicator. Most communicators were at one time withholders. We know the tricks of the trade and we’re just waiting for you to tear down the walls, which only you can do. We know a withholder will never switch teams until he or she decides it’s the right time. And even then it takes a tremendous amount of work. If you are a withholder and you know it, start the work now. Give some thought to the team you’re playing on and ask yourself is it the one to which you’d like to belong?

House Of Cards

Shortly after high school, one of my good friends called to let me know she had visited a psychic. She was freaked because the woman she consulted with seemed to know so much about her personal life. At the time, and for many years to come, I was afraid of psychics. I didn’t want anyone telling me things I didn’t want to know. And there was also the question of fraudulence. Had I even wanted to see a psychic, how would I know if they were the real deal or just some charlatan trying to make a buck?

Fast forward to 2006. It was a Saturday night and I had agreed to meet my friend Tim at a popular Hollywood club. As is my M.O., I was running late, but I knew it didn’t matter. Tim is a big boy and very sociable. When I finally walked in around twenty minutes late, I found Tim talking to a group of four or five people. There were two from New York who were visiting a friend who had just moved to Los Angeles. Tim introduced me to the group and pointed out that one of his new friends was psychic. A million questions ran through my mind, but the first was, “How did Tim already find this out?” I hadn’t been that late, so clearly the cute and bubbly girl had used this information as an icebreaker.

After Tim declared, “She says she’s psychic,” I didn’t really know what to say. There was an awkward silence as I wondered how to turn this news into a conversation. The pregnant pause floated and then I rebounded with a question, “So what is it you see when you’re having a psychic episode?” I wish I could remember her answer, but the truth is I don’t. The setting seemed wrong for such a conversation. The club was fairly crowded and dark except for the laser light display. All of us were standing beside the bar, on the edge of the dance floor and the music was loud. By the time she answered, I had already judged that she was young and kooky, so I didn’t pay much attention to her response.

Eventually, Tim and I broke away and as was our custom, we closed down the club. After management had evacuated patrons from the venue, we stood outside talking. Little did I know I had received my first unofficial psychic reading. Apparently, while I was chatting with some of Tim’s new acquaintances, the psychic girl had informed him that there was an extremely dark energy going on with me, so much so that she asked Tim not to mention it. For some reason, she thought there was something going on with my grandfather (or that he had just died), but both of my parents’ fathers had passed away decades before my birth. I must admit I was annoyed and dismissed everything the girl said as trickery and buffoonery. I told Tim she was probably just using the conversation to flirt with him. Later, when Tim and I finally parted ways, I drove home thinking this is why I never wanted to see a psychic, for fear of being told something negative.

About a year later, I was visited by darkness and negativity. First, I was diagnosed with a rare form of thyroid cancer and while I was battling it, my mother passed away. In many ways I felt as if I had been thrown into the abyss. And the memory of Tim recounting the young girl’s story resurfaced. I wondered if this was the darkness she had (fore)seen.

In October of last year, on the recommendation of a friend, I sent my birth date to a reader of tarot. I never heard back from him nor did I reach out to him again. And then last Thursday, I received a call from the reader apologizing for taking so long. He had suffered a lot of personal problems and my reading had fallen off of his priority list. As such he had repeated another reading just before calling me. It is funny how the universe works. Just that week, I was suffering through quite a bit of personal turmoil and his call could not have come at a better time. Amazingly, he began to describe the exact situation that was causing me anguish and proceeded to talk in specifics about other issues that were going on in my life. At one point I was almost shaking from his accuracy. At the end of the call, I felt more peaceful and I thanked him for taking so long to get back to me. In some way, the reading of my cards had created order in the chaos.

For over a year now, I have had a deck of tarot cards at my house. I have two books on how to read them, but my study of them wasn’t all that eye opening. The main thing I do remember from one of the books is that tarot can be used to make sense of all of the chaos. And certainly all of us can use a little of that.

TO LEARN MORE OR TO READ AN EXCERPT
of my sci-fi/fantasy/adventure novel, “The Unveiling: 1.0,” please visit TheUnveilingSeries.com.

Sticks And Stones And Broken Bones

Over the holidays I had friends visiting from Paris. Unfortunately, they flew in on the eve of Atlanta’s first winter snowstorm. At most there was maybe an inch of accumulation, which immediately began to melt. But this is where the real problem began. The combination of melting snow and freezing temperatures meant ice was forming to create extremely hazardous sidewalks and roads.

The following day, and against my better judgment, I ventured out with my guests. It was extremely cold, but sunny. Even though temperatures were well below freezing, the sun managed to dissolve much of the ice. The highways were fairly open and surprisingly safe. My first thoughts were it’s not as bad as I imagined, but that was only until we reached downtown. Because there are much taller buildings there, many of the streets are caught in the shadows of the skyscrapers around them. To my dismay, these streets were covered in ice. At one point, I turned the car off of a perfectly clear street not realizing the block I was turning onto was slick with black ice. The car began sliding even though I had firmly applied the brakes. Luckily I was able REto coast down into an area where I regained traction. I tried paying closer attention and successfully parked at our intended destination – The Georgia Aquarium.

