Life, Spirit and Matters Metaphysic

T-Square Blues...

2010-04-06T16:05:00.000-04:00

Ok, just had to put this one up on the blog. I wrote it for Donna Cunningham's "Skywriter" blog for National Humor month..don't know if y'all are still around...

Pluto sat at the head of the table looking back and forth from his son, Saturn, sitting to his left and his grandson, Jupiter, sitting to his right. Uranus, the drunken uncle was walking toward Jupiter's back, unseen.

Pluto, the patriarch, was mediating an argument between his son and grandson. His granddaughter, Venus, was the subject and Mars, the antagonist and her angry boyfriend, stood against the wall with his arms crossed. Jupiter wanted Venus to experience life on her own and her father, the righteous one, wanted her as far away from Mars as she could get. Neptune, the drunken uncle's wife was in the kitchen making the potent Swedish drink, cosmic glug. It was part of the evening they had all planned and everyone was going to get snockered.

Pluto was dressed in his usual black suit with the wide lapels, black shirt and gray tie. He had hung his wide brim hat on the hook by the door. He had a drooping moustache and dark, piercing eyes. He didn't look four billion years old; he looked like five.

Saturn, somewhat more than four billion, wore a staid gray suit that draped him like sheet rock. His clothes were a throwback to days less complicated. His visage was stern and unyielding and he believed in tough love and education. But in this instance, he wanted Jupiter to compromise with him and Venus to abide by their construct. If she didn’t, he thought she was in for sex without ending and would probably get pregnant. Mercury and his twin, Ditto, sat on the floor making plans to get at the glug.

Jupiter, a large man, wore voluminous sweat pants that hung low and showed too much of his rear end when he bent over. His polo shirt was too small and rose up over his belly and he was hirsute to say the least. He didn’t care what the construct was going to be, he just wanted it to be big, negative or positive. He was one who liked to feed the fire and with Uranus stumbling toward him, everyone was waiting for an explosion. When Saturn and Uranus got together, especially with opposing viewpoints, you could expect some cracks in the sheet rock and flashes of temper. They all knew nothing would be the same in the morning.

“She doesn’t need this wild and crazed idiot with no common sense or direction” said Saturn. “All he wants to do is fight and have sex. How is he going to support our Venus? Go start a war and bring home some plunder? Hire himself out as a gigolo?”

Venus tried to hide a smile at the mention of sex. Pluto glowered at her and she quickly turned away, a little embarrassed but content in the knowledge that Mars would bring her what she needed most. Just as long as he didn’t get carried away.

Jupiter, his belly rubbing against the edge of the table, said, “She’s old enough to decide for herself, Pop. Heck, in a millenium, she’ll be four. We have no right to decide her life for her. Besides, Mars is a pretty cool guy, though I admit he can get full of himself, especially when he’s hanging with the Lions.” He was full of energy and determined to go straight ahead with this.

Uranus, never satisfied with the status quo, leaned over Jupiter and glared directly at Saturn. He was dressed in an ultra modern style with sharp edges and razor creases. His outfit was colorful and his ideas radical. And he was drunk. No one knew what would come out of his mouth next.

“I say let ‘em be, Saturn. Who in the hell are we to get in their way? I kind of like the boy lately and I can identify with him. Besides, if you try to corral them with your crappy old ideas, they’re gonna run off by themselves.” He coughed, then sneezed and his breath smelled like absinthe. Jupiter tried to move away but Uranus had him pinned against the table. He felt the back of his head for foreign material.

“Look, you upstart! said Saturn. “No one even knew about you until recently and we all know you’re liable to go off in any direction, maybe all of ‘em at once! You need to chill here or I’ll shut you down like a bad idea!”

“What!?” screamed Uranus. He wasn’t going away without a fight. “I’m your brother. I can’t help it if your mother isn’t my mother, but you gotta get with the times! The world wants more freedom to choose than you’re willing to give. I’m telling you, Jupiter and I are gonna give you more than your money’s worth. The two of us together can create a lot of havoc!” Jupiter perked up at the sound of his name. His eyes grew wide and he had a silly grin on his face because he had always chafed at the limitations set down by his dad.

“Don’t you threaten me, you half baked son of a drunken bitch!” Saturn was beginning to turn red with anger and everyone knew that he could cause a lot of pain and misery if he chose to. You don’t have a clue as to what I can do! I’ll lock you up so tight it’ll take you another billion to get free!”

By now, Pluto had seen enough. Always calm and supremely dangerous, he could draw upon resources that the others wouldn’t believe. He could cut the legs off anyone who doubted his power. He was already tired of this childish bickering and decided to do something about it. He turned slowly toward Saturn, his eyes flashing.

“Okay, boy, I’ve heard enough. You’re trying to exert controls that have no place here. You’re going to change your attitudes about your daughter and her boyfriend, Mars. I’m the one who’s going to determine the new structure around here. Nothing is going to be the same, and if you fight me, I tell you that you’ll crumble. There’s no place left for this rigidity you’re always forcing on others. You will change with the times or you’ll never see peace again!” Then he turned to Jupiter with the same fire in his eyes.

“Grandson, you have always been too big for your britches. No common sense and no caring where you send that energy of yours. It’s up to the choice of the individuals in this world to use or abuse it. It’s generic, boy, and you give it out like candy. You need to start all over and decide how to present yourself. I suspect that in about twelve years you’ll have figured it out, but right now, with Uranus on your ass, you’d better think fast.”

He turned his head toward Uranus, who was growing more sober by the minute. “You, too, boy rebel. If you’re gonna blow in here and upset the place, you’d better have a purpose in mind because you and Jupiter together with Mars over there, can turn this world upside down.” Venus was now sitting quietly, her eyes wide. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen now. She did know, though, that come August 20, she and Mars would connect regardless of what was decided here. It was inevitable.

Pluto looked around the table his gaze settling on one planet at a time. He had everyone’s rapt attention and it was time for his ultimatum. “What we all need to do is get my daughter-in-law, Moon, to open her arms again and provide all of us with a place to go when it gets tough. No matter what’s going on, what mischief you create, you can always come home. I know all of this fighting is upsetting her, she’s just so damn gentle.”

Everyone turned to see Moon coming out of the kitchen with two freshly baked loaves of bread. She took her seat across from Pluto and smiled the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.

“He’s right. Home is always sanctuary and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So you guys go out and change the world and Venus, Neptune, the twins and I will work to make this the best home you’ve ever seen.”

“Uranus, sober up, Jupiter grow up, and my wonderful, faithful husband, Saturn, loosen up. Mars you’re going to have to make me proud to have you as part of this family. A lot of refinement is in the cards for you. If you’re going to lead, you have to sacrifice some of that ego of yours. Calm down and make us proud.”

And to Neptune, still in the kitchen making the booze, she called, “Just for once, don’t cloud the issues with that cosmic confusion of yours! You’re in a position to offer creative new ways of working through the chaos. Pretty soon you’ll be asked to join them.

Is that brew ready yet? I’m pretty thirsty and I know everyone else needs a jolt!” With her smile wide she was happy and satisfied with her family. Each had their own talents and she knew that they would work together to bring Spirit into the world.

The Times They Are a Changin'...

2010-03-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

Hello, dear readers. That is if anyone is listening. According to my analytics, I've not had many (if any) visits to this page for a while. Since I have much on my plate at the moment- FB, Astrology, Astrology lessons, a book to write and a life to live with my wife, I am going to stop writing here. Remember, I was unsure of it just before Mercury went Rx and decided when it went forward to give it another shot, and now I have revisited that decision.

