THE LATE SUPPER RADIO SHOW

Copyright: Harry Langen, 

July 2012, Vancouver, B.C.

I witnessed life and joy the first time watching Molly in the kitchen. I was at peace watching my mother in the kitchen as she shared her joy preparing a table. She certainly left her impression… on a lot of people. She was an award-winning teacher.

And now I am in a kitchen of sorts and you, dear listeners, are invited by me, Uncle Harry, to my table for a late supper. So wash your ears before you come to the table and I’ll pass the bread.

*   *   *

This radio program is about you. Your hope and your fears. And you’ll be given anopportunity to talk it out, with all of us. You will be given a chance to call in and have your voice heard. Occasionally you’ll hear from special guests and co-hosts but always remember this program is about you; and it’s my job, your Uncle Harry, to free you from your fear. If I fail you’ll let me know. But I won’t find a bridge to jump over because between the two of us we’ll create optimism.

We are, of course, the words we speak but more dangerously the words we hear. It’s the words we hear which may provoke violence. Uncle Harry wants to keep you out of jail. So listen up.

We’re going to talk about your mortal frame… the pretty thing you look at in that warped mirror. But before we do let’s get situated. I’m broadcasting from Canada. Dictators are falling like pawns everywhere and civilians are being massacred… but not here and not likely ever here in Canada.

Morning loons across the lake; elk in the public park in Banff; moose strolling in the lake at Bracebridge; colourful native dugouts on the wild west coast; and the hospitality of the maritimers who still have that engaging twang in their voice and whose homes are always open to the hungry. Warm ovens, bread and beans with molasses. Lord-tunderin’ Jesus, and Lobster from Nova Scotia and those Frenchy Gallic boys and girls from St Catherine’s and Notre Dame de Grace in Montreal who would thrill anyone with their charm and excitement in the sack. I celebrate living in Canada, with all its warts and all our complaints, but easily one of the best countries on this threatened globe, a vast land and so full of wonder its experience is nearly overwhelming.

Our Constitition guarantees us rights and freedoms that other mixed-up countries today are coveting. Thank God I’m a Canuck. Just ask the Peruvians who would beseech me so often with: “Take me to Canada! Take me to Canada!” Seven million in Lima is a lot of voices.

* * *

Now let’s get on with your mortal frame.

Perhaps you will have seen what I have seen – an illustration of an infant being born, then growing into an adolescent, a man and then finally at the end of this illustrative ark, a man dying in all his feebleness and some fear. Your Uncle Harry was 15 when he first saw this East Indian display of Hindu theology; framing all of us, freezing our balls in that mortal narrative but with a hint of reincarnation. So it was obvious in this illustration that we are enclosed by time, at least in our current form, and somewhere in the midst of this adventure we call life there may be meaning.

Einstein tried to teach us that “man is who he is in relationship to other men.” Now while I enjoy something private in common with Einstein, I did not share this opinion. I believed that each man, each individual must be first outlined by his relationship to the personality of the infinite, then may he know himself. After all, seven billion zeroes add up to nothing. And I for one did not want to add up to a zero.  If all men are fools must I also be a fool?

Knowing this personality of the infinite and being affirmed by nature, you are one, not a zero, and may be free to increase your very self, that spiritual outline which may indeed defy death. Such fierce muscles you will have, of the infinite sort.  

The memory of a good man may increase the body of that personality of the infinite. And your own muscular body of spirit. And increase your pleasure and capacity for pleasure.

We are the words we speak. And more perilously we are the words we hear. It’s the words we hear which may provoke violence. So perhaps it would be wise not to lend your ears to voices which may prematurely thrust you through that mortal frame.

But let’s get back to joy.

I recall hosting a little TV show in Nelson, B.C. The theme was “What does it mean to live at the top of your form?” It was entitled Meeting at the Top. The format was simple. Once a week I would write something teddibly important, read my monologue from the teleprompter, half cut; then interview the stellar personalities of the artsy fartsy Nelson community.

Well, one night I was hosting the head of the Philosophy dept at Selkirk College; the theatre manager (being desperate as I was for stellar thinkers and a chemistry professor from Selkirk. After rather forgettable answers from the Philosophy dude (who managed to lose his job for lack of student interest in philosophy and the theatre manager who was terrified of me quoting Aleister Crowley, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.” The chemistry professor thrilled all and sundry with his candid and brave reply. He explained: “I was living at the top of my form when I was walking to school during lovely weather to teach my classes. And this feeling of bliss returned for three mornings during my walk.” He hesitated. Left us all hanging on his next words until I had to ask: “What happened?” He replied to the camera and his live TV audience “I became afraid.”

And there went his joy.   

To conclude this teddibly impahtant monologue Uncle Harry will now share with you something about the Words We Hear… and how very seriously they can impact you.

When children hear words of encouragement and flattery they respond with that glow of joy, that first taste of bliss.

But when they hear : “You’re useless! You are worth nothing to me or your mother! You were a mistake of nature!” That child will remember those hurtful words all its life, more lasting than your least favourite tattoo. … and that child will likely behave in a way which lives DOWN to those words.

Parents are the furnace of creation much longer than just a term of pregnancy. They hold that child’s soul in their grasp for many years. Let us all become formed by words of beauty and charitable thought and each of us, one at a time, may change this neighbourhood, this uncivilized city, this precious globe. It is by words of Light we may unstitch the infected blanket we have cast over the delicate face of earth.

Every day we may speak in Light. Every season we may bring lasting warmth.

*   *   *

WONDERS AND ABOMINATIONS

What is wonderful to them is an abomination to some. Why are we so easily enchanted by abominations?

Special effects in movies, guns being pulled out pointed at each other, grim stories, negative endings, violence.

Does anybody any more discover the wonder of quiet walk in a park without noise, every footfall affirmed by nature, by every sound of twig cracking, by every birdsong?

Why not? This is more of a mystery to me than the universe itself. The universe is quiet in its activity. It’s compassionate and it’s fierce. And yes, it is mysterious. It is infinite. But shall we be left out? 

We cannot afford, perhaps, the opinions we live by, cultivated by a corrupt culture. But surely we can afford the love of our Father.

When you walk alone at sunrise and you smell the sea and hear its endless secrets as each wave crests upon the sand you may know then you belong as a unit in a loving universe.

But why are we so enchanted by abominations? Violence. Killing… and then we emulate this, especially young people, who want to be considered cool in their society, in their clique, in this culture… who go out and find in their language endless ways to invoke violence. That I consider Black Magic.

We have also the opportunity to reach out, to allow to enter into us something promising, something of a more continuously enjoyable essence… what I am might consider, and perhaps what you might consider, Good Magic. The magic of your every day.

People who are dying, who have been diagnosed as being terminal, their lives become per day more dramatic, and they face each day and then each moment more honestly, and perhaps more intimately connected to the personality of the infinite… and then they’re alive. More alive than they’ve ever been before… but why do we have to wait until the mask of death is wrapped around our face before we realize how exciting, how dramatic, how thoroughly inventive God is and how easily we may know Him or Her intimately and with continuity each day while we are full of health and with that exuberant ability to run through the forest alone each footfall being affirmed by not only the ground our foot falls upon, but the movement of the clouds, by the flutter of every leaf on every tree reaffirming our magnificence as an individual human being, with never, never a negative thought.

Our minds are engineered by the personality of the infinite to permit continuity of joy. Our bodies are designed to permit continuity of joy… yet we live in a culture full of abominations and lacking in wonder which denies us and denies our young adults and our children the possibility of continuity of joy.

 

'MAKING' A LIVING

Uncle Harry’s mind works in mysterious ways. He invites you to perform like an intellectual gymnast on his dubiously thin mat. So: ready to tumble?

 

Let’s talk about "Making" a Living

 

Most of my adult life since I left home at 16 and travelled from Toronto to Vancouver to 'find' myself, I have been almost totally distracted with this concept of "making" a living. From job to job - ranch manager's assistant, False Creek wall builder, bus boy/waiter, writer, editor, ad salesman, publisher and on and on and after working with so many different sorts and all shapes of people with all manner of morals or none at all and with entreprenurial efforts galore, it has finally dawned on me that the idea of 'making' a living is pure hogslop.

Each of us in this capitalist culture eventually, it seems, become owned by money. Our moods are affected, our attitudes are formed, our opinions of others, and finally even our spiritual outlines are all defined by this business of making money, making a living. Is money in our genes? Are we genetically predisposed to hunger money?

Your smiley banker is all a’twitter selling us mortgages. The word mortgage actually means “Death debt.” Be sure to compliment them on their smile. 

What happened to living? I accept capitalism as a system that is best designed for our western culture and one that may indeed offer real opportunities for anyone to prosper and enjoy the fruit of their labours. But greed is replacing civility and good manners and as we import more foreigners into our midst we allow them to contribute their own version of capitalism and there we are again enchanted with another dazzling means of profiteering.

This mental infection was brought into sharp focus recently with the alleged theft and use of cocaine by a senior officer of the RCMP. This organization has fumbled its way into one scandal after the other in recent years and the old pride of their pretty uniform has been seriously diminished. These scarlet-draped folks have been an iconic Canadian symbol so ingrained that tourists here are still buying little statuettes of these fellows on horseback pointing spears at each other, grinning and bearing our flag.  But greed, misconduct with women and some corruption has sullied their duds.

So we’re back to greed. Greed makes thugs of us all.

And greed can take many forms. Even our sacred institutions have been profoundly injured by the sexual greed of its various priesthoods. Teachers are accused regularly of diddling with children and among Boy Scout leaders the same shameful behaviour is becoming exposed.

