awwwwww

Come on! Is there anything cuter than a bunch of ducklings? I mean, come on!

mc

lawsuits

A couple of recent stories that caught my eye:

Spanking 'victim' awarded $1.7 million. Here is another one of those 'only in America' stories. Completely absurd. Ridiculous.

Lawsuit accuses veterinary clinic of faking dog's death. Okay, I should preface this by admitting that I'm a 'dog person,' but this sick vet should be forced to pay this family.

mc

radio

I've been listening to This American Life for several years now. It's somewhat of a Sunday morning tradition: I wake up around 9:45 am, turn on the radio and wait for This American Life to hit the airwaves at 10 am.
If you've never heard This American Life, it's rather difficult to explain what the show is. It isn't a typical talk-radio show, it's not a news program and you won't hear listeners calling in. I suppose the show's website says it best: "We do...stories that are like movies for radio. There are people in dramatic situations where things happen to them."
This American Life is carried by nearly 500 public radio stations so chances are, you can pick the show up in your area. You can also listen to past programs (for free, btw) by checking out the website. Good stuff...

mc

fuel, pt 2

Found this interesting article about fuel costs on NPR's site. This article is chock-full of numbers and facts, data that dispels the many myths of the current 'record high' gas prices. Note that "over a longer period of time, the prices of other goods have increased even more. In March of 1981, the average price of gasoline nationwide peaked at $1.42 a gallon. If gasoline prices had simply risen at the same rate as other goods since then, the average price today would be $3.08. (Although gas prices are higher than that in some areas, the national average is still about 18 cents shy of the all-time high.)"

mc

wow

Goose-bumps. I'm struggling to compose my thoughts let alone a complete sentence so please, bear with me. I've spent the last few hours reading a wealth of information (most of it is sourced and credible, whatever that means in this day and age) regarding Flight 77's doomed destiny with The Pentagon on 9/11. Pentagonresearch.com is a very well designed site with countless photos and documents but keep in mind that the authors of the site do not agree with the 'official' story of 9/11, so you'll have to be the judge.
Here are a few bits of info that caught my eye:
- Construction of The Pentagon began in 1941 -- on 11 September.
- "At Freeway Airport in Bowie, Md., 20 miles west of Washington, flight instructor Sheri Baxter instantly recognized the name of alleged hijacker Hani Hanjour when the FBI released a list of 19 suspects in the four hijackings. Hanjour, the only suspect on Flight 77 the FBI listed as a pilot, had come to the airport one month earlier seeking to rent a small plane.
However, when Baxter and fellow instructor Ben Conner took the slender, soft-spoken Hanjour on three test runs during the second week of August, they found he had trouble controlling and landing the single-engine Cessna 172. Even though Hanjour showed a federal pilot's license and a log book cataloging 600 hours of flying experience, chief flight instructor Marcel Bernard declined to rent him a plane without more lessons." Click here for more
- The only video released to the public showing Flight 77 hitting The Pentagon was captured by a Pentagon security camera. Regarding the footage:
"We have 5 frames which cover a 4 second period. The first 2 frames occur in the same second, the third frame is 2 seconds later, the fourth frame is 1 second after that, and the fifth frame is another second after that. This means that many frames are missing including any that show a clear profile of the aircraft."
Other nearby security cameras captured the impact as well but the FBI seized this footage immediately. Click here for more
- Exit hole evidence? I don't even know what to think about these pics. Find them here and here.
- Also, I discovered this link which features all of the Government's evidence in the US vs. Moussaoui trial. This piece of 'evidence' is simply unbelievable -- literally. The Government alleges that a red bandana, completely in tact and in perfect condition, was recovered from the Flight 93 wreckage in Pennsylvania. In Flight 93, the A & E original film, the hijackers are shown wearing red bandanas once they begin their jihad mission so I'm assuming the Gov't believes the bandana belonged to one of the hijackers. But give me a break. The plane practically disintegrated on impact yet a bandana, a hijacker's bandana, survived. Wow.
- And finally, I discovered this article from Time magazine , originally posted on 12 September 2001. The piece claims that a 911 call was made "from a man who said he was locked in the rest room aboard United Flight 93. Glenn Cramer, the dispatch supervisor, said the man was distraught and kept repeating, "We are being hijacked! We are being hijacked!" He also said this was not a hoax, and that the plane "was going down." Said Cramer: "He heard some sort of explosion and saw white smoke coming from the plane. Then we lost contact with him." Since then, that account has been disputed and the 911 operator has been barred from speaking to reporters.
Additionally, that call was received at 9:58 am. The cockpit voice recorder ends at 10:03:09 yet in 2002, the world's best known forensic seismologist, Terry Wallace, told the Daily News that the evidence was conclusive that the plane crashed nearly three minutes later, at 10:06:05. Click here for more

