tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76139197054080465712024-03-13T17:30:35.124-07:00Mind MattersSaying what's on my mind and in my heart.Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-29088372126591441492020-06-24T19:42:00.001-07:002020-06-24T19:56:12.646-07:00House with Many Doors<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> HOUSE WITH MANY DOORS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Carol Sheppard<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt;">6/23/2020<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I live in a house with many doors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Some are open. Some are closed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Behind each door is a room of light, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">or darkness, of varying degrees,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">From brightness as blinding as the sun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> to a darkness blacker than a
night <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">with no stars in the deepest forest.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just when I’m complacent, I think</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve seen </span><span style="font-family: aharoni; font-size: 12pt;">every door; been in every room,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">a dim light shines down a new hall, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">or on an undiscovered door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sometimes, if under the door is very black, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m frozen in fear, afraid to open it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I retreat to the familiar, but am haunted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t live alone in this house with many doors <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sometimes it feels like I do, and I forget to <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">to ask someone to walk with me d</span><span style="font-family: aharoni; font-size: 12pt;">own </span><br />
<span style="font-family: aharoni; font-size: 12pt;">these dark halls, & walk through each new door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is my house; behind every door, a secret; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">every darkness faced; every ray of light realized, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "aharoni"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Behind each new door is freedom.</span>Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-72504109559332218292017-05-11T21:15:00.002-07:002017-05-11T21:15:41.053-07:00Criminal - Part 1 - 1st Draft<div class="MsoNormal">
She became aware; blurry eyes noticed dark fuzzy figures walking
in the distance, getting larger by the second.
Alarmed, she realized they were heading toward her. She tried to move, and realized she was held
by something. Her head jerked right and
left. She couldn't move her hands further than the tubes attached by needles to
either arm. A random thought out of nowhere.
'At least I still have arms.'
From clear plastic like containers, a dingy yellow liquid, the color of
piss, or cheap beer, drained through one tube and a clear liquid drained from
another. By the time she realized that
she was in a hospital, the dark fuzzy creatures became clearer and then, they
were before her.</div>
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"Madeline O'Hara? Are you Madeline Margaret O'Hara?"</div>
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Something happened....what happened?</div>
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"Yes. I'm Madeline." Her anxiety was mounting.</div>
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"Do you remember what happened, Mrs. O'Hara?"</div>
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"It's Miss, actually."</div>
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The detective stared at her for one beat before continuing, "Miss
O'Hara, do you remember what happened?"</div>
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"What happened?
What happened? Panicked, Madeline
tried to sit up abruptly. The tubes and
detectives held her in place.</div>
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"Miss O'Hara.
Please remain calm. We need your
help. Do you remember anything?"</div>
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Madeline's memory seeped into her consciousness like the
liquid dripping into her veins. She
remembered packing for a trip to Colorado to see her grandsons. The Uber ride to the airport was uneventful,
but instead of feeling the excitement of getting out of the city and going
somewhere with altitude and mountains, she felt nervous and sad. </div>
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The ticket line was long and seemed to take forever forcing
her to stand longer than her 60 year-old body wanted to. She looked around; elderly people leaving the
safety and comfort of their 55-and up mobile home parks to visit family;
parents with too-young children, traveling hipsters and thug wanna bees, and
the infant son traveling with his father who she was sure was going to sit in
coach and scream during the entire four hour trip. The kid, not the father.</div>
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"I was on a plane."</div>
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"Do you remember anything else?" </div>
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She concentrated... the furrow on the detective's brow..lead
her back to the plane..</div>
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It had been years since she had been on a plane. Were the seats smaller? She was only 5'2", but the space between
the seats seemed small to her. She was
in a window seat by choice. She
maneuvered around the aisle seat and the middle seat, placed her bag in the
overhead, sat down and waited for the drugs to kick in. </div>
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"I remember packing, the ride to the airport, waiting
in line, and boarding. Nothing special
happened. I took some medication. I
think I fell asleep."</div>
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"Do you remember anything before that?" </div>
"Before, what?
what happened? Why am I here?"
She wasn't answering anymore questions until she had some answers.Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-81155009983846199982017-01-08T11:27:00.001-08:002017-01-08T15:50:11.435-08:00Good Bye Kayla Girl!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gamf7-aDuw0/VOTq1tbGaAI/AAAAAAAAAU4/yNYK45-M6Q8MiyzvFL8BvUFX9hghrrMBgCPcB/s1600/107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gamf7-aDuw0/VOTq1tbGaAI/AAAAAAAAAU4/yNYK45-M6Q8MiyzvFL8BvUFX9hghrrMBgCPcB/s320/107.JPG" width="319" /></a></div>
Kayla in 2010<br />
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<br />
UPDATE and <strong style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px;">Warning: There is no sugar or sugar substitutes below. This may be unpalatable to some readers.</strong><br />
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My Kayla-girl passed away on Friday, December 30, 2016. She was one month shy of 13 years old. I made the decision to put her down. I also prayed, numerous times, for God to remove the responsibility of taking some one's life from me. And yes, she was a someone, not a something. A very important someone in my life.</div>
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She was having trouble walking. In fact, she began to not want to walk at all. But when she did get going, she could walk longer and faster than I expected. She held her back legs straight and stiff when she walked. It seemed to support her better. Sometimes she fell, and when she did, sometimes we would have to wait a while before she could get moving again, and she would limp so badly, We would head back home. There were many times that I thought I would have to find a way to leave her where we were and get the car, but she amazed me by always making it home.</div>
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She also had lipomas all over her body. One I missed under her arm pit, which grew to the size of a baseball. By the time I found it, the lipoma had involved too many muscles and nerves to remove. This compromised her front leg.</div>
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But, God she was tough. She never complained. She loved me no matter what. She looked at me with such love that my eyes burn just thinking about her.</div>
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I was selfish. I couldn't do it anymore. She needed to be lifted up to get in the car. I helped her up and down stairs...when she would let me. She was very proud. I heard what I considered horror stories of people who couldn't make the decision either; who let their animals live when they couldn't get up. One lady told me she let her cat pee on a bed until they finally decided to take her to the vet. Then they had to throw the bed out after the vet said nothing could be done for her.</div>
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And then there was the cost of keeping her alive. Her Cushing medication alone was $177 every three months. She was on pain medication during the day and muscle relaxants at night. And there were the other four animals to think about, but I couldn't think about them.</div>
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I reached a point where the culmination of everything, the cost, the effort, the time, it got to be more than I could bear. I talked to my vet on the day I decided to do it. They said she would get to the place where she couldn't get up and I would have to call someone to the house, something my finances would never allow. Brooks told me I was doing the most loving, kind thing for Kayla.</div>
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I wanted to believer her, but the way Kayla died makes it hard to believe now.</div>
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Last August, 2016, I received an email from the Humane Society in Tampa. They had a new wing, with a "special room" for euthanasia. And they were cheap. Way cheap. $70.00. I spoke to an employee of the facility for months, until I finally decided it was time.</div>
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I took the day off of work. A friend went with me. I brought my other 2 dogs. I had insisted that they give her a sedative. Although my friend told me they do it that way anyway, I had a feeling....this was an underfunded company. They would likely try to skimp on the extras, and I was right. I insisted. What great and divine inspiration, because if she had died the way she did while she was awake, it would have been horrible.</div>
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When I got to the room, it was the same type of veterinary room at my vet's office. It was small, sterile with a metal table, with towels were thrown on the floor. We sat on the towels. Kayla was nervous and laid her head on my lap. My stomach had been upset for days and the thought to stop this and take her home kept looping around and around and around, right up until it was too late. I cried, my tears falling on her head. I told her I was sorry, over and over again. I tried to sing her song, but I couldn't get the words out.</div>
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The sedative takes about 10 minutes to work . Soon she was snoring on my lap. She was so peaceful. I wondered if this was the first real pain-free time she's had for awhile.</div>
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They seemed to have forgotten us. I was afraid she was going to wake up. Every minute that went by was more agonizing. When will this be over?</div>
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Finally, the tech and another female came to the room. The tech fumbled to find a vein, complaining that it was the sedative that made the veins retract. Later I was able to see that it was true, but God help the person they talk out of giving their animal a sedative.</div>