With the loss of a good weekly sermon and some minor commitment to religious service in our lives to put a cap on our day-to-day greed, we are becoming almost hysterical about 'making' a living and gorging ourselves on whatever indulgences we fancy. And to hell with anybody who may be chagrined by pornographic conduct.

In this climate, would it surprise any of us if sexual maniacs became urban heroes? Isn’t Luka pretty?

May I make a little suggestion here? How about we arrest this trend of impersonal gimmie gimmie, and enjoy more face-to-face conversations which require some intellect and thoughtfulness and which allow for one simple discovery: the magnificence of the individual and his connection to the divine.

To hell with greed.

With more of us taking that one step (turning off their games, their little phones, their infernal music, and their TV's), more of us may be inclined to return to living and be less hobbled and hysterical about 'making' a living.

Uncle Victor believes that kind of Living can rebuild our genetic structure to the advancement of our children and theirs.

We can enhance the spiritual field into which our children our born by our moral conduct today… and defeat greed.

 

Toodling Along

 

Let's toodle along tonight together as we observe the city named after a certain Captain whose followers eventually evicted a certain chief by the name of Kahtsalano, renaming his homestead after a certain Fred Stanley... a Lord no less. Apparently Lords outrank Chiefs. This animated commentary is about how we move in our modern world.

After awaking in my calm environment, I stroll out in the morn of a fine summer day to be assaulted with mayhem on the streets. Noise and vile drivers.

Anyone wearing sandals or floppies can expect an involuntary pedicure at traffic lights. Text-distracted ragers are among the gamers who after each hit-and-run mark up a few more points for bragging rights.

Bus drivers barrel through red lights and to keep up with the Jones' the speeding paramedics crank up the sirens at ear-splitting screams to scoop up another soul passed out from over-Jonesing. Trucks, not fit for the road, are forever delivering most of what you can grow in your backyard.  With commuters all charging into narrow lanes and bottlenecks at the same time, who can really blame the cyclists for having evacuated the street and squeezed onto the cluttered sidewalks where scooters, skateboarders, drunk pedestrians, and those groups of foreign students smoking in herds of seemingly blind human beings hogging the walkway alongside long-leashed doggies pooping along at every pole.

And Lord bless us all, make room for the crackhead. You know the one heading against the red light, getting tossed into the air by a driver on speed and clambering back up for that next hoot; or the one scratching at the sidewalk for some invisible rock he or she imagines they'll find.

Welcome to Lotus Land. Super-Natural Vancouver. Chaos barely in control. Writhing and convulsing.

Then try the bars for a little suave action and discover all the baseball-capped guys plopped on their buttocks camping in their beer while the dance music wafts through one ear and gets lost in a cloud of dope smoke. Who needs to go to a movie to watch zombies?

Oh well. Let's change the subject and talk about goofing along. From marriage to divorce lawyers on the hunt for wallets and single-hosed men searching for alimony money while ex-wives and single mothers toodle along in the bars teasing those other men still camped out with that music wafting.

OK. Something more interesting perhaps... more positive. We spend a fair whack of moolah watching how the professionals move along. Throwing balls at each other or batting balls at each other or smacking little balls in tiny holes (sound effects of sports inserted) or just smacking at each other's bloody faces with big gloves on is all part of our move-it-along culture. And we amble along into long cues to empty our wallets to get our front row seats at these mob-infested events. And there the mob again camps swilling elegantly from Styrofoam cups.

Now how ‘bout 'bout instead of watching bloodsports live in arenas at 120 bucks per clip, why not lay off sports tickets for a while? In the U.S. alone, 410 billion is spent annually on what the hucksters call live sports events. That’s a movement of capital that surprised even Yours Truly.

So let’s ask our American friends to abstain from attending professional sports for one year and that ticket value of 400 billion will be sent northward to us Canucks to reduce our national debt. In return, we Canucks promise not to sing our national anthem at these aforementioned non-events. And furthermore we Canucks will swear an oath on the TV Guide no less NOT to watch any American sitcoms for a whole humourless year.

Please note: that 400 billion will drastically reduce our national debt from 587 billion to the paltry sum of 187 billion. 

Now wasn’t that swell?

Now moving right along… In an earlier show, I mentioned the chemistry professor who admitted on my live TV show that after three mornings of enjoying bliss walking to work he had become afraid… afraid I believe of the intensity of such joy being delivered with continuity. Probably changing his very perception of time.

I would like to add something to his story. Something of my own.

Yes, on those spring morns I am assaulted by noise and the chaos of our culture in high gear. But I can walk away even through the gauntlet on Hastings street side-stepping the violence and the desperation of the addicts and only a couple of blocks away can I find a park where healthy young men play in the sun in a cool morning summer breeze. And in ten or 15 minutes as I continue walking I approach another park with deep trails amidst towering trees and am alone then. Alone, better to hear the hints of the myriad rustling leaves in the ancient cedars, the birdsong, the scurrying of the ground animals, the call of the loon across the misty pond and I witness the absolute quietness of the white swans in the distance in their majestic flow.

Here in this land of Kahtsalano, with every sound, smell and sight of days gone and now, my footfalls, each of them, are affirmed by nature. And I am increased. My spiritual body is filled and I am acknowledged as belonging to that one holy movement, imbued then by the simple light, absorbed then in that creative fiat, embraced by the arms of a loving infinite being, swept into the divine exhalation. At that endless moment I am man, the triumphant. 

*   *   * 

THE FIRST KISS

Mine was sloppy and if yours wasn’t you were an early and perhaps precocious Lothario. Or you’re lying. Not counting the quickie little pecks you might have been coerced to pop on your ten year old neighbour thanks to your cheery bullying chums, let’s revisit that more serious effort of planting that first one when you were at least old enough to know you really did want to kiss that fantasy lover. Whatever form that immature fantasy might have taken. But we need to exclude pet-kissing and grammy-splats. And in this day and age of gay marriages and transsexual beings, we will include gay smooches and kissing transexual flesh-peddlers. See that. I’m a real liberal.

Now as to mine: her name was Betty. She was in my junior class at high school. She was blonde with long curls, a rather passable face but lovely smile and, great sense of humour and scary smart. So after our first and only date on the front porch of her parents’ house I steeled myself for my first romantic plopper. It was a shy job but she allowed for the kiss and my shyness and all was right with the world. Well for a day or two anyway. As youngins are liable to get on with their rambunctiousness finding a new toy at almost every turn. But that little memory remains oddly rather vivid and I do wish Betty well to this day… and just hope she isn’t listening. I’m sure I’ve stepped on a couple of her lovely toes (which I never did see). Over to you, Lotharios, Casanovas and Marquis de Sade spook-alikes. Oops. Almost did forget: Nerds welcome to report too. We won’t use your real name if you don’t.

Being after midnight (better be you brats!) let’s talk about 
LOSING ONE’S VIRGINITY.

What is it exactly? Can you actually lose it? Do you then have to find it again? Did it ever get lost? Did you lose it when as George, my classmate in private grade school asked, “Is it a sin to think evil?” or did you lose it when, against the precepts of the Cathechism, you touched your private parts? Still a seriously unholy sin to some priests. Well, what do they know? Unfortunately from what we’ve been hearing of late a little too much I’d say.

Do you lose your virginity when you fall in love or fall in love with the idea of love and let someone touch you in that private area? Or do you lose it when you actually physically climax? But when young men masturbate, they climax. Are they losing their virginity by their own hand or does it have to be someone else’s hand? Or do they lose their virginity when they use their own hand to help someone else climax? Or does it have to be mutual?

Grade schoolers are offering b-jobs for homework help or to score points inside their cliques. Mostly girls that is. All that yummy twinky lipstick all over that private thingie. Yum yum? Or Yecch? With all the Hollywood slop-kissing going on alongside the gorilla groping, is it any wonder our children are emulating animals?

But let’s get back to that juicy subject: How does one lose one’s virginity? By penetration of one body into another? Well does that or doesn’t that include fellatio?

Obviously, this is an adult show… that’s why it’s supposed to be on at midnight. So no cheating please.

How ‘bout this scenario. You both get naked. Get all heated up and one of you enjoys a premature splash. Who lost their virginity or have they both?

Who knows? Catholics can always go to confession, admit their wayward lust, say their penance and start pocket-pooling all over again. And just out of curiosity: just where did those radical Muslims find all those 12 virgins to conjoin with in heaven after their noble suicidal, child-killing bombardments? Did Mohammed keep them in his closet?

Speaking of closets, how do gay guys lose their virginity? Maybe one of Luka’s pen pals can give us a hint.

I don’t recall quite when I lost mine, not knowing what losing it meant in the first place but I’m sure I’ll find it somewhere along the path of my broken dreams, strewn about and cluttered as they are with my clouded sexual memories of lusty victories and drunken bedroom adventures. 

THE LAST TOUCH

As I had been living thousands of miles away from my family, the only time I recall touching them last was when they were in their coffins. Not so much for them obviously but more for me as a weird way of reassuring myself that they were indeed gone. The top of their cold hands became this eerie remembrance that I have now of my last touch of these loved ones. I tried to recall the last time I touched my mother when she was alive; as she had outlived Dad by seven years. To my chagrin I could not, but do recall having been a reasonably affectionate son upon my visits with her and she was always gregariously affectionate with me; so perhaps all those collective touches and hugs are enough. I occasionally speculate as to whether or not my Mom and Dad were somehow aware of my touching them in their coffin – it would certainly please me if I did know that they were appreciative of my little gesture of affection but I haven’t and don’t expect to raise that dark blanket in this lifetime at least.