Look, I tend to believe the Government's story regarding the horrific events of 9/11 but I must admit that there are some looming questions...Holes in the official story.
But I am certain of one thing: 2,986 people needlessly lost their lives that day and they should never be forgotten.

mc

Also check out:
9/11 Truth
2,986 Faces

h.6

The sun is setting
And a chill graces the air
Towards omega

mc
(For the unobservant: that final line is not only the closing of another mc haiku, but a link as well...check it out)

chernobyl

Twenty years ago today, the worst nuclear reactor disaster in history occurred in Chernobyl, Ukraine. An explosion ripped the top off the containment building, expelling radioactive material into the atmosphere; more was released in the subsequent fire. Only after Swedish instruments detected fallout from the explosion did Soviet authorities admit that an accident had occurred. The reactor core was sealed off by air-dropping a cement mixture, but not before eight tons of radioactive material had escaped, releasing over four hundred times more radiation than the atomic bomb of Hiroshima.

Click here to view the chilling photo essay Nuclear Nightmares: Twenty Years Since Chernobyl.

Click here to read the Wikipedia article about the disaster.

mc

80s cheese

"Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh no
I got to keep on moving
Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
I'm running and I won't touch ground, oh no
I got to keep on moving,"

Matthew Wilder's "Break My Stride"

The music, the hair, the fashion: The 80s! Whatta decade!!

mc

fuel

On Tuesday, the President ordered an investigation into soaring gas prices. Bush asked his Energy and Justice departments to open inquiries into possible cheating in the gasoline markets.
Give me a break.
Look, I know it's cool to knock the 'evil oil companies' but in a free market system, companies are free to set their own prices based on supply and demand, and when a particular S & D is based on a limited natural resource, prices can't easily be forecasted.
But an investigation into pricing manipulations?
How about an investigation into the government manipulation of our pocketbooks with bloated and largely unnecessary taxes? Here you will find a table listing state-by-state gasoline taxes. And when looking at these numbers, keep in mind that the Federal Gas Tax is 18.4 cpg. So in my state, Indiana, I pay a total of 36.4 cpg (including the federal 18.4 cpg) PLUS 6% sales tax in tariffs alone. And don't forget, the government collects taxes on the delivery of the fuel from the importation all the way down to the fuel delivery trucks rolling on the highways of America. The amount of money our federal and state governments collect in fuel taxes in just one hour of one day is mind-boggling.
Yet our government wants to investigate possible price manipulations by the oil companies, thereby tampering with a pillar of our economy, the free market system. A system based on supply and demand.
Want to see fuel prices fall? Don't look to Uncle Sam for assistance, simply cut back consumption, alter the demand! Too many Americans have become silent. Ignorant. Lazy. Amnesiac. We have forgotten that we can, even in this day and age, effect change. But change doesn't happen watching television. Or surfing the internet. Change doesn't happen from a drive- thru window. Or voting for your favorite American Idol. No, change is rarely a convenient act.
In 1775, Patrick Henry said "Give me liberty or give me death." In 1987, The Dead Kennedys said "Give me convenience or give me death." Oh how times have changed.

mc

things hidden

A couple of interesting links about subliminal messages in advertising and illusions and paradoxes.

mc

h.5

Dance with me, my Love
Engage and exchange, don't touch
The distance is just

mc

h.4

Wet clothes cling to skin
She bathes in Seattle rain
Windows and strangers

mc

clarity

Yesterday afternoon, mom and I finally discussed my Judaism interest. As Kate eluded to, I was forced to ponder my intense attraction to the faith.
I explained the genesis and transformation from curiosity to focused study and I found myself listening to myself speak...As I speak these words, are they true? Are they genuine? Yes. A resounding 'yes' on all fronts.
I told her that Judaism has evoked certain feelings in me, feelings that defy explanation. I told her that Judaism has caused me to make positive changes in my life, a desire to become a better person. A person seeking higher reasons, truths. A person seeking purity.
The conversation was actually very civil and cordial. While mom said she did not agree with Judaism's view of Jesus, she said that she was happy I had found happiness and more importantly, G-d.
When I hung up the phone I felt very good about the conversation. The concern and uncertainty that had been hanging over this issue was gone. Now there was clarity. I felt like a chapter had been closed.