My main plan is to write my book. We want a couple of snowmobiles, a Harley, we need a roof, a new well, a new porch and a million other little things, so my plan is to write a bestseller that will make these things possible.

While writing this blog, I have received enough incredible feedback to make me understand that I now have the tools necessary to do the book. I want to thank you all for listening (reading)and when the book is done, it is to you all that I will give the credit.

It's a difficult decision but one that I must make if I am to reach my goals. So thank you and thank you again for your amazing input...

The Czar Comes Home to Deal...

2010-03-03T13:35:00.003-05:00

The following story is absolutely true. The parking lot, the parakeet and the mangy cat are pure fiction but the rest of the story is not.

Joyce had called. She’s my aunt, deceased now, a local celebrity who had a psychic talk show on a local television station. Sometimes I produced her shows. I loved her dearly; she’s my spiritual guide and had been since I was a kid. This particular night, she asked me to her house, wanting me to meet some people who had just appeared on her show that evening. She usually has a get together with the guests after every show, and told me that I might be interested in meeting them.

When I arrived, I learned that my aunt had already filled them in on some of my various interests; the professional (investigative) and paraprofessional (clairvoyance, psychometry) and they wondered if I might be interested in looking into what they believed to be a haunting at their restaurant. New owners, they had spent the two years previous in renovation. Now, open just less than 6 months, they were having trouble with strange occurrences in the building. Hot and cold changes. Lights going on and off, some vague reports of apparitions. The usual stuff. Intrigued, I asked if they would mind me “calibrating” my perceptions.

From the picture on the inside of my forehead, I began describing the building. I covered the construction style, windows, porch, outbuildings and was accurate until I said the color was gray with black trim. Nope, they said, it’s white but it has black trim. Well, I saw gray but it wasn’t a problem for me. You never get everything right. Sometimes you get nothing right but lots of times you get something.

They described shuffling and banging noises, temperature changes and a strange recurring light in the basement. Several employees had reported visual experiences. I told them that I was interested and that I’d be out a few nights later right around dinner. I wanted to be there when the activity was said to occur.

I arrived with my entourage, a parakeet and a mangy cat. No, wait, that wasn’t then, that was somewhere else. Ah, I remember now, I was alone. No one would go with me. Not even the mangy cat. So, I got there and couldn’t find a parking place. My intuition told me to go right and I did but it was a dead end and I got stuck. No, I didn’t get stuck, I remember, I got lost. It was a really big parking lot. I thought things had started out pretty well.

This is where it gets serious. Very serious. It was actually a really small parking lot. I finally parked fairly straight and got through the vestibule on my own. I had been told I’d be expected. I was. Two waitresses and the cook let me in the door, but they wouldn’t let me sit down, I had to wait in the rear of the vestibule. While they weren’t looking, I took some creamer packets and a spoon. Teach them to mess with me.

Once they realized who I was, they assigned a busboy to guard me . I guess they didn’t recognize me in my black biker leather, jackboots and two dollar shades but hey, I was incognito. You never want ’em to see you coming, especially the ones that play with the lights.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this bizarre story. Well, at least this story in a bizarre way. It’s because - don’t look around - they’re listening. I have to speak in code so they won’t know that I know and take me away to do remote viewing in the Pentagon with a bunch of dweebs and strange looking women. You understand.

And now this is the real part. Really. I toured the restaurant’s three floors and a dark, dank basement. I’ll admit to feeling constricted - and dank - there, but picked up no identifiable perceptions. Not until I found myself in an upstairs dining room, where I saw a picture on the wall of a young, uniformed Russian soldier with blazingly intense eyes. As I approached the picture. the room got colder. I know, I know, a “cliche,” but it did. It got much colder. Fast. As I moved away from the picture, it got warmer. When I went back, it got cold again. My curiosity rose with the short hairs on the back of my neck.

There was something very familiar about the picture but I couldn’t place it. The impression was strong but vague and when I asked, I was told simply that it was the previous owner. Later, I learned from the hostess, who was also part of the new ownership, that they had gotten a pretty good deal on the place. The way that she said “good deal” led me to thinking that it might have been maybe a little too good. Of course she was Russian, just in this country with a pretty strong accent and maybe a little uncomfortable. But I saw it in her eyes, too.

I first saw Yuri, the owner of the restaurant when he walked into the room. Hulking, dark hair, dark eyes, moody type. The kind who looks out from beneath an overhang of a forehead and bushy, wild thickets for eyebrows. I had to crouch to see his eyes. When he came over to shake my hand, the room got even chillier. I instinctively turned around to see what the picture had to say. Nothing. Just staring. Glaring. Blazing.

He didn’t introduce himself but said that he’d heard how accurate I’d been with my descriptions and was impressed. He didn’t look impressed. He looked moody. And dark, with a heavy, hanging brow. I thanked him and mentioned I’d gotten the color wrong; that the restaurant was white, not gray. He looked at me strangely and said that yes, the building was white now, but it had been gray before the renovations. Hmmm, I thought to myself, “bitchin!” Cookin’ on all burners now.

I asked him about the man in the picture on the wall next to me. His eyes shifted ever so slightly from mine and I knew, from my years of experience, from all of my seminars and lectures on interrogative technique, that the man definitely had something stuck in his eye. No, just kidding. I knew he was hiding something. But, since he was technically part of the group that had invited me, I couldn’t beat it out of him. I had to find another way. Just then the hostess told me they were closing and asked if I could find my way out. Something just didn’t feel right. I looked around and sure enough, everyone was still eating.

I put on my irritated face but that was just a cover. I wanted them to think I was ticked so I could come back and get my car unstuck. No, wait, that wasn’t it, no. It was so I could come back alone and talk with this picture myself. As snitty an act as I gave them, they must have figured I’d never be back. But I would. I knew something was going on and I knew it was something they didn’t want me to know.

They knew I knew and that they knew I knew. It was simple. I was too close and they wanted me gone. I left knowing that I’d be back, and knowing that they didn’t really know that I knew what I knew and that they didn’t. See? I wasn’t sure what was going on but I did know that it involved the man in the picture. I had spoken to most of the waitstaff who all agreed that there was something strange and frightening going on in the restaurant. But that I had to leave anyway. More people were being seated.

To this point, I hadn’t communicated with any discarnate entities but had the distinct impression that there was some kind of struggle going on. It was strong and tickled my hairs again. When I mentioned this to Yuri, the look he gave me was very dark. And I mean very dark. Darker. More controlled fury than fear.

I left Yuri with the understanding that I was going to pursue the issue. He wasn't happy but the other two co-owners whom I had met at Joyce’s seemed so. Story was they had only recently met Yuri while acting as stateside representatives for the purchase and knew little about his history or background in Russia.

A funny thing, they mentioned as we walked out, was another picture that had once hung in the same room as the picture I had seen. Gone now, they said that it was a picture of Yuri‘s great uncle. An exact likeness. When they had asked Yuri about it, he had shrugged it off, saying something about it being wrong for the room.

A few days later as I was reading the Detroit Free Press, I saw the face that I had seen in the picture at the restaurant. It startled me because the face was the face of the Czar who had been killed along with his entire family during the Purge in Stalinist Russia. Next to his picture was a picture of Yuri. At least I would have sworn it was him. The caption described the Czar’s death and the alleged involvement by the man in the adjacent picture. According to the article, he had been complicit in the murders and the seizing of the family property.