But I wonder what you, dear co-hosts and listeners, may recall of the last time you touched a loved one prior to their death and whether or not this touch held any special meaning for you.

SPOOKS AND APPARITIONS OF LOVED ONES

I’ve never seen one. Or at least I don’t think so. I did see though one time when I was naked and hallucinating on mescaline outside a cave in Big Sur the face of a wise woman in the clouds accompanied by voices of angels laughing. But my mother had a better story. A little background here might help. After she successfully got her husband the proper care for the balance of his life – 18 years – she found a decent man with whom to share her love. They built a beautiful A frame cottage together by a lake in mid-northern Ontario close to a lovely little village called Bracebridge. Driving alone on one rainy night her amour lost control of his car and it tipped into the lake on his way home to their cottage. He was a big 80 year old, tough as nails and there was evidence that he had scratched desperately at the windows and car ceiling in vain until he drowned. A spooky death. Shortly after while mother was awaking in their communal bed she saw a beautiful bird alight just outside her window, perched there gazing at her. She told me she was absolutely sure it was Harold, her lover, come back to let her know that he was alright. I believed her, she was so intent and convinced and relieved to have him appear like that. That was her only ghost story she ever told me. This may not qualify but 

I do recall witnessing a spiritual gauzy breath emit from a doctor in Peru who was descended from shamans. He was talking to a group of us about the healing trial we were to undergo. There was no questioning his brilliance and I didn’t question his breath either. And I was promised once by an important man in my life, one I considered a righteous teacher, that I would be visited by his presence in the form of the scent of his favourite pipe smoke. Hasn’t happened yet. It’s been a few years but I can wait and this man had a weird sense of time anyway. And I don’t have any spook or ghost stories to offer but maybe you do. Let’s start with our esteemed co-hosts, Shawn and Braedon and hear theirs and then we’ll get to yours… so you’ve got a few minutes then to conjure your best spirits. Just one little request: try to keep it out of the zombie zone. Too many of those ass-dragging across my TV screen lately.

THE CELIBATE LIFE

Now that we’ve covered the seedier parts of the show and slipped through some spookier trails, let’s walk in some holier shoes shall we?

I believe I’ve met a few truly celibate priests. Might be harder now with the news of seminarians involved with games like How fast can we lose our virginity behind these hallowed halls?

But this one priest, a Jesuit, who has generally managed to avoid conversation with me despite being my sister-in-law’s brother, did manage however to challenge me to explain to him if I understood his commitment to being celibate in favour of his love of church and Jesus and so on. (I do wish these guys would get the pronunciation at least right: it’s Yeshua.) He was righteously angry when he unloaded on me his life-long endurance of celibacy. That was persuasion enough and a much nobler witnessing than an evangelist weeping on TV after being exposed for diddling with babes or boys under the guise of being holier than all and sundry.

I just don’t see the reason for celibacy. By not having sex does that mean somehow your halo is brighter? Or rounder? Or higher. Methinks not. By not having sex there is a tacit admission that they don’t have much of a clue about consummating one’s love and that essential element of any marriage.

But at least they don’t have to waste any time searching the hallowed halls for elusive virgins or little virginities.

ORIGINAL GRACE

Catholic dogma would have us believe that all human souls are born into original sin. This coming from the activity of Adam having been tempted by Eve to eat the apple from the tree of knowledge. Hence guilt. 

I, for one, prefer to eat from the tree of knowledge. And since then it has occurred to me that I was not born into a state of sin but in reality was born into a state of grace. Innocently given by nature with a clear slate. A soul readied by God and may be ready for God as one experiences the magnificence of one’s own humanity. 

It is also now clear to me that given our moral conduct every day, we may enhance the spiritual field into which our children are born. This conduct supports Original Grace. Let our descendants then and all progeny world-wide be born into Original Grace. 

As to the various and rather absurd versions of our human genesis (check Scientology for a real looper on that point) give me a tasty apple any time. 

Depression or Grace?

OUR CLINICAL DEPRESSION


I am clinically optimistic, so much so I believe that all of you out there who have been diagnosed as “clinically depressed” may shake that diagnosis in a relatively simple way. Start by not believing it. Then as you awaken each day b in the warmth and embrace of the sunrise shake a leg and face that day day with a will to persevere and know always that your effort may bre affirmed by nature. 

And upon seeing this, your sense of optimism may increase your appetite for life. 

Life enjoys being known and you may be a knower. 

Those who would have us believe we are doomed to illness are in the business of selling pharmaceuticals. They are not true care-givers and apparently are more interested in writing scrips which shackle you to the illusion that you are hopelessly depressed as they enhance their income.

Shake a leg and let that sunrise show you a new way. Persevere to health. And be affirmed even by birdsong.

*   *   *

After arriving alone from Toronto in 1968 Uncle Harry has observed changes in the social mosaic of Vancouver. In those days there was a debate being feebly bandied about by intellectuals about the Canadian identity. What or who is a Canadian? Having been the founder of the debating club at my high school, I was always up for a good mind-rattling discourse on vague ideas. Somewhat more mature now, I view a society by the fundamental values it embraces and then how much the people actually live by those values. This living I believe will shape the identity of a country.

Now as I scan the lay of that spiritual landscape, as it were, I am dismayed; and almost every day that distraught state of mind might deepen were I not to hold fast to my unreasonable optimism. While we native Canadians (I’m of an ancestry that arrived in Nova Scotiabefore Canada was called Canada in the mid 1700’s) fumbled around navel-gazing about who we are and what makes a Canadian,  successive federal governments swung wide the gates to well-heeled immigrants. At first blush, especially with the Honourable Pierre Trudeau’s effective pitching of that new word “multiculturalism,” we, the great grandchildren of pioneers, nodded our willing ascent and clapped ourselves on the back for our tolerance and new worldliness.

   That’s when, from my perspective, the bloodless revolution began. This country is only one effective legal argument away from hosting on our turf Radio Communism.

   It has become painfully obvious to me as a man on the street that this huge influx of immigrants, from Asia particularly, did not, in the main, come here to enhance Canadianism.

   Generalization is not fair, I know, so let’s go tip-toeing through this morass. I will write only about that which I observe. On Robson by Denman, the Koreans gather in cues for dinner. Always pleasant to witness the laughter of young people but where’s the sound of English? The East Indians gather in multi-family houses in Surrey and the smell of baked salmon, hot dogs or Canadian bacon (ahem) is hardly pervasive. Broiled tongue-in-cheek sometimes though. (Would that be mine?) I don’t know where the young Chinese are tribalizing but with our Chinatown rotting on the vine, it isn’t Keefer or Pender streets. Night-time in Chinatown is akin to a stroll in Hiroshima, circa 1945. I can imagine what the tourists must think as they scurry away from that dead zone in favour of T shirt purchases in Gastown. The restaurateurs in Chinatown are scratching their heads perhaps wondering why service with a scowl didn’t quite cut it. The Filipinos on Fraser Street congregate in restaurants reinforcing their culture among themselves. And it’s especially disturbing to me to have to negotiate my way past or through or around the knots of young immigrants standing on the sidewalk outside their English schools, smoking and sharing their stories in guess-what language? Not mine.

   We are the words we speak. We are the words we hear. And language is a warm hand-made quilt. We are each of us wrapped in that unique culture, inherent in it is our history as a people. There are still remnants of the hippie heyday on Fourth Avenue. The American draft dodgers have successfully integrated, their own accents being subsumed into our Canuckian mix.

   Two incidents, I unfortunately witnessed recently, speak volumes. An elderly woman, clearly in distress, was staggering on Gore street by Keefer by a red light. As it turned green, the drivers, almost ALL Asian, picked their way around her even after she fell on her face to the asphalt. No one stopped. I held out my hand to stop the traffic and approached the Asian elder. By then a store owner (Asian) finally peered out from his door and reluctantly came over to help me help her off the street. I then waved down a police car. I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath. She was ill. A young woman on an overcrowded Skytrain (Asian) was texting right by the door. As passengers were cramming themselves in, she stood her ground and all had to squeeze by her. The long curly hair of the lady in front of the texter was now in her face. She looked downright peeved but didn’t move.

   These incidents illustrate the absolute lack of Canadian politeness for which we native Canadians are so well reputed, even around the globe. But have we natives become so polite, almost to the point of collective obsequiousness, that we will allow our culture, our language to become extinct? Is my quilt burning?

   Allow me to conclude with a simple experiment we can all try at home. Take a big jug of clear water and add a dab of red ink. Shake. See how it goes a little pink? Now add a large dollop of red ink. Shake. Now it’s going red, n’est-ce pas? Now tell me: do we seriously believe that if we keep adding red ink that this jug will not lose its original colour altogether?

   When a Vancouver catastrophe hits all of us (i.e. the big quake), who do you think is going to be helping whom?

   Having been the victim of much social abuse over the years for my own uniqueness, it would not be fair nor true to call me a racist. Tolerance is defined as a. Leeway for variation from a standard. b. The permissible deviation from a specified value of a structural dimension, often expressed as a percent.

   As for me, the borders of my “leeway” are in sight. And my willingness to deviate from a specified value is verging exhaustion.

*    *    *

My father knew what it was to be a Canadian. Our family arrived in the mid-1700’s before Canada was even entitled that. It was known then as Nova Scotia. My ancestors were potato farmers from Ireland and interestingly they evacuated Ireland before the potato famine. So I suppose it’s fair to say I’m a Canadian. .. 7^th generation.

