Barking at the Moon for all the wrong reasons

I am not old enough to say I've read it all, nor am I deluded enough to pretend that I can grill one of the greatest fantasy/horror writers of her generation with impunity. But I am an Anne Rice fan, and being a fan gives me the right to rant, when, where and about as much as I please.

And I've been a fan through and through. I read through my "pseudo goth" sensibilities in college, I stuck to it through it all and if given a chance, I can concoct a wonderful, fiery, passionate apology for Blackwood Farm.

Though I took my time to read the Christ the Lord Novels, when I did, I found an affinity for Scripture that would have made any weekend theologian jump for joy. I also could read, between the lines, the touches of social liberal theology that eventually would bring about the author's choice to renounce the Catholic Church. It didn't scare me. In fact, it engaged me, because that is what good literature is meant to do, shake conventions, show alternatives, question the establishment from the comforts allowed by fantasy.

I read Angel Time, and though I found the novel to be less of a risk taker with its theology -somehow Rice was shy about angels- considering that she was writing, not only about the pleasant spiritual guardians of the Catholic bible, but also about the kick ass out of this world Heavenly Police that Evangelicals and Jewish cannon love to look up to.

Still I read. I kept reading while the neogoths had abandoned her. I kept reading while those who didn't abandon her were waiting for Rice to go back to vampires. I read because I love her, and I still do, but unfortunately, I can no longer say she can do no wrong.

The Wolf Gift is a product from a completely different author. It is the book written by Anne of the Page. Don't get me wrong, I love to hang on the Page; it is a motley crew of  young and old, random evangelicals, atheists, deists, neopagans, weekend vampires, Catholics that want her to come back home and die hard fans.... I mean who doesn't want to experience diversity to that degree?

However, The Page is one of the two reasons to which, to my understanding, this book is not as hot as I thought it would be.

The thing is though, that as much as I love The Page, I noticed that Anne has submitted her own views a little. It is scary when someone starts asking "what do you think", instead of stating, this is my universe kids, you can come and play, but the toys are mine. She bent over way too much to please the demands of fandom. To a wild eyed college kid that is about the coolest thing someone can do, to a purist is the proverbial decapitation. Yes, I am old, but as I said  I have been reading forever. There is a certain amount of pandering to her expected audience that makes The Wolf Gift read as a piece of fanfic instead of the real thing.

Another thing that fails is the fact that Anne Rice cannot bridge the generation gap. This is something she didn't have to deal with when writing about vampires... sure, some of Lestat's lyrics in Queen of the Damned wouldn't have made it to the top ten if they were truly 80's music, but you see, Lestat had an 18 century brain, so if something sounded off to the hair metal crew, as an audience we could always say, well... what do you expect?

Same thing applied to the Jesus novels, the narrative took place 2,000 years ago and the rich lexicon, the poetic feel to it was more than justified, you know, it is expected for it to sound all King James and stuff.

However, when a 30 year old in a contemporary setting sounds like a man in his sixties, there is no amount of sex, sass or gadgets that can cover that. Yeah, Reuben has a smart phone and a laptop and an ipod...but I mean... have you checked his playlist? Of course all this disparity between age and appreciation is sorely patched by two elements: our man is obscenely rich and extremely "sexy".

I'll be cynical here for a moment. No, even better, I'll take the slippery road of cheap shot politics. A man with an incredible amount of wealth due to inherited fortunes, desperate for, yet unable to connect to the masses because of their perception of him, Reuben is the Mitt Romney of monsters... but I am digressing. Yes, Reuben is ridiculously rich and as people like Paris Hilton and the Kardashians have proved through and through, wealth equal higher aesthetics and keeps you safe from following trivial pursuits. That explains how a 30 year old somehow sounds like a senior citizen who had just discovered the magic that is Facebook.

Secondly, in a world dominated by ripped weres who fight vampires for girls, our man has to excel. It will not surprise anyone that I will be team Lestat in this one. Anne Rice's vampires drip sensuality and that is very hard to portray when your universe is restricted to certain physical no-no's. In my most frenetic fantasies I wonder what would Lestat do if he were to switch bodies with Eric Northman.... arrghh digressing again. Anyway, Reuben is a well oiled sex machine. He is such a good lay that after a single workout session with a random stranger, said woman decides to sign the deed to  a frigging mansion to the man. Did I mention he is insanely rich? Wouldn't it be a lot more credible and less trivial if he fucking bought it??? Anyway. I can deal with a lot of stuff, but honestly, there is a certain amount of gross factor involved in getting it on while on wolf man form with a willing thrilled fangirl... sigh. There are things Charlaine Harris will not do. Anne just went there.