Through further research I learned that the young man in the picture in the restaurant, a descendant of the Czar, had purchased property in the U.S. of which the restaurant was part. But, he’d been killed in a mysterious accident in Russia only a year before. The property had then been sold to pay off family debts. The purchaser? None other than Yuri. A living replica of the dark Yuri-like man in the Free Press picture.

I went back to the restaurant that evening and asked to wander again. Yuri wasn’t pleased but he was outvoted. This time there was no busboy assigned to me. I left them and went back up to the room with the picture. As I stood in front of it, I knew that he was looking straight at me, into my eyes, into me. Through me. I felt an overwhelming sense of pain and anger. Great anger. Then I heard the words, “It is him. His family.“ in my head. It was so acute that I thought someone was in the room with me. And suddenly, I understood.

I knew that Yuri and his family had murdered again, the Czar’s great nephew this time. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to prove this, but I knew. And I knew that the Czar had relocated, at least temporarily and dimensionally, to the restaurant in which I was standing. And I understood why Yuri was acting the way he was. It was the truth in him that I was sensing and it was a deep, dark thing to behold.

I went down to the kitchen where I found him. Pulling him aside, I gave him my impressions. His eyes narrowed, his face went even darker, which might have been caused by those damn eyebrows blocking out the light. His jaw muscles clenched. At that moment, I then knew there was nothing left to do, no further words were necessary. I smiled sweetly, looked straight into his eyes for a long minute and walked out the door.

As I reached the parking lot, a feeling of crisis coursed through me like lightning. I don’t know how else to describe it. Flashpoint is the closest I can come. Then as quickly as it came, it passed, replaced by an empty, vacuous feeling and a sense of peace. Suddenly, I understood what was going to happen. I left believing that I had somehow accomplished something. I made it to my car without assistance. Others may have been stuck. Not me.

It was a few months later that I read a newspaper article describing the arrest of Yuri and others for the murder of the young man in the picture - and the Czar, I thought. According to the article, the authorities had received an anonymous tip, leading them to Yuri and his people. I wondered who that could have been. Or how. I grinned at the mangy cat hanging by her claws on the refrigerator door, looking at me. I got up and headed toward the kitchen. It was her way of saying she was hungry. No, not the parakeet, he was caught in the drapes somewhere.

The two remaining partners, one of whom looked a great deal like the man in the newspaper photo, were left with full ownership and continue to run the business successfully. I spoke with them not long after things had quieted down and they told me that the strange occurrences had stopped shortly after my visit. Go figure.

Julius, o Julius...

2010-02-21T13:31:00.005-05:00

I looked over at the first chair saxophonist in envy. The man could play some sweet, sweet sounds and I knew that I would never challenge him for the chair. I had no discipline and I liked sports too much to devote much time to the band. But I could still appreciate what he could do with that sax in 9th grade.

Four years later I sat, engine rumbling, at a light on Telegraph, the main drag through our town of Dearborn, Michigan, the home of the Ford Motor Company. GM and Chrysler were not far away and it was the day of the muscle car. I was driving a 1968 Dodge Dart GTS that was damn fast and, had I kept it and in good condition, would have been worth $300,000 today. Suddenly, to my left, I watched as a dark green fastback Barracuda pulled up to the light. I could see the numbers 383 on the hood and thought, 'I can take this guy.' The driver looked over at me and I could see that it was first chair sax. I smiled to myself.

The light cycled green and we jumped across the intersection, tires squealing and two Mopar engines building to a roar. No one had ever beat me off the line and I found myself a car length ahead. I kept that car length up through fifty, sixty and on into seventy. By seventy five he began to creep up on me. At eighty, his big 383 pulled past my 340 and by ninety it was all over. I just didn't have the stuff to take it to the finish. I broke it down and turned off Telegraph to the side streets just in case the cops had seen us. If they had, I wasn't the one they would go after, anyway. They always tagged the winner in these things unless both cars got caught at a light. I had been nailed once that way.

I traded in the Dodge for a jeep and spent a year tooling along in front of big convoys. My first year and a half had been spent in southern Georgia patrolling the streets and ranges of Ft. Stewart. I found my way to Vietnam by way of wearing out my welcome at Stewart. It was okay because that was what I wanted. My friends were dying over there and I felt impotent not fighting along with them.

I did other things that run convoys during that year; I pulled gate and law enforcement duties in Cam Rahn Bay. As a new guy, I burned shit from the latrines with kerosene and pushed the ashes around for twelve hour days. To say I was happy to leave the Orient was not saying much. I was overjoyed and unable to contain myself. My parents met me with wide smiles on their faces and my old friends seemed like children to me. All in all it was pretty strange coming home.

Nine months later I found myself walking into the lunchroom at the Detroit Police Academy. Everybody was dressed in light khaki uniforms and wearing short hair. As I turned to the vending machine, a face caught my attention. It was first chair, last seen pulling away from me in victory. I'll tell you it's a strange feeling seeing someone you know in that kind of situation, almost surreal. I felt myself time-shift for a second and then he turned to see me.

Like long lost friends, which we were, we greeted each other with handshakes and laughs. The "what the hell are you doing here" conversation lasted for several minutes and we promised to catch up with each other but I never saw him again in the Academy. After twelve weeks of intense training, I spent some time with the Tactical Mobile Unit, sort of our SWAT of the day. This was considered on-the-job training with the elite of the police force. From there I was assigned to walk a beat in downtown Detroit for several months and finally assigned to the thirteenth precinct.

I walked into the precinct on my first day, full of trepidation. This was it, the place where I would lose my law enforcement virginity, even though I had three years of previous experience in the field. This was the fertile ground where cops were being killed at a rate unheard of and the precinct right in the middle of it all. But this is where I wanted to be. Right in the center of the action where adrenaline is a daily disease and quick thinking was a prescription for survival.

I had no sooner walked in the door when I saw first chair. Carrying a clipboard and ticket book and heading out to the garage. Our eyes widened in surprise and grins filled our faces. What were the odds? Almost five thousand cops on the force, sixteen precincts and here we were again. After hand shaking and back slapping, he went his way and I went mine. I looked up a sergeant and reported in.

After walking a beat for a month, I was assigned to a shift; there were three of them. Would you believe it if I said I was assigned to first chair's shift? His name was Mike Cardinal and, because he had started the academy before being drafted, his seniority went back three years. It was enough for him to have his own scout car unit, even though he had no experience at being a cop. I was assigned as third man on another scout car with veterans and began my real career as a cop.

Our shift lieutenant was a great guy who recognized talent and desire. Both Mike and I showed a generous helping of each. Mike had a veteran assigned as second man on his car so he didn't hit the streets without some backup. We saw each other every day and spent a lot of time rehashing the past and becoming close friends. Mike had opted for warrant officer training - helicopters - and was first in his class until his wife had a falling out with the commander's wife. He was booted out of training and assigned to a signals battalion. He was brokenhearted; flying was his main desire. Of course, the average life span of helicopter pilots in Vietnam was pretty short, so maybe serendipity had played a part in this drama.

After only a month and a half, we convinced our lieutenant to put us together on Mike's car. After that it was Starsky and Hutch, Batman and Robin. We quickly began to pile up statistics. Most felony arrests, most misdemeanor arrests and most tickets written. Accurate, well written reports and professional court testimony. Most of the veterans on the shift disdained us, saying that we were hot-shot rookies who didn't have a clue. Maybe we didn't but we learned fast.

