Singing

Singing is very different than talking. I, for one, love to sing at the top of my lungs. Many songs that I sing, which are not hymns, I have found have spiritual qualities. For instance, I love to sing along with U2 and Pink Floyd. Both of these artists point out the failures of man, and the needs of others, as well as the need of something more than materialism. I love to sing in church as well, and every time that I sing, I feel uplifted and closer to God. Song does put us on level ground with one another. Many people use song to express themselves. My husband can usually tell what kind of mood I am in by the music that is playing on the radio. He doesn’t even have to lay eyes on me to be able to tell. When I am down, I listen to uplifting music to pick myself back up.

Beautiful Day

U2

The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground
There's no room
No space to rent in this town

You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere

You thought you'd found a friend
To take you out of this place
Someone you could lend a hand
In return for grace

It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

You're on the road
But you've got no destination
You're in the mud
In the maze of her imagination

You love this town
Even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over
And it's been all over you

It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
It's a beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Teach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

See the world in green and blue
See China right in front of you
See the canyons broken by cloud
See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
See the Bedouin fires at night
See the oil fields at first light
And see the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out

It was a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
Beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Reach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now
Don't need it now
Was a beautiful day

A Psalm for giving thanks. Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth! Serve the Lord with gladness! Come into his presence with singing! Psalm 100:1-2 

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. Colossians 3:16

Addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart, Ephesians 5:19

Oh come, let us sing to the Lord; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation! Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise! Psalm 95:1-2

Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray. Is anyone cheerful? Let him sing praise. James 5:13

Praise the Lord! Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens! Praise him for his mighty deeds; praise him according to his excellent greatness! Praise him with trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with sounding cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals! Psalm 150:1-6

Praise the Lord! For it is good to sing praises to our God; for it is pleasant, and a song of praise is fitting. Psalm 147:1

What am I to do? I will pray with my spirit, but I will pray with my mind also; I will sing praise with my spirit, but I will sing with my mind also. 1 Corinthians 14:15

I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me. Psalm 13:6

About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them, Acts 16:25

Oh come, let us sing to the Lord; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation! Psalm 95:1

The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing. Zephaniah 3:17

My mouth is filled with your praise, and with your glory all the day. Psalm 71:8

Saying, “I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will sing your praise.” Hebrews 2:12

Through him then let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name. Hebrews 13:15

And in order that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy. As it is written, “Therefore I will praise you among the Gentiles, and sing to your name.” Romans 15:9

And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. Mark 14:26

I will sing a new song to you, O God; upon a ten-stringed harp I will play to you, Psalm 144:9

Then Moses and the people of Israel sang this song to the Lord, saying, I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea. Exodus 15:1

But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth. John 4:23-24

Sing to him a new song; play skillfully on the strings, with loud shouts. Psalm 33:3

And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. Matthew 26:30

David again gathered all the chosen men of Israel, thirty thousand. And David arose and went with all the people who were with him from Baale-judah to bring up from there the ark of God, which is called by the name of the Lord of hosts who sits enthroned on the cherubim. And they carried the ark of God on a new cart and brought it out of the house of Abinadab, which was on the hill. And Uzzah and Ahio, the sons of Abinadab, were driving the new cart, with the ark of God, and Ahio went before the ark. And David and all the house of Israel were making merry before the Lord, with songs and lyres and harps and tambourines and castanets and cymbals. 2 Samuel 6:1-23

To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David. A Song. God shall arise, his enemies shall be scattered; and those who hate him shall flee before him! As smoke is driven away, so you shall drive them away; as wax melts before fire, so the wicked shall perish before God! But the righteous shall be glad; they shall exult before God; they shall be jubilant with joy! Sing to God, sing praises to his name; lift up a song to him who rides through the deserts; his name is the Lord; exult before him! Father of the fatherless and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation. Psalm 68:1-35

But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him. John 4:23 

God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth. John 4:24

By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our lyres. For there our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” How shall we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill! Psalm 137:1-9

To the choirmaster. A Psalm of the Sons of Korah. Clap your hands, all peoples! Shout to God with loud songs of joy! For the Lord, the Most High, is to be feared, a great king over all the earth. He subdued peoples under us, and nations under our feet. He chose our heritage for us, the pride of Jacob whom he loves. Selah God has gone up with a shout, the Lord with the sound of a trumpet. Psalm 47:1-9

Sing to him, sing praises to him; tell of all his wondrous works! Psalm 105:2

"I am here for a purpose and that purpose is to grow into a mountain, not to shrink to a grain of sand. Henceforth will I apply all my efforts to become the highest mountain of all and I will strain my potential until it cries for mercy."

~ Og Mandino

"A life of reaction is a life of slavery, intellectually and spiritually. One must fight for a life of action, not reaction."