This is where the real trouble started. Once we left the parking structure, we found ourselves surrounded by a thin layer of snow and ice. We tiptoed ever closer to the aquarium entrance and then, when we were just across the street, one of my friends slipped and fell. As I watched, I prayed that she hadn’t hurt herself, but her face twisted in pain. The first words out of her mouth were “I really hurt my arm,” and when she pulled up her sleeve, I had a sinking feeling. The contours of her right arm (and she is right handed) were slightly off.

We gathered her up as she grimaced. The impact of the fall hadn’t seemed terribly bad, so each of us began speculating as to what could have happened to make her arm appear quite so tweaked. Maybe she had dislocated her wrist (is this possible?) We wanted it to be something simple or at least less severe than a break, but in my gut I have to admit I felt it was broken.

RECEIVING HEALTHCARE IN THE U.S. SYSTEM
After several hours in the ER, we were informed that Camille had indeed broken her arm just above the wrist. It is a sensitive area, which can affect the mobility of the hand. The important thing was getting her the care she needed, but the issues of our current healthcare system came to light. Camille is French and receives her healthcare through the French system. She did not have travel insurance and was therefore not armed with any kind of policy that would cover her care under the American system.

As we all know, Obama is struggling to reform healthcare in the U.S. When I hear people fighting against reform, I fear they have never needed serious care, which I have unfortunately needed in the past. Through my own experiences, I have witnessed first hand how ridiculous and unpleasant our current system can be. Should anyone think we are not in need of reform, I am here to say you stand corrected.

Imagine how disheartening it is to be suffering from a serious illness and have the first question asked of you, “do you have insurance?” Each time we are handed a clipboard of paperwork and asked to sign on the dotted line as a promise to pay should our insurance companies choose not to. The protocol demonstrates what the main focus of our industry is; the almighty dollar and the bottom line. Psychologically, it doesn’t instill confidence. The inherent message is that the actual care is secondary to primary financial concerns.

And what makes our current system even more ridiculous is that no one (but the insurance companies) seems to understand what the actual prices are. In the past six months, I have had various lab work done. At the end of these visits, I was sent to a cashier to settle my charges. Each time, I was shown a breakdown of services rendered and it was then explained to me what portion I was responsible for. I was flabbergasted as, on some occasions, I was asked to pay upwards of $400. I always opt to be billed because the actual invoices never correspond to the figures given to me at the cashier. Without fail, they have always been a fraction of what I was originally asked to pay. Apparently, even the actual providers are unaware of the discounts negotiated by the insurance companies, meaning their calculations and the insurance companies’ rarely correspond. Truthfully, I have no idea how today’s politicians are calculating the supposed costs of healthcare when our very own health professionals don’t know really know the numbers.

While my friends were visiting, I felt envious of their system. Rarely are they asked to pay anything when injured or ill and they aren’t made to feel that their ability to pay has bearing on the quality of care they will receive. And when they do have to pay something, it is generally a small and well known, quantifiable amount.

I hope one day our system can be reformed so a patient’s care will be the primary focus rather than how it will be paid for. As long as our system is seen as a lucrative venture for doctors and insurance companies rather than a healing one for patients, it will ultimately be the patient who suffers.

I HAVE WRITTEN A BOOK! TO LEARN MORE OR TO READ AN EXCERPT
of my sci-fi/fantasy/adventure novel, “The Unveiling: 1.0,” please visit TheUnveilingSeries.com.

Avatar: Opening Pandora's Box

Lord knows Hollywood has provided us with enough “Great White Hope” stories to last a lifetime. Just to name a few are:

The Substitute (with Tom Berenger)
Dangerous Minds (with Michelle Pfeiffer)
Losing Isaiah (with Susan Sarandon)
Dances With Wolves (with Kevin Costner)
The Last Samurai (with Tom Cruise)
The Missing (with Tommy Lee Jones)

In each of the above-mentioned movies, Caucasian characters are the rescuers of the downtrodden people of color. Such movies often bring Hollywood under fire for perpetuating racist stereotypes, mainly that people of color cannot rescue themselves without help from their fairer skinned counterparts.

The latest movie to come under fire for perpetuating such stereotypes is James Cameron’s “Avatar.” In the following article, the movie is panned for carrying racist themes:

http://movies.yahoo.com/news/movies.ap.org/some-see-racist-theme-alien-adventure-avatar-ap

I must admit before seeing Avatar, I was fearful of it not living up to its hype. There was such buzz about the film and then its early reviews (or at least the ones I read) were lackluster at best. In the last year (or two), I have found Hollywood movies quite disappointing. I wanted Avatar to wow me, but suspected my fears of it not measuring up were well founded.