Because there was no veteran on our scout car, we did things the way we thought they should be done. We volunteered for radio runs when no other cars piped up. We took the dispatchers pizza whenever we could, making friends there and enjoyed great latitude in the type of runs we got. We never "hit the hole" on the midnight shift, hiding somewhere and sleeping, because we didn't want our obits to read that way. We worked hard for the full eight hours. This ticked off the desk crew who also wanted to crash from about four a.m. till seven. We wouldn't let them and got disgusted groans whenever we would bring in an arrest in those wee hours.

We learned to talk to people instead of treating them like lower class citizens. If there was one phrase we heard all the time, it was "treat me like a man." And so we did. It didn't decrease our production one bit and it left people with a new appreciation of at least two cops. We were working the inner city, the toughest part of Detroit, where all we ever saw were black faces. Imagine two, wet behind the ears white kids from the bastion suburb of racial discrimination, Dearborn, Michigan. The most racial community north of the Mason/Dixon line, patrolling the depths of human depravity in the city of Detroit, Michigan. It was actually ludicrous if you stopped to think about it.

We didn't believe in anything more than necessary force in effecting arrests. While some cops - racial cops - liked to work people over whenever they got the chance, we did not. We believed in making friends out there, understanding that friends were much better than enemies in that environment. Who were they trying to kid? We were disgusted by the philosophies and actions of some of the cops on our shift, so we created our own. If we had to use force to arrest someone, we would take the time in lock-up to try to explain why. We never used blackjacks or sap gloves (gloves whose finger tops were filled with lead dust) or brass knuckles. I didn't even use a nightstick.

We went about our business as absolute professionals and went home after every shift to discuss what had happened that day and how we would handle it differently if it showed up again. We went to school with each other. By this time, Mike and I were closer than man and wife, and spent more time together, too. We became a self-contained unit, almost telepathic in our responses to each other. Well, not almost, we were telepathic. We never had to speak in response to each others actions, we just knew what to do.

It was early one evening that we were called to a domestic dispute. A man and his wife were fighting, very loudly and somewhat physically. These situations were the most dangerous runs we got; you never knew when a couple would stop fighting and turn their rage on you. The key was to separate the combatants and try to use reason to calm them down. Sometimes it didn't work and when one half of the couple saw the other being restrained, they suddenly fell in love again. That's when you had to watch your back and hope your partner was doing his job.

On this occasion, the man, named Julius, just absolutely refused to be restrained. He had hit his wife and caused her nose to bleed and therefore had to be taken in for assault. It wasn't that he was attacking us but more just being adamant about not going with us. He was short, built like a fireplug and strong as hell. By the time we got him outside there were six of us trying to get the handcuffs on. He would just shift his body forcefully and throw half of us off. It was impossible to get his arms behind him he was so strong.

When we finally managed to get his wrists behind him, we discovered that they were too large to get the cuffs around. Seeing this, we knew we were in trouble. He had to go and we were going to have to use necessary force to get him to do so. All of a sudden, Julius just relaxed and promised us he would go quietly. I took him at his word. Since we couldn't get the cuffs on him, one of us had to ride in the back with him. Mike and I thanked the Gods and headed in to the station.

We finally got Julius into the precinct lock-up and started taking his fingerprints. He was still dazed and compliant. As his head cleared, we began to talk to him, explaining what had happened and why it had to happen. It wasn't long before he started to listen, and by the time we were done, Julius was inviting Mike and I over to his apartment for wine. So, instead of a citizen complaint, we got wine which made our lieutenant very happy. This is why he loved us.

Life went on and Mike and I continued to work in our style. Soon it was July and the middle of a hot summer in Detroit. 1974 to be exact. Heat makes for increased activity and the action barometer went way up. On this day, we responded to a run to the Bamboo Bar at Pingree and 12th, the intersection where the riots started in 1967. The Bamboo was the last bastion of those horrible, violent days. It was where the hardcore hung out. We always liked to have backup whenever we went there but today the other cars were busy. The run was "Man with a gun" and we prepared ourselves for an interesting few minutes.

As we entered, we heard metal hit the floor and looked to see several guns and a some knives laying there. Since we couldn't determine who had dropped what, we put everybody up against the bar and started frisking them for more weapons. Actually I frisked while Mike watched my back. We soon realized that we were in trouble; there were way too many of them and too few of us. They began to get agitated and unruly.

Discretion being the better part of valor, we slowly backed toward the door, deciding to leave them all alone this time. As we backed into the sunshine, we realized that a crowd had gathered outside the bar. Mike and I looked at each other and thought, 'this is not good.' I reached for my radio to call it in, "Officer in Trouble" which would cause all the other scout cars - in our precinct and the adjoining ones - and the helicopters to drop whatever they were doing and respond to our call.

As we were slowly managing to get closer to our car, a roar went up from the crowd, "Let's get 'em!!" Oh, shit, we were in for it now, I thought, and we started to reach for our weapons. We didn't want to have to shoot anyone but when it comes down to your life or theirs, there's only one decision to be made. It was going to be a bloodbath. The crowd kept edging closer.

Just as we began to clear leather, a lone voice rose above all the rest. "Hey! Leave these guys alone, they're the good guys! Back off!!" The crowd stopped moving, became quiet and I looked over and was amazed to see Julius standing up on the fence. He must have held tremendous respect in the neighborhood because the crowd began to slowly disperse. Hands on our weapons, Mike and I looked at each other and the relief was evident. Thank the Gods for Julius!

He came over and said, "'bout time for that wine, y'all?" I said, "No shit, man, you lead the way! You da man, Julius, you da man!" The chickens had come home to roost and the truth became evident; it was so much better to make friends than enemies on the streets of Detroit."

Dave Berjeski, the Common Superman...

2010-02-17T20:14:00.002-05:00

This story is in tribute to a very dear friend, now deceased, whose daughter is compiling stories about him for her sister.

It was a hot summer afternoon in 1974. It was Detroit and the 13th Precinct and we were cops protecting the lands and the citizens on a shift filled with young guys on fire. My name is Larry Fowler and I was partnered with Mike Cardinal, as usual. Mike and I had grown up together in Dearborn and found ourselves together after stints in the service. It was synchronistic and we were perfectly matched. Mike the logical and Larry live on the edge.

We worked with a gentleman - and he was - named David Berjeski. David was a big man, a little bit crazy and one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet. He and I hit it off from our first meeting and became solid friends quickly. There were some guys who didn't care for Dave because he was bigger than life and a force to be reckoned with. They just didn't understand him and it was their loss. I understood him and loved pretty much everything about him.

This day, we were working our regular scout car, 13-4 and our scout car area encompassed Woodward to the west, I-75 to the east, Highland Park to the north and Arden Park to the south. It was an area that had everything, just like the rest of the precinct. It had ghetto and dark alleys, it had mansions and high rollers. It was retail, it was wholesale and it was a drug dealing heaven. Detroit's first gangs started up in our scout car area and it was the funniest thing: West siders never crossed Woodward and East siders respected the same boundary. We believed that the west siders feared the east siders and never the twain should meet.

Dave was working a one man car, 13-41. It's seems a little crazy that we even had a one man car in our precinct. Detroit had just earned the moniker "Murder City" and the 13th precinct led the place in homicides that summer. It was a pretty dangerous place. The concept of the one man car was that of a report unit. The cops working it were tasked with taking reports on B&E's, larcenies, trespassing and all the other misdemeanor/after-the-fact type crimes. The one man car was essentially prohibited from responding to active crimes or other violent type activities. This policy wasn't always followed to the letter. Especially by Dave.