~ Rita Mae Brown

Chapter 13: Creating: The Truth of Beauty

There are two main views of art in the Christian world. People either feel that art is dangerous because it “distracts us from our primary love for God” (157). Or, they feel that art is here for us to enjoy, and it is separate from the church. Others views agree that art and imagination can be “used and abused,” but serve “a distinct spiritual purpose in individuals’ lives and in the church” (158). It is important for us to remember that art and beauty comes from God, and God is the very essence of beauty (Psalms 27:4). Furthermore, according to Ephesians 2:10 we are all “God’s handiwork or compositions” (159). Tippens also reminds us that Jesus was an artist (carpenter) that saw beauty in everything around him. Also Tippens tells us that art can lead others to faith, and most art comes from the artists’ search for something beyond the physical world.

I agree that the ability to create art through film, books, music, singing, acting, drawing, and painting are all gifts from God. Like Tippens, I feel that the temptation to misuse these abilities can be dangerous. In American society, it is common for artists to move away from their original intention, transcendentalism, and toward art for the sake of money. This is why I agree with Tippens that the church should not shun the artists in the congregation. They should welcome the artists with opened arms just as they welcome everyone else. With much of the media in the world it is hard to see the beauty in everything. However, artists have the ability to imagine what the rest of us cannot. This makes them an invaluable asset to their congregation. We must be careful, though, to positively spark the creativity and imagination of our artists of tomorrow. After all, “the Bible itself is a majestic work of art” (165).

"The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind."

~ Maya Angelou

William Blake

Garden of Love

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briers my joys and desires.

London

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

Songs of Experience

Infant Joy

I have no name
I am but two days old.—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,—
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.

Infant Sorrow

My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.

And did those feet

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

Blake shows contempt for society and the church. Blake must have felt that living within society’s boundaries restricted spirituality and individuality.

Struggling in my father’s hands, / Striving against my swaddling bands,” (“Infant Sorrow;” p. 95; lines 5-6) 

Although Blake’s father raised him to conform to society, he found it too constricting. Blake will strive if he breaks free from his rearing.

“I will not cease from Mental Fight, / Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand, / Till we have built Jerusalem / In England’s green and pleasant Land.” (“And did those feet;” p. 124; lines 13-16) 

Blake warns that no one can stop his mind. Blake’s “Sword” is his pen. He will continue to fight with words. Blake will not end his battle  until the views of England’s society changes.

“I went to the Garden of Love, / And saw what I never had seen: / A Chapel was built in the midst, / Where I used to play on the green. / And the gates of this Chapel were shut, / And “Thou shalt not” writ over the door; / So I turn’d to the Garden of Love, / That so many sweet flowers bore, / And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be; / And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys & desires.” 

The Garden of Love was once a beautiful, peaceful place where one could find God. The church has, now, turned its back on its people and  restricted them to the point of spiritual death.

“O Earth, O Earth, Return! / Arise from out the dewy grass; / Night is worn / And the morn / Rises from the slumberous mass.” (“From Songs of Experience;” p. 88; lines 11-15) 

Blake’s use of symbolism is rich in this verse. Blake calls for spiritual awakening throughout the land. He tells the reader to turn on their inner light. The time for dark times is over. Your inner light will aid in awakening others.

In our media-driven society, it is difficult for a person to show individuality. If a person acts different, doctors are quick to medicate them so they are like everyone else. People far too often use plastic surgery and bariatric surgery to change what makes them different. The media pushes conformity in similar ways Blake’s society pushed conformity.

"If you are not living on the edge, you're taking up too much room."

~ Lorraine Teel

Whitman and Dickinson

To understand the difference between Whitman’s and Dickinson’s views of nature, the reader must first understand how Whitman and Dickinson view themselves and their individual connection to God. According to Susan Belasco Smith, Whitman “fuses the self to the world” (113). He sees interconnectedness between God, humankind, and nature. Whitman believed we are all a part of God, everything exists in God, and God exists in everything.

In “Song of Myself” Whitman wrote, “I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked” (line 19). Not only was Whitman trying to shock the prudish people of his time, but also he was trying to have them understand the body is beautiful and sacred. When Whitman uses I, myself, or me; it must be understood that he does not mean the individual. Instead, he is saying I, myself, or me, who is one with God, all of humankind, and nature.

Unlike Whitman, when Dickinson uses the words I, myself, or me; she is speaking of the lonely, isolated individual. She felt hopeless and powerless in the world. When describing Dickinson’s view of self, Smith states, “the self is ultimately lonely, separate from nature and God, and constantly involved in conflict” (113). Due to her sense of powerlessness, Dickinson’s poetry is often filled with death, pain, and despair. In poem number two-hundred-fifty-eight, Dickinson writes, “Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – / We can find no scar, / But internal difference, / Where the Meanings, are –“ (lines 5-8).