Where do these fangirls come from? Did I mention jumping from building to building is the new swinging? If I were to give you the following premise, honestly, what is the first thing that comes to mind?

A young man is bitten by a creature while writing an assigned report.

In a matter of days, this young man finds out that this bite altered his

DNA to a point of no return. The young man experiments through trial

and error and eventually decides to use his skills to fight crime in the

city. But see, the young man happens to be a reporter and the new

vigilante is making headlines, so the young man is asked to cover any

sightings of the vigilante. He happens to get some unbelievable

exclusives, you know, 'cause he is the one they are looking for.

Somewhere Stan Lee is wringing his hands thinking about royalties, I know...

I will bitch about Louis, but Louis is her child and if she wants to abuse her children, so be it. But I have read the rants of Reuben's brother (who happens to be a Catholic Priest going through a crisis of faith) back when they were cool, just because they were fresh. And I have heard the story of the shifter kind, back when it all happened in Egypt and a certain spirit attached itself to a queen.

This has been long enough, and I am tired. Will I read the next one? Probably. Is Anne Rice out of the list of authors that can do no wrong? Definitely. Forever.

New Year's resolutions

I usually keep these to myself because at least half of them are tossed out mid February. However, since most of my resolutions for next year have nothing to do with L.A. Fitness there's a big chance I might see them through. Let's see...

• Yesterday I had the most inspiring dream. I was successfully completing an oil painting. My subconscious was kind enough to allow me to be am abstract artist, so I will stay a little longer, swayed by my imaginary world into all kinds of places before realizing I must be dreaming. And though I know that in the waking world my lines, colors and shapes will never reach the mysterious symmetry of the least understood of visual media, I guess I will give the brush a try. What is the worse that could happen? I'm old enough not to be disheartened if I don't see my work in a gallery... oh well, I am young enough to start a lifetime of addiction to turpentine,-ehhh- I'll just try to avoid that. Basically, I'll go to create something in the one medium I've never tried before.

• I intend, by all means to start a journey. For a person whose favorite saying is "Places to go, people to annoy..." that might sound like a given. I basically have a yearly trip, be it in small or grand scale. Journeys though, are those instances in which travel becomes a revelation, when I come back older and wiser or rejuvenated and wilder. I need to learn something about myself I cannot learn at home. I need to find a place where I've never been and yet I believe, with all my heart a part of me is hidden there, on a stretch of road, in a painting, on a piece of overheard conversation between strangers that turned out to be a life lesson, at the shadow of a monument that will make me cry or laugh out of sheer amazement. I need a new lease on life.

• I will keep delving in  Judeo-Christian Theology, just because it fascinates me how people have dedicated years of effort to try and figure out Someone who, among His natural attributes, reside the word Unknowable. One of these days, I'll present may thesis: The Platypus and many other Inside Jokes: Humor in the Deity.

• Just to complete the above and because I honestly believe His plans are well constructed and His ways are as awesome as they are mysterious, I'll keep on giving a shout out and showing His Love in a practical way because that beats thumping the Bible anytime, anywhere.

• I will write. And once again, It sounds like I'm playing a broken record, because I write on a daily basis. This time though, I have a wonderful writing partner whose level of mischief and wonder are way out there... enough to make me want to acquire a Spanish keyboard. Yes, you heard it well. Voy a escribir en español. Eriiicccc, a donde vamos a llegar?

• In general, I'll keep cooking with Angie, tasting with Izzy, doing the fine art critic thing with Michelle, having extravagant cups of coffee with my sisters, and finding creative ways to annoy my brothers in law. I'll celebrate Kendra's uniqueness, Lysanel's love of all things pink, Millie's outrageous take on life and Katya's adventures in all things college. I will find a way to spend more time with the elder peeps (because 24 hours is not enough time for mom and dad, gramps and titi).

• I will cheer and jeer movie trailers with Robin, scream Viva la Deeva as often as I can while sharing cyber victories with Viv, Mark and the girls. I will dedicate time to discover the mysteries of something called "Tumblr" so I can finally reciprocate half of the jokes Mariah sends my way. I'll keep on discussing every twist and turn on our favorite fantasy series with Mayra until Snow White finds her ever after and will write mini sagas for Ismael's awesome fantasy pics on the side.