On the radio we heard, "13-4, the National Bank on Woodward, robbery-in-progress." "Roger that" we responded and took off for the bank. We weren't that far away, two minutes maybe. It was a high adrenaline run, the kind we lived for. Of course, you never knew if it was false or not, and you wouldn't know until you found out first hand. We treated them all as in-progress, live runs and had policy driven approaches, planned out to the letter.

As we got there and parked down the street, we could see another scout car parked on the other side of the bank. Who the hell was that, we wondered, and how the hell did they get there so fast? It wasn't long before we found out. As we walked carefully up to the side of the bank, Mike went to the rear and I stayed at the front. We saw no activity, heard no sounds and it appeared that everything was normal. No one had called in that they were there and no one gave a situation report. I looked over and saw 13-41 on the blue bubble sitting on the roof of the other scout car. Oh, shit, I thought, it was Dave.

I leaned around the corner of the building and peeked in the window. What I saw almost made me fall to my knees. Inside there were people laying all over the floor. No tellers were in evidence and standing in the middle of the room, a huge gun in each hand was Dave, looking around calmly as if nothing were out of sorts. Dave always carried two guns, as most of us did. Our primary weapon and a smaller back up gun. Not Dave. Dave carried two massive .44 Magnums, one in his holster and one in his belt. He had both of them out now.

"Radio" I called, "Everything is under control" as I knew it was. I tapped on the glass and Dave looked over at me. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "It's just me, man." I smiled back and shook my head. I wasn't really surprised and actually, I found it funny as hell! Just about then, Mike burst through the back entrance and stopped in his tracks. I saw his eyes widen, then a grin come to his face. It was all cool, Dave was in charge.

Dave had responded to the run against policy. Way against policy but we knew Dave. He wouldn't go in blindly but would calmly assess the situation and make decisions. As he entered the bank carefully, he couldn't see anything amiss, much less armed robbers taking over the bank. Since he was by himself, with no backup, he decided to take control and ordered everyone in the bank down on the floor. No one argued with him and got down quickly. If there were robbers in the bank, they wouldn't go down quietly.

"Radio, everything is under control, no robbery in progress," I called as Dave allowed everyone to get to their feet. He explained about the radio run and apologized for the inconvenience. Mike and I could barely stop from laughing out loud. We would later.

The whole incident was caught by the surveillance cameras in the lobby. It wasn't long before a still picture taken from the tapes began to circulate. It showed Dave standing there, a fierce look on his face, waving those two 44's. Dave was now a legend. And that is how I will always remember him. A great cop and a rebel, for sure, and certainly not a man who would shy away from personal danger. If you can't tell, I loved the guy.

The VA Jungle...

2010-02-16T17:10:00.002-05:00

It's pretty tough to admit this but I've been hooked on painkillers since 1975. Oh, the pain is there; my body is a temple that looks like the Parthenon. Too many car and motorcycle accidents for four men. Broken bones, knee shattered, ribs cracked, neck broken and I've been knocked unconscious at least 7 times. So I've been taking narcotics to ease the pain for a long, long time. Trouble is they're hard to control.

Since I'm 100% disabled from Vietnam, the VA sends me my meds by mail and half the time they're late. Every time the pain meds are late, I have to deal with withdrawal symptoms till they get here. Let me tell you, it ain't no fun at all. Sometimes they're a week late, three days late, once it was two weeks! Whatever the case, I keep going back to them.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago I said enough is enough and I'm going to get help to deal with this crap. So, I called my doctor at the VA, who is 60 miles away, and told him that I needed help. An inpatient program somewhere. He said that he would get right on it and would call me back as soon as he knew something. No more than a couple of days he told me. He said that he would put his most efficient nurse on it, too.

Five days later I hadn't heard a thing, so I called. In the VA you can't call your doctor directly, you have to go through a communications center who then relays the message. It's a real pain in the butt, especially if you've got a problem that needs immediate attention. I explained that I needed to talk to my doctor, and that he was supposed to have called me back a few days ago. He took down my information and said he'd send a note.

The next day, around dinner time, he called. He said he was sorry for not getting back to me but things were busy. Whatever. He explained that he'd done some checking and that the Battle Creek VA hospital had a program that fit my needs. They were going to call me, he said, and that I should hear from them shortly. I thanked him and hung up. I told my wife what was going on and she said that she was proud of me. That meant a lot.

A week and a half later, today as a matter of fact, a nurse at the hospital called me. She informed me that she would be conducting an intake interview that would take about half an hour. For about that long she asked me questions about my health, my meds and my life in general. It was fairly in-depth. After I explained to her about my back, that I couldn't walk more than a minute at a time before the pain became excruciating and my legs went numb, she hesitated. Do you mean that you can't climb stairs then? I laughed and said, in your dreams! We had developed a good rapport by then.

I waited, listening to the silence on the other end. Finally she said that she would love to help me but they had no beds on the first floor. There were several flights of stairs that I would have to climb. Since I would be unable to do that, I couldn't join their program. I asked her, do you mean that because I am, in essence, crippled, I can't receive treatment for a drug addiction that they, the VA, had supported for years?

Just a note here: the VA is very supportive of the troops and gives us all the pain killers we want. It keeps us quiet. Just like in Vietnam when the CIA - with Air America - was funneling heroin through the Viet Cong to our soldiers. To keep them quiet so they wouldn't upset the apple cart with protests against the war. It worked, pretty much. But, as an MP, I had to respond to near riots when the government insisted on detoxing the troops they had hooked on heroin, over a three day period. Cold turkey. It was horrible.

Anyway, she said again that she was sorry and there was nothing that she could do. I asked her, what about the troops coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan missing limbs or other horrific body injuries? Would they, too, find no help when it was time to quit the painkillers? I listened to silence again. Mr. Fowler, she finally said, it was nice talking to you and then she hung up. Denise and I just looked at each other in shock. We didn't know what to say!

We live in a remote area of northern Michigan, twenty miles in every direction (except east to Lake Huron), away from civilization. There are no AA or NA programs up here and I would have to drive 120 miles round trip to find one. The only detox programs are private and very expensive, far beyond our ability to pay. The VA has done it again, we said. On our own once more.

For those of you who have never experienced the Veteran's Administration, it's a wonderful thing (we need a sarcasm font here) that is dedicated to serving our veterans. When you apply for benefits for service related disabilities, they automatically turn you down and tell you that your records don't exist. I spent five futile years trying to get mine until a friend told me to call one of the advocacy groups, who would represent me. I called the Military Order of the Purple Heart and six months later I had my disability authorized.

We all care about the troops fighting two wars, but we should be very concerned about the treatment they're going to get when they get home. Oh, yeah, the news reports show amputees working hard with a support crew, to enable them to lead a good and productive way of life. But that's the media. The reality is much different. Much worse.

There are not enough VA hospitals, especially for those vets who don't live in a major city. To get any treatment or evaluation, I have to drive 300 miles to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Driving distances is pretty hard on me so I avoid it as much as I can. Some vets have 1500 miles to go to reach a treatment center.

The point I'm trying to make has nothing to do with me. I'll figure it out and Denise and I will do this on our own. Once I get past the first week or two it's going to be no problem. The point is the VA and the way they treat vets. They have hundreds, if not thousands, of policies and regulations that they never tell you about. When you don't follow procedure because you knew nothing about it, they say tough, you should have asked. Asked what? I didn't even know there was a question!