Dickinson speaks of a spiritual pain in which one cannot ever escape. Although Whitman and Dickinson had such radically different views on the connection between God, humankind, and nature, it is important for the reader to remember both poets believed in a transcendent God, and they both saw the beauty in nature. It seems, however, their differences lie in the role of humans in the world. 

Smith, Susan Belasco. “Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson: Poetry of the Central Consciousness by Agnieszka Salska.” South Central Review. Vol. 4.4: Winter 1987: 112-115.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

“God’s Grandeur”

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
  It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;        5
  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
  And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
  There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;        10
And though the last lights off the black West went
  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

“The Windhover” 

To Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
  dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
  Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,        5
  As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
  Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
  Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion        10
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

  No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
  Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

“Carrion Comfort”

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me        5
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,        10
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Analysis

To Hopkins, God is the creator and the savior of man. He is the power, truth, beauty, and answer. Also to Hopkins, God is all around man, even if they do not notice Him.

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God. / It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; / It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?” (“God’s Grandeur;” lines 1-4) 

Hopkins uses an electrical current and oil as metaphors for the power, beauty, and majesty of God. The power, beauty, and majesty have been infused through the entire world. Most men do not see or feel the “grandeur” of God, though it is there. Because they do not see him, these men ignore God.

And for all this, nature is never spent; / There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; / And though the last lights off the black West went / Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. (“God’s Grandeur”) 

Despite the destruction of the world due to the Industrial Revolution, nature still exists because of God. The beauty and power of God can be found in nature because it is an indication of God’s existence, more like a manifestation. God creates life even in the darkest recesses of the world.

“daylight’s dauphin” (“The Windhover;” line 2) 

Hopkins use of daylight is a metaphor for God. Daylight is known in many cultures as a giver of life, because without sunlight, life cannot be sustained. For Christians, God is the giver of life. Without God, life cannot be sustained.

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. / Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, / Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. / Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród / Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year / Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God. (“Carrion Comfort;” lines 9-14) 

Regardless of all of Hopkins’ suffering, he accepted God. His acceptance has made him happy and strong. Though he still suffers and questions his faith, God still rescued him, and beauty is still around him. God is his answer, his truth.

Hopkins’ poetry all seems to have the same underlying theme. The three poems assigned reflect man’s struggle with God. In “God’s Grandeur,” Hopkins admits that not all men are believers, and some who do believe, ignore God. These same assumptions can be made about man in today’s society. Paganism and Wicca are on the rise, as is the claims of Atheistic beliefs. These shifts in religious beliefs are evidence of man’s struggle with God.

"The best is yet to be."

~ Robert Browning

Word Maps

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 15

15 Day Blogger Challenge - Getting to Know the Blogger

This challenge is open to any and everyone who wants to get to know each other a little better in the blogosphere. I encourage you all to make this challenge your own. There is no special format to follow or rules on posting. Do your challenge in 1 day by answering all the questions at once or do it in 90 days. Just have fun!

Challenge Questions:

Closing and any upcoming posts or raffles you would like to share with us.

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Closing/Upcoming Events

I could tell you a thousand a million times how much I appreciate all of you who visit my blog on a regular basis, but words cannot really show the extent of how much I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you for the kind comments and even those which are not so kind. Thank you for the likes and spreading the word about my quirky, geeky world. Thank you for it all.

Upcoming, you will find even more book reviews, views on spirituality, views on autism, views on art and photography, and my many stories, poems, art, and photography. I have no raffles coming up, for I do not have anything to raffle. Enjoy reading and viewing my blog as I continue to explore and make sense of my life and my creative nature.

The Adventures of Pammy McB: Panamanian Trembler

When I was in Panama, I saw many interesting, different, unusual, and frightening things. There were security guards patrolling the aisles of the movie theaters with machineguns in hand, and police officers brandishing the same armament and clad in riot gear patrolled the streets on foot. Quakoe’s, Panamanian transvestite prostitutes, flooded the streets as the sun touched the earth. Brightly painted buses with beautiful murals and deadly spikes on the wheels pushed their way through the crowded city streets. Beautiful beaches lay empty due to the ravenous sand fleas looking for a meal to come their way. The rain fell daily and precisely enough that a watch could be set by the first drop that fell from the sky. However, none of this compares to the girth of a mighty creature that crossed my path.

We were traveling down a poorly paved, small, two-lane road. The roadside was lined with grass huts and scantily clothed children and adults. My tour guide pointed out the people alongside the road and said, “You don’t want to stop here. Most of the women and children are prostitutes. They only have what you see them wearing. The children tend to be orphans, and the women tend to be widowed. If you stop, you can be robbed fairly easily. They are desperate and will do anything for money.”