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As the fatal shot began to take hold, Kayla began retching. Her chest heaved, but her lungs had shut down. They call it a "reflex." I call it horrible. Almost hysterical, I asked them why this was happening. They said it was the sedative. Her last breath was a desperate attempt to breathe. On her last try, her jaw made this weird sound and jutted out unnaturally. I can only guess that she dislocated it trying to breath. It took her several minutes to die. </div>
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What a horrible way to die. It was a horrible thing to watch.</div>
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I know it had to be done, but I feel that I should have waited...I was selfish. </div>
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I should have left.</div>
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I should have gone to my vet. My excuse was that Kayla was afraid of the vet, which she is...was. But the Humane Society was cheaper and I was led to believe they had a special room for animals, which turned out to be very un-special. My vet would have been kinder. They would have told me what to expect. Kayla would have had enough of the injection that she would have died more quickly. </div>
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My only comfort is that she didn't know what was happening. Neither did the other dogs, which I brought into the room to see her after she died. I did not want them to see the process. I am very glad I didn't. Another divine inspiration. Jade licked her, but was focused on the shiny painting of a cat. Tyler was completely oblivious, as he usually is. </div>
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I am glad I had a three day weekend. I cried like a baby for the entire three days. One of the good things that came out of this is now, I know a little more about the process. </div>
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I can't tell if the dogs (or the cats) miss her or not. They seem to have filled the gap quite easily. Tyler has taken to Jade as he used to be with Kayla. That could be one sign. Sometimes they seem sad. I was crying on my walk this morning and Jade seemed concerned. I told her I was okay, just missing Kayla. She seemed okay with that. They both seem down sometimes, but I interject a lot of human qualities on them, so I really don't know. </div>
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I keep almost calling Jade, Kayla. "Kay...Jade.." is how it comes out.</div>
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I feel guilty about the relief of stress. Kayla had almost stopped eating completely and had lost a lot of weight in a year. She was 30 pounds down from just a few years ago. There's less stress in the mornings and evenings trying to find something she would eat. She ignored the usual roast chicken and other things she loved when she was younger.</div>
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And the relief of time, effort, and....sadly, financial relief. </div>
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I bought a hip sling for Jade. At 10, she is showing signs of hip stiffness. Ortho Dog had developed this harness that loops around the back legs to the chest, using the chest for the power.</div>
I'll check the other two dogs for lumps much more often and get them removed. Now that I know that soft tissue lumps can harden, enlarge and become debilitating, as they did with Kayla. </div>
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I will harbor a conflicting set of emotions as long as I have memory, but I vow to do better next time.</div>
And I hope I will be ready.</div>
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<br />Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-48613694496594305602015-12-11T18:05:00.001-08:002015-12-11T18:05:32.827-08:00Bitter BitchRevelation!<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't like me. In fact, I think I hate me. If I met me, before I knew me, I wouldn't like me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
How did I get to be this bitter bitch?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was a little girl, I was so frightened of everything. I cowered in my smallness. I hid between the pages of Stephen King, Charles Dickens and Edgar A. Poe. When I found alcohol, at the age of 15, I was free from fear. Physical fear, anyway. Alcohol was my best friend, until it betrayed me, and here is where my bitterness bleeds me, like everyone else had before it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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So, by some miraculous divine intervention, I was given a second chance to get my life back, break free of the bonds of the bottle., and so, I am. </div>
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<br /></div>
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For years, I felt strong. I lived a good life. I worked hard. I believed in something spiritual. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then? Well, fuck. I built another prison around myself with my own hands. But this time, I made sure nobody, absolutely nobody but God could free me, and only with another divine miracle. Yet still, I could be happy. Still I prayed and hoped for that second, or one millionth intervention. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was too busy erecting the walls of my new prison to see how my own body was breaking down, crumbling within itself. Another betrayal. Constant pain in my hands, weariness of my body and pain in my neck and lower back makes the statement 'Fake it till you make it' less entertaining. The facade is becoming too hard to maintain. I find myself lashing out at people instantly and then regretting it, not immediately enough though. I feel like the abusive boyfriend or girlfriend who does it over and over again, says sorry, promises not to do it again, and does. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My sense of humor is turning into something ugly. My childhood dreams bring me pain. Hope is a mist evaporating in the harsh reality of my life. </div>
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Like alcohol addiction, I feel powerless to stop the progression into depression and misery, and, I am ashamed to publically acknowledge, the twisted desire to make others miserable too. Too many times, I feel like I can't take it anymore. I just want to stop. I want it to stop. </div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-59902104072688782642015-10-29T21:21:00.000-07:002015-10-29T21:21:02.253-07:00Television is a Mind-Sucking Leach<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">I wrote this 15 years ago. A lot of the references are outdated, but I remember them, and I like them. So...</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";"> Television is a
mind-sucking social leech. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">I
had a friend who told me that his ex-wife used to say that television is the
great conversation killer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">So
why won't I stop watching? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">I
wake up every single morning, quickly telling God in the guise of a humble
request, what I want to happen that day, knowing that He loves me and wants all
good things for me. But really feeling guilty because I am trying to rush
through my obligatory obeisance to God so that He will give me all good things.
I don’t want to talk to God. I want to turn on the television. How else will I
know what’s important today? So quickly is my conversation with God ended that
I feel as if I am neglecting Him, and perform a mental shrug as I turn on one
of two televisions on the way to the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">Immediately
informed of the progress of the "war on terrorism", the latest
shootings, muggings, car wrecks, bus wrecks, truck wrecks, assassinations,
child abuse/neglect/murder, wars and rumors of war, including death-tolls, all
intermittently mixed with the 7,000 forms of sports, and timed smatterings of
weather and traffic. An attempt, I determined long ago, to stir me into such a
frenzy, so that all I will want to talk about, listen to, and want to watch is
the damn television. It seems to have worked as I reluctantly turn off the
television to go to work. Ask me ten
minutes later what I heard or saw, I couldn't tell you. But someone else is
watching TV also, and when the subject is brought up anywhere, anytime that
day, we will discuss it with such concern and animation that you would think we
eye witnessed the event personally. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">On the way
to work, the radio is turned on to hear the opinions of the local DJ, to learn
what mine are, and listen to songs I don’t even like played in rotation every
45 minutes. It’s getting hot in here, so
hot, why do I suddenly feel like taking all my clothes off? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">Every
day at work is spent gazing directly into a 13-inch computer monitor for seven
and half-hours from less than 12 inches away.
And when I get home what do I do to relax? Why, I walk into my apartment
and turn on the television! My excuse is always the same. I deserve a break
today! I want to have it my way! Television,
take me away!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">When
I turn on the television, thousands of tiny invisible single cell
microorganisms are shot through the airwaves into my brain through my ears and
eyes. They crawl through to my brain eating it from the inside, sucking ideas
and the will to live or to do anything at all right out of my head. GIGO. Garbage in, garbage out. This mind-killing
organism has a numbing effect, which is why I don’t feel them entering my body
and crawling through my brain. “We celebrate you, Mr. Tiny invisible single
cell micro-organism! It’s not easy
finding your way through the air into our tiny brains!! Going where no man has
gone before! You are the savior of the
media Mr. Tiny invisible single cell microorganism!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">Yep,
I figured this all out on my own. It’s the only explanation of why I can’t
cancel cable and quit watching this soul sucker. It can’t be just that I have
become lazy, and don't want to think for myself, or that I let television and
the media what the important issues are, and what my opinions are about them? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">It
doesn't seem to always matter what is on. I have become addicted to the little
critters. That’s why it’s so important to hear the voices from the television,
to feel the numbness, and then to sink into a place of blissful non-thinking.
Isn’t it even plausible that I hear the little creatures say, "Hi
Honey!" when I wake up in the morning and, "Goodnight baby."
before I retire at night? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">I
wonder how many other people know about this? Doctors should prescribe
it...better than Xanax, better than Prozac-lite! A prescription for 30 days of
solid thought-depleting process, and then, return as needed. And by the way,
vote for Bush. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">I’ve
thought about getting help, canceling cable, selling the TV, and found out
those little bastards don’t like it when you cut them off completely. I even
tried it a couple of times and went through withdrawals-cramps, shakes, dry
heaves, and cold sweats. I’ve wondered if I would end up hanging out on the
corner of the hood, waiting for some elderly woman to walk by so I could grab
her purse, find out where she lives, break into her house and steal her
television. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">So
here I sit, in front of the mind-sucking social leech, taking no responsibility
for the way the world is carrying on. The media, creators and sole owners of
the brain pets have everything under control.
