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Mysterious Things

Mysterious Things

I am excited to read this book by John B. Alexander, watch this space for a review soon!

 

Check the author’s website at http://johnbalexander.com/

Reality Denied: Firsthand Experiences with Things that Can’t Happen – But Did by [Alexander, John B.]

Blurb from Amazon:

REALITY DENIED confronts conventional wisdom with events that, although quite real, seem to challenge the revered “laws of science,” proving them to be wrong or incomplete. The thorny issues of life after death, mind over matter, UFOs, remote viewing, telepathic communications with animals, and more are all addressed from Col. John Alexander’s firsthand perspective. Here physical and spiritual domains collide, providing glimpses of worlds beyond everyday reality.” (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076M8PRR1/ref=nav_timeline_asin?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1)

 

 

Feature image at top of page from: RASTAN/GETTY IMAGES/ISTOCKPHOTO

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The Tired Pilgrim

The Tired Pilgrim

Julia wiped her hand across her forehead, feeling the corrugations of a thousand wrinkles, reflecting on a life of worry and despair. She was never the strong one, the warrior who marched to her own drum; she was the one who stayed home, taking care of the elders, the sick, the weak.

Marina, her sister, had left the village when she was fifteen, running away with a boy whom she had bullied into accompanying her on a grand adventure to the land of milk and honey. It didn’t matter that Jose was married and nine years older. That was the power she had, to weave magical fairytale into a reality that suited her view of the world.

Jose had left his wife and three children, forsaking them for a girl with untamed hair and wild brown eyes. She had a laughing mouth, and her teeth flashed white against her olive skin so that she looked like the embodiment of life and lust and danger.

Julia sighed and the letter fluttered from her grasp. She watched as the wind took it, and it played and dipped and tangled with a tumbleweed, where it rested for a while. The paper was yellow with age and stained by her fingers from years of handling.

She knew the contents by heart, the words imprinted upon her very soul.

“Julia, please come! Don’t throw your life away!”

Marina had begged her to leave the village, to experience the vastness of the world, but it frightened her. Here, she could look down at the valley, admire the endless vista as the seasons changed and breathe the clean air. She felt sure God did not want her to leave, to forsake her duty to her family, so she stayed.

She rose from the rickety blue chair – the paint had peeled off around the legs and backrest from use –  and went inside the dark, cool adobe hovel.

Her uncle, the last of the family, was sleeping, drool oozing from his flaccid lips. She smoothed the sheet over his inert body, the chest barely moving as he breathed.

She paused, and knelt next to the bed, and then withdrew with a gasp.

Tio Manuel’s soul had fluttered with the letter, into the light of the great beyond, to a place where he was free.

She covered her face with her hands, dry sobs racking her body. She too was free. Free to be alone, to leave, to find Marina, to live the life she never had. She rose and drew the sheet over his waxen limbs, his sparse grey hair like gossamer on his bony skull. “Poor Tio Manuel,” she thought. “He had worked so hard all his life, never married, never knew the love of a woman.” Yet, as a man, he had opportunities, ones she had been denied.

No one in the family ever spoke about Marina, about the scandal she had brought upon the family. She was evil, she was a puta, even worse, a prostituta, despised and best forgotten. Her mother had died with Marina’s name on her lips and with the bitter words,  Que se pudra en el infierno!* Her eyes had stared into the fires of hell and it was there that she saw her daughter, despised, unforgiven and eternally damned.

Julia realized she had better fetch the priest and looked for her sandals, reaching under her bed in the corner of the room. The cat darted out and she screamed and then laughed at her own foolishness. The release of emotions brought on by the laughter was like a healing balm to her body and she could feel a lightness entering her being, as if she too, were being borne aloft by the wings of the angels. She felt her soul soar and expand as the shackles of the years fell away and she gasped as a surge of energy moved through her. It was so powerful that she sprang to her feet and she threw her arms open wide as if to embrace this new feeling, this freedom, this lust for life.

“I will find Marina! I will live my life! It is not too late…I am not too old!” she thought jubilantly. She was startled into reality by a timid, tentative knock on the front door.

A nun in a white and black habit stood there, an uncertain smile on her lips.

“Yes, Hermana? You come at a most opportune time,” Julia said with a tinge of sadness. “I was about to call the priest for my Tio Manuel has just passed on to the better life…”

The nun looked at her quizzically, then grasped her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. Julia felt herself encircled in the  arms of the stranger who clung to her like a lost child and after a long, endlessly long moment, whispered softly in her ear.

“Julia, Julia, do you not know me? I have come home…”

 

 

*”May you rot in hell!”

 

Image: http://reddead.wikia.com/wiki/Tumbleweed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Poet

The Poet

Do I look like a poet?                                                        s5000256

He asked

 

No

I said

 

Words that flow from the soul

Leave a mark on

the face

I said.