I did not ask questions, nor did I say a word. I had never seen poverty such as this, and I counted my blessings. As a child, we were one of the poorest families in town, but it was nothing like this. We still had a home, food, though it was often the same every night, clothing, shoes, toys, and utilities. Suddenly, it did not feel right to say, “We were poor.” We had no clue; “We struggled” is much closer.

I continued to watch from the open aired Jeep, and my wide brown eyes took in everything. I did not hear everything my guide was saying, as my brain was trying to process the new culture I had suddenly become engulfed in. The further from the oceans we traveled, the denser the lush green jungle became until the sun was blocked out from the sky. Overhead, webs hung from branches and insects swarmed. The small flying creatures did not stand much of a chance. Those, which were not caught within a loosely constructed web, became prey to the predatory swarms of birds diving from the formation of their flock to scoop the insects into their bills.

The pavement construction gradually degraded until we were flying down a tight, bumpy, dirt road. The road twisted and turned through the jungle, and the driver rambled on, “You do not want to walk into the jungle for any reason. We have had people walk just twenty feet into the jungle never to be seen or heard from again.”

I wondered how they would know the distance the unfortunate soul had traversed into the thick underbrush if the person was never seen or heard from again, but I chose not to query my guide. I started listening once again to his well-practiced speech, and I knew he must go through this speech several times a month when a new grunt arrived to the fort.

“Never try to navigate the jungle without proper gear, clothing, shoes, and a compass.”

The Jeep came to an abrupt stop. About a car length ahead of us, a log lay across the full width of the road. The swaying shadows from the limbs above cast a dark, ominous cloud around us. I spoke, “I don’t like this.”

The driver responded, “Neither do I. hide your dog tags in your blouse. I have heard stories of villagers and renegades downing trees before the approach of travelers and taking them hostage. I have to get out and make sure no trap has been set behind us before going any further.”

I sat quietly and waited. My brown eyes transfixed on the log. I began to shiver as a gust of humid hair brushed across the sweat beading up on my skin. I looked above at the large web dangling between branches. The scream of an animal deep within the jungle sent chills down my spine. My senses heightened, and I jumped when the driver called out my name, “Pam!” I had not seen him approach the car. “I didn’t and don’t see anything suspicious. Do you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, “If you can help me move the log, we can be on our way.”

Relieved, I stepped out of the Jeep. As we neared the downed tree, I caught a glimpse of a twitch on the trunk. “I just saw something move.”

“It’s probably the heat. The heat will make you see things.”

We continued on, as I took his word for it. Again, my eye caught a twitch, and the closer we approached, the more twitches I was able to make out. “No, I am serious. That thing is moving, and why does that tree trunk have spots when the rest of the trees don’t?" Five feet from the log, I froze in my tracks. “It’s moving,” I hissed barely audible.

Quietly the driver responded, “I think you are right.” He pulled a small flashlight from his cargo pockets, and shined a light on the log. He, too, froze. “No sudden movements,” he whispered.

I gasped and began to slowly back away from the log, which was no log at all. The light revealed scales on the monstrous snake crossing the road before us. The driver quickly cut off the beam, as he whispered, “Slowly back away.”

“I already am,” I muttered carefully as I tried not to sound afraid. I could not believe my eyes. The muscles of the great beast contracted and twitched slowly. The massive creature made its way across the narrow road; its girth narrowing as it slithered into the darkness of the jungle. All the while, the driver and I made our way back to the Jeep.

Dumfounded, I could not make sense of what I had seen. My body tensed when the starter turned over and kicked the Jeep’s engine to life. I do not remember getting my seatbelt on, and the faint coolness of shock washed over me. My forehead grew clammy and cold, and my hands shook uncontrollably. A sense of nausea rushed through my core, and the world around me spun out of control. I thought to myself, “I have to get it under control,” but my body failed to comply.

“Hot damn! That was neater than a skeeter’s peter,” my guide hollered jolting me back to my senses. “I have heard of snakes takin’ off with people in the night, but I never believed it could be true. Man! I can not wait to tell the boys back at the base about this. Did you git a picture? I didn’t even think to take one. Damn! No one’s gonna believe this shit without a picture.” He rushed, “I’m gonna have to get you to back me up! Those boys are always tellin’ tall tales. You’ll back me up, Pam, won’t cha?”

“Um-hum.”

“What’s the matter with you, girl? You look like you done seen a ghost,” he teased.

“I’m fine,” I replied and tried to further compose myself. “I’m just fine,” I reiterated in an effort to present myself as a strong soldier.