I would go out and get help, but they know when I am thinking about
doing that, because fear freezes my mind like an ice cream headache and these thoughts
tornado around in my head..If I cancel cable and stop watching TV., how am I
gonna know when "You Gotta Eat!!" or to "Obey your
thirst!" My life would be dull if I
didn’t’ know what “drama” is. I might
have to formulate my own opinions. I don’t even know what they are, and, I
would have to be alone with the most boring person I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Raavi","serif";">You’d
think like this too if you had little critters crawling around your brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-34026073693612556252015-10-04T19:24:00.003-07:002015-10-04T19:24:59.099-07:00Fear The Walking Dead ReviewEpisodes 1-5 - meh.....<br />
Episode 6 - better<br />
<br />
the endCarol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-55526458459804859942015-10-03T22:45:00.004-07:002015-10-04T08:18:34.178-07:00Ready or Not...<div style="text-align: justify;">
My dad went into hospice on Friday. My dad is 83 years old and one of the funniest and most entertaining men I have yet known.<br />
<br />
I thought I had made my peace with his passing, he's old, been infirm for awhile, but I found out different when I was heading to see him. Memories flooded from all directions, almost as if <i>my life</i> flashed before my eyes. I thought I was so ready, I didn't know if I was even going to cry. I cried all the way to the hospice center. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But he's not going to die today. They're going to let him go home Monday. He doesn't meet the criteria yet. He'll be released to hospice for at-home care, until he doesn't meet the criteria for that anymore and they release him from hospice, again. </div>
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This latest episode confirms what I've suspected for awhile. He says his doctor gets mad if he doesn't take <i>all </i>his pills. He nods off, is lethargic, and talks nonsense. He ends up in the hospital a lot and now, hospice. My mother doesn't understand, even though I've said, "Yea, Mom. Three oxycodone a day will do that to a body." Just when I think she's got it, she says that she doesn't understand why this is happening. She even throws in some island superstition and says that he's "not in his body," so she has to yell at him to bring him back. She yells at him all the time, every time he nods off. Sometimes, I swear he goes to the hospital, and now this hospice visit, just to get some relief.</div>
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Nobody questions old people when they take too much medication. Sometimes I think it would be great to get old, but then again, I'm sober 21 years, so I don't really have the luxury of abusing medication, unless I don't want to be...sober I mean. And I think overmedication of the elderly is an epidemic that has been occurring for quite some time. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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When I saw my father on Friday night, I did not know he was going to be alright, so I started apologizing to him for being so hard on him. It's so hard to put up with old people. I don't have the patience. The things they accept, the lies they believe. I didn't realized that I was afraid of old people until I realized that I've never really known any. These old people (yeah, I said it) are the only old people I've ever really known. I'm not physically afraid of them, because I think I can beat an old person's ass, but their whole selves, the smell, the frailty, the slowness of mind and body, how different they were from me, their <i>neediness</i>. Maybe that's why they like taking a lot of pain medication. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i> </i>Like everything else, I can empathize if I too, have experienced something. Now I'm experiencing growing old and if you grow old, you usually know old people. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm all over the place with this little thing I'm writing.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I saw my father Friday night, I told him the reason I wasn't married is because I have never found a man as funny and entertaining as him that is not a psychopath. It was nice to see him smile.</div>
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-52124349002936416952015-10-01T08:51:00.001-07:002015-10-01T08:59:02.153-07:00Downtime - When Systems Go Down<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Me, being my goofy self.</div>
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I don't know how honest I can be on a public forum, even if no one but me ever reads this. There are just things one does not talk about, like feeling suicidal, being a nosepicker, a pedophile, a cheater, liar, and thief (except for you egovidiots who post wads of cash and jewelry on your Facebook page after a robbery), or how much you love downtime at work, especially, if the internet is still available.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Our system has been down quite a bit lately, thanks to our previous two IT companies. BTW, you get what you get when you get what you don't pay for. I know, What? Right? Don't worry about it. I know what I mean.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway, I'm listening to Syrius XM, writing this blog because I've read everything I want to read on Flipboard and Huffington Post. I don't want to get on Facebook because I'll be there all day looking at cute and horrific pictures of puppies, kittens, dogs, cats, etc. Facebook is like a Twinkie. Zero nutrition because consumers aren't interested in nutrition, the sugar is addicting, and it lasts forever.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So far I haven't said a damn thing. What was my point? Oh yeah, downtime at work. Our office is almost totally electronic. Luckily, our server for work programs is separate from our internet. Sometimes they both go down. When the server goes down, no work gets done. In a small office, no work is no bueno.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The older I get, the more I love downtime. I used to be able to work strong and hard for hours, but I find myself slowing down, unable to maintain the pace of my youth. I guess that's why people don't like to hire older people. What I have over my younger competitors, is knowledge and experience, which makes up for a lot of time doing research, so I guess it all evens out. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I just heard the IT guy say, now there's something wrong with the server. I could be at home watching Netflix. Wait..I can watch it here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I love technology and the age I'm living in. I gotta write though, I'm not thrilled with people so much, but that's another blog.</div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-57157621717810968762015-09-30T20:16:00.002-07:002015-09-30T20:23:36.190-07:00fuckitI'm going to be petulant for a minute. Nobody reads my shit. This makes me feel like my shit isn't interesting or relevant to to anyone but me, which makes me feel self-serving, shallow and impotent.<br />
<br />
I keep making decisions that I keep changing. "Okay, I'm going to try harder." or "I'm not giving up." But I'm tired and I'm old, so fuck it. I've made another decision. I'm going to write for myself.<br />
<br />
I just quit a writers group. I told the facilitator, a friend, that I was only going to journal, but even Anne Frank has me beat on that.<br />
<br />
I know, I know, I'm a sourpuss. someone called me persnickety yesterday and you know what's funny about that? I agreed. I am persnickety. Kind of like James Spader without talent or intellect.<br />
<br />
HOWEVER.....<br />
<br />
The great thing about blogging, or journaling with no audience is that I I can write whatever I want, even curse like I do in real life (though I would like the sailor in me to find Jesus), and not worry about the grandkids, or anyone, reading it. And, I can avoid the criticism by people whose only passion for writing is cowardly anonymous online bullying.<br />
<br />
So, here I am, writing for an audience of one....feels very egotistical, but I'm convinced that it is more than that. It's too desperate and needy, this writing thing. I know, it's a deep-seated need to express myself, however, uninteresting and unrelatable that may be. If I'm writing it, it must at least relate to me?<br />
<br />
So, dear Carol, go to fuckin bed. It's late.<br />
<br />
gnight<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-6881396653145955952015-09-30T20:07:00.001-07:002015-09-30T20:15:31.810-07:00My Dying Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I wrote about this before and I'll write about it again.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My Kayla is dying. My 12 year old black lab has lymphoma. I don't know how long she has. No clue. One month? Six months? One year? One week? I noticed that as soon as the vet gave me the diagnoses, she became "my dying dog." You can't imagine the emotion that evokes, or maybe you, whoever you are, can?</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
She's still eating, walking, although much slower and not as far, and she plays, but she's still my dying dog. Sometimes, I look at her, it hits me. I hold her tight and wonder when I'm going to know, how I'm going to go through with it, and how I'm going to make it without her and her big bark. </div>
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I'm not brave.</div>
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I have to drag myself back into the moment, realize she's still living! She still rolls over for a belly rub, puts her head in my lap, gives me paws for cookies, and kisses me. Thank God for today's pain medications which I was just told I can increase to three times a day, when she needs it,</div>
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I read some online stories about lymphoma. They seem to go pretty quick, but my Kayla, she's determined to hang in there, never complaining, always saying please, forever grateful.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dogs have such resilient personalities. In all these years, I've only seen her upset a few times. She follows me from room to room, her legs stiff, her weight down from 90 to 81 right now, But it's time for me to wonder to bed so my Kayla girl can lay on her bed beside mine for the night. I don't want to end with this journal being morbid, but I can't think of anything funny to say right. now. </div>
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<br />
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<br />
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<br />Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-36918630488568067392015-09-26T13:19:00.002-07:002015-09-26T13:51:19.624-07:00How to Get Away With Murder or, Is Law School Really that Cray Cray?Almost done with Season 1 of #Howtogetawaywithmurder. It's exciting, dramatic and tense, but is it realistic? I don't know about criminal court, but I don't think court procedures would be that different. <br />
<br />
All the reviews are rave. No doubt Viola Davis brings the acting to a higher level, but when credibility goes out the window, it's hard for me to suspend reality. So here's my take on the show so far.<br />
<br />
First thing I noticed were technicalities...<br />
<br />
1. Courtroom attire. Women wear suits in a court room, not off-the-sleeve or sleeveless tight dresses. It's all about presentation to the jury and pleasing a judge.<br />
<br />
2. Can you really present witnesses or evidence without introducing it to the other side or bringing it to the bench for a judge to approve before before being presented to the jury? Haven't you people ever seen Perry Mason? <br />
<br />
3. I don't think you can introduce a motion before a judge in a hearing scheduled for another motion. In other words, if a hearing has not already been requested on the motion, unless it's an emergency, and even then, there's protocol.<br />
<br />
4. Is there really that much sexing and corruption going on in law school. Seriously? Everybody is sleeping with each other, everyone is genius (now I know that's not true) and there are layers and layers of secrets. Too many interesting people in one place.<br />
<br />
5. The smoking guns....really...Just really? Cases dismissed before evidence is presented or examined.<br />
<br />
This is why I don't watch law shows. But despite this, I love me some Matt McGorry, the guy who was a prison guard in Orange is the New Black. He plays law student, Asher. Without him, the show would be too dark to binge watch, as I have been doing. <br />
<br />
So, because of Viola Davis' willingness to bare her acting soul and head, I'm going to continue to watch whatever episodes are left on Netflix<br />
<br />
There you have it.Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-10872265962095953882015-09-22T16:09:00.004-07:002017-01-08T10:44:56.938-08:00Preparing for Goodbye<br />
I've been mentally preparing myself, to the best of my ability, and with prayer, for the day Kayla is no longer with us, just because she's getting old, has Cushings, and has difficulty walking for about the last eight months. Now that I know she has lymphoma and will be leaving us sooner than I was hoping, it's really hitting me how much I have depended, and still depend, on her. She taught the younger dogs manners and even some tricks, just by doing them herself. Her deep, scary bark has thwarted home robberies. I know this because many of my neighbors have been robbed. When we go for walks, Kayla is the one I ask for direction and she takes us where she wants to go.<br />
<br />