A few days after its opening, I convinced a friend to see it in 2-D. It had been over a decade since I’d seen anything in 3-D and frankly, I wasn’t excited about things jumping out of the screen at me. Once inside the film, I realized I’d made a tactical error by not seeing it in 3-D. The colors and tapestry of Pandora are so rich and beautiful that you won’t want to miss even the tiniest of details. Within minutes of it starting, I knew I would have to see it again in 3-D.

Never before have I seen so many reviewers completely miss the boat. The reviews I read said the action was bogged down by a love story that didn’t work. They of course compared Avatar to Cameron’s earlier blockbuster “Titanic,” taking time to outline why Avatar’s love story was in no way comparable to the one that worked in Titanic.

Well, I am here to respectfully dispute all negative reviews that I’ve read of this movie. Avatar’s love story worked perfectly. And anyone who believes that it didn’t, or that racist themes are included in the movie has failed to comprehend Cameron’s brilliance.

Yes, Avatar’s main character, Jake Sully, is Caucasian, but he is not the rescuer of Pandora’s people of color. To think this is erroneous. In fact, it is quite the opposite in Avatar. Jake Sully’s journey is toward one of enlightenment. When the film begins, he belongs to a society of lost souls whose destructive nature will stop at nothing in their pursuit of wealth. Jake Sully’s people (and that’s us, folks) have ruined Earth, which is why they are on Pandora in the first place – to exploit it. Sully and people like him will sacrifice all in the name of greed. In fact, fighting for such causes has cost Sully the use of his legs and he is confined to a wheelchair. But he is only promised to have his legs restored, a technology, which exists, if he further compromises himself by participating in the destruction of yet another world.

Like most people on his team, Jake Sully is completely disconnected from his true role in nature. As such, he is by no means a rescuer. It is in fact the people of color who rescue him from a life of ignorance and miseducation. It is only through their eyes that he can truly see reality as it is, rather than as it is told to him. And yes, such an awakening is only accomplished through love of some kind.

Avatar is not an action-adventure movie; it is the story of Jake Sully’s path toward enlightenment. Once Sully’s eyes are opened, he becomes a crusader for truth and justice. But his complete transformation cannot take place in his original Caucasian body because that version of Jake Sully is both physically and spiritually corrupted. Jake Sully’s soul is only fully redeemed when he is removed from his former broken body and placed in his Avatar’s body as a fully enlightened individual.

Does Avatar have racist themes? Not at all. If you haven’t seen Avatar yet, see it in 3-D.

Just today, I saw this article, which is also quite interesting:


http://www.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/Movies/01/11/avatar.movie.blues/index.html

Here's What I Intend To Do About It!

Many people find it difficult to manage the end-of-the-year holidays. The days are shorter, which gives everyone the perception of being rushed or hurried. And in many places, cold, dreary weather is also something to contend with. Add to the mix shopping, gift giving, party planning, friends and relatives, and it’s oftentimes a recipe for stress. For most of us, the finish line is the first of January. It is only then that we can safely say we passed through it all.

January 1st, 2010 came and went. I woke up leisurely, meditated and then made breakfast. My normal New Year’s routine would have been to make a bunch of calls to family and friends, but this year I wasn’t feeling it. I received a few calls before breakfast. Afterwards, I finished watching “Brothers,” which I don’t recommend and then I watched a lot of commercials while flipping through channels on TV.

In the late afternoon, I finally decided to place a few calls. One of my friends answered sounding completely drained, if not depressed. I knew the easy answer for his tone of voice was a late night, crazy New Year’s Eve party, but I suspected this wasn’t the case. When I inquired, he explained many of life’s difficulties. Things from relatives with health issues to the challenges of growing old gracefully, or sometimes not so gracefully. I could hear both worry and concern in his voice and I sympathized, but I also grew impatient. After he had confided a series of predicaments and situations I simply asked, “What are you going to do about these things?”

The sad truth is there are rules to this life and many of them are beyond our control. Regardless of how hard we try, we will all grow old and illnesses will occur even to those with the healthiest of lifestyles. Tsunamis, earthquakes and tornadoes are things we read about every day. Yes, we can talk of how horrible these things are, but the proof of our spirits is in action. If tragedy and calamity visit our homes, to ponder and talk about them accomplishes nothing. The question we need ask ourselves is “what are we going to do about it?” I am happy to say my friend did have a action plan by the time we finished speaking and I can only hope knowing what to do helped ease his distress.

As we ease into 2010, I am left to ponder my own issues and what I intend to do about them. Whether it’s to build or resolve something, we are all constantly affronted with a myriad of decisions we must make. What we choose to do is always the answer. May each of your choices be fruitful now and throughout the year to come.

Peace and blessings for a prosperous 2010!