And Dad at 19 crossed the river at Rimini, Italy, in 1943 and after witnessing all his chums being slaughtered by the Nazis was left for dead, he crawled back to his camp, sent back to England to recover after sustaining a rifle-shot to his shoulder, barely missing an artery, and shrapnel across his knees. Then from his hospital bed he wrote to his mother: “I’m going back to the front.” The Brits didn’t let him. Too much damage. So he became a husband, father and lawyer.

It’s OK to be a bit of a flag-waving Canadian but rest assured, dear listener, I do welcome all immigrants but I do not welcome any tribalizing on their part. Shrinks call it xenophobia. But I believe it’s fair to say they’re here to mix and enjoy and contribute to our culture. And hopefully enhance it with their own unique advances.

Encounter at Crab Park

Last summer, strolling through Crab Park, I encountered people carrying paper plates of hot food and then saw the cue, at least 100 strong. Having time to kill I opted to join the freebie feed-in and just as I did was informed by a young woman that it was for abused native Indian lesbians only – some sort of support protest against deadbeat or violent men. I felt a little foolish for not noticing that the line-up was indeed all women with dark hair. (But I suppose the hot dogs might have been a giveaway.)

Oh well, something good did come out of this rebuke of my presence in line there. An inspiration I can only describe as profound and meaningful descended upon me with the weight of a pregnant dove. In keeping with my deep sense of social justice for all, next summer at Crab Park I will be hosting a freebie feed-in (pulled pork) of my own: for stuttering, beakless Jewish homosexual grandfathers with hairlips. (No ringers please.)

Donations of looky-loos will be gratefully accepted on site on behalf of the Foundation to Establish a Retirement Home for Exhausted Hollywood Vampires and Zombies and to offset the cost of memorial services for spotted North Korean lab rats.   

 SID'S PLACE
(Reference to Sideras’ Place, MacLean’s Magazine 1974)

Oh give me a solid piece of ground
that we may share to worship on
Where calmness and serenity live and breathe
to practice art full living that we may
Where birds sing sweetly to their midnight suns
that still brighten hopeful faces
Where the ayre is soft and green
grasses grow to kneel upon
Where you and I are more than one
living in ernest another life begun
Where all you see is what we do
and all I see is what you see too
Where all life’s a prayer and every
wearer worthy of the cloth well spun
Off the loom of who cares for us
in all times, at all spaces, in warm and gentle places
Where we may only live to share
our lives together on this dulled lump
Where with the graces we abide, the whole knot
seen dancing together in a parking lot
Uncut by bard nor seer
untouched by awful peer
Where any star may seer
us two among the many and the few
often pray I still do.

To TedNow why are there in the heavens, constellations
growing like flaming flowers bright
With shapes and patterns so well defined?
It springs to mind, in thoughtful torrents now that
There is God with yet another crown, and yet another crown…

-Johnson Hartman

THAT "OLD GUY"

Tonight while I was supposed to be (according to my self-discipline) organizing a new incorporation, I got distracted by a program on PBS. It featured a new album by an old guy who over my lifetime I had always considered to be of a self-serving pretense and a deservedly isolated and unappreciated singer. That was my opinion and faithful readers of The English Bay Banner will know only too painfully that I am not of a light touch in expressing them. Well, today I was given a wake-up call by this old guy who carried his own in spectacular fashion with the likes of Josh Groban, Lady Gaga (who gushed all over him with her blue hair but managed to keep up with Mr Bennett's precise and delicious pausing), Sheryl Crow, Andrea Bocelli, Mariah Carey, K. D. Lang, Natalie Cole and a couple of other oldies like Aretha Franklin and Willie Nelson whose face has come to resemble a river of blues with an appropriate accompanying voice as raspy (but still note on) as a tired oak creaking in the wind. I wept at their interaction on this new release entltied Duets Two with Tony Bennett. Even Michael Buble (of whom I'm still suspect) was so enthralled that he quite spontaneously waltzed with Mr Bennett between a pause in their song, allowing Mr Bennett to lead. Every singer showcased on this CD/DVD which PBS was clearly hugely proud about broadcasting were immensely impressed with the 85 year old energy and class that Mr Bennett so easily exuded as he and his guest singer dished out some crooner and jazz classics.



I couldn't help but to feel some shame in my previous take on Mr Bennett; but also it was notable that he had never sounded so clear, powerful and thrilled himself by being in the face-to-face company of these fellow singing artists - and he had the decency of visiting them in their homes or studios around the world to put this Duets Two project into progress.

Hearing from too many of today's callous youth who mention in their dark whispers about "that old guy" referring to anyone over 40, I am grateful now to know that Mr Bennett has so easily and with such evident eloquence, shown that those kinds of vicious words of ageism don't belong anywhere any more and that, at least in my "old guy" view, the words of these mouthy, biased brats will find dark tunnels to rot in while the lyrics and the voices of these great singers of ageless lyrics and the example of Mr Bennett will outshine them like stars bursting over sewage ditches.



I recall vividly attending a performance of Mr Frank Sinatra at the Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto when he was well into his '70's. Down the ramp he came, shorter in stature than I expected, and carrying two glasses, one in each hand. He opened the thrilling show with, "I want you to meet two friends of mine (and he held out his hands), Chivas and Regal." From there he entertained flawlessly singing and telling the most interesting stories, while his son conducted the orchestra below him. Now how cool is that?

Can't wait to hear Mr Bennett's Duets One.

OCCUPY THIS

The voting booth.

IMMINENT DANGER

A Prognostication: The Global Economy is in imminent danger. The Euro will collapse and be recalled as a nightmare in voodoo economics. Histerical selling on the open stock market will follow. Get out now. Buy bullion. Gold and silver now. There is only one word to resolve all: De-industrialize. Find your garden.

GATHERING THOUGHTS

VANCOUVER'S HIDDEN CULTURES
It was witnessed by the world time and time again as the media washed us in the shame of the Stanley Cup Vancouver riots. So much for being one of the most desirable cities to live in... but still one of the most expensive. And therein may lie an explanation for this hidden culture of gangsterism. It is indeed hard to compete with the throngs of Asians appearing on our coast and buying everything in sight; then leaving the condos vacant while the homeless and war veterans tread about on our poop-ridden streets below populated by aggressive hit-and-run drivers leering at us with their smug faces hidden behind their cellphones. But no excuse for the thuggery we all had to suck in that night the Canucks blew their last chance to win the over-hyped Holy Grail of their sport. Perchance the thuggery is somewhat more induced by what we see on the screens of one of our innumberable sports bars during one of these 'professional' games. Delivering a concussion appears to be a strategy these days to win a point. Just ask Sydney Crosby.
But I'm having some difficulty with our new neighbours trying to configure how they configure the relationship they have rationalized between being a Chinese Communist and a Capitalist. Why not Communist Radio next? Free speech and all that. And how 'bout an invigorated Communist party to match while Chinatown business owners and elders, as usual, scowl at most of us home-grown Canadians for whatever guilt we're supposed to be carrying for having them by their choice carry our laundry lo those many decades ago?
I'm no racist but even a professor at UBC recently asked the question as entitled in his essay published in the UBYSSEY: "Too Asian?" The question gains legitimacy the longer too many of our new neighbours hold out their sneers to the cap-in-hand of the homeless and prefer to tribalize among their own; and ignore wholly our history, sociology and why we are still proud - though outnumbered here in Vancouver - to call ourselves Canadian.

* * *

ROYALS CROWD OUT RIOTERS
Whether you're a Monarchist, an Anarchist or just an indifferent Populist kinda guy, it was perhaps even for all of us a breath of some relief to see crowds of thousands act with civility while two young people (of some privilege no question) came to visit. And that helicopter show on the lake? Try that on an open ocean during a storm. Glug glug. Bye Bye Crown. But fascinatoring, eh?

* * *

SLANDER-SLUSHING BARS
Having been a patron of Vancouver pubs, bars, restaurants and other unmentionable late-night establishments, I believe I have always conducted myself with civility, albeit booze-inspired exuberance occasionally for some 40+ years now. And so far I have been barred by two – one in the west end and the other a popular cave on Cambie Street. Both barrings were the result of slander-slushing patrons or barkeeps or waiters who took umbrage to my presence for one baseless reason or another.
The west end bar tossed me for “slandering” someone there. Interesting: inasmuch as I didn't know anyone there it would be quite the trick to slander them. The actual reason was because I didn't tip the sluggish waitress-with-attitude and she fed the manager enough bilge to get me turfed going on now for two years. Yawn. Used to be a good spot for a game of pool there on Comox.
The other was even more lame: I got tossed because the manageress didn't want to lose a big gambler's patronage. Yawner again. Ironic that the next day was “Customer Appreciation Day.” She never did read the signed, complimentary copy of my book I gave her two years before. Am I yawning too much?

* * *

WORSHIPPING(?)THE FATHER
The word “Worship” has always been a bugaboo for me even when I was trying to keep from becoming a buggered altar boy.
Since when would any father want to be worshipped? It occurs to me that any good father would be more interested in being acknowledged and if lucky – known.
So why can't we see the same sense in knowing the 'heavenly father'?
And as weather so often comprises our sense of common divinity (How's the weather out your way?), imagine the continuity of joy if one were to know the personality of the sun?
(This piece was conceived and written on July 4th before viewing in Vancouver a corona in the firmament - a wide rainbow encircling the sun.)
I'm not yawning now.

* * *

Man As Singularity

Mathematicians and physicists are looking at singularities, those sole points of origin of black holes sucking entire galaxies into an apparent maelstrom. This pulse of unlimited gravity confounds the scientists, quantum gravity physicists particularly, as the explanatory formula keeps returning to infinity.