I want you to speak up about this if you have a chance. If you know a veteran who is trying to fight through the system, have them call me. My number is 989-734-2908. With luck maybe I'll be able to help them. I always count on spirit (luck) to guide me...

Look Homeward, Angel...

2010-02-07T12:17:00.019-05:00

It was 1997 and I had just lost my private investigation business. It was a great run but it got away from me and became too much to handle. We were living in a rented house in Dearborn, Michigan and times had become tough. My mother was laying in our back bedroom hooked up to a feeding tube in her stomach; I just couldn't put her in a nursing home.

Denise's parents were both dying slowly. Her mother had breast cancer that had spread to her bones and her aging father's organs were slowly shutting down. In addition to caring for my mother, Denise would go to her parent's house daily to take care of them; cook, clean, medicate, bathe and comfort. The rest of our family had little to do with it all, a situation that was much too common we came to understand.

It was all very stressful but we had learned to keep a smile on our faces and faith in our hearts so we were able to deal. The kids - our daughters, 12 and 14 at the time - handled it along with us. They had learned about the vagaries of life early on and were pretty tough little characters. We met each day as it came and took solace in the laughter we could create.

It was early fall and the leaves had yet to turn colors. I was out washing my car in the driveway one day, enjoying the sunshine and the act of caring for my ride. All of a sudden there was a rush of wings and a mourning dove landed on the hood. I stood there, stunned, with the hose hanging from one hand and a sudsy glove on the other. It was hard to believe as the dove just stood there watching me, head cocked, one eye gleaming in the sun.

When I recovered, I put the hose down, dropped the glove and began to walk slowly toward the front of the car, thinking this bird is gonna fly. It didn't. Just stood there placidly watching me as I moved, never budging an inch. I thought to myself, 'this is pretty weird but very cool, too.' Then I decided to ignore the whole thing as a hallucination and go back to washing my car. I picked up my hose and glove and started washing toward the front of the car, top to bottom, as the manual says. My spectator watched with obvious interest as my hose and I moved closer.

As I reached the front of the car and started washing the hood, the dove flew but only to the top of the car. It stood there quietly amused, I thought to myself. I finished washing and got the towels. Surely this bird is going to take off when I start throwing the towel around. Nope. It just stood there, moving only when my towel and I got too close. It would slide sideways, hop a little and flap it's wings to get out of the way so I could dry a new spot. I remember thinking, 'man, this bird better not crap on my clean car!'

When I was done, I put my supplies away and looked back at my car. There was the dove, still sitting on the hood. I shook my head and went into the house. The kids were gone and it was just Denise and I. I explained the situation and she just smiled. We looked out the front window to see that the dove hadn't moved. We kept going back to that window every few minutes, not believing what we were seeing. Finally, after an hour or so, the bird took off, flying high into the trees at the end of the block. Wow, we thought, we just witnessed something totally cool. We were nature, bird and animal lovers and to us, this was a very special experience.

That night we told the kids about it. They laughed and thought it was the greatest thing in the world. But they were also upset that they missed it. Understandable. When I told my mom about it, she just smiled a too knowing smile and kissed me goodnight. We went to bed that night, light in the heart and wondering at the nature of nature.

The next afternoon, Denise was doing some weeding and gardening in the back yard. It was another beautiful fall day and I was upstairs working in my study. The kids were out with their friends and it was quiet in the neighborhood. All of a sudden I heard an "aaah!" from the backyard. It wasn't very loud but it was distinctive. I looked out the window to see Denise bent over at the waist with a spade in her hand. She was looking back over her shoulder at the dove, who had landed on her butt. Afraid to move, she just stared at the bird who seemed as placid as it had the day before. Finally, she had to move and the dove flew off, back toward the trees down the block.

When she came into the house, we just looked at each other and started laughing. This is too nuts, we thought. What is the deal with this bird? We couldn't wait to tell the kids and when we did, we got the same reaction as before only with more disbelief. Emphatically, they swore that they weren't going anywhere until they got to see this dove. We all laughed some more and agreed that this was just some kind of anomaly and that they just weren't destined to see it. There was a lot of discussion that night about the possible motives of the bird, even looking in the encyclopedia to see if there was an answer about doves. Nothing matched our experience.

The next morning, Denise and I were sitting on the front porch having our coffee on another beautiful day. Cool and crisp, we could feel fall coming on strong. We could hear lawnmowers in the distance and there was activity on the street. Our neighbors were stepping out on their porches, smiling at the day. We sat, enjoying our coffee and taking in the world around us.

Suddenly, there was the distinctive sound of a dove: "whoo, whoo" and a flapping of wings. With a great rush of air, our dove landed directly on top of Denise's head. Her eyes went wide and she sat there still as a rock. My eyes went wide as I looked at this dove less than 2 feet away from me. The dove, on it's part, just sat there looking at me as if this were the most normal thing in the world. A couple of pecks to Denise's head and it settled in as if her head was an egg. She was afraid to move and I started giggling softly. Soon, Denise couldn't help herself and she, too, started laughing quietly. Pretty soon we broke out into guffaws while the dove just sat there, bothered by none of it.

An elderly couple took that moment to walk by, looking over at us. Two adults, laughing and sitting on the porch with a large dove on the head of one of them. Never blinked an eye. Just kept walking as if they saw this everyday. It was amazing. I don't know how long we sat there before Denise moved to get up. It was only when she started in the door that the dove took off. Of course she checked her hair for droppings, found none, and went into the house.

Later that afternoon, we bought some birdseed and poured it into an old coffee can, took it out to the porch and set it on the sidewalk, thinking that we would spread it around shortly. We sat back in our chairs to enjoy the day. Soon, we heard "Whoo, whoo!" and the flapping of wings. The dove landed on the sidewalk in front of us, looked around and hopped over to the can. Upon arrival, it looked into the can just as if it had been put there just for her - or him - we didn't know how to tell the difference. After a moment it hopped up onto the top of the can and looked down.

Suddenly, the dove disappeared! Looking closely, we could see two little pink claws clinging to the top of the can. The rest of the bird was inside! This was just getting too crazy! After a moment the bird reappeared, looking around and checking around, then dip, back inside for more. This continued for about fifteen minutes. Apparently it had had enough. With the flapping of wings, it took off back toward the trees. We sat there in wonder. How did that bird know there were seeds in that can? We left it on the porch and went about our day, shaking our heads and laughing together whenever our eyes would meet.

Later, we saw the dove in the can again when it tipped over, spreading seeds on the porch. Unshaken, the bird continued to eat the seeds that had spilled.

This continued every day for the next month or so. Who - we named him "Who" in honor of the noise he made coming in for a landing. We decided that he was a he because of the way he defended his seeds. Should another bird get close to that can, Who would jump up and down and flap his wings in an angry demonstration of sole entitlement. We even watched him drive away a gray squirrel one day, a feat we thought was prodigious.

As the beautiful fall colors began to drop from the trees and temperatures began to drop, we spent less and less time out on the porch. But Who was still there, like clockwork morning and afternoon. He would sit on the porch next to his can of seeds and observe the goings on of the neighborhood, head tilting one way then the other, craning his neck around to watch us in the window watching him. When we did venture out onto the porch for coffee, Who, seemingly much more familiar now, would sit on our knee while we sipped. He wouldn't let us touch him, though. For some reason that was verboten. If we tried, he would move just far enough away to avoid our fingers.