More than anything, I'll leave a blank slate for the unexpected and make sure to do something,  at least one thing that scares me, and of course as I always do, I'll set some time aside to make friends out of wonderful strangers
LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, take it seriously and life will be a lot easier.


The quote. as always, it is kick ass, deep and courtesy of the wonderful Mr. Gaiman. So here it is, a positive spin on one of those annoying things that make us all too human:

"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something."

A passport to Weirdland... my adventures with Team 126

Disclosure: One third of this is completely true, one third is an attempt at recording, without personal involvement the unfolding of one of the most successful social experiment to come about in the history of the Internet, the other third is comedic hyperbole... you choose.

Some people have been curious about my very secretive ways these past week or so. My presence in Facebook and other social media has been obscure at best- well, not really- I was in another page, conspiring with another people.

Certain members of my family were honestly worried, others were quite cooperative within their means and their abilities...(Batgirl, your identity shall remain hidden, I swear). As always, the midnight crew followed me into the mouth of madness, good soldiers of fortune willing to wake up in the middle of the night to follow a mysterious tweet or a furtive email.

I guess, close to 24 hours after the curtain fell, it is safe to say, being a puppet ain't that bad, when they make you dance tied to sugar string.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen (GISHWHES for short) is my latest entry into the bizarre section of my Curriculum Vitae. Honestly, given the chance; wouldn't you want to add Guinness Record Breaker to your long list of WTF?

The whole concept is the brainchild of my top deranged celebrity, Misha Collins and the mysterious Miss Jean Louis, a capricious artiste from the school of Marcel Duchamp, you know, that nice French bloke, who in a moment of lucidity uttered: "All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications."

If you mix this particular appreciation of life with the wonderful Mr. Collins point of view; constant optimist that he is, the man believes the world can be fundamentally changed, one random act of kindness at a time... then you have the set up for an interesting game indeed.

Who is in the line up, you might ask? Did I mention Mr. Collins has over 318,000 followers, willing to sign into his beck and call,one tweet after another? You might call them followers, he prefers the word minions, you know all potatoes and potatos will end meeting the same peeler.

The thing is that quite a good chunk of people world wide said I do and jumped blindly into a game of art, community and creativity without having the slight lest idea of what was expected of them.

I was apprehensive at first, because all of us are happy in our own little world, you see and Mr. Collins does not believe kids should play by themselves, so what I thought would be just another night at the movies with the midnight crew was more of an act of casting our lots with seven complete strangers, from all over the globe.

As I opened my inbox the first day, I discovered I had two Germans, two Poles, three Canadians, one of them chillin' in the California sun. Well guys, the world just expanded. We bonded, immediately and it is ridiculous to think that a week ago our common denominator was a kind of obscure Sci-fi/Horror series in the CW network and a certain trench coated angel. Well, not even that, Izzy usually avoids all plots involving handsome crying men, so we had to fill him in, and quick.

Today I can say that we laughed, stressed, provided feedback, send frantic emails in the middle of the might, fueled each others whimsy and even managed to dance together. I know that Torben is willing to raise to the roof, Finja is really a fairy in disguise, Monika hates Facebook but was willing to sign up for our sake (she has also been granted my the amazing ability to bring order to Chaos) that Ula knows exactly how low can GISHWHES go, that Michele and Danna can out dance anyone and anything in any setting, that Tamara will get her fingers and toes in a sticky situation, just to help the team advance; that Michelle and Hisriel are willing to get into a fight in an extinct language and that I can both rock kale in salad and above my head to light the dinner table.

Thank you guys for an awesome experience. It was a chance to raise something out of nothing and make it worth everything. Out of all the crazy stuff we cooked together, our little secret society was the best.

What is left to say to those who didn't take part on this experiment? There's always next year. In the meantime, if you see some oddball in a monkey hat, perhaps skipping a couple of steps down the road, singing in Enochian or smiling wide without apparent reason; smile back. There's a chance you are crossing paths with an artist, or someone who is compromised with a random act of kindness... well this person might also be a weird little hobo, but a smile never hurt anybody.

Luuuuuuvvvv to all.