If there were only one singularity one may tend to describe it as the presence of God... the ultimate sustaining source of endless gravitas. However, there has been discovered many singularities throughout many galaxies.

“Nothing in the human body was designed to cease functioning.” The perpetual motion machine. To live forever one’s spiritual ‘muscles’ must be active, sustaining the physical, and any quantitude of gravity.

Consider then: the singularity is man, the first manifestation of God, the pulse of perpetuity and having a personality, reflecting God.

It is just prior to the intake of breath a perfect vaccuum exists, wherin the Divine has its repeating genesis.

The exhalation then creates many singularities. Each soul imbued with that spark of eternal life and with its own power to multiply. The spiritual form of Man the Eternal?

One Pilgrim’s Tablet

My humanity begins as I am delivered into the Light.

My relationship to the personality of the infinite is private.

My temple is designed to facilitate joy.

In a multitude of ways charity is a healthy act.

All is given for the sole edification of humankind.

The spiritual field of all can be enhanced by moral conduct today.

My identity, and spiritual muscles, may be formed to defy death.

Necessity begets perfection and perfection is beauty.

I am the words I speak and the words I hear.

The memories of a good man increase the body of God.


With the permission of each of us and our willingness to participate with creation, God in His furnace is creating fierce gods.

The Grave Acknowledgement

In its inexorable flux, the personality of the infinite creates and knows more. And this knowing bears its own price: the acknowledgement that its intimates are becoming grist to afford the boast: "Behold! I make all things new again!"

Man's increase in knowledge reflects this quandary - the sadness of loss tempering the trumph of knowledge gained.

Perhaps sadness is too sentimental, eschewed in the fierceness of divine action. It is more a grave acknowledgment of the vagary of being that one hears in the lawgiver's words, "I am that I am."

But to whence are the former intimates dispatched? All to places in a sky of their own custom, in glorious raiment about their new bodies, formed over millenia by the utterance of each compassionate syllable driven to God. Such is the bounty of Light.

Mysteries and Words

Dreams from Purgatory (prequel to The Dead Sea Revelation) to arrive at the Vancouver Library this week. Thanks to co-author Steve Didcote.

The King of Blessings to arrive next year (sequel to The Dead Sea Revelation).

After that: my only non-fiction: The Enlightenables. Process of elimination.

This, The English Bay Banner, after 5.5 years will continue, especially jumped when readers respond. Otherwise, I will attempt to appreciate the lack of interest in intellectual life in this country as led by a mortician, despite the excitement and courage we see today in Egypt. 18 days of peace and revolution. Well done. Ghandi would be proud.

"How many dim bulbs does it to take to unscrew interest in one brilliant book? 340.

Letter to Globe and Mail:

Dear Editor:

On November 5th, I received my first issue of your grand old paper as a new subscriber. Seeing it in my mail slot here warmed me as I recalled reading The Toronto Globe and Mail when Richard Needham was wryly holding forth and graciously including his readers' remarks in his column. While I was also pleased to witness the layout makeover bring colour and new form to what was, in my view, an overtly conservative and staid presentation, yesterday I didn't get why the photo of the elderly couple was so prominent above the masthead, the story being of some minor human interest at best. But the obvious whopper of a boo-boo on page one (which has probably by now resulted in someone in the layout department being globetrotted) was the misplacement of the two headings - “Mutiny...” and “Harper...” and the misleading discontinuance of the Campbell story on page six.

Duh?

I expected more from you folks but alas even your vaunted group may fall prey to huffing and puffing all the wrong herbs, I suppose. But as my options here are limited to the other conglomerate recently bailed out of bankruptcy (for being so bland, predictable and celebrity-struck?) I will remain for now a reluctant subscriber. After all, as an author and collector of books, on this first delivery you've given me something to frame.

Harry Langen, Author: The Dead Sea Revelation and co-author of Dreams from Purgatory

P.S. In the event that a reporter from your formerly august institution attends my book launch this November 28th, would it be teddibly out of kilter to request copy and layout proofing prior to publication?

Triple Whammy Night - November 22nd

On Monday,November 22nd, at 6 p.m. march on down to the The Guilt below Chill Winston's in Gastown for an evening of readings from both books by Yours Truly (and Steve Didcote, co-author of Dreams From Purgatory. Enjoy also, interludes of music from Paracletus! my 26 song operetta. Two books to launch and a musical to introduce: by my reckoning that makes the night a triple whammy. And have a gander at the chalice full of pure silver coins under a radiant spotlight exciting one and all to decrypt the code strips on the cover of The Dead Sea Revelation. (see www.deadsearevelation.com) How's that for a Silver Lining?

And wear a fedora and get thyself a discount on each book, signed first editions and wrapped too if you like. "Perfect Christmas gifts." The first annual 'Fedora Night' in Vancouver harkening to the days when gentlemen across the entire country were tipping their brims to the lovely ladies strolling about in their form-fitting dresses billowing in an autumn breeze.

Also, soon, will occur for your listening pleasure a one hour radio programme entitled "Lights out!" An eclectic mix of our version of news and our brand of musical highlights. (As soon as I figure out this tinny gizmo aka audio recorder that only has 401,000 instructions, probably originally written in Japanese and then translated by East Indians and then whispered in code to us English cryptographers.) When all of that is unscrambled you, dear reader, may indeed hear it all right here... just be sure to turn everything else off, especially your tyrannical TV and lend us your virgin ears.

A pleasure to hear from my brother Roger advertising "wear purple day" in support of gay youth at risk of suicide from homophobic bullying. (I hope I was wearing purple that day.)

And if all goes according to Hoyle (that bewildering card shark), the 3rd hard copy of this e-zine will be circulating through Camel Post and by hand to pubs, homes and restaurants, among the lucky few. Keep your eyes peeled and lest you forget, chill under at The Guilt this November 22nd. Can't miss. Hang on to your hat! It's going to be a thrill.

Paracletus!

All songs below copyright Harry Langen, 2010, Vancouver

ACT ONE
SONG ONE

BE SO MEAN
-SETH

(overture)


What's the matter with this scene?
How do I get off this runaway train?
I've seen enough! I've had my fill!
Take back my ticket! Too much pain!
I want off this train! Off this train!

You're the one who makes this place!
Get on down here! Show your face!
Take a look around. Like what you see?
Countless children, helpless and needy.

Have a good look, you S.O.B.
All of your making, everything you see.

A sweet, oh sweet, dear dear lady;
No luck! No luck for the bag lady!

Come on down you S.O.B.
Let's see if you like what you see!

(dance interlude)

You're the matter with this scene!
You're the master of this scene!

Get on down here, I gotta know
How could you be so mean?
How could you be so mean?
Be so mean?


ACT ONE
SONG TWO

MY MELANCHOLY PHRASE
-RIVERGOD


Silence! Burn my ears no more!

Who be you? Who pray tell are you? (-Seth)

I am. I am here of the will of the waterfall.
I am the Lord of the fountains, the Rivergod.
You Seth have awakened me.
Now what is it you will have of me?

Look! Look! Take a look at this scene!
How could h be so mean, how could he be so mean? -Seth

Yes I see. Oh I see and wonder I, do I:
Why man, why?
Isn't it nearly beyond belief?
How can he expect from Him relief?

He's the matter with this scene!
He's the master of this scene! -Seth

Hark! Yes man grieves.
Darker and darker into the house goes he;
By his own hand does he chart his destiny.
Step by step, beat by beat goes the craze;
And onward I sing my melancholy phrase
As though to walk with head bent and eyes aglaze.

I read the mother's grief on every page
And hear the children hoping happy stories untold;
As i sweep by grandly the burial place of the sage
And into his arms my tears I fold.

Wonder little do I
Except, why man why?

I see white birds in a blue sky and watch the deerskins fade,
And in my body the silver beasts they wade;
But then on a moonless night, I hear this man a'scurry
A gritty thing in such a hurry
To relieve himself of the horror he has made.

Yes, man is of life, the immortal soul;
And yes he may be deified;
But as long as he lives like a bat in a hole
He'll take to his breast a witless bride.

But some day soon, some day soon
The white birds will flock and shout
Love is King, hope and power;
On mountains here and there about
Oh hear the wise birds sing!
Calling his name on every hour
And watch the bees a'swarm and put it on every flower!

Love will easily await its hour
Like me, I roll and wait, wait for its hour
Oh hear the wise birds sing,
Love is King, hope and power.



ACT ONE
SONG THREE

MY HEAVY YOUNG HEART
-SETH


Then send this love along
For my heavy young heart;
Send this hope and power on wings this holy hour.
My legs they weary and the roads are long.

Be sure the white birds they speed
And the bees to whisper this name to me
That I may laugh loud again and heed
The silvery side of leaf flutter the tree.

Let us roll while we wait together
Past a golden field where violets and heather
Colour the ground about and scampering squirrels
Make nature promise a better weather.

Bring this tumbling canopy closer
So there I can see these eyes of God, blue or green;
And hear the secret hymns of a caller
Who will tell me more, here about this scene.

So rush this love along
For my heavy young heart;
Speed this hopeful power on mighty wings this hour,
My legs they weary and the roads are long.

And even then, wild Rivergod,
My ears may hear the songs of Vishnu
My lips taste the milk and honey
But what of the child gone by the morning dew?

Even then great fountain and singer of sweet melodies
What then do we tell our little ones
Who ask and crave to know life's mysteries
When we ourselves seem the guilty ones?

What of them, mighty one?

So send me hope
And rush this love along
For then my heavy young heart to cope.