All of the training simulations and all of the endurance tests had failed to prepare me for that colossal snake. I could sharp shoot a target, but I doubt that I could have taken down that beast. It strikes me funny, today, to think of myself in my youth. I was cocky, young, and believed I could take on the world. That is until that creature humbled me.

©Pamela N. Brown

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 14

15 Day Blogger Challenge - Getting to Know the Blogger

This challenge is open to any and everyone who wants to get to know each other a little better in the blogosphere. I encourage you all to make this challenge your own. There is no special format to follow or rules on posting. Do your challenge in 1 day by answering all the questions at once or do it in 90 days. Just have fun!

Challenge Questions:

14. Social Networks/Blog Communities you want others to know you're a part of.

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Where I Can Be Found

I  can be found at any of the following sites:

An Alien In Our World & Autism Support Network

My ASD journal is my journey through life as being a quirky, geeky, eccentric teen through adulthood. I have recently learned that I was never so odd as I thought; I have tested to have Asperger’s Syndrome. Of course, that doesn’t change anything. I am still quirky, geeky, and eccentric. I also share stories of what life was like being raised with an uncle with autism and cerebral palsy, and I share stories about being the mother of a child with autism. Because I graduated from university with a degree in special education with an emphasis in autism, this blog also includes papers and research about autism. I have included, from time to time, other mental disabilities, neurobiological disorders, and mental health issues. This is for several reasons, I do have other family members with these.

Cafe Mom

My mommy adventures.

deviantArt & Life Is Not What You Think

My artwork and literature blog is where I post my creative writing exercises, poetry, short stories, and artwork. I dabble in inks, pastels, oil pastels, oil paints, acrylics, graphite, charcoals, Conte crayons, water colors (Chinese and regular), Sharpies, and colored pencils. I sketch, paint, and stipple. A lot of times, I also do digital artwork.

Exploring the World Around Me & Photobucket

My photography/travel journal is just that. I post pictures that I have taken of people, places, and things. There is usually a description of where I was, what I was doing, and what kinds of filters were used. I photograph everything from nature, to people, to industrial parks, to animals. I enjoy photographing what I see and sharing it with my blog followers. I wish to some day have a gallery of my own where I can display both my photography and my art. Photobucket also contains some artwork.

Facebook & Myspace

These are  places that I just hang out with my family and friends. I don't post much on here like I used to. I do post quotes daily, though.

Nethkâdasch Schmach

(translation ~ May Your Light Be Experienced in My Utmost Holiest) My faith based blog is my exploration of my faith. I have learned throughout the years to have great faith and spirituality, you must question your faith and spirituality. This is my personal journey through my beliefs and faith. My goal is not to offend anyone; and if one takes offense to what I say or write on this blog, then they should check their own faith. This is just a journal where I try to make sense of what I have studied and learned since I was a small child.

Pandora & Goodreads & Pinterest & 
Stumbleupon

On these sites, you can find my interests and likes.

Spore

Love the game ~ enough said.

Tumbler & Twitter & WordPress

On WordPress, Twitter, and Tumbler, all of my blogs are combined.

YouTube

My original videos. They're not spectacular, but every now and again I make a really cool one that I like to show off.

Nouns

Robert Browning

Porphyria’s Lover

The rain set early in to-night,
       The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
       And did its worst to vex the lake:
       I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
       She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
       Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
       Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
       And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
       And, last, she sat down by my side
       And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
       And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
       And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
       And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
       Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
       From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
       And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
       Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
       For love of her, and all in vain:
       So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
       Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
       Made my heart swell, and still it grew
       While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
       Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
       In one long yellow string I wound
       Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
       I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
       I warily oped her lids: again
       Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
       About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
       I propped her head up as before,
       Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
       The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
       That all it scorned at once is fled,
       And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
       Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
       And all night long we have not stirred,
       And yet God has not said a word!

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

Gr-r-r — there go, my heart’s abhorrence!
   Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
   God’s blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
   Oh, that rose has prior claims —
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
   Hell dry you up with its flames!
At the meal we sit together;
   Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
   Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
   Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt;
What’s the Latin name for “parsley?”
   What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout?
Whew! We’ll have our platter burnished,
   Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,
   And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
   Ere ’tis fit to touch our chaps —
Marked with L. for our initial!
   (He-he! There his lily snaps!)
Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores
   Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
   Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
   — Can’t I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as ’twere a Barbary corsair’s?
   (That is, if he’d let it show!)
When he finishes refection,
   Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
   As do I, in Jesu’s praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
   Drinking watered orange-pulp —
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
   While he drains his at one gulp.
Oh, those melons? If he’s able
   We’re to have a feast! so nice!
One goes to the Abbot’s table,
   All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double?
   Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange! — And I, too, at such trouble,
   Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
There’s a great text in Galatians,
   Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
   One sure, if another fails:
If I trip him just a-dying,
   Sure of heaven as sure as can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
   Off to hell, a Manichee?
Or, my scrofulous French novel
   On grey paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
   Hand and foot in Belial’s gripe:
If I double down its pages
   At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
   Ope a sieve and slip it in ’t?
Or, there’s Satan! — one might venture
   Pledge one’s soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
   As he’d miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
   We’re so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...
“St, there’s Vespers! Plena gratiâ
   Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine!