OHHHH... I forgot, in the meantime, if you feel like spreading the love and have some change to spare, get to know the not so crazy side of the coin: www.therandomact.org

En Spanish... Calle 13 mientras mas lo digas...

 Los Grammys llegaron y se fueron y Calle 13 le demostró a el mundo que no se necesita una casa disquera para conquistar la industria de la música. No es fácil lograr semejante hazaña.

Una vez más Rene predico su evangelio de la playera (viste que así se dice t-shirt en español, que monstra soy cuando quiero) dejando saber su pensar en 100% algodón. Dijo lo suyo ante el micrófono y nos dejó con una canción  que se ha de convertir en el himno no oficial de una Latinoamérica unida. Que bueno.

Mucha gente en Puerto Rico esta abanderada con este asunto y por lo general la división es de índole política. Aunque hay muchas excepciones a la regla, basandome en lo que he podido apreciar en los foros... si eres estadista es tu deber que  te apeste Calle 13, si eres popular o independentista,  entonces estas basicamente obligado a apreciar el estilo y el mensaje.

Advertencia: A mí me importa un comino el abanderamiento político sobre este tema. Por mi Rene puede expresarse como quiera en cualquier foro sobre cualquier persona. No es el primero ni el último que le ha dicho lo que piensa a un gobernante en una sociedad  libre. Por mí que le ponga un blanco a la madre de Fortuño en la espalda y que se raspe un Free Willy si alguna vez se da el Delfinario de San Juan hacia el futuro.  Si esa manera de expresarse lo hace feliz, una vez más, sea bienvenido.

Ahora, lo que me revienta de Rene, va más allá de mis 100x35. Me molestan las verdades a medias, la falta de compromiso del artista hacia las realidades de los pueblos. Me molesta que América Latina este corta de estrofas, que no se canten todas las versiones de la historia.

Yo tengo dos cuñados, uno Nicaragüense y otro Cubano, los cuales han vivido una historia que no aparece en las rimas de Rene, la historia que no conviene contar, porque no tiene que ver nada con los excesos del imperialismo Norteamericano, y si con el problema a el que enfrentan los disidentes de los gobiernos que Rene tanto protege y admira.

Oh sí, porque que bueno es recordar  la cara de un desaparecido cuando es víctima de Pinochet, si tú sabes, aquel que los gringos treparon y después no supieron bajar. Pero qué me dices de los que desaparecieron bajo Sandino. Nicaragua tiene su buena y larga lista. Si, háblenme de los sandinistas que tomaron sobre un país y ofrecieron oportunidad de educación para todos, igualdad para la mujer y acceso a servicios de salud para todos a razón de expropiar tierras y decidir quién se queda y quien se va de su propia patria. Cántame Rene de la gente que tuvo que salir de su tierra corriendo por cometer el pecado de ser disidente de una ideología política en el poder. Tírame una rima bien sabrosa sobre la política de apartheid calladita que existe en Nicaragua donde los indios no valen nada. Usa esa musa para escribirle un himno a las madres Nicaragüenses que salieron de su país con lo que pudieron y llegaron a Estados Unidos sin nada a razón de haber recibido la “cortesía y consideración” de todos los países entre Nicaragua y Texas en donde se cobraban todo tipo de multas e incluso se jugaba con  la noción de desaparecer tus hijos si no pagabas cuotas exorbitantes… esas lagrimas tienen valor también. Porque aquí en Estados Unidos están los que quieren, los que pueden y los que no tienen más remedio. Que esta de lo que hablo se quedó en los ochenta? Cántame de México y de lo considerados que siguen siendo con los “inmigrantes” Hondureños que ponen  pie en ese país. Allí hay para cantar un rato.

Y hablando de los que están aquí porque no les queda más remedio. Qué lindo es ver un cañaveral bajo el sol de Cuba. Felicidades a ti que puedes verlo. Déjame sugerir una canción sobre Cuba y los cañaverales. Cántame la cancioncita del trabajo forzado impuesto en los que no están de acuerdo con Fidel. Y no te hablo de los alborotaos que tienen la política corriéndole por la sangre. Te hablo de los que no participan  de la actividad política por causa de su consciencia. Cántame sobre la gente que como el padre de mi cuñado hicieron tiempo en prisiones cubanas a causa de que su religión no les permite tomar parte del proceso político… porque en Cuba la bella estar neutral hacia el régimen es tan malo como estar en contra.