mc

h.3

The crash was a thief
Fuselage, flames and faces
Silent in the fog

mc

h.2

Hearts are bloody nests
A cradle of flash and skin
Warm eggs of regret

mc

haiku.1

She's a side-effect
Leaving marks and etching scars
Symptoms of a ghost

mc

haiku.0

Cultures free-falling
Markets collapse like bodies
Looking for exits

mc

XXX i'm begging all readers to leave their own haiku in the comments section...i'm on a haiku kick so fire away XXX

review

Wow> The Monday night Wilco show was quite possibly the best concert I've ever attended. A five star performance; their musicianship was unparalleled. The best band playing in America today. Period. More pics here

Smoke> Over two weeks without a cigarette. Occasionally I'll have an urge to light-up while drinking coffee but this desire is easily quelled. I've also significantly reduced my alcohol consumption; I drink once, maybe twice a week and it's always in moderation.

Sickness> Thursday night/Friday morning my body was gripped by a wretched fever and body-cracking aches. Still fighting the sickness (flu, I'm guessing) but the most painful of symptoms have subsided considerably. Ugh.

Silence> A week ago during an IM conversation with mother, I brought up, albeit briefly, my intense interest and connection to Judaism. Her reaction wasn't exactly warm; I was hoping (actually expecting) for something more accepting, encouraging. We both agreed that the topic would be better addressed with a phone conversation. Needless to say, this conversation has yet to happen. Oh well. I won't be deterred.

mc

sarah

Coughing pipes and falling rain and she says, "Here. Kill the headlights and park it here. And no, you can't come in."
Some people enjoy the delay. Delayed gratification. They say you appreciate things more when you deprive yourself of joy, salvation. Then, when you finally get a bite, it will taste even sweeter.
Me, I've learned to delay the inevitable.
Her name was Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. All I wanted was some company, conversation. Blankets for cold bones. Ointment for a chapped wound.
Trapped inside this vehicle there is the sound of rain. Coughing pipes. And I'm the driver, the man behind the wheel. What happened?
Beautiful Sarah, what happened?

