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Tag Archives: history

Her Footsteps Are Aflame

13 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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angry woman, death, hate, heartache, history

I wonder if even the power of death will take this anger away from me on that final day?

“The evil that men do lives on, the good interred with their bones,” badly paraphrased, I feel like there will be no room left in my marrow for anything at all. When they pop me in for cremation, they’d better stand back, my hateful afterburner will kick in, a final Fuck You to humanity.

I feel like there will be no good spirit to take along with me into the next place, where ever that may be, this anger is hard to contain.  So help me, there better be no men around. Or women. Right now I feel like I want my final rest to be just that: Final. Rest. No more playing around with planting wisdom trees and dancing with supposed eternal happiness, blowing on a breeze and making nice with the universe. Keep the journey, I’ve got a date with an eternal dirt nap.  !!

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There are no women in heaven. They are at peace when their time ends, as all living do come to an end, but only the men rise and return to god’s kingdom.  Only our knees are strong enough to kneel forever before him, our voices tireless to praise him. Our breaths are his sighs, and he is pleased with us, for there are no tired doubts in the kingdom. The misguided sinners and unbelievers were washed away in that final stroke.  There is no hunger or thirst but for his light. No tears for there are no troubles, all sinful vessels were cast out, broken. Our only desire is to love him and receive his perfect love in return.  amen.   “history is written by the victors”

History Written By The Victors

11 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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history, laundry, race, reading, truth

So the day got off to a late start. The weekend looms, and I have a “date” to run around the mall on Monday with a friend which means I’ll be needing some clean clothes.  Ran a few errands, pulled into the laundromat, tucked my clothes into the washers and sat outside in 45 degree weather to see the sights.  Today was the first time since I’ve been here that I clearly saw the first opening to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. Usually it’s obscured by weather, but today it was clear as could be, so I took a few pictures to savor the memory.  A few days ago I took pictures of the breakwater rocks, their naked bottoms covered in green moss, exposed by a super low tide, but few would appreciate a picture of mossy rocks unless they watched them as I do.

Once my fingers got too cold I retreated inside and watched the History channel where a couple of guys excavated an antique motorcycle for restoration.  I watched ladies load their laundry and leave, knowing they’ll be back in 28 minutes.  Some stay and put each and every blouse on a hanger, sort and fold each and every washcloth, towel, sock, and shirt, then carry their burdens to their car alone.

Today at the laundromat I saw a young man reading a thick book while wearing headphones.  It’s not often I see people read, let alone young people, let alone a thick book. I was intrigued. I like to know what people are reading, and why.  I grabbed one load out of the dryer and as I passed by I touched the table to get his attention and asked, “What are you reading?” He pulled off his headphones and he was happy to share the title, “The Untold History of the United States.”  I had many questions and appreciated his answers.  We covered a lot of ground in a short time.  I hope to meet him again and see where he is with his reading.  We shook hands and exchanged names, similar, too similar, and I couldn’t help but acknowledge the irony.

He is black and I am white. Does this change how you view this blog post?  We are both looking to enrich ourselves. We both know that Ivanka’s clothing line is the least of this world’s concerns.  We seek to understand because there’s so much more to life than what the media feeds us. How does that make you feel?

Stand Up For The Nameless Holy Ones

22 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evolving, faith, Henry Rollins, history, politics, refugee

The fate of the world rests in what my father believed and passed down to me.  In what his father and fathers before passed down to him.  All father’s everywhere in the world are responsible for the mess we are in right now.  But what about our mothers? It is said that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. What did she, the universal Mother, pass down to us through the ages?  Is her voice and actions responsible for the mess we are in?

Those are blanket statements, overgeneralized, narrow and fearful in view.  I come here today to chew on the savory stew brewing in the world’s cauldron, yes, even the blood and gristle that come boiling up to the top. Today I am sorting to see what needs to be done.

In the beginning there was the Word, it is said. Every culture has one. All our fingers are printed with ancient soot we told our stories in. We record them because we need to remember, and perhaps more importantly, we want others to. Sometimes the words become holy, and what is holy for you is not so much for me. When I was an infant I was baptized Catholic, an action I could not consent to.  I withdrew my faith as a teenager and my parents discontinued their push to get me Confirmed, to continue my life’s journey through Christianity. Strange that I would study the bible and torah looking for answers when I no longer believed them holy.  What about the rest of the world? Shift your eyes to the greater world, other cultures and faiths. I wonder how many still believe the faith of their fathers in the same way?  How and when does their faith shift, if ever? The poorest among us still share what they have, and I ask is it out of basic human decency, or is it faith?  So many of us do not have the time (or inclination) to sit down and sort through verses and quotations to establish their truth via translation, or study the men who composed them to attain a deeper understanding of what they really meant. “How can I believe anything Paul said when he was once Saul, why should I care, and what bearing does that have on just another workaday in this soul-sucking life,” is what I believe so many people must feel.  Conversely, so many people adhere to their faith without question. They don’t feel the need to do a background check on Paul. They get through their working two jobs with no car, no daycare, no healthcare because they are living their faith. It heals and upholds them, and that is a beautiful thing.