Y si puedes, cántame de los que están en la cárcel por tirarse maromas como las que te tiras tú, querido Rene, porque más de uno le ha dicho hijo de puta a Castro y créeme, no ha sido celebrado como lo eres tú. Háblame de la situación de los cubanos que tienen que bregar tanto con el impuesto embargo como con la falta de humanidad de su propio gobierno. Que las cosas están cambiando con Raúl? Pregúntaselo a las damas de Blanco.

Que tienes guerra contra el Imperio… una vez más me importa un pito, este país aguanta esto y mucho más… que te vas a hartar con el billetaje cuando hagas la movida al mercado anglosajón, como lo anunciaste en Primer Impacto… probablemente. Aquí hay mucha queja de índole social a la cual sacarle punta. Es una pena que cuando te presentaste en Jimmy Kimmel perdiste el tiempo cantando en español para después reírte de los idiotas que te hacían coro sin entenderte. Sabes qué? Una vez más fue decepcionante, porque ese era el foro, ese era el momento, con la atención nacional para pararse y decirle a Jimmy al pan pan y al vino vino… this is what really bothers me about the politics of your country, that has mine by the balls, you know… pero tuvimos que conformarnos con tu camiseta y con tu lirica explosiva y con oírte mandar a los americanos a decir woooohoooo o algo entre coro y coro después de quejarte con un colorido puñeta de que no sabían español.

Sigue hablando de todo el mundo que de mí no recibes una ovación sincera hasta que no me cantes de las dos caras de la moneda. Latinoamérica es una canción hermosa pero le resta mérito estar  inconclusa.

10 years...

This is one of those days I never stop writing on... I've been doing it for ten years and it served both  as a catharsis, you know, just another drop in the Ocean of grief that was September 11, 2001... as much as an experiment on personal perception, on how my views about something so earth shattering could change in time, if possible based upon the turns of the world around it.

 Writing is something personal, and it is tainted or blessed by the imprint of the soul of the person who puts his or her thoughts on paper. Today I am sober, introspective; physical pain does that to you.  Perhaps if I were not going through a flareup, my musings might be a little brighter, cheerful even. That I'll never know. Whatever comes out, I can assure you this is the one day I rather not be cynical, or bitter, or try to be a smart ass.

Some  ten years ago I was sleeping late. I worked the graveyard shift in Capital One's Collections Department... (whenever we go to sleep in the East Coast, there are people in the West Coast that are coming home and deserve to be pestered with phone calls just like everybody else). Lee woke me up and I was not in my best mood. She told me a plane had crashed against one of the Twins and I answered "Oh Geez, poor plane, I mean those buildings can stand up to a 727" and she told me "I think is something bigger."

We sat in front of the TV and honestly I can't recall much on the whereabouts of the other people in my family. Instead of being one of those days everyone was just there, mom and dad were working and so was Lysania. Kenken at four years old was doing what she still does best- drawing - lost in a world of color and imagination, safe from it all by virtue of innocence. I remember Lee. My middle sister and I, we have never been too touchy feely, though we love each other dearly. I remember her hands, intertwined with mine and how we were both slightly trembling. Lee saw the second plane coming before the people who were covering the news noticed. i remember her nails digging in my arms as she pointed to the screen. She had barely screamed "another" when the man in the news echoed her. It was obvious then ans all I could say was "Mercy."

In a matter of minutes we had to internalize witnessing an event that was meant to change the world as we knew it and when KenKen asked why we were crying we were dismissive, after all what has a child to do with terror. Lee held her and told her "There was a big fire in New York." Kenken tilted her head, like most little kids do when they are trying to fit in something, it is almost comical, the tilt of the head and the meeting of the eyebrows... "but I love New York"- as if her statement could keep the city safe from harm. We all did baby, in fact the world entire were New Yorkers at the end of that crisp September day.

As names and possible culprits rose from the ashes, as heroes served and died in the blink of an eye, as the greatest strike to touch American soil since Pearl Harbor took shape, I remember being angry. Very angry. I've always been a fan girl of troops and though Osama bin Laden was not a household name to all I did remember the guy being linked to the USS Cole. We had a mastermind and a possible target in Afghanistan and I remember going to bed saying "Boy, they will soon enough change the topography of that fucking country." Some people might say, oh Lynnette that is not the Christian thing to do or say, but I've never been a hypocrite and nor will I rewrite what I said or felt in order to make it look better. If I am really a Christian then God is a witness to all. In His mercy he even cut of some slack for anger. As I prayed that night though, my initial word "mercy" stayed with me, soothed me, healed me, as I prayed for those that soon will be at risk on both sides: our troops and the innocents in the cross fire.