I was very disturbed when I read “Porphyria’s Lover.” I thought, “Oh my! I didn’t just read a poem about auto-erotic asphyxiation, did I?” Browning’s poetry is, by far, more different than anything else we have read. It is so violent. Browning feels that sin motivates people. According to Browning, Victorian times brought about a sense of moral decay. He was attempting to find an end to the struggle between morality and sensuality. There is also an outcry against religious instability found in Browning’s poetry. Overall, he was trying to make the reader more aware of the world in which they lived.

“That moment she was mine,…I am quite sure she felt no pain.” (“Porphyria’s Lover;” lines 36-42)

In order for the character to maintain the innocence of this moment of prohibited sex forever, he strangles the young girl. It is this fine line between sensuality and morality that the character struggles with.

“And this we sit together now, / And all night long we have not stirred, / And yet God has not said a word!” (“Porphyria’s Lover;” lines 58-60)

The character is still satisfying his senses by his play and embrace of Porphyria’s corpse. He tells us that his actions are acceptable because God has not struck him down. God has done nothing. Browning is prompting the reader to ask where The Church is when all of this immoral behavior is going on.

Text: “G-r-r-r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence!...would not mine kill you!” (“Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister;”)

This monk is having evil thoughts about Brother Lawrence. He has hatred in his heart. The character is thinking of killing Brother Lawrence. Browning is trying to get the reader to realize that even the most trusted members of The Church are not free from sin.

Stanza 9 of “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” (lines 65-73)

The monk even speaks of striking a deal with Satan in order to betray his brother. The speaker says, however, that he plans to betray Satan as well. A sin such as a monk making a deal with Satan is one of the worst sins that one could commit. This is a good example of how Browning is trying to get the reader to see the severity of the crimes committed by those in charge of The Church.

The visions that Browning gives us from his poetry are not only reflective of his era, but also reflective of ours. Browning’s use of monks throughout “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” allows the reader to see that not even the holiest of men are not free from sin. They cannot be trusted either. In today’s society there is also a distrust of clergy. In “Porphyria’s Lover,” we get a portrait of a murderer who likes to toy with the corpse of his victim. This is not unlike men such as Jeffrey Dahmer. The similarities between both societies are astounding.

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 13

15 Day Blogger Challenge - Getting to Know the Blogger

This challenge is open to any and everyone who wants to get to know each other a little better in the blogosphere. I encourage you all to make this challenge your own. There is no special format to follow or rules on posting. Do your challenge in 1 day by answering all the questions at once or do it in 90 days. Just have fun!

Challenge Questions:

13. Blogs you visit and read enthusiastically.

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Who Do I Read?

I read a lot, and by a lot, I really mean A  L O T  of blogs, and I enjoy reading most of them. If I don't enjoy a blog, I normally will not return to it. However, I return to more than I have time to keep up with. If I had to chose my top 10, they would be as follows:

10. Bizarre Stuff

The writer's description is:

This blog is about bizarre stuff, including people, events, activities, strange occurrences, cataclysmic upheavals,men jumping on cops's backs and demanding free public transport to Cuba, penis and vagina festivals in Japan, abandoned and barbecued grandmothers, men having sex with their patio tables, severed arms being thrown out with the trash, feces falling from the sky, and banana ripening machines that explode in the night. No warranties, express or implied, are made as to the originality, truthfulness, or authenticity of these materials. Not suitable for young children, unless accompanied by a very open-minded parent or guardian, not under a restraining order issued by any competent court of law.

I came across this blog by accident. I was just looking for more information on a ranch that I found, and the writer had a blog posted on the ranch. After I read about the ranch, I continued reading the posts; and I have become hooked. The most bizarre thing about the entire situation, is that I would never know the crazy stuff that goes on in the world had I never come across this blog.

9. Mama's Losin' It

The writer's description is:

I’m Kathy. A sarcastic mother of three with a busy home daycare that clashes with my desire to do nothing all day. I’m a has-been English teacher who secretly enjoys fragmented sentences. My rebellious side. I’m an attention craving poodle and I have an affinity for aprons. In blog land I go by Mama Kat. Because I’m a mama and I’m Kat and it just felt right putting the two together. I started blogging privately in August of 2007 as a way to share pictures and stories with family. When I didn’t get enough attention from them I made my blog public and officially became addicted to this world. I love that it gives me purpose. I love that it gives me friends. And I love that it gives my kids an account of their childhoods so they can look back and see just how and when Mama lost it all. If they ever learn to read.