ACT ONE
SONG FOUR

UNDER THE RAINBOWS
-RIVERGOD


Be still good lad, take heart.
You see dear fellow, I too have watched
But for thousands of years and millions of moons
After some eons you mellow.

Under the shimmering rainbows flow I
To hear the ceaseless wind
And the secrets of the swaying treetops.
Flowing 'neath the misty galaxies find me lie.

I hear the calls which haunt me at midnight
Calling from beneath my belly.
They are the damned asking again for the right
To participate, crackle with light and end their folly.

For me I roll, roll while I wait do I;
Await the hour when comes the prince
To call for hope and the power
Call to the side and above that hour...

Love is King! Love is King!

The wise voices are few;
Rose petal-bearing winds can obscure.
Count them on one hand those true
Whose pinkish tongues sing so pure.

But then, see wily nature persevere
And in all of the white heat and blast,
Nonetheless or more you may hear
His voice so perfect bringing in the last.

Under the shimmering rainbows flow I;
To hear the ceaseless wind
And the secrets of the swaying treetops.
Flowing 'neath the misty galaxies find me lie.

So you see dear fellow,
I too have watched
But for thousands of years and millions of moons
After some eons you mellow.




ACT ONE
SONG FIVE

I AM BUT A BOY
- SETH



I hear your words, rolling rivergod
And do truly take them to heart
But what can I do? What can I do?
I am but a boy. Who will listen to but a boy?

The buildings are high and the banks are mighty,
The temples strange-coloured
And the priests are funny;
The hordes of the armies nine hundred and ninety!
Their knives taste red-blood, ne'er honey.

The noise of the pretender is loud
And the clamour makes them kingly;
Find a man in them true proud
Would indeed be a deed far-reaching.

Who will bend their ear
To a lad so menial as me?
The weight of their black purse, silky and dear,
Is even then greater than all of the kilos in me.

Will you send me the height?
Instruct your birds to pull me thither
That all the king's men will of a thought whither
At the sight of this Seth much bigger in might?

Shall I huff and I puff and blow down the house?
Shall I rattle my sword and swing it on high?
Breathe on them blue-burning fire, ne'er a douse?
Shall I then, Rivergod, alone myself,
Turn this world upside nigh?

I hear your goodly words oh God of streams
And do truly take them to heart;
But what can I do, what can I do?
I am but a boy. I am but a boy.
Who will listen to but a boy?




ACT ONE
SONG SIX

RIPPLES AT MOONLIGHT
-RIVERGOD



Let there be tens of thousands of golden temples
Reaching to the heavens all about my skirts;
And arches of emerald and sapphire spanning my girth,
And fleets of vessels of finest woods
And brightest brass upon my body,

And all of this together Seth, would not match
The elegance and the beauty, the wealth and the dignity
Of one of my ripples at moonlight!

For without heeding the god of nature,
Father God and Mother earth;
The soul of man is a passing blur
And his words are naught but echoes,
echoes in the dark.

Remember Seth: Man was meant to enjoy;
All things in nature mingle for naught but his edification
Love is king and will prevail!
As it is the very stuff of creation.
And so see this now and be not afraid boy!
See this now and be not afraid boy!

Look deep, deep into your soul
And therein and about
Find the stuff of which you need
To build anew and plant the seed.

There! There is a way! There in your soul
To pull even a flower from a wretched hole!
Love! Love is the lighted sword held highly
Illuminating the way to sweetest victory.

Come to my side, the riverside.
Come to your friend who has the might!
When your soul is weary and your heart is heavy
And I'll show you one of my ripples at moonlight.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Not even tens of thousands of temples!
(sounds of sighing and burbling)



ACT ONE
SONG SEVEN

I HEAR AND LIVE
-SETH


Now I see! Now I do! I see indeed!
Even in me is a light so glowing great
I'll find the way though narrow and straight!
That the pierced red body of love no longer bleed.
I see indeed!

You, rolling God of the river;
You Lord of the streams and gusher of fountains;
I thank thee your waterfalls,
For unstopping mine ears and finishing my fears.

Your white birds are true and fast
Your bees sting me alive!
In your voice I find refuge, your words are mine hope.
I'll write the name of power across every field,
upon every flower
Love is King and I, I Seth his prince!

I hear as though drinking your wine!
My heart is lighted joy like speeding stars!
My feet will stand rooted, my will of thine!
Now these eyes can see through the mists of eons;
My voice unwilting, make clear the way of men!

Mighty feeder of oceans, I hear and live!
What invisible wings your truth does bear!
A great and mighty wave has cascaded into my soul
And now and forevermore my deeds
Will tremble the seekers of smooth beads
and upset! upset the iniquitous!

I am Seth! The bringer of good cheer!
I am Seth! The slayer of lies!
I am Seth! A man of lasting wealth
for I have the faith of the Rivergod!
The assurance of endless galaxies, their misty white selves
Dance in the night rejoicing wise!

My walk now a concert with life,
Every muscle and limb a light cadence;
And fill the hollows now I sing with syllables, tuneful issues
Of a spirit of peace unending!

I am Seth of the bountiful one, friend forever to the Rivergod!
Roll! Roll, but wait no longer!
Seth will say and say again your story
And be sure to the God of streams goes the glory!

I hear and live! I hear and live!
Bolder now I shoot to the world!
May even turn it upside nigh!
Never again to ask, "Why man, why?"




ACT ONE
SONG EIGHT

MY STREAM OF THINGS
- RIVERGOD



Oh my joy, that's a good boy,
Make room for one more!
Swing those designer gates wide!
Here's hoping they'll line the corridor!

Like drops of due adorning
Those princely little petals
On those special spring mornings
Each one like Seth is precious!

Now he'll have a better life,
Standing upright, eyes ahead;
A good catch he'll make some wife
By his old times, many men he'll have led.

Daughter Paris will be pleased.
And come to think of her lovely way
It's time to go home now;
My duty's done today.

It was all in my stream of things.
And with thanks to the hopeful wings
I roll along now;
Roll, roll, roll while I wait.


END OF ACT ONE






ACT TWO
SONG ONE

THIS HOUSE OF MYSTERY
- SETH


I see chocolate clocks and dancing clouds,
Check out the leaky green goblets!
Behold the beasties and brassy boatbells;
Pale oceans of milk and turquoise seashells!

Open windows to strange dimensions
And the walls are like breathing.
What place is this beyond mention?
Mine eyes and senses must be leaving!

I hear archangels whispering;
Was that a Michael or a Gabrielle?
What is this house of mystery;
What place is this, pray tell?

I heard an old man tittering,
Something grand and here lovely;
And look at these little tubes burbling!
Could this be a kind of chemistry?

Was that a host of saints marching?
Martyrs and men and seraphim?
And a young lady sweetly singing,
In this house house I don't recognize anything!

What is this house of mystery?
What place is this pray tell?
Martrys, men, Michael and Gabrielle!
What place is this pray tell?


ACT TWO
SONG TWO

WHAT FUN TO MAKE
- PARACLETUS


Oh good! It's time for me to make!
And what today do I choose to create?
Oh what fun!

I can make funny faces and horseback races!
Basketcases and DNA traces!
(And how bout some romantic places?)
Buffaloes or tippy toes, haloes and halapenos!
Sitting ducks, little bucks and baby chicken clucks!

Butterflies, little lady thighs,
The occasional burgundy sunrise!
The oven hot and the yeast to rise
And someday soon, I'll make young men wise. Ha!

I can make oceans roar and mountains pop!
And the whole planet shiver and shake!
Or today I'll settle for a red-breasted warbler
in an evergreen top.
(Or send Jupiter an afternoon quake!)

I'll invent a new chemistry,
Colours of a sort never seen before!
Just because, you see, it please me.
Or even better, something for Paris - whom I adore.

I'll make bigger lions roar louder, even louder!
And elephants charge even faster!
And turn up the volume on children's laughter!
Don't eat the turnips. Take a powder!

But just as Paris said I would,
I'll make something good.

Perhaps copper plates or Platos
A different kind of mathematics
So two and two make something like... eight 0's!
Rolling bones and magic tricks, who knows?

Another Eve for Adam
Or Helen of Purgatroy.
Some more Cleopatras, you know I can!
What fun making mudpies like a boy!

What fun to make!
And what today do I choose to create?
God isn't this fun?
Why yes, by God it is!

Ha ha!



ACT TWO
SONG THREE

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
- PARIS




Oh God, it's so great to be
So full of joy I'm ablaze!
Oh God, it's so good to be
Home, home for the holidays!

I know these halls.
I can smell the walls!
Memories of loving things come a'pace;
Everything I can find its place.

It's all familiar music to me!
How easily I feel to dance!
Such music of intimacy;
About this home, ne'er a mean glance.

Alive! Alive! I am here!
I know where everything is!
The easiest home in the world to celebrate!
How pleasant to come home to rejuvenate!

The silent light is brightest here!
It swings about mine eyes!
I'm home next to Papa dear,
A loving and lovely man so great and gentlewise.

Oh God it's so great to be
So full of joy I'm ablaze!
Oh God it's so good to be
Home, home for the holidays!



ACT TWO
SONG FOUR

AND WHAT OF IT?
-THUSIAST

Hey Para! Whaddaya doin' down thera?

Now Thusiast, can't you see?
I'm busy having some fun with my chemistries. - Paracletus

Later for that boss man.
We've got some serious stuff to work out!
Everything's going to hell in a basketcase
Do you know what they're saying about?
Against the whole shaboom they're making a case!

Well now what is it? What is it now? - Paracletus

What it is? What it is?
They're saying it's all an accident!
Could it be and what of it?
Everything just burbled up and poof! A planet!
Life just jiggles and wiggles and look! A plum pit.