I remember the first day, 9 years ago..maybe 10, driving to Pasco county to get her from a free online ad from a website, the name of which I don't even remember anymore. She was fine when I got there, at least I thought so, till I got her home and saw she had a 3 inch injury running down the top of her paw (she kept licking it and it took months to heal.) She was sick as a dog (pun intended) that night. I figured they gave her Benadryl before I got there. I put her on the bed with me because I thought she was going to die that night. I was surprised when she couldn't jump, then found out she had very limited use of her back legs for some reason. I kept waking her up thinking she stopped breathing. That's when I started spoiling her. giving her food because she was 20 lbs underweight, She was so weak, I could take her for walks without a leash and not worry about her running off, until I knew she was better about 4-5 weeks later when she saw a squirrel.<br />
<br />
I wrote a song for her<br />
<br />
She's my Kayla girl<br />
She's the best girl in the world<br />
She like a chase a squirrel,<br />
cus she's my Kayla girl.<br />
<br />
Kayla got a doggie habit<br />
she like a chase a rabbit<br />
You know she's gonna catchit<br />
cus she's my Kayla girl.<br />
<br />
She is always so happy when I sing that song, she prances around....<br />
<br />
Last night we all played, Kayla played with her favorite squirrel toy, just like always. <br />
<br />
I'm not saying goodbye yet, but I'm getting ready to.<br />
<br />
<br />
Kayla today - blissfully ignorant<br />
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Kayla in her younger days<br />
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-30961488752266870682015-07-29T20:35:00.001-07:002015-08-09T14:23:18.085-07:00THE TRACKER<div style="background: white; line-height: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 11pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter 1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poor Poe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe stared into the mirror. She was never particularly fond of her reflection, but she hated it now. She noticed her hand was shaking. She lowered the gun, wondering if she was a coward or a fool. She staggered to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">bed<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> </span></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">and lay as she landed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The morning sun in Denver is bright, but Poe did her best to block it out. Her windows were as shut off from sunlight as her soul, but she couldn't stop those damn birds from singing at the top of their little bird lungs. Reluctantly, she rose from her bed as if partially dragged by an invisible force. Eyes squeezed shut, her head bass-thumping, she bumped down the hall to the bathroom where the vomiting began that would continue throughout the day. She tripped over the dogs on the way to the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Keureg<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">. <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe saw to the dogs, then sat in a chair in the dark for the rest of the day, rising only to throw some tortillas in a bowl, fill a cup with tomato juice laced with hot sauce, go the bathroom, throw up, or see to the dogs again. She went to bed early, hoping to dream through the screaming in her head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The next morning Poe rose from bed with a purpose. Bottles of liquor filled the sink. She raised a trembling finger in the air, as if a different type of flashbulb went off. She lifted off the top of the toilet tank and recoiled. She had been in that tank many times, but never before noticed the grey-brown slime growing along the inside of the tank, or the moldy, dank stank. Resolutely she dunked her hand into the light grey-green tank water and pulled the bottle of gin from the tank. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She stared at the sink containing the sparkling gold and rich brown liquors in enticing bottles; the kind that made you think there was magic in them. <i>Damn, that's a lot of liquor. </i>There were more bottles hidden in the most unlikely placed; closet shelves, behind the washing machine, the dryer, next to the spare tire in her trunk. She rotated her liquor consumption at various sundry locations. She didn't want anyone getting the wrong impression. She hid them to slow her flow and then forgot where they were hidden. It didn't occur to her for quite some time that she was hiding liquor in a house where she lived alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe sighed. She picked up the nearest bottle and began pouring the sacred nectar with the sickly sweet smell into the sink. The rich liquid made little golden streams over bottles and down the drain. She began to cry and shook, but didn't stop till the last drop was rinsed out of the last bottle and thrown into the recycle bin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe went to bed. Her demons did not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">==================================================================<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter II<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Beginning <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Polly!" Poe heard a woman exclaim. <i>Must be somebody else, </i>Poe thought, <i>Nobody calls me Polly anymore.</i> "Polly Mullholland!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe turned to face her just to stop her from saying it again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Nobody calls me Polly anymore, Adele, you know that."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Well, that's your name isn't it? You don't really want to be called Poe, do you? You can't really like it. It sounds like a man's name." Adele's eyes narrowed as though she was getting ready to say something Poe was sure she didn't want to hear. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"What are you doing here Adele? Are you going... in there?" Poe couldn't bring herself to say <i>it</i> and pointed to the room with chairs set around a table? <i>Please God, say no.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"No, I'm in the Al-Anon meetin' across the hall. It's my boy....you remember Harold? " Adele rushed on, "Well, he's goin through a bad spell right now. Gerald won't come to these meetin's. He went to the first one and says that they point too many fingers at the relatives. He says there ain't nothin wrong with him, it's Harold who's got the problem..." Adele's eyes began turning red. Poe wished she had something in her pocket to stab herself in thigh so she could at least look sympathetic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Well, look Adele, I mean...it's good to see you. Sorry about your boy. The meetings about to start, so..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Oh, I understand. We should get together, have coffee sometime." She seemed excited. "You AA people do love your coffee!" Poe smiled, raised her hand in a sort of farewell salute, turned and walked into her first meeting. At least the aggravations made her forget how nervous she was for a few minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"You must be new," a woman materialized beside her at the coffee counter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"How can you tell?" Poe's brow furrowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Oh, I don't know..." She glanced at Poe's hand. Poe looked at her own hand. It was spilling coffee from the sides. The woman smiled, "fill it only 3/4 full for a little while," she whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Great, </span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Poe thought and turned and walked away<i>. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The woman sat next to her making Poe uncomfortable. <i>Are these people going to be some kind of cult stalkers? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"What's your name?" the woman asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Poe."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"As in Edgar Allen?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"As in my younger brother couldn't say Polly."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Can he say it now?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Nope, he's dead. Look, since you've decided to make me your special buddy, can you tell me where I can get the textbook and workbook? How long do I have to take the classes?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"My name is Carrie," her smile deepened, unnerving Poe. "I think I can help."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-48948915167081117272015-07-09T19:39:00.001-07:002015-07-10T05:41:27.686-07:00Is Mars The Earth's Future? A letter to Doug & Kristine Tompkins -Tomkins Conservation<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: justify;">Dear Mr. & Mrs. Tomkins,</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> <div style="text-align: justify;">
Is it too far-fetched an idea that Mars could once have been a thriving planet, like earth, destroyed by technology, returned to dust, as it is said all must be one day? Okay, maybe I waxed too Biblical, and I'm no Neil deGrasse Tyson, but my imagination is intrigued and horrified by the possibility.</div>
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I just read MarketWatch's July 9 article on Stephen Hawkings Catastrophic End for Planet Earth. I had a very emotional response to the article. I began meditating on what a waste it is to throw away a spectacular planet and the mysterious and beautiful creatures inhabiting it for no reason other than to make a buck. </div>
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The grim predictions of the article made me start wondering what drastic steps could be taken. How do you destroy the monsters (capitalism, to name one)? I wondered, quite frankly, if violence, or even murder was the only way. Fortunately, moral convictions eliminated these possibilities. I started looking online for non-violent ways to beat big business, which is just as guilty as technology, or at least, in collusion. I googled, can we stop technology from destroying the earth, and came across the Guardian's July 11 2013 article, How Technology Has Stopped Evolution and is Destroying The Earth. </div>
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I'm addicted to technology, just as all my peers are. Social media, in my mind, should also be useful for social change. I become despondent when it's only used for finding/rescuing animals and videos of kittens and puppies. Even highly intelligent people do not want to put aside their own agendas. And almost everyone I know refuses to discuss these types of subjects, hush poshing the author as being too negative, a doomsayer. Those who do not, rant impotently against a tsunami.</div>
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I think what you are attempting to do is wonderful, but is it enough? You apparently have, or had, a lot of money, but even you, with however much money you have/had, and being highly intelligent, from what I could glean from the Guardian article, only got 1,508 shares and 22 comments from the date of the article three days shy of two years ago. That in itself is heart-sinking. Even great writers, geniuses, who tell us what we are doing and how we are going to end up, whether fiction or fact, are heralded for their writing, but any change effected is too small.</div>
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The only way I can think of saving this planet is rallying the people in massive numbers. So far, big money and technology corporations have been able to mass hypnotise large numbers of people. How can we break the psychosis? There has to be a grassroots movement to stop that from happening, but it has to be powerful and move fast. </div>
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I hope I don't sound crazy. Truth is, I'm 58. I'm not even going to be here too much longer. Sure I have kids and grandkids, but the reason is even bigger than that. Right now we have more than we can possibly need. Stephen Hawkings is talking about finding other planets to live and cultivate (why, to do this again?) in space because the planet will be uninhabitable in "the not too distant future."</div>
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This cannot, must not happen.</div>
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Hopefully, you read enough for me to thank you for your time.</div>
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Sincerely,</div>
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Carol Sheppard</div>
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-51793239549776607722015-07-07T18:12:00.001-07:002015-07-13T07:23:07.075-07:00In Search of Jesus<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I am going through a spiritual crisis. I'm pretty sure that the fact that it coincides with me becoming a vegetarian is no coincidence. I think it's the hormones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All kidding aside, it's causing me night terrors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yesterday I read an article on Flipboard, which I can't find today, about the mythology of Jesus. The article stated that there is no evidence that Jesus existed other than the Bible, which was edited, revised, stomped on, dragged through many translators and regurgitated by Kings and second-hand accounts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I almost didn't read the article. I knew that I wasn't in a place to stand on the faith of the religion I had believed all my life, but I want to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">According to another article I read today by an author named Jim Walker, called<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Did a Historical Jesus Really Exist</i>, there is no historical account of Jesus either during His time or for a generation and more after. He (the author, not Jesus) makes a good point: someone, somewhere should have heard and written about and the miracles that happened during Jesus' lifetime. In fact, Walker says that as a matter of fact, no historian, philosopher, scribe<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>or follower wrote about Jesus during his time</span><br />