We met a few months ago in a room full of loud music and cigarette smoke. A room full of hot bodies, breathing and sweating, yelling just to be heard. Red cups. Blue cups. Yellow cups. The smell of beer.
For most, it was a night full of expectation. Me, I was looking for a way out. An excuse. An exit.
And then I saw her.
She was in a corner, crouched and screaming into a cellular phone in some kind of vain attempt to take refuge from the senseless chaos and make contact with the outside world. The inflated nothing, it was pulsating throughout the room, terrorizing the walls. Everywhere. Our eyes met and she slammed her phone shut.
"Was that a call for help?" I jokingly asked.
"What?" she yelled in reply.
"I said, was that a call for help?" I asked again, this time louder. Hideous frequencies of sound screamed from speakers, pushing me to the breaking point.
She laughed and pointed to the front door and yelled, "Lets step outside."
Outside and under burning stars we both sighed in relief. I let the cool 2 am air saturate my lungs like clean water to the gills of a dying fish.
"Yes. Yes. Breathing. This is better," I said.
"I feel like a survivor from a plane crash. Whatta mess," she joked and extended her hand. "I'm Sarah, by the way. What's your name?"
My name isn't important because this story isn't about me. This story is about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah.
We strolled away from the wreckage and she shared stories, chronicled her disappointments, her dreams. We wandered into an all-nite cafe where Peggy The Waitress sat us at a booth overlooking a dark and desolate motorway. The occasional car glided past. Headlights fading in. Taillights fading out. We ordered coffee, buttermilk pancakes and more conversation.
A carafe poured coffee. Sarah's mouth poured words. Was there some sexual attraction there? Yes, but I paid the desire no mind. I wasn't looking for touching, kissing or sex. No. Just to have an actual conversation with an actual person was enthralling enough. I didn't need sex. I needed contact. A safety device. I needed Sarah.
In that cafe, she reminded me of something that I had long since forgotten: Every moment of every day is filled with human beings reacting and interacting with their environment. Real people. Real lives. Fading in. Fading out.
Her small hands cradled the cup of coffee and she hinted at past damage. Jagged remnants of ruins cluttered her heart. There was Brian and his cold demeanor; Thomas and his calculating ways; Andrew and his mask of brazen behavior.
Pebbles. Rocks. Boulders. Piling up and filling the chambers of her heart, a quarry of blood. The brain processes the pain and the heartache is relayed through those stories. Fables of guys that I'll never meet. Their actions. Her tears of salt. Cause and effect.
In that cafe, Sarah was a strange record on a turntable, spinning and broadcasting sounds, and I was the captivated audience of one.
And I was delaying the inevitable.
Although that was the first real conversation I had had in quite some time, I didn't forget how they worked. Give and take. Give and take. And I would have to reveal, give pieces of my identity. Share. A mutual interaction where ugly parts are reluctantly revealed.
She had revealed and then there was silence.
"So...What's your story, morning glory?"
With a shy grin I chuckled and looked away, outside to the dark motorway but all I could see was my reflection in the window.
"Well..."
I shared secrets. The secrets of pain. The secrets of regret. The secrets that you're suppose to keep, but I broke the lock and sent those bloody details pouring across the table. All over the place. And all over Sarah. Sarah The Stranger.
And to this day I can't explain how I was able to drain myself of those confessions, drain them and give them to her. A girl that I had known but for a few hours. A stranger. A Beautiful Stranger. She felt like home. Like blankets for cold bones. Like ointment for chapped wounds. And a platonic ooze crept through the cracks of our conversation, coating the brief moments of silence. Like sugary maple syrup on hot cakes. Like milky white cream swirling in black coffee.
The things that I told her, those details aren't important because this story isn't about me. This story is about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah.
And on that night, in that cafe, during that conversation, the pinnacle of our friendship had been reached. Looking back, there was a birth and a death that night. Two simultaneous sparks. Fading in. Fading out. I was simply delaying the inevitable.
On subsequent nights we would meet for coffee. I'd go to her apartment or she would come to mine. Then we started sleeping together but nothing sexual happened -- really. We both missed sharing a bed, sleeping next to tender bones and tingling flesh, warmth. Our bodies wrapped in bed clothes of cotton, clean and pure. Then we started kissing and that was the extent of our intimate contact. We both missed the taste of another's soul. The taste of another's saliva infused with something sacred and bare and naked and mysterious, like embers shooting into the heavens, leaving the fire behind.
Then things started falling apart. I guess things had been breaking down for quite some time but now it was impossible to ignore. She stopped spending the night. Stopped coming over. Meeting at the cafe for coffee was a rare occurrence. Ugly frayed wires were exposed and smoldering. Fluids were leaking, steaming.
Delaying the inevitable is an art.
And I had mastered the craft.

Coughing pipes and falling rain and Beautiful Sarah says, "Here. Kill the headlights and park it here. And no, you can't come in. Look, we both know what's going on, or not going on. You obviously want something more from me, something that I can't provide for you right now. I mean, I thought we had made it clear what this was about.
"I'm sorry, okay? I guess I should have done a better job recognizing your vulnerabilities or something, I don't know. Maybe I should have noticed that things were slowing changing. I, I don't know."
Give and take. Give and take. And then silence. My turn to speak but what I said isn't important because this story isn't about me. It's about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. And Sarah The Stranger.
I remember something she said on the night we met, at the party. Leaving the chaos she said she felt like she had survived a plane crash, a mess of human bodies, sweating, yelling.
I now realize that on that night, both of us were survivors. We were each other's safety device for that one night, and I guess after you survive a crash, where else can you go? What else is there?
She exits my car and enters the pouring rain and I'm left trapped in my vehicle, the man behind the wheel, lost without a safety device, sinking on this flooded street, a watery grave. She slowly approaches her doorstep and never looks back and I'll hang onto this moment for as long as I can, delaying the inevitable and living in suspended animation.

mc

ultrasound

Sister had her first ultrasound on Thursday. Apparently the 8 weeks old fetus is the size of a pea, but sister said she could see the beating of a heart...Wild stuff.

mc

Surely, if you improve yourself, you will be forgiven. But if you do not improve yourself, sin rests at the door. Its desire is toward you, yet you can conquer it. Genesis 4:7