Hey Para, come on!
You gotta lower da boom!
We got too many agnostics and weird societies,
They're just not jivin' your geometries!

And now to agitate even more
We've got a whole new line of mystics
Who chant and hum and tell us to adore
Some spooky combination of China sticks!

Paracletus! I'm talkin' to ya man!
Atheists and existentialists,
Eighth Day Adventists and Satanists
They're all gettin' downright outta line!

And who do da voodoo?
They got baby dolls and pins
And they dance in a trance
Creatin' all manner of oddball dins!

Immoralists and Sophists,
Preachers in the bleachers!
Druids and Doubting Thomases!
We need some Righteous Teachers!

The world is goin' to hell in a basketcase
And you're playin' with your chemistries!
Send down your shining, pretty little face!
Show 'em some of your majesty!

Somebody's kicked it open,
That Pandora's box
Git your butt out there a ropin'
And put the Jack back in the Box!


SONG FIVE

ACCIDENT?
-Paracletus


An accident?
All of this an accident?
Are we on the same planet?
You know the one where trees grow on it.

An accident?
A million and one and the queen bee
All a humbubbling just so
Every little boy gets his honey.

Are the birds all awry
Doing a V instead of a Y?
Is the sun maybe losing track
Going sideways back and back?

An accident?
Even the oceans sing a different tune
When just comes up our sister moon
All of this, of course, anyone can do!

All those mouthpieces aren't even close
When this they suggest is happenstance!
For me this is just intolerable!
Nothing here at all by chance!

Don't they spy all that wonder I enhance?
There in the sky is my living stamp.
Well maybe they can make the peacocks prance
And I'll go my way for a jig and a dance!

Nothing is holus bolus!
Every little leaf has its place.
I don't make just hocus pocus.
Little ones know where is my trace.

Maybe I'll just get down and dirty
Hellbent and bent for hell
Maybe then they'll see
A dash of this and some infinity.

An accident?
A million and three and the queen bee
All a humbubbling just so
Every little girl gets her honey.


ACT TWO
SONG SIX

MY FATHER'S HOUSE
-Paris


Is this not the place to which heroes aspire?
The reason for those poetic verses
The best of the best my father inspires
Here they come to build glorious universes!

This is the source of laughter
And the reason for being
Why children act silly and play
And fuzzy-faced old grampies pray.

This is the fact of the charitable act
Where all the good spirits congregate
And ne'er a one does agitate
And another good spirit do we create!

Here there are times within times
And every one gets their chance
And each one of them speak in thanksgiving rhymes
Because they live with my father,
his grand old eminence.

All these living souls are alive as a melody
From all tiresome burdens they are finally free
So often here they speak as though in rhapsody
Here in my father's house, this house of felicity!

Lest we forget, we have wonders to work
Strike up the band, 106 trombones!
Wear the colours of splashing rainbows!
Spread our wings o'er all the earthly thrones!

Because we do indeed have our work cut out
But's in all in a lovely stream of things;
A child will know what it's all about.
Sending love to all the earthly kings!

This is the fact of the charitable act
Where all good spirits congregate
And ne'er a one does agitate
A host of spirits do we create!


ACT TWO
SONG SEVEN

ISN'T LIFE STRANGE?
-Seth


I don't know why but I do
I feel this is where it all makes sense
I don't know why but I do
Feel I've hit upon just the right circumstance!

Hereabouts there is a grand sense of purpose
Where friendships might deepen and true loyalties surface.
But wherefore is the answer which explains my presence?
From what sleep must I arise to join this essence?

Isn't life strange?As soon as you think you know,
Zap! Something somewhere opens another door
Through which of course curiously we go
Wondering again whatever the reason for.

And everyone in this strangest place of all
Is having the most interesting of times
Here they sing their thoughts and everyone rhymes.
And so do I and I don't know why,
or from whence my lines.

Only once before
When a boy by the riverside,
Did I find myself exalted and more
Putting my words into rhythms and rhymes.

Have I been here before
This house of mystery
Perhaps in a lighthearted dream or an epic no less
Where all the good guys claim a victory
And damsels are rescued from awful distress.

See there I go and easily again
I'm rhyming quite naturally
And without even the slightest thought or pain
I'm making songs in a house of revelry.

I stll know days and still see twilights,
But why is it so that I walk in a daze?

I don't know why but I do
Feel this is where it all makes sense.
I don't know why but I do
Feel I've hit upon just the right circumstance!

END OF ACT TWO


ACT THREE
SONG ONE

HEAVY TRAFFIC
-Thusiast



Hey Para!
You better have a look!
Oh boy, oh man, oh boy!
We've got real trouble down under thera!
In Station 142 of Purgatroya!

There's a gang of funny-lookin' folk
Goin' round and round by the outward gate
And one helluva mess do they create!
No one, not a soul can escape!

To all this chaos a brethren of contributors
Overworking a special brand of bafflegab
Between these gray barristers and solicitors
Nothing's gettin' through, Not even a jab!

They're right there in front of the gate
Not a soul, no one can escape
Dressed in black robes, holding court
Wearing white wigs, everybody's agape!

And worse yet, and then some,
Another gang most worrisome!
Passing paper ever back and back
A notorious clutch of bureaucrats.

There's trouble in Purgatroy,
Oh man, oh girl, oh boy!
Up and down, round and round, the outward gate,
Get a move on down, don't be late!

We need your perfect little touch
Break em all out a bit much;
And perchance the way will clear
For the escape of those souls most dear.

You better have a look!
Oh boy, oh boy,
We've got real trouble down under
Station 142 of Purgatroy!

Gonna need a real kick of your divine thunder!

How in heaven did they get paper in Purgatroya? - Para


ACT THREE
SONG TWO

ENOUGH TO WEEP
-Paris
(in progress)


ACT THREE
SONG THREE

A NEW DIMENSION
-Thusiast


Hey Paris!
Get a load of this!
There's a new dimension in the makin'
I saw it out theris!

Nine rainbows a crisscrossin'
Over giant red and ragged mountains!
Leaning against a multicoloured
Bigger firmamenta!

Soft colours of pastel greens,
yellows and coppers and indigos
Reflected in those oceans which were three;
All there licking my feet, each at a different angle and hue.
One was milky, one was purple and one was blue.

And I heard the singing of a choir
Like our very own angels,
Except voices like little sires
And their sound was alike a'laughing.

Little critters amid my feet
Skidaddled and tickled my lovely little toes
And a little like chirping they did.
Like chirping they did!

And from behind me came a scent
Of something like magnolias
Carried on a wind heavensent;
And my dear Paris it lifted me right up
And on like wings bigger than mine I humbly mention
I travelled above this spectacular new dimension!

Where the loveliest of strangers' thoughts
Made a kind of sweetheart's waltz.
And the yellow trees, every one of them danced!
But ne'er, ne'er did I see, any inhabitants!

And why, when I landed, something warm and fuzzy
Reached out and by jolly
Cuddled every little black bit of me!
Black bit of me!

Oh Paris! You must see
A new world coming into be!
We must abound and find out how and find out who
All of this makes go round!

Three moons up and down
And a serpent in the sky winked at me!
We must find out who sang those songs
Who fuzzied my feelings and tickled my toes

And why the word Blesseth the wind whispered to me!


ACT THREE
SONG FOUR

MY EMPTY HOUSE
-Instrumental


ACT THREE
SONG FIVE

10,000 YEARS
-Paracletus


How silent my house.
I hear not my name.
Daughter Paris and Thusiast are off and about;
I wonder if Thusiast is to blame?

It is too often I wait.
So faithfully they can be late.
All my children seem to be losing sight
Of dear papa in his house of late.

What was it I wonder?
Not enough of the burgundy sunlight?
Was it too loud I made the thunder?
Was it one of my ripples at moonlight?

I made the lions roar louder, yes louder!
And elephants indeed charge even faster!
I turned up the volume on children's laughter
I said Don't eat the turnips, take a powder!

I gave Adam another Eve
And a dozen or so Cleopatras
And another Helen for Troy
What am I, What am I to believe?

I made the butterflies and little lady thighs
But could it be I was late
Making the young men wise.
Wonder, wonder do I. Why man, why?

What have I your Daddy done so awry?

10,000 years I am confrounded
Alone and not hearing my name;
By not one child am I surrounded.
Alone I sit not hearing my name.

Have I not been adequately dramatic?
Countless warblers in treetops ad infinitum.
Is this not enough to make at least one little girl ecstatic?
I sit alone for 10,000 years, ho-hum ho-hum.

Shall I exact proper vengeance?
And send down frightening firmaments?
And scare the hell out of my offspring?
Or sit here agonize, wondering...

What have I your daddy done so awry?
What have I your daddy done so awry?

10,000 years I am confounded,
Alone and not hearing my name;
By not one child am I surrounded!
Alone I sit, not hearing my name.


ACT THREE
SONG SIX

AND WHO BE YOU?
-Seth


Well now then I must know!
Who be you?
The Lord of this house
Your heartstrings so askew.

I cannot wait any longer
Your soul's lament is a crushing refrain;
What can I say or do
That I may satisfy its hunger?

I am Seth the Mighty!
Dear to the Lord of Streams
A slayer of iniquity.
A Leader of men and friend to Liberty!


To Seth I ask you to speak!
To Seth I ask you to speak!


ACT THREE
SONG SEVEN

I AM
-Paracletus


I am the last song and the first word;
The spirit of your dance and your richest elation.
Across each soar the blue-breasted birds
All of my which are of my creation.

I am the secret equation
The cuddle, hug and cradle;
Your babies very first steps
And the elders' successful collaboration.