My mother-in-law grew worse as the days wore on. We had brought a hospital bed into their living room to make her more comfortable and to make it easier for Denise to care for her. Denise's father would now wander around, confused, and unable to deal with the sickness in his wife. She had cared for him their entire marriage, making his breakfasts, lunches and dinners. He couldn't even make a bowl of cereal by himself he was so dependent upon her. It was heart wrenching to watch.

For her part, Denise's mom made a valiant go of it, understanding just how difficult it was for her children and her husband. She would attempt to take control of the activity around her and we could see that the charade made her feel better just for the trying. Every so often, Denise's sisters would come by, taking over just by their presence. My wife was the youngest of the four, coming ten years or so after her closest sister. She was always treated as the baby who couldn't possibly know what she was doing. It was exasperating to watch. Denise had seen tougher times than any of them could comprehend, but she kept it to herself. I loved her for her humanity, her kindness and generosity and for the beautiful spirit that dwelled within.

Back at our house, my mother grew worse as well. She was listless and uninterested, resigned to watching her soaps and game shows on TV. If she needed anything, she would ring the little bell we gave her. To tell you the truth, that bell became a symbol of stress for us; we would be waiting for it to ring 24 hours a day. It was impossible to totally relax waiting for that little tinkle to start. Our one release was still Who, who had taken up residence on our porch. He was the rock to which we clung, knowing that we could walk out onto the porch and he would hop up onto our knees.

The days grew colder and there was no doubt winter was just around the corner. One morning it began to snow and we knew for sure that Who would be gone because of it. Resigned, we kept up our vigil over our parents as their health continued downhill. We felt so guilty thinking it but a part of us wished that their suffering would end - for us as much as for them. It was absolutely agonizing to watch and our guilt at their pain and ours wrapped us like a heavy blanket.

One afternoon, sitting in the living room, we saw movement at the side window. It was Who, hopping around on the ledge outside. He was peering in and he looked so cold. We didn't understand why a mourning dove would linger in the snow. This went on for a half hour or so until I couldn't stand it anymore. We had three cats and they, too, were watching the window with interest. I got up, walked to the window and slid it open. I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect what happened next.

Who hopped over to the opening, stepped inside and looked around. The cats were absolutely mesmerized, unmoving and obviously wondering just what in the heck was going on. Who ignored them. He looked around, stepped inside a little more and with one little "whoo" took off and flew to the back of my chair! The cats - and us - were completely stunned. Who, with his patented equanimity, just settled right down on the top cushion like he owned it. The cats just sat there, eyes wide, but making no attempt to move on the bird.

I shrugged my shoulders, looked at Denise and the kids, and sat back down in my recliner. Who never moved, rocking back and forth as the chair settled, obviously in for the long haul. I turned my head and looked up, right into the cocked head and the eye looking right into my soul.

Denise's mom had taken a turn for the worse and she was over there most days, all day, just being there for her and to support her dad who was having a very hard time of it. My mother-in-law was semi-conscious most of the time, her eyes moving around as if she were watching something. She only reacted to outside stimuli infrequently and the doctors told Denise that it wouldn't be long.

Back at home, Who kept me company every day, appearing on the windowsill every morning and waiting to be let in. The cats paid him no attention now and I would sit in my chair, reading and feeling him looking over my shoulder. In the early afternoon, Who would fly over to the windowsill and wait for me to open the window. More often than not, he would come back for a while before it got dark and Denise came home. It was as though Who wanted to be near her for a while before he flew off into the trees for the night.

I went with Denise to visit her mom and dad one day and many of her relatives were there. Some were in the kitchen cooking, some were just wandering and some were in the living room with me holding up the walls. I looked over and Denise's face was mere inches from her mom's. They were looking into each others eyes with a fierce focus I had never seen before. They stayed that way for interminable minutes and a couple of times I heard her mother speak and Denise would speak softly in return. I couldn't imagine what they could be talking about.

Then I saw her mother smile and it was as though her entire face was suffused with a lovely glow. Denise smiled back and slowly relaxed as her mother's head lay gently back into the pillow and her eyes closed. With an effort, Denise stood up and walked over to me and whispered "later." She then turned back to the others in the room and announced, "Mom said that she talked with Jesus and that all of you were loved." I smiled and watched everyone as they looked around at each other as if they were saying to each other, "delirious." I had been watching carefully and knew better. Denise told me later that her mom was talking about seeing her relatives and friends and that they were waiting for her in a warm and beautiful light.

We went home that night to find the kids in the living room with Who, both of them sitting in my chair with the dove perched up on the back cushion. They were both looking at the bird in wonderment, smiling. When we came in, they said excitedly, "Who was walking back and forth between us!" Denise and I smiled at each other and sat down to enjoy Who's presence. We stayed that way for quite a while and all of a sudden, Who flew over to Denise and landed on her knee. He sat there for a while, head cocking back and forth, looking up into Denise's face. It was a beautiful sight.

Finally, Who flew up to the windowsill and waited for me to open the window. As I did, I heard him say softly, "Whoo, whoo" and then he was gone. We all sat around, not making a sound because we sensed something different; the fact that Who was no longer there. We didn't understand at the time that that was the last time we would see him, the last time he would sit with us in the living room watching television and talking, part of our family.

The next day, they took Denise's mom to the hospice and she died the day following that. Who didn't come back those days and we wondered what had happened to him. Had he been killed? Was he hurt somewhere and needed help? It was anguishing not knowing; we had become so used to his presence, so gladdened when he would show up on the front porch or the window ledge. It had been like a dream those past couple of months. But it was also like he had deserted us in our time of need. How could he?

It wasn't until a week had gone by that we finally understood. Denise told me that she had seen him, sitting up on the roof of the house when he first showed up, and that there was a beautiful golden glow around him. She hadn't mentioned it because she thought that it was just the sunlight playing tricks on her. Now, she said, she knew better. Who was an angel.

We had both seen angels before, Denise one night in bed when she awoke to see a vision standing at the foot of her bed. Me, in the garb of real people who had saved me from certain death and who had disappeared after the incident, beyond my capability to find them.

Who had come to us in our time of need and spent his time lightening our spirits through an unbelievably tough time. Then, when his job was finished, he was gone. We were able to sail those stormy seas because one mourning dove chose to keep us company, leading us through to the other side, and every time we think of him and speak in terms of wonder, we know that our life has been blessed.

There but for the grace of God...

2010-02-02T14:44:00.000-05:00

I recently became aware that my old Military Police Company from Vietnam is having a reunion next September in Branson, Mo. I have kept in touch with only one of my buddies from that time and we've decided to go. We are the only two members from our particular platoon which was located away from the main unit. We think that's strange.

Anyway, just the other day, the organizer of the reunion sent out an email notifying us all of a new contact from the unit. His name is Tom Trice and when I saw the email, I was stunned. His is a name that I'll never forget because he is a central figure in one of those, There, but for the grace of God, go I...and, why not me?

It was cold in the barracks that night and I remember pulling my GI blanket around me and trying to forget about it. Normally, Cam Rahn Bay was a hot sand box, but this was the monsoon season and we'd already endured one typhoon. I had just fallen asleep when the lights came on and one of the company sergeants began pulling guys out of their bunks.

"Git up, git up, pack your shit, you, you and you! Put everythin' in ya'lls sack and git the hell outside!" In that kind of environment it takes only seconds to come wide awake. I had flashes of boot camp when they would actually tip over the two story bunks with guys in them. Falling from the top bunk onto concrete could be an eye opening (or closing) experience.