If you succumb to your Evil Inclination, punishment and evil will be as ever present as if they lived in your doorway. Rabbi Obadiah Sforno (1475-1550)

planet bmv

Something tells me I'll be a winner this time. The voice from the speaker in the ceiling says he's giving away four tickets to the Super Smash-Up Destruction Derby at the PlastiChem MegaDome this weekend. I don't give a shit about watching cars race, crash, explode. In fact, I can think of a million other things that I would rather do this weekend but sitting here at the BMV, I find something romantic about winning four tickets, four for a family, and going to the MegaDome alone, three empty seats next to me.
Hello, this is my family. My family of ghosts. We'll watch cars clang and clash, slam and smash. We'll watch other families spend "quality time" at the Derby. We'll breathe in particulates from the growing cloud of exhaust and fumes, coughing against the dome's paper roof, towering like a toxic brain.
Yeah, I'm beginning to fall in love with the idea.
I approach the bored clerk seated behind a bare desk. There's a telephone and a sign that reads "START HERE." She is a colander. License renewals, wait here. New car registrations, there. Nervous sixteen year olds, anxious to take their driving test, over there. All these people, waiting. Waiting for their number to be called. We're all a bunch of unwilling contestants in some kind of slow moving death march of a lottery. I'm number 47.
"Hi there," I say. "I need to use the phone, please"
"Dial nine then the number," she responds between chomping teeth on bubblegum.
"Caller number 11 will be the lucky winner of four, that's right, count 'em four tickets to a smash-up good time at the PlastiChem MegaDome this Saturday night! Keep dialing!" the speaker in the ceiling screams.
I dial. Busy signal.
I dial. Busy signal.
As I continue to dial, I keep telling myself, This time, I'm going to be a winner. Busy signal.
I dial. Surely they've received 11 callers by now. Busy signal.
I dial and this time the other end is ringing and I'm waiting for a happy, jovial voice to pick up and congratulate me.
"Hello! And thanks for listening to Xtreme 98! Your home for today's hottest music! Sorry, you're not a winner but stay tuned to Xtreme 98 for more chances to win fantastic prizes!" a prerecorded voice says. The message ends with some high pitched guitar notes, bending and squealing.
"No one home?" bubblegum colander asks as I hang up the phone.
My reply is a lie and I say, "No. Wife must be picking up the dog and kids. Ha ha."
I return to my blue plastic seat and the winner of the Derby tickets is live on the line, his voice pouring out of the speaker in the ceiling. His name is Hank, Frank or some such other. He says something about how much his kids will enjoy the Derby.
I like to think of Hank Frank as a divorced dad in his 40s. This weekend is his to spend with the kids. Hank Frank is a good, decent man doing his best. His wife really fucked him over with the divorce and all, but he's a good man. Resilient. The foggy plastic sleeves in his wallet overflow with pictures of his three kids. Cute kids. I hope he enjoys his weekend. His kids. That damn Derby.
But back here on Planet BMV the waiting continues and the sound from the speaker fades and I become something else. These people.
She, she's a contaminated queen.
He's an arsonist of the heart.
Children, loud and noisy and restless run around, filled with antibiotics.
The names of these people are somewhere. Names contained in documents, filed away in dark drawers, manila envelopes.
Their faces are trapped in books, albums. A small black and white square in a yearbook from 1954, a fake smile. Or a photograph from a trip to the city carnival in '87. She's there. In the background with big hair and cotton candy. Trapped in a moment in a picture in some stranger's photo album, on a shelf, collecting dust and smoke.
Sometimes, beauty hides.
Sometimes it's tucked away, safe and hidden under a pink scar, numb from the cut.
Sometimes it's in every bead of sweat, trembling and glistening on the feverish red forehead of a sleeping child. Restless legs, pajamas and medication.
Sometimes beauty is in a wasteland, soaking under a blue sky. Dead plastic flowers. Glass decanters now empty of their exotic fumes. Durable goods no longer dependable. This stuff used to be the fat of the land. Now it's all useless. Dead objects of a million colors, sleeping together under a blue sky. And the stars. And the moon. Swimming in the Universe. Beauty. Hiding.
Number 47. A voice says, Number 4-7. And I'm back. Back here on Planet BMV and something tells me this time, this time I'm a winner.

mc

oh well

Drying up in conversation / You will be the one who cannot talk / All your insides fall to pieces / You just sit there wishing you could still make love / They're the ones who'll hate you when you think you've got the world all sussed out / They're the ones who'll spit at you / You'll be the one screaming out
Radiohead "high & dry"

ecdysis: a constant process

ec-dy-sis - n, The shedding of an outer integument or layer of skin

- all pornographic materials have been disposed of
- abstain from any act resulting in the destruction of my seed
- last cigarette was smoked on Friday, 7 April 2006
- i have considerably cut back on alcohol consumption...goal: cease from drinking in excess
- "forgive anyone who has angered or antagonized me or sinned against me, whether against my body, my property, my honor or against anything of mine; whether done accidentally, willfully, carelessly, or purposely, whether through speech, deed, thought, or intention" -- from a Jewish bedtime prayer of forgiveness
- remember: compassion, compassion, compassion
- remember: I have responsibility for following G-dly paths and living in accord with the principles of justice and compassion, in service to the One G-d.