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Arguments over lack or writing skills, education and an overall general literary ignorance are dissected and somewhat dismissed. There were scribes of the day and there <i>are</i> writings. The only known non-Christian writers wrote what they heard about Jesus beginning some 37 years after His death . The rest, Walker argues, were also not eyewitness and got their information from hearsay.</span><br />
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Moreover, it is a well-known fact that the apostles did not actually write any of the books in the Bible at all. Mr. Walker argues that John, James, Matthew and most of Paul's were second, third or fourth-hand accounts. Even Paul, Walker argues, only wrote eight of the 11 books and never mentions a human Jesus. In fact, Walker says none of them do. (This I have to look up. It conflicts with my understanding of the Bible.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Oh, and it gets better. Walker states that the story of Jesus was similar to many Pagan beliefs of the day: virgin birth, December 25 date, wise men, and sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The three following "Proofs that Jesus existed" are not actually proof at all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Shroud of Turin - carbon dated around 14th century and testing reveals it's more of a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>painting .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Burial Box of James - inscription forged. Artist arrested<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Letters of Pontius Pilate - novel created by W.P. Cozier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All the above "proofs" are revealed to be fake, but to this day, most adamant Christ-based religious people will not believe the scientific facts. In fact, if you have ever had an argument with a religious person you know it sometimes sounds as if violence is about to ensue should that topic not be immediately abandoned. You will not make your point. Surrender. (To be fair, the same can be said of some militant atheists, not for this topic, but any in opposition to their core beliefs that there is no God.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Walker's research extends to the historical geographical errors in the bible. I won't list them here, but they are listed in his blog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The article was very long and contained a lot of convincing evidence that no Jesus as we know Jesus existed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I had a long sleepless night as my faith began to crumble like the Roman Empire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What if there<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>was<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i> no Jesus? What would it mean to the human race? Would the world sink into anarchy? Sins wouldn't be sins! No<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>afterlife? I cringe at the thought of behaviours like pedophilia going unpunished. Religious wars, political wars, ...all for naught.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My whole life has been based on the belief of a God, of a being who lived as a man and offered himself as a sacrifice to save me.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>ME!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What if we lived without religion? What would keep us in check? Would we keep ourselves in check? Would we be kind with no promised reward? Would there be less war or more?</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">To be fair, I read a blog by Bart D.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Erhman on the Huffington Post Religion site. He has an opposing opinion. He admits that the Gospels of the Bible are fraught with biases, problems with detail, with information at odds with each other, and written decades after Jesus' death. Jesus is not mentioned by any Roman sources of His day Ehrman's point is whether or not biased sources can be credible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">According to Ehrman, the writings of Paul are in Jesus' native tongue, Aramaic and can be dated within just a year or two of his life. Paul obtained his information about Jesus from James, Jesus' brother and Peter, Jesus' closest disciple. Ehrman tried to make a point, weakly, if you don't mind my opinion, that "If Jesus did not exist, you would think his brother would know it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ehrman states that there are no accounts of pagan gods who were born to virgin mothers and who died as an atonement for sin and who were raised from the dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Jews would not have invented Jesus as he was because no Jews "of any kind, whatsoever, thought there would be future crucified messiah." The Messiah would be a "figure of grandeur and power who overthrew the enemy." Erhman did not mention that Jews do not accept Christ as the Messiah, but he does say that Christians did not invent Jesus, but they did invent that He had to be crucified.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The arguments that Ehrman make are more like unanswered questions. Wouldn't James, Jesus' brother know if Jesus didn't exist? Why would Christians invent a Messiah in opposition to the Jews' Christ Messiah?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Quite a bit less compelling than Walker's blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But....both the blogs raise more questions for me than answers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Is it so unreasonable to think that Romans didn't write about Jesus because their life depended on<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>not writing about Jesus</i>? Also, it's not so unreasonable that the Romans, the most powerful kingdom on earth at the time, destroyed all discovered accounts of Jesus' life after His death? But that doesn't answer why non-Christian writers didn't write about Jesus, does it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I had a whimsical thought. What if God sacrificed a man through mythology rather than making a real man die an intolerably cruel death. Maybe He was too kind to actually put a man through that? What a great idea for a novel. Don't steal it, it's mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For a religion based solely on faith, is it unreasonable to expect that evidence was removed based on the phrase, all things work for the good of God? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Or maybe the human race needs a sacrifice to make life worthwhile and to keep it in check?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">If you've read to this part, I've been sober for 21 years. My entire sobriety, the 12 steps, are based upon my belief in a God of my understanding. Right now, believing that there is no God hurts my stomach...it's disconcerting, devastating. It's sending hot and cold chills up and down my body right now! I expect to have another mentally exhausting night as my mind tosses and turns the information trying to figure out what to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I have a friend who told me that she is starting to believe that when we die ...all there is <i>thunk</i>! And because she's of Italian descent, her hand gracefully circled the air and lay flat, as flat as we in the grave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'll keep searching for evidence that Jesus existed. Obviously, reading only two blogs, no matter how detailed, could not possibly provide all the information available. </span><br />
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In the meantime...</span><br />
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I don't know why the thought of dying and then nothing scares the (scares the what, if not Jesus, God or hell?) out of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">On the other hand, when I look at it this way - if believing in a God, whether there is or isn't one, will keep me sober, I'm willing to do it. If there isn't, what difference will it make? If there is one, then at least I behaved as if I did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I wonder if that will work?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-28955410125677532822015-06-05T15:42:00.003-07:002015-06-06T00:03:52.947-07:00Addiction <div style="text-align: justify;">
You'd think that someone 21 years in recovery from alcoholism would be able to spot an addict, no matter what the addiction. Wrong. Not even close.<br />
<br />
But I have experienced that first kiss of addiction to dry goods as we say in the rooms, many times.</div>
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<br />
I ran away from home when I was 16 or 17. This was in the early 70s, about '73 or '74. I'll spare you the details of the why and should have been why nots.<br />
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Somehow, I made it to the Ozark Mountain Festival in Missouri in July, 1974. I don't remember how, but I arrived with not a penny to my name. I remember a feeling of hopelessness when I saw men collecting money at a gate. A man jabbed me and pointed toward another man on the inside of a metal fence. The man waved us toward him while curling up a piece of the fence. We ran toward the gap in the fence and snuck inside the concert for free. Wikipedia has information on the festival and the bands that played there. Apparently I missed the event of a lifetime. I only remember Bachman Turner Drive playing Let it Ride. The rest was a drug and alcohol induced blur while I paraded around naked or half-naked. There were a lot of naked women there. I spent the night in the tent of some guys who had some crystal meth or something like it. One of them told me I farted all night. </div>
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In Lake Charles, Louisiana, I met a young man who was flirting with me. I was so high, I thought he was a she and suggested that she go flirt with one of the guys. She was shocked. I only figured out later that he was a guy. Damn, he was pretty.<br />
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I arrived in Austin, Texas at night. I don't remember what street my ride took me down, but I remember picking out the street people, now called by their politically correct name, The Homeless. I spent the night near the rails, at a temporary camp of a hobo who shared a can of beans heated by his campfire. Hobos were people, usually men, who stayed near the rails and traveled for free on the railroad's dime. I learned it was only free if they didn't get caught and thrown into jail, or lose limbs or life.<br />
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Austin's nightlife was electric. Live bands played southern soul in loud and dimly lit bars. Outside of town was a nude beach where I continued my freedom of body language and burned my privates. I seem to remember a guy I was with also burned his.<br />
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I think it was in Texas that a kind soul told me it would be best if I disappeared after I knocked $125 worth of a "new drug" in powder form onto a white shag carpet. Normally, not one for subtle warnings, the seriousness of my situation did not escape me. Disappearing was no problem. They were still searching through the rug when I made my escape.<br />
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I don't remember much about the guys I hooked up with, except for Billy, who was tall, blond and dumb. We were a couple in a group heading to Tuscon, Arizona. I told him that I had to go ahead of them after he and another man decided to shoot up White Lightning. I think it was their screams that convinced me. Billy tried to talk to me in Tuscon, but I avoided him. One day he caught up with me by getting the bartender to trick me into going outside. I'm sure I lied. I was a bad liar. I told bizarre lies. Lies that weren't even plausible. They worked because people got it, but it's embarrassing now.<br />
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My next near miss was in Tuscon, which is a college town with a lot of bars. A real popular song that year was Ray Stevens' The Streaker. I arrived, found "my" people (those who had drugs, alcohol and/or places to stay), and proceeded to make acquaintances by streaking a local bar. This made me very popular. So popular, in fact, that I was invited to try heroin one day in the upstairs room of a place across from my favorite bar (so called due to its proximity to the room I was staying in.) I remember the room. It was gray. The windows faced the bar. I remember a man standing next to a woman. They both stood in front of the door. She had a tube around her arm. He had a needle. His head turned toward me. He invited me to join them. I remember what he said next. "Look. It's easy. Watch, I'll do her and you can see." I am a wussy (with a capital p), when it comes to needles. Just ask any tech who has ever tried to take blood from me. I'm sure I cringed, but when the woman turned as gray as the walls and her body thudded against the floor, I sprouted wings, flew through hem, out the door and out of Tuscon. I was 17.<br />
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I finally ended up in Fresno, California. I passed LA because drivers did not stop, not even for a single teenage female. I met two brothers and drank Wild Turkey 101 for the first and last time. I was asked to leave the next day by the brother I did not have sex with. He wanted me to leave before the other brother came home from work. I didn't want to. Fresno was cold. But I left. California was a bust.<br />