 

 

 

 

Featured Image at top of page from http://womenshistory.about.com/od/aframerwriters/ss/African-American-Women-Writers.htm

 
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Posted by on October 25, 2016 in authors, poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Aliens, Blood Lines and UFO’s

Aliens, Blood Lines and UFO’s

One of the books I’m currently reading is Nick Redfern’s Bloodline of the Gods in which he makes the case that those born with RH negative blood types are descendants of the Annunaki, the “gods” who created a hybrid-like species, impregnating the existing humans on Earth with their DNA, presumably to help them save their planet which was doomed to extinction.

Redfern writes that Rh-negatives tend to be more intelligent, healthier and often more psychic than the other 85% of humanity. Interestingly, he attempts to link the bloodtype to those who have had UFO sightings or experiences, positing that aliens are keeping tabs on them since RH-negs are compatible with their own blood type and can thus be used to impregnate women, or alternatively obtain sperm from males to propagate their ailing race.

He mentions the stories of well-known abductees, such as Barney and Betty Brown, who have had sexual encounters with aliens and this brought to mind a story I grew up with: Elizabeth Klarer, Image result for elizabeth klarer UFO a South African meteorologist who claimed to have had a child with an alien. Her contact occurred between 1954 to 1963. I heard the story from my mother, and since her cousin had met the woman at a social gathering, the story has become pretty much part of the family folklore, especially since the afore-mentioned cousin cracked a joke about “the woman who had an alien baby” and discovered she was standing right behind him at the time. Talk about an “Oops!” moment! We all laughed about this, of course!

 

Image: lucy6blogspot.com

An interview with Dr. Klarer can be heard on Youtube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5p8miDbDNU) and her autobiography, Beyond the Light Barrier: The Autobiography of Elizabeth Klarer is available in Kindle or book format from Amazon. It makes for fascinating reading and her message was clear and way ahead of its time: we are destroying our planet through greed.

 

Klarer’s off-world partner

Redfern’s book is very thought-provoking and hugely contentious since it flies in the face of all accepted religious dogma…yet the stories in the Bible can be interpreted in a way that totally fits his hypothesis, as do myths and legends from other religions and civilizations. I keep an open mind, enjoying any kind of mind expanding controversy, and having my ego stroked (yes, I am Rh-neg!)

I would enjoy some conversation about this, so please add comments if you wish!

 

 

 

Featured image at top of page: Beforeitsnews.com

 

Listicle? Huh?

I came across this term recently and because it sounded like something tasty, I looked it up. Kind of like “popsicle”, it had to be good, right?

 

popsicle-popsicles-34654382-1600-1000

Delicious, cool, and forgettable. Image from http://www.Fanpop.com

Nope, it’s got nothing to do with food, and everything about the lazy tendencies we have developed as readers and consumers of modern media. Who has time to read long-winded articles about how to keep one’s cholesterol low, or what the best way is to plant a rosebush. No one has time anymore; we are bombarded with information from all manner of sources and those of us who like to read, don’t know where to stop and where to begin anymore!

Worse still, is the fact that we seem to have suspended our critical faculties, and sometimes our ability to accept information even if it is illogical. Why bother to think? Someone else can do it!

Apparently the word “listicle” has been around for about a decade. Well, pardon me, I didn’t know. I am old school, used to writing in longhand using – dare I say it – cursive; then later on a regular typewriter, then an electric one, progressing to a computer (yes the old-fashioned ones that took up the whole desk) and now I use a laptop, or an iPad mini, or even a phone. These days, everyone is a specialist, and we all have something to say, to teach, to announce or to disparage. Making a list is easy and effective and saves the reader time.

Image result for listicle example

Example of a listicle, from http://www.zerohedge.com

Hence the “listicle”. It is a trend in journalism that really lends itself to the new wave of writers and media options who want to import information or share an idea without slaving for hours over the correct grammar, tone or lexicon. So, make a list, add a quick introductory blurb, and to take it a tad further, use a slide deck with minimal verbiage and hey presto, you have created a listicle, a combination of ‘article” and “list”. So clever, these young people. So lazy. And sometimes, so darn trivial…

 

 

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Strangers at Airports

Strangers at Airports

It was going to be a long day.

Mother and I left Pretoria for O.R. Tambo International Airport at about 10 in the morning. It was hot, the sky blazing blue and cloudless, as only Highveld summers can be. Patches of green stubbled veld and sprawling boxy new developments spread on either side of the highway.

Traffic was light. It was Monday, a mere four days from Christmas. The annual South African migration to the coast had begun over the weekend already, but the airport itself was busy, busy, full of excited families, small children hugging their favorite toys, scurrying as they followed moms and dads intent on making it to the departure gate in time.