mc
everything is in its right place

wild country

A few days ago I blew off the dust from the late Chris Whitley's Dirt Floor album. This album is perfect simplicity at its finest: Whitley's voice, his acoustic guitar and the sound of his boot, stomping the floor for tempo.
I've listened to this album a countless number of times but this time, and especially at this particular point in my life, "Wild Country" spoke to me on a completely different level.


Chris Whitley's "Wild Country":

Breaking rocks all day on the avenue
It gets hard to unearth anything that's true
Soon I'm going to drop this jack and run
Returning to the wild where I'm from

There's miles of stone, jack hammer in my hand
There's compromises I can't comprehend
Soon I'm going to lose these rags and run
Returning to the wild where I'm from
Returning to the wild where I'm from

Between the bricks you'll hear the children play
The calluses get harder day by day
Between the cracks you'll notice where I've gone
Returning to the wild where I'm from

Soon I'm going to lose these rags and run
Returning to the wild where I'm from
Returning to the wild where I'm from

a tidbit

Jewish tradition allows that there can even be some purpose for not believing in God. Here are the words of a Rabbi Moshe Leib, a great Hasidic teacher:

To what end can the denial of God have been created? If someone comes to you and asks your help, you shall not send him off with pious words, saying: "Have faith and take your troubles to God!" You shall act as if there were no God, as if there were only one person in all the world who could help this man -- only yourself.

>>from Judaism for Dummies by Rabbi Ted Falcon, Ph.D. and David Blatner

a cool canine

Okay, okay...I know my previous post/link was of the macabre variety, so here's something on the lighter side.

spooky

Mother accused of cutting off infant's arms found not guilty

eye-opening

I just watched PBS's weekly program Frontline. This week's program was titled "The Meth Epidemic"...talk about some eye-opening stuff. Click here to view the entire program. One of the most shocking parts of the program was a montage of meth users' mug shots taken after their first arrest, then subsequent booking photos taken only months later; their physical deterioration was unbelievable. Whether you have a deep interest in this topic or not, this is a program worth your 55 minutes.

mc

a spark that resonates

I have found God and that's all I can really say. I don't think the words exist to accurately describe how I feel. And I'm not speaking specifically about how I feel at this very moment but how I feel and have felt every waking moment since the afternoon of March 29.
On that day, I was driving my regular route when I felt, not heard, something from within. While not a voice per se, it had shape, pronunciation and expressed sentiments of "It's safe here. It's clean. You are loved. There is nothing to hide so throw yourself in. Immerse yourself." Tears literally came to my eyes and I was awe struck.
A friend from many years ago once told me, "You'll know when God exists." I thought that was bullshit. Presumptuous. Nonsense.
I was wrong.
The person I was just two weeks ago, or a year ago, or 20 years ago is not the person I am now. My heart has been illuminated. I see God's presence everywhere. I feel it. And I never thought I would type those words -- and mean them.
I used to think that once you cross certain lines you can never return, you can never retrace your steps. My "faith" in atheism and nihilism was so strong I would equate it to learning the sum of two plus two. Two and two is four and that is fact. Irrefutable. How blind I was.
The odd, almost eerie thing about this new journey is how much of it remains unexplained. I wasn't expecting any of this to happen. It just happened. Nearly every aspect of my life is now different. Brighter. Lighter. Glorious.
I now find myself on a quest, a mission to absorb as much Judaic knowledge and wisdom as I possibly can. And I can't explain this. There is an unearthly connection that I feel to Judaism. It can't be explained but I feel it. It's weird. Reading the words, the history -- there is something mystical there. It's a feeling. It resonates. This feeling, this spark was lacking when I explored Islam and Christianity many years ago. I don't know...I can't explain it. It's as if, for 27 years, I had been living in the same house in the same neighborhood, unaware that just down the street and over a hill was a majestic field of unspeakable beauty, just waiting to be discovered.
Well, it has been revealed. And so has a reason. A purpose. And I am eternally grateful.

mc