Wednesday, April 26, 2017

The Materialistic are at the Helm.



I don’t know how much longer I can grapple with an unjust world. A place where affluence reigns, where the uncaring and materialistic are in control of the laws of the land, throwing the souls of the Earth into the pits of despair, in an endless struggle to see the light of hope and creativity.

The materialists and the superficial, the shell has little bearing. But in the world of illusion, the materialists are caught in its web. Gloating in their apparent supremacy. It’s a trap, unbeknownst to the servants of the dollar sign. They smile in all their platitudes, project what they think you may swallow.

Art for the people is art.  Art, only for those who can afford it, is one-dimensional. In this world of many layers and entities, we are being swallowed by the farce.  How long can we the people stand strong against the opposition, when they hold all the money? When they twist the narrative and force-feed it to their blind followers?

Looking around at the world in my late teens, I feared the cold war, feared my dreams would disappear before I had a chance to live. I believed, with all my naiveté (heart) I would see a utopian planet of this paradise we call Earth.

My creativity is directly linked to the waves and magnetic field the surrounds us.
We all are! Some cannot hear or feel it, others ignore it, and many can’t recognize that there’s more than meets the eye.

What’s real is our plant and it’s oceans, it’s beasts and those who can live in harmony with all the beings of Earth. If you can’t maybe you should leave?
How can politicians destroy our planet so eagerly? All for MONEY? Really? Don’t they breathe the AIR? Or eat the food?

I’m terribly despondent today. The pressure and the weight of what we as a country must do to take back the White House from this new administration and the GOP, who only want to strip our oceans and forests—and sell off OUR National Parks! The tacky measures of the 45th president are outlandish and foolish and will kill us all.

My art has become about perseverance and unity. Seeing this plant the way I envision it—-We were so close. (Thank you, Obama.)  Bringing people together, and assisting each other in an alchemy of ideas, that will bring us back in step with the rest of the Free World. 

The United States is at a precarious crossroads, with the Putin/Russia installed President and administration. We have a dictator at the helm, working hard to destroy our democracy. The nepotism is off the charts! 
Making calls to my reps and protesting is bringing little results.

I’m ashamed of who represents our country and disgusted with it all.  My grandfather fought in WW2 and my dad in Vietnam and my mother is an immigrant. (my credentials.)

Will artists rise up and bring art to the masses, create a new world where everyone can live in peace and harmony?  

I will never stop believing that we can.





“If you want peace, fight for justice.” Amy Goodman, Democracy Now.




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Friday, April 21, 2017

Show Us Your Taxes POTUS! The March in New York City.

Bryant Park on April 15, 2017
Tax Day. 






The light shining on us!
To Whom are you beholden to, Trump?  RUSSIA???







The only president EVER who wouldn't show the public his taxes. Is 45 being blackmailed by Russia?  


We the People Stand up and demand to see what criminal mischief this non-majority so-called president is hiding that the GOP wants to keep hidden too.  Obviously, or the Republicans in the House would demand the same. WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR DEMOCRACY? 

Overcast and dreary


The Flip Side

Some people think protestors are unemployed or have all the time in the world.  
Here's a quote  I LOVE from my son's school. "If you want something done ask a busy person."    

Don't tell me anything about Soros or how he pays protestors--you'll sound like my dad, who has dementia and has found solace in conspiracy theories. I prefer the truth. 

I live for Truth.  I will FIGHT for the truth. And for others to live FREE.  It's my duty. 

My grandfather fought in WW2, my father in Vietnam. Protesting is patriotic. It's my duty. 

My mother is an immigrant. 

And immigrants have made America Great. We need to keep it up!  





Wednesday, April 19, 2017

One Star Review of the Afterlife by K.L. Hallam

Something a little different.
It's not a YA or MG fiction. I found this today and had a laugh.




 One Star Review of the Afterlife. 

The crack of a windshield, cold damp leaves. Lights. Rolling wheels.
Someone whispers, “You’re going to be Okay.”
Who the hell is that?  Sure doesn’t sound like Arthur?
Up and down, my back arches. There’s no air. Blinking lights, aren’t they pretty, following like pearls on a string?
Up, up and away. 

I open my eyes.
Where am I now? No one is around. Then someone pushes past me—hey! I shout. Don’t be so rude. But they don’t hear me.
“Are you going up or down?”  A string of lights waves behind the blob without a face.
Where is Arthur?

I turn where the lights trail and catch a glimpse of my surroundings. Blank white.
“Mrs. Joan Ruckwin, please come forward.” I hear in the opposite direction.