Mother’s flight was a few hours before mine. I didn’t mind hanging out at the airport. I enjoy people watching and my own inner dialogue.

I had passed through the bustling melee at security – a breeze compared to what I we are used to in the US – and strolled to the gate. I happened to glance through a window and noticed a lowering sky, so dark it seemed as if night had fallen. What had happened to the blue sky, I wondered.

Thunder shook the terminal, determined to ruin everyone’s timetable. Our flight was delayed. I sat down next to a wizened gentleman, his skin the color of aging apricot. An aquiline nose that flattened into broad nostrils; smiling eyes. Wrinkles like a Khoisan mapped his features. He laughed at the antics of one of the little toddlers who was running up and down. The kid was oblivious of the adults, the patience we were all trying to display blurred by the joy of his laughter. It lightened the mood of apprehension that hung in the air.

I heard the gentleman say, “Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself…”

I turned to him, and completed the quote: “They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.”

His eyes seemed surprised. Kahlil Gibran’s famous poem On Children was oft-quoted by my late father. I even had those lines written down somewhere in a notebook that I had saved from my school days.

We chatted briefly, then I got up and began to wander around, restless. Our flight had been delayed by at least three hours, it was announced. It turned out to be longer than that.

When at last I boarded the plane, I discovered to my great surprise that I was seated next to the old gentleman I had been chatting to.

His name, he said, is Don Mattera. A poet. A freedom fighter against the white oppression during the Apartheid years. A man of mixed race, a Colored man: that was how he had been classified. His grandfather had been Italian, his mother a Xhosa with Khoisan blood.

don mattera

Poet, writer, teacher, activist: Don Mattera

He had been placed under house arrest twice during the years of The Struggle.

I was fascinated. To my shame I had never heard of him. We weren’t allowed to read works of banned people during those years of oppression. We didn’t even have access to the writings.

He recited from memory a poem he had written when he was 17. I was blown away by the depth and grace and power of his words. I wanted to hear more, but he was tired. He wanted a chocolate, but the service was slow. He confided that he was diabetic, so I gave him a cookie I had in my purse, and a candy, probably an after dinner mint from some restaurant that I had saved for some unknown reason.

“You are a very beautiful, kind woman,” he said. “A beautiful soul.”

I smiled. I wanted to hear more about his life, but he was very tired.

“I am a Muslim,” he confided.

“How did that happen?” I asked, curious. He had mentioned being raised Catholic.

“I saw it as the religion of the white man. The faith of the Oppressor.How could God condone the way they treated us?”

“I understand.” I said.

We disembarked in Port Elizabeth and I shook his hand and said goodbye, and that it had been a pleasure talking to him.

He walked away, a bent figure,struggling against the wind, towards the lights of the airport building, carrying with him all the years that had been written in his face.

 

 

Sobukwe

On his death

It was our suffering                                            Don Matera
and our tears
that nourished and kept him alive
their law that killed him

Let no dirges be sung
no shrines be raised
to burden his memory
sages such as he
need no tombstones
to speak their fame

Lay him down on a high mountain
that he may look
on the land he loved
the nation for which he died

Men feared the fire of his soul

 

From: http://www.african-writing.com/hol/donmattera.htm

I found this wonderfully enlightening interview about this great man:

http://www.liberationafrica.se/intervstories/interviews/mattera/

See also:

http://www.southafrica.info/about/arts/mattera.htm

 

 

 

 
 

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Conflict and Character

Creating conflict in a novel helps to create drama.

If something merely flows, like a river without obstacles, no canyons would be created. We would have a one-dimensional landscape.

Boring, flat, uninspiring.

Bringing drama through words and actions means that a writer can channel all manner of situations and arguments into her writing. It can be quite therapeutic, I suppose, to put into words thoughts one has not dared utter. Channeling the dark recesses of the mind to release an inner demon and letting it out into the light and onto the page can be frightening, especially if one is afraid of conflict.

A writer can put into words things that people may never do.

Jack Nicholson in “The Shining”.

Ideas, situations, characters: these all spring from somewhere, some place where we often don’t want to go. But as they say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” No matter how far out you think you are, know that there is someone out there who either experienced those things, or someone who is doing those things. Witness serial killers, mass murderers and demonically possessed people: they are everywhere. So if you are sane, sitting at your computer, and thoughts and ideas buzz around in your mind about the actions, words, thoughts and demeanor of a character, know that it is not unique. You, the writer, are not evil. You are merely channelling the pervasive and ubiquitous dark thoughts of humanity.

So, do you want to read a novel like this?

Or do you want to read a novel like this:

Go there, find that drama. Create that conflict. Bring out the knives, the craziness you have been hiding so successfully all this time.

Put it into writing, CREATE!

Word of caution. Please reboot your mind before cooking dinner and bathing the kids!!!

 
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Posted by on May 28, 2015 in authors, writing

 

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