The Constitution of the United States was written by men who owned other human beings. We learned about them all throughout school, memorizing certain facts from textbooks in order to pass tests. Henry Rollins, once a rock star, can quote amendments, Jefferson, and Mandela because he wants to, not because he has to pass a test, and it makes my pea brain want to implode. So many of us do not have the time (or inclination) to sit down and sort through the Constitution, the amendments, to do background checks on the framers, Supreme Court justices, hell, even local official, to get to the bottom of things. To become informed about our country or the world.  I believe most of us just don’t have time or the need for that, so we take the worms our parents fed us, assimilate their biases into our own, grow up into good little birds, leave the nest and start the whole thing all over again. (Yes, we assimilate their good deeds, too.)  Even if we were their clones, we would still make our own mistakes in the process of being our individual selves. Wouldn’t we? We just take it all on faith making our way through life best we can. I can feel the weariness from here, and it makes my soul tired.

There are some who are delving down into faith, into our history.  The best-seller list indicates as much, but what are we doing with what we learn?  Time to break the cycle of “I am the product of my father and mother’s faith, teachings, and what I observed of them.” Time for us to stop being the product of our parents faith, their history, their biases, the product of our schooling, our jobs, or being somebody’s lamb.  Time to give a shit about that guy down the street, our neighbor, those strangers who are a family,  instead of some guy on the squawk box or the pulpit.  A “radical” idea from a pro-choice privileged elite feminist hell-bent on destroying religion and by tearing up the political and moral fabric of our nation?  Or just a small idea from a person who believes that making a better world comes from the bottom up, not the top down. From my hands into yours. Who believes a smile, a hello, a hug, speaking kindly, speaking someone’s name can make a difference.  You are the majority, the weary ones with your hands in the soil, giving the last of your bread to your neighbor. You are the nameless holy ones missing from our table.

Country, Mine.

03 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

Arizona, history, The South, travel

It would be a long drive, but that’s why I left.  That’s why I came.  Because I need to see it all.  I drove southwest across Virginia, and the farther west I went, the country opened itself up and out.  There became hills and windey roads. I stopped at an overlook to take in  the panorama; I looked down and didn’t spend too much time trying to decipher the bit of graffiti left on lover’s leap.  Country stores and local everything dotted the state route, but it was taking too long.  I headed for the interstate and put the hammer down.  There were rivers in Tennessee that were unmarked, and I so desperately wanted to know the place I was crossing–what was the name of that mountain on the other side? But there’s no time, I have to keep going.

I was woefully underdressed when I arrived at the hotel in Knoxville.  I greeted a wedding party in shorts and flip flops,  dumped my backpack at the front desk and waited to check in, then wished the groom congratulations in the elevator.  He seemed tired and tentative about everything around him, but he said it had been a good day. Knoxville was nice to pass through, but there were places I liked more.

And the drive continued, heading through Alabama on the interstate, I felt I needed to make better time this day.  Approaching Montgomery, I noticed the government buildings were beautiful, and it was hard for me to fathom that THIS is living history before me.  Names, places, events that had been black and white words in a textbook were right here, and right now, and what that means to me today.

On the drive home I felt very much the same way. I exclaimed I couldn’t swing a dead cat and not hit something historic.  He asked, “Oh? Where is that?”  I said, “It’s called the SOUTH.”  I’ll never forget the road that runs between Montgomery and Macon, lined with tallest pines. Georgia is filled with pines. And history.  I wanted to stop and visit the Tuskeegee Airmen’s museum, and later the Civil War Naval museum, but I had to keep going. I know what to see next time, maybe when the leaves are changing.  I was headed for Charleston, SC and by the time I reached my hotel at midnight it was 85 degrees and just about 100% humidity. The air felt positively nuclear.  On my way home from Charleston, I couldn’t take my eyes off the palmettos on state route 17, the dirt roads that come down to to meet the route, dotted with shacks and sheds where people sit and sell woven baskets.  In some places there were mansions and plantations fronted by brick or low iron gates, behind were enormous trees.  I was struck by the first names of slaves, people’s fingers touched these branches so long ago, and I’m just passing through history, making my way back to a little dot on the beach, whose history is only in teenagerhood. Full disclosure:  I did make a rest stop in Myrtle Beach and bought a gauzy little blouse-thing, melon-colored, that will be nice for sunset.

When I got home the first thing I did after dumping my gear was drink some homemade tea, so unsweetened and cold.  I put the air conditioning on to dry out the house and marveled at how much my plant seemed to have grown. He is unstoppable. I brought home a sweet potato vine, and I think she will keep everyone good company on the sill.  I missed my beach halfway through the visit and definitely in the middle of Georgia.  I took my drink down to the water and walked a long way in it, wondering what it would look like in the morning.

Someday I will write about Arizona, but it’s hard to find the right words that mean “breathtaking mountain that comes up from nowhere, surrounded by plains, dotted with cactus and humans who’ve grown so strong and hard as to survive here.”  Every time I stand on that mountain, or look down from that plane and watch geography shift, heave, and lie, I lose my words.

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