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A lot happened while I made down (or is it up?) I-10. While at a festival of some sort, a small tree cut down to a pointy stick, pierced the ball of my foot. I felt faint and pretended to pass out in front a restaurant in Sweetwater, Arizona. If I was trying to make someone feel sorry for me, it worked. A couple took me to an emergency room where a doctor who obviously didn't like hippies, grabbed, jerked, scraped, slapped on antibiotics, and plastered some gauze and some tape on the wound. I paid that couple back by stealing the husband's pet project., a muscle car he had been rebuilding. I drove the car to Austin and just as I arrived, police car lights blazed behind me. I freaked and tried to run, crashing the car into the brick wall of a building. I had no ID. I was taken to a doctor who put 10 stitches in my right temple, and spent a night in jail with a bloody bandage in a cell with only one prisoner. My father flew from Florida and pled no contest to my charges. The couple called my parents. They wanted to talk to me. My parents made me talk to them, but I probably gave them some bullshit story. I don't even know if I remembered how to tell the truth by then. My father told me the police wanted to pull me over for a broken tail light.<br />
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I'll spare you the details of my journey to Colorado while five months pregnant with my second child, my son. Let's just say, I met a man who I married six years later and who I left six years after that.<br />
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I took acid when I was a teenager with no responsibilities. I tried to be social and did some coke at a party once. I took speed through my twenties and early thirties; Black Beauties, Pink Ladies and White Crosses. Not long after, the drugs seemed to dry up, making way for impostors and more dangerous synthetic drugs. I tried switching to Dexatrim, which worked for a while, but then that too stopped working, so I quit speed and settled for puffing pot and drinking cheap gallon wine.<br />
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Toward the end of my marriage, in the late 1980s, I was having an affair with a man who one night, showed me a yellow chalky cube in a pill bottle. We smoked it. I was not impressed.<br />
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The wife of another man I almost had an affair with found out and kicked him out. He called me and I visited him at his new home. I did not recognize him. He went from being a blond-haired, blue-eyed hunk to a gaunt, thin haired older looking man within what seemed only a short time. His house was bare except for a coffee table and a couple of chairs. The coffee table had works on it. He invited me to join him. I declined. I was really sad when I left there. I never went back.<br />
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(Sidenote: before you troll, I really regret my actions now that I am sober. Nobody deserves that. I have been single for nine years and would rather cut off my Vajajay than have an affair with a married man or while I was married. People <i><b>can </b></i>change with the right spiritual ingredients.)<br />
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I haven't touched crack, cocaine or speed since, but I didn't quit drinking or smoking pot until 1994. I have my own demons..<br />
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Even though I've kissed drug addiction right on her slobbery lips, I never made love to her. The closest I came was watching Rush and Trainspotting. I could barely get through them. I guess I thought I could recognize addiction in real life, but I was wrong.<br />
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MORE WILL BE REVEALED...<br />
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Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-49539134044890133702015-06-03T16:19:00.003-07:002015-06-03T16:19:44.545-07:00DATING SUCKS! (or Everyone I'm Attracted to Is Way Above My Pay Grade)<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dating sucks. I just want to meet someone, fall in love, move in and live happily ever. Hell, I heard it's been done</div>
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About a long time ago, I decided not to date for one year. I made that decision because my brain and spirit have opposing views on attraction and worthiness. </div>
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One year went by, then two. During the second year, I was a little lonely, but decided, hell, I made it this far, I knew I could make it another one. Three years went by, four, five, six, then seven years passed. Sometimes I wondered, where was this magic man for whom I waited? Eight years went by. Maybe he was traveling from another state? Then nine years passed. </div>
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Sometimes I wondered, is there something wrong with me? Am I ugly? Is my character so bad that God wouldn't burden anyone with me? I'm a good girl, where is my reward? </div>
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Finally, after nine long years of vascillating between loving the single life and patiently waiting for that someone who together we would fall in love mind, body, and soul, I began dating. Yep, someone I actually liked asked me out! Thanks to the time I had to myself, I now know what I want out of a relationship and what I can and should not compromise on.Now that may sound arrogant, but everybody should have that criteria, in my opinion. </div>
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Unfortunately, although I like this person, he is not the right one for me. . Previously, I would have held onto him for as long as possible, because he was the only one who asked me out in more than nine years. I'm not even sure I would have turned anybody down if they ask me after year two, but I realized, that if being single was/is my destiny, I have a great life by myself. It would really take someone special to convince me to give it up. So I'm going to continue to live and love my single life. When loneliness pays me a visit, I'll remind her of all the love that I have for and from my family, pets, friends, and co-workers, and I want for nothing.</div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-27911779365805171662015-05-15T17:43:00.000-07:002015-05-15T18:50:50.518-07:00Absolutely Positively Maybe<div style="text-align: justify;">
On May 4, 2015, I had my second back surgery. I am 58 years old. The most frustrating thing, besides having to live this long (thanks to The Who who made me "Hope I die before I grow old!"), is being uncomfortable. The second most frustrating thing is being <i>incapable</i>. In recovery, we call it powerlessness. Same thing.</div>
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I have three dogs and two cats. Have I already told you that? They've been pretty patient since I got home on Thursday, May 7, but I'm almost completely incapable of taking care of them. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When you have back surgery and you start feeling better, you feel like you can do stuff. Hopefully, I learned from my last surgery that even though I may feel great, my back has to heal, which can take up to a year. I was vacuuming and driving before the first two weeks was up on my last surgery, which was somewhat less invasive than the recent one. This time was a fusion and it is already taking longer to heal.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This time, I can't bend over or down, reach for anything, or basically twist or turn for any reason.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Living by myself (not counting the unemployed freeloaders who pretend not to understand anything but "cookie" and blame the lack of thumbs for their laziness), it's hard to ask for help. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The first week was pretty rough. I pretty much slept all the time. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since I am in recovery, people have been cooking meals for me, volunteering to clean, do dishes, do my laundry (ugh..hated to need that one), change the dogs' water bowls. I can't even get the butter behind the eggs on the second shelf of the refrigerator.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This week, I am doing better, although I did almost trip during the first week. Catching myself was a misstep that sent a searing electric pain in my left hip, where one of the laminectomies was performed. I've been wearing ice packs since. Since both the ice packs are on the floor (which I can't reach, even though I have a nifty grabber provided by the hospital), I've resorted to using bags of frozen vegetables. A Green Giant bag of frozen corn is currently held on by a back brace and thawing against the offending nerve(s). I doubt that I will eat the corn.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Stubbornness is one of my most glaring defects. I don't know why, because it almost always gets me in trouble Two days into the second week, pain from the surgery was at a minimal. So, I left logic and reason behind and tried to do some things around the house. Six or seven hours later, I finally made myself stop. Before the end of the night, my <i>heels </i>hurt. I ended up soaking my feet for awhile. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I made sure I would not be pain-free for a couple of days. Oh yeah, I forgot, stubbornness is not my friend. At least I maintained a rigid position to the best of my ability.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sleeping is a challenge. It's been pretty uncomfortable, but at least I was able to stay straight. Lately I've been waking up in weird positions, The nurse told me to barricade myself with pillows on either side. Since my dogs sleep with me and love to sleep on the tiny hills blankets make. I'm pretty sure I'd wake up with a dog laying on Hill Me. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The whole thing has worked out so much better than I expected. The pain has been less than I thought. My son, close friends and even people who don't really know me very well have made this process of asking for help so much easier to bear.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today, my son took me to get my nails done. It was a bit of a challenge, and the thought of being in a car accident was terrifying, but off we went. Silly as it sounds, getting my nails done was a symbol of hope for a normal pain-free life, which is the only reason to endure the amount of pain caused by surgery. Not every one's surgeries are successful. Sciatica and lumbar pain can have two different causes. I had both and my doctor addressed each separately. The fact is, I have a very low tolerance for pain. When I was giving birth to my third and last child, the doctor, in a matter of fact tone, told me that he needed my cooperation, while he was leaning into me with a scalpel (found that evidence later). I guess my screaming was interfering with his concentration. Anyway, that fact brought me to an orthopedic doctor much sooner than it would a person with a higher tolerance, in other words, before my backbone crumbled and slid into my butt bone.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
These types of circumstances reveal who is a real friend and who is just moving their lips in an agreeable manner. Strangely, I don't have a resentment against anyone who said they would help and then disappeared after my surgery. I just have to remember all the times I did the same . Being in recovery, it's' difficult not to notice how selfish or apathetic I am...until I experience the pain, or walked in someones shoes, as the old Indian proverb goes. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My attitude is absolutely positive about recovering from the surgery. Of course, my absolute positive attitude may only lasts until I have to try and get the butter behind the eggs off the second shelf of the refrigerator.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-68009044949181340092015-04-23T08:10:00.001-07:002015-04-23T08:12:15.607-07:00Fear<div style="text-align: justify;">