I found this blog while looking for creative writing prompts. I enjoy Mama Kat's posts, which take you through the life of a young American mom. Reading her posts always brings back memories of when my boys were younger and all of the fun/crazy times we always have had.

8. Joy Harjo's Poetic Adventures in the Last World Blog

The writer's description is:

This is Joy Harjo's ongoing journal of dreams, stories, poems,music, photographs, and assorted reports from her inner and outer travels about Indian country and the rest of the world.

I found this blog while researching my heritage. Joy is a Creek Indian, which is also my grandmother's ethnicity. I have found through my years in college and since that learning about the history and culture of people, it is far easier to gain understanding through the literature of the people than looking in history books. I enjoy reading Joy's adventures; and through reading her blog, I am getting a better sense of my own identity.

7. Jesse Petersen ~ Urban Fantasy Author and Proud Geek

The writer's description is:

Jesse’s life as a writer began when her husband made the brilliant observation that she was much happier writing than doing anything else. So she took the plunge and decided to do that full-time. After many years and many books in different sub-genres, she was bitten by the zombie bug (not a zombie, but the bug) and took off on a zany adventure into the world of Urban Fantasy. Soon zombies were not enough and now she is poised to take over the world with her not-so-normal paranormal stories which inject dark humor into uncommon circumstances.

When not coming up with stories about the weird and wonderful she lives in Tucson, AZ, with her high school sweetheart husband and two cats. She plays video games, hangs out with her favorite nephews, hikes in the beautiful mountains, watches wayyyyy too much reality TV (and some really good scripted TV), ponders all things geekish and madly scribbles notes on her next idea while she laughs at people who still have to shovel snow.

Oh and from time to time she even writes, which is still what she likes to do best. She loves chatting with fans of her stories and lovers of geeky things. She encourages you to contact her at the various places listed on this fabulous website (keep scrolling, you’ll see it).

I found this blog after reading Married With Zombies by Jesse Petersen. I enjoy reading her blog because she provides her fans with challenges and writing prompts, also because I can keep up with the release dates for new books that Jesse has published.

6. Mental Notes

The writer's description is:

I am a sucker for love and a sob story, I am definitely for the under dog. I am a little weird but very loving, I am perfectly imperfect but shhhh don’t tell anyone (: I am also a recovering heroin addict my clean date is September 24 2010, although I don’t like labels, I understand I can not use drugs in moderation under any circumstances. I stay clean no matter how bad or good I feel that’s it that’s all no compromise! I wrote a poetry book called mental notes about addiction and all the insanity associated with it, I have randomly been posting pieces of the book to my blog. Here is the kindle link. I am so grateful for the road I am traveling!

There is way too much I can say about me but I won’t bore u with my way to boring bio. We all have one common bond, we love to write.

I am still trying to figure all this out (life) in the mean time I will do what the universe has called me to do…write.

I found this blog via a comment on one of my posts. Latoya is such a talented poet. I have respect for people like Latoya, who use their writing as a way to reach out to people who have been in similar situations as she has. She evokes emotion from the deepest recesses of the soul.

5. DUDE, I'M AN ASPIE.

The writer's description is:

This blog promotes a greater understanding of people on the autism spectrum. All deserve to be treated with dignity and compassion. My goal is to give you a window into my everyday life, its highs and lows, with both honesty and humor.

I found this blog while looking for blogs on Autism Spectrum Disorders. Matt Friedman is a talented cartoonists, whose cartoons provide the reader with a vision of what the world is like to someone with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I am interested in the blog for two reasons. First and foremost, my son, Damien, is a child with autism. He was diagnosed at 16 months of age. Every since, I have been researching Autism Spectrum disorders. Damien is now 17 years of age. Second, my uncle, who is only 11 years older than me, is a person with autism. Finding blogs like these often gives me an insight into both my son and uncle that I may not otherwise have.

4. Red Willow Voices/ in assn. with mirabal.com

The writer's description is:

My world-writing is an art; it is simple if you open your heart yet in all the simplicity is the complexity...tell me your thoughts; however don't hurt others on my time. Life is too short to be disguised in demise. So be a member, thank you and enjoy.

Like with Joy Harjo's blog, I found this blog researching my ancestry. Robert Mirabal is a talented writer, recording artist, and visual artist. He, too, is Creek Indian, but lives on a Navajo reservation. I enjoy reading Mirabal's blog for the same reason as Harjo's. Also, I have learned from his blog that the stories my grandmother told me as a child, which were stories her mother told her, are actually Creek Indian Folklore. I am glad to know that what I thought was missing has been with me all along, my heritage.