There’s no one anywhere near me-–except that voice, a cavernous, reverberating voice, telling me to come forward. But there’s no forward. And where is back?
 I spin until I’m a dancer on the top of a music box and stop.  

 “Mrs. Joan Ruckwin, there may have been a mistake?” It’s not a God it’s the voice of my fifth-grade math teacher addressing me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.  “Where am I?” I don’t see anything. “A mistake?” Arthur? He was in the car with me. He’s not here.  He must be alive. “You’re right, there’s been a huge mistake. I don’t belong here. I belong with my husband and he needs me.”

“Everything’s transparent,” my fifth-grade teacher answers.
“Well, get me down. I want off.”
“Look inside this,” I’m told.
I see Arthur. Arthur is not in the hospital.  He’s laughing and having fun, with—with another woman?

I step back. “Why are you showing this to me? “

Suppose I suspected it.  We watch Arthur drinking bubbly with another woman.
I turn away. “I don’t need to see any more.”

“You still want to go back?”

“Wait, so this isn’t hell, cause it’s not too shabby.”

“A midway point before total departure.”

  
Before I have another thought, swirls of compression land me onto the table with Mr. Ruckwin, and his new, soon to be, Mrs. from what it appears, admiring her new ring.

“Oh, hello, dear. I know you weren’t expecting me."

The woman spits up wine. My dear husband coughs, gasping until it overtakes him, and into a frenzy; coughing and choking with no one to give them the Heimlich maneuver.  
Such a pity. 







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 written in 2015

Friday, April 14, 2017

Review: The Wood by Chelsea Bobulski

The WoodThe Wood by Chelsea Bobulski
My rating: 5 of 5 stars


A repost from my review on The Kidliterati 






Do not travel on the paths.
Do not linger after dark.
Do not ignore the calling.

Sixteen-year-old, Winter, is a guardian of the wood, the same wood that took her father. She protects the travelers who pass through, making sure they return to their time period. Otherwise, the world could implode.

It’s a dangerous job. Winter works all day to ensure the travelers are guided back to their threshold. But, if she’s caught in the wood after sundown, the shadows, called Sentinels, rise; the icy cold follows their razor sharp teeth.

The wood is ill, black tar drips from the leaves, and it’s spreading. Travelers are found in bad shape, stricken to their core by the darkness of the wood and the poison and the shadows.

Winter isn’t alone. She worries about her mother, while her mother worries if she’ll return home each day, or if the wood has taken her. There’s Uncle Joe, who’s worked closely with her father, and more like brothers through the years as guardians of the wood. Uncle Joe watches over Winter. He wants to protect her where her father left off.

So when a boy passes through the wood from the 18th Century, a mortal, begging for help, who might know where her father is, she listens. Reluctant, at first, helping him goes against the most important rule of the guardians: No traveler can pass through a threshold into a time that is not their own.

Together, they set out to save the wood, and find his parents, Old Ones who disappeared that may know what’s happening to the wood and how to stop it. But the ancient one, Varo has returned, an outcast 500 years ago. Could he be darkening the wood, and using Dragon’s Bain, the one thing that could kill an immortal guardian?


A fun fantasy with a time-travel twist, a forest that comes alive with dark forces, magical benevolent fireflies, friendship, sacrifice, and a satisfying conclusion, make for an absorbing read. The action writing and the pace were effortless.

Recommended for readers 13 and up.
Release date: August 1, 2017 by Feiwel & Friends







View all my reviews

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

April is Poetry Month!

I've unearthed volumes of poetry since digging up old diaries for the YA novel I'm working on. Many of the poems are in (desperate) need of editing. I've wanted to share a few for awhile. But I was scared. The poems below were written in the 1990's.  



Alone
I always write when I feel alone,
Inside my mind, there is a home.
The stories or levels, the steps the stairs, an attic holds you unawares.

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What lurks inside those shadowy places? I never really see the faces.



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Creating through thought and creating despair. I see you with others and try not to compare. Maybe it was the words we said. Or the hopes we shared. This caused my head to believe you cared. Childish, I know in my head, but my heart will pretend, and go till the end.



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If it’s silence we want why create tears? In the hearts of millions a thoroughfare of fears, collapse under wishes unreceived, no need for greed.
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Cast away the mask one wears to cover, the face of hate not shared by another.




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Tear apart
Fixed ideas
That chain you

Keeps you
Behind
Your stranger

Facing up
To breathe
The danger

Insanity
Not forced
To linger

Not wrapped
Around
Your little finger

Leave me to the heights
Of wonder

I’ll move aside
The rocks
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I’m under.