I used to be able to run, run, run far away from fear, when I was drinking. I thought that my probably was <b><i>you</i></b>, and all the <b><i>you's</i></b>. If <b><i>you</i></b> hadn't done this or that, that or this wouldn't have happened to me. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I deluded myself, swimming in my alcohol-filled pool of courage, that I was brave, invincible, beautiful and funny. I had talents that <b><i>you</i></b> morons couldn't see. I kept searching for the special <b><i>you</i></b> that could see them, and when I found <b><i>you</i></b>, <b><i>you</i></b> were imperfect, weak, and dismissed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now, I don't have a bottle to dive into. I felt like the littlest mermaid for the longest time. Climbing out of my liquid delusion, my body burned and nerves jangled with every step I took on dry land. Every minute that passed taught me more about my defects. The hardest part of all, was learning that I am not, in fact, perfect. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In retrospect, it's been a hard path to follow, but it's been getting easier and easier. There are good things, very good things, that I've learned about me. There are also some areas where I'm not getting better. In fact, I'm just as bad or worse in those areas and it's causing a great deal of fear. At least, now I know I did it to myself. <b><i>You</i></b> didn't do anything. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was reading a story today on Flipboard called, Is God Training You, Like He Did Elijah? http://www.crosswalk.com/faith/spiritual-life/with-elijah-on-god-s-training-ground.html</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At his lowest point, Elijah was told to go to Kerith Brook and wait on God where the ravens would feed him. Elijah did as he was told and after, God revealed Himself and Elijah performed miracles.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I want to walk away from everything, find a quiet brook and wait on God, but I'm in too much fear to listen for God. The idea of losing everything and depending solely on God terrifies me. I don't believe the ravens will feed me. I'm not sure if God sees the world today, if He understands how it works, or even if He cares. People take the Bible to mean that what God said to a select few, He meant for all, but I don't believe that. I believe that God meant what He said to those special people to apply to them only, and when He meant all of us, He said so.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Even with my doubts, I still pray. I still believe, on some level, that God is with me and that I need Him desperately. Whatever that is, I'm okay with it because I couldn't face my self alone. Yes, I have a fellowship who taught me to have the courage to face my imperfections, and to shed light on even my darkest secrets. I have grown very close, even to love a few, but in the end, I'm still alone with my thoughts. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let's just say, I don't always come up with good ideas, but I still plow forward, thinking, "this time, it'll be different. It will work out." </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At least I don't think I'm perfect anymore. I don't think it's <b style="font-style: italic;">you </b>who is at fault. I know it's <b><i>me</i></b> now, but I don't hate <i style="font-weight: bold;">me</i>, at least most of the time. I still have some wonderful qualities. My life is good. I'm safe. I'm very loved despite my defects, imperfection...unworthiness. In fact, as sad as this would be to people who saw my outer existence, my life is the best it's ever been. I'm afraid that God might ask me to leave everything, everyone and go to Kerith Brook to wait on Him. Then I think of what's the worst that can happen, the dogs and cats either get homes or are put down (that's where the fear comes in). I lose all my material stuff; house and everything in it, car, job, clothes and food. In the end, if I don't climb back in, I will still be okay. I have a group of people who love me and who are still teaching me to learn to live outside the bottle. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've walked through a lot of fear. I have, with a great deal of help, done some amazing things. I have such a long way to go, but at least, I don't have to walk alone. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A woman once showed me that all I needed was a little bit of faith and if God is with me, no one can be against me. I guess God's Grace doesn't depend on me being anything other than me. I hope that if God ever does call me to my own Kerith Brook, that I can hear Him and have enough faith and courage to obey. </div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-4235539840237056972015-02-17T19:35:00.000-08:002015-02-18T08:15:33.367-08:00Family is Just a Word<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I spent my life wondering why my mother hates me so much, although she tried to explain
it to me once, in a rare moment of conscience. My father had affairs or an affair, while she was pregnant with me, she said. She never "bonded" with me, she
said. I was 33, my youth long over by the time she finally admitted to me what I had suspected my entire life. What I had begun to suspect was confirmed, so I wasn't surprised. I thought she was repenting, but she was only easing her conscience.<br />
<br />
I would get sober four years later and begin the process of forgiving, of trying to be a good daughter and make amends for the horror that I put my parents through, wrongly believing I was justified. I practiced learning to forgive her for making me endure her obvious disgust when I was trapped with her as a child, Even many alcoholics can't fathom a mother whose child makes her bristle just by breathing. It's unimaginable, but it happened to me.<br />
<br />
Although my mother was beautiful in her youth. I mean, drop dead gorgeous, she could never see it. Her father was a strict and brutal disciplinarian, according to my mother. Her mother died when she was 22. After I got sober, I tried to think of these things, practice forgiveness, let go of the resentments that I had so enjoyed to miserably wallow.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We had a screaming blow-out a year ago last
Christmas and I finally told my father that I knew she still hated me. A few days later, I went over to make amends, expecting pride, but surprised by an amends of her own. She said she knew why
I was angry. I didn't even let her
finish. I didn't want her to have to say
it. It was the best day of my life. All
I wanted was for my mother to love me, to approve of me. I could not fathom a mother hating her child. Even when my brother confessed
in shocked horror that a few years prior she confided to him that she hated me
and didn't feel guilty, I told him I already knew and all was forgiven. I announced what I thought was a healing from the podium on my 20th anniversary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I thought all the anger had been
washed away, like sin was when John baptized Jesus. Like Genesis, we were starting new, but alas,
it was not to be. I found out that a stream
of resentment flows relentlessly under the surface of our relationship. I had developed an agile acrobatic ability to deflect bombs disguised as passive aggressiveness. But just like any circus
performer, I have off days. Valentines
Day, 2015 was an off day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
It's been a rough year already
this year. In January, two of my oldest
cats, Scratchie, 18, and Mac, 15, were
put to sleep. I had guilt over whether they were ready or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I know I'm making excuses. I am unashamed. I am in constant back pain for
which I'm seeking treatment and because of which, I'm just frickin miserable sometimes. Still, and this is not to make myself seem
wonderful, as you will find out soon, I am not, I visited my parents regularly. They are old. They haven't anyone to depend
on.<br />
<br />
My brother is a 50 year-old addict who lives in a trailer park, his bills
paid by their social security checks and other unmentionable activities. They live
off the kindness of Catholic Charities after spending every dime and maxed out their credit, in a vain attempt to save my brother from himself. My father, the funniest man I ever knew, generous with his time and money and unbelievably selfish, who mercilessly berated his son in
his youth, tries to buy forgiveness with whatever they have left to afford. My mother, who hates herself
in a Catholic way, hangs herself in holy martyrdom on my father's cross.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
My sister, the smartest of us all, moved too far away to help my aging parents, and to get away from our prying eyes and unsolicited opinions. In rare moments when the truth rushes
like steam from a boiling pot, she slams the lid on it and takes medication to
turn the heat down, but the pot continues to simmer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Though I always thought my aunt was the crazy one, but my mother's untreated neuroses has evolved to the point when even relatives who live in the same town may as well
be living on Mars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
So, I took on the role of semi-caretaker visiting them several times a month,
sometimes every week for months, bringing them gifts of food, computers, other
things, until Valentine's Day 2015.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
A day of two before, Dad asked me, as he constantly
did, when I was going to come over. We made a day of Valentine's Day. I didn't make a time and didn't make it over there until 4:00, but tired
after a week at work, my back hurting, I dragged myself over. The place was a mess. They weren't dressed when I got arrived. I was immediately uncomfortable, but I sat
down at the kitchen table. I had offered to take them mattress shopping when I spoke to my Dad on the phone, but my Dad said he couldn't go in my car. He had to have the wheelchair.<br />
<br />
It all started with me
trying to back out of going with them mattress shopping. I asked who would be driving. Dad said Mom would. I made a joke, something
like, "no way", or "Well, then, I really don't want to go." But in reality, I didn't want to be trapped and they're both horrible
drivers. Dad began telling a story of Mom
having an episode while driving. I
should have heard the ticking when Mom started getting defensive, but as I
said, I was off my game that day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I deflected the first bomb by ignoring Mom when she said, "I feel like boxing Carol's ears right now." When she starts talking ABOUT people while
they are right there in the room, there is usually only seconds until detonation. Everyone in the room should evacuate. I began to feel even more uncomfortable. They seemed tired as if
they just wanted to sleep and I began to wonder what I was doing there.<br />
<br />
Mom asked me if I was hungry. As a matter of
fact, I was, but I said, only a little.
She said she would make me something to drink. That was an odd thing to
say, knowing that I'm a recovering alcoholic, but I didn't question it. I knew
she didn't mean an alcoholic beverage, but she did mean something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
So, I sat at the table, talking
to my Dad, when by chance, I turned my head and saw her pouring olive oil into
a glass of tomato juice. I told her I didn't want any of that. She got
angry. "I knew you were going to
say that . Why did you have to turn your head around?" She wanted to make a concoction of olive oil,
lemon juice and tomato juice, she said.
I reiterated that I didn't want any, thank you. She came out with a
bottle of tomato juice, shoved it at my father and began speaking to me through
my father again. "I'm going to give
Carol just tomato juice." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
The tension in the room was beginning to become unbearable and I had decided to leave. I stood up and said that I didn't
want anything. I was going to go home. I
don't know if my Mom lost it then, or if I said something under my breath about
this (scene) being ugly and my father's unfortunate agreement with an added,
"she's in a bad mood today."
Either way, my mother lost it.
She told me I could "go and not come back." I said, "okay!" Yay!
Then, she wanted her hundred dollars back or her change from her hundred
dollars. (I told them I would buy her a Word
program for the laptop that I bought her.<br />
<br />
She gave me a hundred dollars and told me to "keep it for
awhile." I have not taken a dime
off of them for dozens of years, but stupidity runs in my veins. And I was having trouble paying it back.) In my anger, I wrote a check for cash for the
whole hundred, even though they said they would pay half. Don't borrow money.
That's my motto....usually. A better motto
would be, don't offer to pay for things you can't afford. Whatever, I'm not taking money from old people on
Social Security.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Like I said before, I was having
an off day, which was perfect for what was about to happen. I took the bait and announced I wouldn't wasn't
be back and began writing a check, which gave her time to hurl more insults, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
My poor disabled father's attempts to intervene were almost comedic. His guttural pleas ping-ponged back and forth from woman to woman, "Oh Lord, Pam, don't do that. ," and, "Come now, Carol,
don't say that!" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
As I got up to leave, my 4'11" mother tilted her head backand came at me from the kitchen, barking insults like a rabid dog. When
she got eye to chin to me, I could feel my eyes
narrow and my hand clench. I struggled not to punch her in the face, and told
her so. I'll never forget the satisfaction in her face when she said, "and
your ugly on the outside too!" For a split second I was shocked, I
couldn't believe she had just
stabbed me in my Achilles heel. My
composure shattered. I shouted, "You fucking bitch?" in their 500 sq foot apartment. I heard my father groan. She had aimed and scored and was reveling in it. She shot more insults, but by now, I had been reduced to shouting at her to fuck off. As I walked out the door, my parting words, were that this behavior was the cause of their loneliness. Dramatically, I said goodbye and good luck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
You would think that's the end of
it, but oh no!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I made another mistake by contacting
my sister and asking her to keep in touch with them in case they need
anything. I cryptically told her there was
a falling out and I wouldn't be available anymore. I had forgotten how much my sister is like my
mother, Of course, she called my mother first thing the next morning and
decided to message me to let me know my mother was fine. Of course, SHE was fine. She hasn't had that much fun in years! She thought I'd like to know. Nope, I said, just check on them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
"Yeah right, like you were
mother of the year."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
WHAT? THIS from the sister who insisted she didn't
want to know what happened, who didn't want to get in the middle of things, and
who thanked me for being there for them?<br />
<br />
That's when I decided to divorce the whole
sick lot of them, mother, sister, brother and unfortunately, father by
association. I started the divorce
proceedings by un-friending and blocking each of their Facebook pages. Immature, but effective. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I've had mixed reactions. My sponsor (I'm sober 21 years March 13,
2015), said to just not see them today.