Ten years on and I will venture say the guys upstairs do not understand the scope of what it is to fight this type of war. Some people might say that being a secular government, we are not equipped to deal with religious ideology based violence. well, ten years ago I decided not to be left in the dark. I started with my Bible. I read it with the sole purpose to find the roots of the Arab bitterness. Guess what, I found none. Jewish scripture didn't shed much light either. In fact Ismaelites were quite loving of their brothers, the sons of Isaac, little rascal that he turned out to be and all. The next logical step would be to read the Koran, which I did- study guide and all- so no one can come and tell me about something I don't know. As I read the Bismillah, I cried, because Allah turned out to be merciful and compassionate and it really hit me how a few could turn something beautiful into a weapon of hate... Ten years on, we are to recognize it happens everywhere. The man who took it upon himself to execute the Norway massacre had, after all, a Bible among his possessions. Don't you dare to blame a book, nor a religion, let alone God for the actions of twisted minds. The sons and daughter of mercy shall prevail. Peace be with you, Shalom, as Salaam Alaykum, they all mean the same, you know.

Heroes. If anything that day, all who died, including those who were born in foreign soil, were considered American Martyrs and everyone who rose to the occasion was dubbed, without a second thought, an American hero. As my heart goes out to the first response workers, the fire fighters and the police that day, to the troops gone and hurt in the killing fields of Afghanistan and Iraq and through the world... it is flight 93 the one I rather write about today.

They didn't have to do it. They could have stayed placed in their seats, saying one last prayer, calling a loved one, asking why me... however these group of people, who comprised a random sample of America, took a stand that kept a bigger tragedy at bay. At that moment, they didn't stop to analyze in depth whether  to include God in a brief prayer offended the sensibilities of those around them, nor did they took count of how many Republicans/Democrats were on the flight or whether or not they could reach a deal that will bring over the other in their objective. When Todd Beamer pronounced that "Let's Roll" that has been sketched in America's psyche, he didn't stop to question Mark Bingham's sexual orientation or whether or not he deserved certain constitutional rights, nor did the other one refused... they were side by side being men of the same stature. Some people say that death is an automatic passage to exhalation in the eyes of the living, after all I've never met anyone who hasn't been "a wonderful person" upon being laid to rest. However, looking at how we are living our lives today and the petty fights and the dirty politics we all get stuck with; I'll dare say, without hesitation that we lost a sample of our best and our brightest on that flight. I wish we had more people who are willing to do what is needed instead of weighing their personal agendas. Mercy was with them that day, as it takes a lot of love and purpose to lay your life for the sake of another.

Where am I going? I don't know... maybe I just want to remind all this is not a day for politics. It is a day for all of us.

I'm watching my TV screen, getting glimpses of what will be the grand reveal of the memorial tomorrow and I just hope that eventually that place will fill with laughter and vendors and crazy people playing guitar and the occasional colorful and scary bum, you know, 'cause it's New York and the city wouldn't have it any other way. Ten years on, and we still live and learn. Ten years on we are justified, critizised, both the best and the worse country in the world depending on who is asking or who is answering.... and I glimpse at my TV and see bits of green where ashes once stood and man made falls where so many tears were shed, and names, representing lives, carved in what seems endless rows and I know there is something we owe them...

As I type, I'm feeling a lot better, which means the piece, which started gloomy will not be at all cohesive. It is expected for me to go revise what I have written and make it sensical, structured. Not today, not even a spell check I swear. This day has always been dinamic for me, you know the one day I toss it all out the window and ask myself, what can be done for others, how is it that we can manage to live our lives with one degree of separation from one another... ten years on, no one should stand on the sidelines. Get out, donate, give your time, educate your children the best way you can with aims of making them better than you ever were. Never forget, but do forgive and let's go forwards and fix those things we've found are wrong. I know we might be on a rut, but we can rise above it.

Tomorrow I might or not go to church, if I do, my sister Lee will be there and there is a chance that we might hold hands and laugh. And thank for mercy. It will be a wonderful day, I bet.