I am the scent of the hardwood fireplace
After a day of chilly toil;
Your first glimpse of a young lady's grace
And the distant sound a seashell makes.

I am the anticipation of the ten happy brides
And the designs of the heavens at night.
Their wheels turning and their clocks ticking
Marking the arrival of the day's last light.

My windy words sprinkle seeds.
I am the success of continuity;
The debt paid and the Sunday ease.
The illusion and the shocking reality.

Find me in the unmanifest
Who asks your faith.
I am the correct decision,
Who is the poem which you may envision.

I am the one you will see at the last of times
When it is clear there is not time; there never was.
And I adorn myself in tumbling white clouds,
There about my throat strings of yellow topaz
and green sapphires.

Then there will be four horses to pull my golden carriage
Each one of my steeds will be draped in
finely woven silks;
For it is I who am wealth
And they knowing me then will not be a'tremble.

But my precious planet groans under the weight
Of the infected blanket man in his self-driven fate
Has cast over the delicate face
Of even my daughter earth.

Too long she suffers!
The day is nigh when I perfection, even I
Will strike again the balance
Whence the evil-tongued and deceitful
Shall speed in terror to their demise!

Their very souls I will allow to finish.
The souls of a thousand generations
To which all, I, Paracletus the Intercedor,
Shall turn a blind eye.

Even that portion of my body
I will rip out, and conclude!
Cast out! Cast out!
For better them than all of me.

And even then further do I actually consider
A new altogether thing.
My very own, my very own
Self-extinction!

By neglect I am moved to snuff out my last candles.
All of them.
And let us all see thereafter
What this massive neglect has proved.

Darkness. Coldness. Emptiness. Lifelessness.
Welcome to the nightmare you court.
Your faithless consort - hopelessness.
Shall I, I wonder, explore this, this last resort?

My own children
For love they cannot be trusted.
It is to be disgusted. Disgusted.
Shall I, I wonder, explore my very own self-extinction.


ACT THREE
SONG EIGHT

FRIGHTEN ME NOT!
-Seth


Frighten me not!
You confuse my mind!
Who are you?
And where am I?

Only the Rivergod
Has spoken to me such
Three score years and ten ago!
How dare like him you speak so much!

In me is the faith of the rolling god
Who allows by his side
That I may be enlivened, invigorated;
And many times his name I've cried.

But you! You sing as though you are what?
Of him, my friend the Rivergod?
Tell me it and now and frighten me not
How is it you sound like the Rivergod?


ACT THREE
SONG NINE

I AM PARACLETUS
-Paracletus


I am the language of Eden rediscovered;
The scrolls of the Kings of Peace uncovered.
I am the father with his personality
Usually keen and full of manly Papa pleasantries.

I am the example of goodness,
The rewards of righteousness;
The balance in your excellent gait
And the fire of a week of day's brightness.

I am enthusiasm
The father of Thusiast.
To the bafflers I am the wherefore and the whereas
But moreso I am the King of Spring in Paris.

I am the stuff of your mind which is orderly
And the pleasure you feel in your generosity.
I am the knowledge in which a man may abide
And the child so precious kibitzing wild.

In my breast is my empathy for the wayfarers,
Across my face are rivers of compassion;
Even the misguided have my sympathy,
You see, I love you all with an unyielding passion.

I build and structure, let loose and align
A spirit of freedom so fine
That wildly our joys may become deep,
Deeply coloured realities.

The source of the fountains am I!
The gusher of streams;
I am you see, the Rivergod, even he,
Who cuts a new path across the heaviest of mountains
leaning on my sky.

I am Paracletus!
Creator of the divine spirit!
Of which your heart is mold;
In my hands your life-breath I hold.

I am Paracletus, Lord God, designer of the cosmos,
And alone I am, the glorious throne vacant now;
You see, Seth, you may be the last drop of dew
on my very last flower.
After me, who will replenish the hour?

I am Paracletus, finisher of the cosmos!


ACT THREE
SONG TEN

THANKFUL TO THEE
-Seth

You! You're my precious!
Now it's making sense, Lord sublime!
You taught me about my soul!
From whence I pulled a flower from a wretched hole!

It is you then who bleeds!
Your pierced red body of love.
In my life many men I have led
On the white wings of love we sped...

To put your name on every flower
And o'er every earthly throne!

I am thankful to thee,
You taught me a marvellous mystery!
That the whole world had hope
Even through me!

I found there in my soul deep
A cherished flame ever-burning in a sacred hollow
Which, by your grace, fuels a man's hope.
And evermore after, I knew of its place
Where then I might visit and take refuge in you
And hear your everlasting songs anew!

You are King! You are Love!
You are Lord of skies above!
For the rolling Rivergod who will wait no longer
Give me father, the mightiness
To swing the world upside nigh,
That at last your gentlewise face will bring
To their knees even the iniquitous!

What do you need of me?
Let me give up my soul to the cause!
Take now my heart and soul and throw them into the fray!
For your will be done, oh agonizing father.
Slay the slayer if need be.
I am yours. Send my soul, for you, away!


ACT THREE
SONG ELEVEN

WELLSPRING OF MY HEART
-Paracletus


Oh Seth, rise my son,
As even all of my spirits rise.
They rise in celebration of you my boy.
You are now this moment
the very wellspring of my heart.

To all my worlds I shall apprise
Each angel, every seraphim, and guardians most wise
Of you mighty Seth; and this hour will be
Known by them for eternity
As the genesis, the reason for being of a new age.
The Age of Seth, the God of Courage
My son dearest who has lifted me
And even all of my firmaments.

On each of all of my planets
Where yet my children exist
The skies will broaden this day;
And evermore now a new colour
By my hand spent in the array.

A new colour and even so a new dimension
Known hence and evermore as Blesseth.

You, this hour in eternity,
Have become my reason to be
Another ten thousand years.
Your words daring akin my heartbeat.

Live Lord seth at my right side!
And ever by my ear.
Let me sense your holy breath;
As I will consume its hopefulness
And be then even more empowered.

I thank thee Lord Seth
And send my birds to pull you thither
That you may see and enjoy
This new colour in a wider sky.

This hue and home of Blesseth
Is now by me flowered!


ACT THREE
SONG TWELVE

WHITE WINGS
NEWLY ENDOWED I SEE
-Lord Seth


For you, my precious,
I will carry to the community of man
Your sacred and revivifying council
As I am stronger now.
And I thank Thee,

White wings newly endowed I see.
White wings newly endowed I see.

Evermore I will speed your word
Sing it and script it across every domain
That at last your kingdom will prevail!

And on the sweet lips of every child
Will be found with reverence your name.

As I am stronger now And I thank thee

White wings newly endowed I see.
White wings newly endowed I see.


ACT THREE
SONG THIRTEEN

HEAR AND LIVE! HEAR AND LIVE!
-ensemble-


We are the Kings of spring in Paris!
Sparkling meadows find there us!
The hope of every child we drive!
Look out! Regardez! Our bees will sting you alive!

Our white birds are true and fast.
In their song the words everlast!
In your ears we will ring! Ring! Ring!
Love is king! Love is king, king, kimg!

Hear us now as drinking our wine!
Now shall your eyes see through the mists of eons
Your voices unwilting, your wisdom dear
Make clear the way of men! Make clear!

We hear and live! Hear and live!
Hear, hear, hear and live!
You have the assurance of endless galaxies;
Hear their cries! Their misty white selves
Dance in the night rejoicing wise!

For now you have our voices in unison!
Paris! Thusiast! Your father and his mighty son!
Who step now in concert. Fill the hollows here we sing
With syllables, tuneful issues
of a spirit of peace unending!

We are the Queens of spring in Hera!
The pillars of the Parthenon find thera!
The hope of every child we drive!
Look out! Regardez! Our bees will sting you alive!

Be, be, be of the bountiful!
Love, love by God is king! Love is king!
Love is king, by God, love is king!

Father!
Son?
I love you father!
I love you son!

Alive! Alive! I hear and live!
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Love is king! King! King!


THE END

Sunset on Martha

When those geese fly home at night
to sleep as we do in the wilderness
Wild yet sane, safe in an unsafe life
we make ready our slumber together.

When wild geese fly home at night
after a hard day's work on the shores of time
Being chased by wolves all day who prey at their living very seriously...

When wild geese fly home at night
Over our tents in bright delight
they sing songs in rhythmic cadences
flying choruses --- acapella
they fly as-only-they-can-fly.
Yet flinging solo it's through the air waves
No less than Lester's, Young their voices swung!

Like Bird they sing. Dizzy with Miles to bring Home waiting in their wings the willingness to punctuate that evening sun with soulful freedom.
That's wild percussively wild, Monk wild Man, woman, child!

And now to beaver's pond they fade
where softer grasses in those lovely meadows cling
With love to be at rest with those loving them singing a silent encore: "Once more once'!
Only their fairy shadows dancing to
A time that is all eternity.


-Johnson Hartman

A Prayer for Today

Dear Heavenly Father

Help me.

Every day. All day show me Your grace.

Help me to find You.

Help me to cool my temper that I may know your warmth.

Help me to still my tongue that I may Know your Will eternal.

And do Your Will with Joy.

Give me Father your life divine…

That I may enjoy every moment of every day as one beacon of your Everlasting Light.

Give me the strength to resist all temptations which attempt to put asunder Your eternal Love, that I may in turn Love.

Help me Father in Every Way that I may know continuity.

Increase me that I may Know You.

Amen

STANDING ON GUARD

T-Shirt worth wearing
(supporting the child's burn unit)