Oh yeah right, the one day at a time thing, I can do that. Facebook friends (a brief burst of momentary
lapse of judgment, which was quickly deleted) advised me to allow my mother her
wishes. One of my daughter's, who doesn't care for my mother's rejection of her, called me to find out if I was okay. I said I was and asked why. She said sister posted something about wishing she could un-sister me. I asked my daughter not to report what's said about me on Facebook. As far as I'm concerned, it's done. Another friend was appalled at every point of my reaction, sharing her story of warm
love toward her cold and hateful mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
In AA's Big Book, Alcoholic
Anonymous, there is a discussion of the consequences of our actions during the
drinking phase of our lives. How we
blame others, but continuously place ourselves in positions where we can be,
and are, hurt. That is what a
relationship is like with my mother. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I know I'm emotionally and
spiritually immature. I know I'm abrasive, as my warm friend with the cold mother
told me, which is exactly why I can't continue a relationship with my family.
I've heard of people disappearing, moving far from their families, cutting off
relations with them completely. I've wished for that so often. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
People tell me I should be a good daughter; that I will miss her when she's gone. They. are. wrong.<br />
<br />
A woman told me this the other
day, "Family is just a word. You're
not going to treat me like shit and be my family. My family are my friends and people who love and
support me unconditionally. Just because
I have the same blood as you does not make you my family."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Well said. Well said, indeed.</div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-36378956262953308412015-01-07T17:18:00.002-08:002015-01-07T17:18:39.879-08:00MeSometimes I wonder if the reason I'm not a successful writer is that I am not entirely honest when I write. Fear of what others may think I mean causes me to wonder if the fatty, juicy observations and perceptions are sliced away leaving the subject matter too lean for the palate of others. <br />
<br />
Or maybe I just suck. Don't think I haven't thought of that.<br />
<br />
So, let's start with my favorite subject. My dogs. Just kidding, it's me, but they are a close contender.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCy8pGPbyOwjuAdTFqvelBsRCLXM7CQX85O5Bf5-ezLSI9Yq-x2_jaFq3GaTmv1QmVRaA6v468JHk4-EVn8GUNNsyiuX0EtM93fZnHiC9ERQ2pI_hFHzADGMGBdcjETrv7iPaXhYDzuw/s1600/633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCy8pGPbyOwjuAdTFqvelBsRCLXM7CQX85O5Bf5-ezLSI9Yq-x2_jaFq3GaTmv1QmVRaA6v468JHk4-EVn8GUNNsyiuX0EtM93fZnHiC9ERQ2pI_hFHzADGMGBdcjETrv7iPaXhYDzuw/s1600/633.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
So, back to me, which, if you know me, is where any conversation with me returns....<br />
<br />
I curse like a sailor. I have since nobody could tell me that I couldn't. I've tried to quit. I also know I can, under the right circumstances, control the curse impulse. I just don't have many right circumstances.<br />
<br />
I have a twisted sense of humor.I gravitate to others that do.<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to write an autobiography here, just trying to dump a little honest black on white.<br />
<br />
Maybe I can start anew. Maybe I can write.Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-69911343593052252862014-11-07T00:14:00.006-08:002014-11-07T00:14:58.549-08:00Wrong LaneIt's 2:30 a.m. EST. For some reason, I awoke at 2:00 a.m. and after laying there, expecting to fall back to sleep after only having 3 hours sleep the morning before, I begrudgingly got out of bed. <br />
<br />
Nothing on Facebook. Huffington Post had an interesting whistleblower article on Chase Bank, but lacking the ability to focus through the entire article, I read the first three paragraphs and summed up the whole article, because I'm genius like that.<br />
<br />
Chase is getting bigger and stronger despite it's unethical and illegal banking practices. The United States is just as corrupt for covering it up. Is there hope for us? <br />
<br />
Trying to get justice with big money involved is like when you're late for work and get in the wrong lane going behind someone driving 45 on the highway. And nobody will let you out. When finally, you do catch a break, you get caught behind someone else driving 50. Then all the way to work, you catch every red light. And you left early that morning. <br />
<br />
Getting fleeced by corporate America produces the same kind of powerless frustration, with the exception that the obstruction is purchased and designed to deceive and thieve.<br />
<br />
I fear that many people of limited and, dare I say intelligence, such as myself, feel just as helpless, hopeless and frustrated as a driver caught in the wrong lane. Therefore, no one does anything because who can fight that?<br />
<br />
Jesus, why did I read those few paragraphs at 2:00 a.m. this morning?<br />
<br />
I'm Canadian. By the time I sobered up and was ready to become an American, it cost over $1,000 to become a citizen. This country has been my home since I was 14 years old. I love her with all my heart. Although I am hoping to be able to do so one day, at the moment, I don't have a say in government. I feel very little hope. I pray that this country will straighten out; that corporate greed will not pave a path to hell on the good intentions of our founding forefathers. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-66331666886285215792014-09-12T10:24:00.003-07:002014-09-12T10:24:54.090-07:00Whatever Yo!I can write whatever I want on this page because nobody every reads my shit anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-16428336566764411442014-09-11T19:38:00.001-07:002014-09-11T19:56:30.252-07:00Not Waiting For A Bus<div class="MsoNormal">
She was the only one sitting on the bench when I arrived at
the bus stop. She didn't look up even as
I sat down, which is not unusual. 'Mind
your own business' her posture said. I
began reading my morning emails on my cell phone. I didn't realize she was talking to me for
several seconds. I lifted and turned my
head toward her, but she didn't lift or turn hers, as if she was talking to
herself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"...I sat there, watching his lips moving, but no sound
was coming out," she went on.
"It was like the pressurized cabin of a plane, you know, like all
the sound had been sucked out? It was
weird. And I just sat there and stared
at him. The words seemed to float like bubbles out of
his mouth and pop in my ears.. 'terminal... inoperable... aggressive
treatment....three months, maybe six.'. I
don't even remember leaving his office."
Her voice trailed off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do you say to a stranger who has just told you they are going to die before
the year was out? I had an unexpected surge
of empathy. I wanted to comfort this
young woman in some way, but I've never been that person, you know, the one who
intuitively knows how to. Should I tell
her to keep her head up, everything is going to be all right? I wasn't in the mood for an early morning
lie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just sat there and listened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I'm not afraid to die," she continued, "It's
just, I have so much to do, so many responsibilities. Who will take care of them when I'm
gone?" Her deep brown eyes welled
with tears, formed a stream down her chin and splashed onto her teal shirt. I sat
there listening helplessly as she began to sob quietly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
"I made up my mind. I'm not going to do treatment," she continued,
shaking her brunette head for emphasis.
"It's stage 4. I'm not going
to spend my last days like that. Everyone
wants to be the exception. They fight
and hope and suffer." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
They don't tell you the truth,
you know. Did you know that? If there's a fighting chance, they don't tell
you the truth so you'll keep a positive attitude. They say a positive attitude is almost
everything in cancer treatment. So they
lie to you, give you hope, so you'll fight to survive. When they get the results of the
treatment. That's when they tell you the
truth," her voice trailed off, "Unless the truth is all they really
have to offer in the first place."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
"What are you going to
do?" I whispered, not knowing if this was a question that should be asked.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
"I don't know," she
answered. "I'm only 24, you
know. I'm not going to off myself, if
that's what you were thinking. No, I
think I'll wrap some stuff up as much as I can, then go on a cruise, or see the whales in Alaska, .
I guess now would be a good time for a bucket list, huh?" She managed to laugh. I managed to smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
"This is my bus," I
said.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Thanks, Mister, for listening. You
are really nice." She looked at me for the first time. She was young, with wide round eyes, smooth unstressed
skin and lips that looked great smiling. I stared at her as she walked along the
sidewalk brushing her hands against flowering bushes and green trees until the
bus driver began to close the door. </div>
Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7613919705408046571.post-10389718625650393052014-06-02T09:25:00.003-07:002014-06-02T09:25:39.213-07:00Dreams in SlumberI had big dreams when I was a kid. Kid dreams...dreams of flying, of saving the world and animals, righting wrongs, putting injustice in its place, but like an early morning mist, they evaporated under the burning light of reality.<br />
<br />
Every now and then something reminds me that once I had dreams. I even get glimpses of what they were but a jaded pair of eyes ordered my cold heart to pluck the dreams from the skies of my mind, place them in a box, shove them in a closet and lock the door. <br />
<br />
My dreams may have been childish then, but they have grown, laying in the box hidden in the darkness. They didn't die, but wait for my soul to awaken, like a bear emerging from its winter hibernation when the snow begins to melt, flowers begin to bloom and birds begin to sing again, so they may be free again.<br />
<br />
But I don't know where I put the key.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carol Sheppardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13296842223324258800noreply@blogger.com0