3. A spiritual journey through illness and autism

The writer's description is:

A path through life's difficulties exploring beliefs, signs, nature, synchronicities and dreams ~ Walking the spiritual path through life's trials hoping I can learn, share and support along the way!

I enjoy reading this blog because I can feel a connection to the author. The blog covers the difficulties in dealing with illness as well as autism. The author is the mother of a child with autism.

2. seyisandradavid ~ A Writer With A Difference

The writer's description is:

Born in Nigeria on October 14, 1975, Seyi Sandra began dabbling into writing from an early age. Her first novel at the age of 13 was consider too ‘grown up’ by publishers but instead of that to dampen her spirit, she shrugged it off and completed her secondary school and she was promptly admitted to the University of Ilorin where she studied English Language.

At the completion of her degree, she got a job with the state’s local newspaper, ”People’s Advocate” where she quickly rose through the ranks to the post of a senior correspondent attached to the state house of assembly.

She is the bestselling author of ”The Impossible President” the novel gripped readers like storm in 2002 and it was released by Regency publishers.

The novel explores the possibility of a woman becoming the first female president in a country like Nigeria where men have failed woefully and politicians cannot be trusted due to their corruption and greed, a country where women are relegated to the background when it comes to governance. It’s a novel which celebrates womanhood and the ability to dream big and work hard towards achieving it.

She has established herself as a literary force with the publication of ”The Feet Of Darkness,” the novel sheds light on the struggles of a British scientist who finds himself embroiled in a plot that will not only change his life forever but the world as a whole, it was published in UK in 2007.

However, the second edition will be out shortly.

The Paperback and Kindle Edition of her new book, a short story, ”Tales Of Five Lies” is out now and can be purchased on Amazon websites.

However this link can take you directly to buy the book.

She is a columnist for ”Black Heritage Today,” a london based magazine and a Reviewer for Bookpleasures.

I found this blog via a comment on one of my posts left by Seyi Sandra. I enjoy reading this blog because of the uplifting message in just about every post: PRIDE. This blog touches the spiritual blogger in me.

1. Cherie Priest

The writer's description is:

I was born in Tampa, Florida, down the street from the stadium in 1975 — the same year that gave us Saturday Night Live and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, so I consider myself in good company. I have a B.A. in English from Southern Adventist University, here noted because it embarrasses them to share a paragraph with Tim Curry in drag; and I have an M.A. in Rhetoric (composition/critical theory) from the University of Tennessee, which couldn’t care less.

I write novels. To date, I’ve had thirteen published, and another one’s in the queue. My most recent books are The Inexplicables and Hellbent. My best-known book is probably Boneshaker (2009) – which was nominated for a Nebula Award and a Hugo Award. Boneshaker also won the PNBA Award, as well as the Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel, so yes, my resume is starting to look a little lop-sided. (Not that I’m complaining.)

[Edited to add: Speaking of Boneshaker ... ]

You can find a mostly proper bibliography over here.

In March of 2006 I married my long-time significant other, Aric; and together with our fat black cat named Spain (as in, “I claim this land for–”), we moved from Chattanooga to Seattle shortly after the wedding.

In January of 2012, we bought a lovely old house. In Tennessee.

In May, we moved back.

[Edited yet further to add: And now our family has grown by one fluffy black dog! Amazing Greyson, oversized puppy monster and neighborhood welcome wagon.]

Cherie Priest is my favorite author. I enjoy reading her posts, which help me keep up with her new work. I love how Cherie blends historical events with her imagination. Furthermore, Cherie's books often have women of strength and character throughout. My favorite of her books are her Clockwork Series, which are a series of Steampunk books. I do, however, enjoy reading her other work as well.

Villanelle

fair use for educational purposes only

The Art of Ofey

Richard Feynman's Little-Known Sketches & Drawings

by Maria Popova

Just like Sylvia Plath and Queen Victoria, Nobel-winning physicist Richard Feynman — champion of scientific culture, graphic novel hero, crusader for integrity, holder of the key to science, adviser of future generations, bongo player — was a surprisingly gifted semi-secret artist. He started drawing at the age of 44 in 1962, shortly after developing the visual language for his famous Feynman diagrams, after a series of amicable arguments about art vs. science with his artist-friend Jirayr "Jerry" Zorthian — the same friend to whom Feynman's timeless ode to a flower was in response. Eventually, the two agreed that they'd exchange lessons in art and science on alternate Sundays. Feynman went on to draw — everything from portraits of other prominent physicists and his children to sketches of strippers and very, very many female nudes — until the end of his life.

Transitions