Outside, about 15 of us stood shivering next to our bags waiting for the next thing to happen. After what seemed like an eternity, we were ordered to our jeeps and began to convoy across the huge base. We drove in the darkness until we arrived at an air strip on the Air Force side of the complex. Lined up on the strip we began to drive up onto the loading decks of 4 C-130 transport planes. You see them taking off and landing in Haiti..

After securing the vehicles to the floor of the plane, we were finally able to start asking some questions. "What the hell is going on, Sarge? Where the hell are we going?!" The answer was always the same: "Shut up, troop. I'll tell you when I'm ready!" Um, ok. We looked at each other, wondering what in the hell was going on? This was not normal procedure for us. We were tasked with gate security on the Army base and patrols in the villages nearby. Nice, comfy duty. There was a lake (Tiger Lake) that we could go to and lay in the sun. We could snorkel off the shore in a beautiful lagoon where it was another world. Until you surfaced and looked up at the beach and all the barbed wire and gun emplacements. All in all, it was great duty and we thanked God every day for it.

The planes lumbered down the runway and we took off. It was a very strange feeling to be sitting in your jeep and flying. Those transports are very loud so there wasn't much conversation in the hour and a half we were in the air. By the time we had landed, none of our questions had been answered. Just like mushrooms; fed shit and kept in the dark.

When the planes finally stopped, the loading door came down and we backed our jeeps off the plane. Right into 40 degree weather, rain pouring down,thunder and lightning lighting up the sky. The worst weather imaginable! We then formed another convoy and headed out. Mind you, some of our vehicles were topless and we were cold and wet, angry and miserable. From heaven into the depths of hell...

We had landed near a city named Quang Tri, which was just miles from the North Vietnamese border and the DMZ. We finally stopped at dark barracks, unloaded our stuff and entered. There were no bunks, no lights and no other furniture. I was quick and spotted a Yucatan hammock handing from two of the rafters. I had my hand on it just as another guy ran up. With a wicked grin, I put my bag on it and claimed it for my own. Everyone else was going to have to sleep on the floor.

It was three days before any bunks arrived and everyone was sore as hell except me. I slept well, never fell out into the water covering a lot of the floo from leaks in the roof. Monsoon season up here in the north was much worse than it was further south. Cold rain, my hated enemy. We had never gotten along.

We were finally told that we were supporting an operation by the South Vietnamese Army into Laos. Operation Lam Son 719. Some of us would be going on to Khe Sahn, made famous during Tet, 1968, when the Marines were almost completely wiped out by North Vietnamese regiments. In the meantime, we were tasked to patrol the cities of Quang Tri and it's sister, Dong Ha. Much the same duty as we had had in Cam Rahn Bay but without any of the comforts.

One evening at roll call, a guy came up to me and asked if I wanted to switch assignments with him. He had someone to see in Dong Ha but was assigned to Quang Tri. I said sure because it made no difference to me. His name was Tom Trice. We cleared it with the supervisor and lined up for instructions. Just as we did, a guy from HQ came up to our duty sergeant and passed him a message. Sarge then called Tom Trice and Doug Crooks out and said that there was a traffic accident out near Camp Evans, about 25 miles away and at the very edge of our area of operations. They took off and we continued with roll call.

I was a Spec 4, actually a corporal without the supervisory responsibility, and so was Crooks. Trice was a PFC, therefore a rank under us; Crooks and I were jeep commanders and the PFC's drove with us riding shotgun. We were working 12 on and 12 off, the night shift. It was just beginning to grow darker when we hit the road and our assignments.

About 2 hours later, we began to hear loud screaming and static on the radio. It was constant. Non-stop. It was unintelligible, just a mass of noise coming out of the speakers. It was extremely unnerving. Our first thought was that Charlie (the enemy) had gotten hold of one of our radios and was trying to jam the channel. HQ couldn't get a word in edgewise and freaked, all the patrols headed for the base.

When we arrived, the screaming continued but every once in a while a word was understandable. It was "Help!!" Now we knew it was one of our guys who was in trouble but we didn't know who, what, where or when. We finally re-assembled into roll call formation and with everyone looking around, realized that Tom Trice and Doug Crooks were not there. All the while, the screaming continued.

All of a sudden the words became intelligible. It was Trice calling for help and for someone to open the gates to the combat base. His voice was so high pitched he sounded like a woman, and the anguish and fear were so evident that we cringed as a group. A unit was sent out to open the gate as we all waited, wondering what in the hell had happened. Soon, the two jeeps flashed by, lights and sirens on. We all looked at each other and wanted to hop into our vehicles and follow but our duty sergeant said no way. God, it was such a helpless feeling, knowing that something terrible was going on but being unable to do anything about it.

Finally, the word came back. Trice and Crooks had arrived at the site of the alleged accident but found nothing. They used a land line at Camp Evans and reported that they were returning to base. Minutes later, driving in the dark, they were ambushed. Mines (they call them IED's now), machine gun fire and rockets strafed them from the darkness. A large piece of shrapnel took Crooks in the throat, nearly decapitating him. Trice was hit several times but managed to keep driving. According to the report, Trice hung on to Crooks all the way back, knowing that he was dead. At one point, they were stopped by a South Vietnames security team and forced to halt. Reportedly, Trice aimed his M-16 at them, telling them he would kill all of them if they didn't get out of the way. They did.

The point of the story is this: If the situation had been normal, I would have been riding where Crooks was and would have been killed instantly, losing my head in the process. Needless to say, I was stunned and grieved by what had happened and immediately began to think about what the alternative might have been. Why? I asked myself. Why had I been spared? What great cosmic wheel in the sky determined that Crooks would die and I wouldn't?

For decades I kept these thoughts and feelings locked away yet unable to hide them entirely. Every once in a while they would surface and I would thank the powers-that-be for sparing my life. Mostly it came out in my dreams and eventually I had to start taking anti-depressants to deal with it. PTSD they called it. It wasn't the only traumatic thing I had experienced as a soldier and a cop, not by far, but it was the most poignant.

When I saw Tom's name on that email a few days ago, it all came rushing back, like I was reliving the experience. I couldn't write to him fast enough. At first he didn't recognize my name but when I asked if he was the same Tom Trice that had switched with me that night, he said shivers ran up and down his spine. He, too, of course, had been haunted by the events that night. We discovered that we both lived in Michigan only about 4 hours apart. We have made plans to get together next summer and I already know that it's going to be a harrowing experience for both of us. For almost 40 years we have kept this to ourselves, talking to no one about what had happened.

I wish I could say that it's been cathartic but it hasn't. It has only served to bring out in stark relief just how capricious life can be. For the last week or so, I have been under the weather. I first attributed it to my 60th birthday but when I coupled it with memories refreshed, I understood more clearly. I'm handling it just fine, I think and writing this has been cathartic. I think. We shall see when Tom and I hug and say "Welcome back" to each other...

The Jazz that a Saxophone Plays...

2010-01-15T20:09:00.006-05:00

Mercury went direct this morning and I'm taking this opportunity to relate a story that still pulls at my heart when I think about it...

It was a beautiful day in September, 1974. Detroit had just been honored by being labeled Murder Capital of the World. The summer of '74 had been one horrific homicide after another and 8 cops had been killed so far. The year ended with 12. We were being shot left and right. The citizens were killing each other in alarming numbers and the anger and mayhem had been transferred to us. We were all on edge every day, approaching traffic stops with our guns drawn, in broad daylight no less, and we didn't care who complained.

On this particular day, my partner Mike and I had just come from a gangland style killing. The radio run had said, "13-4, see the neighbors." When we arrived the people said that they hadn't seen their neighbors in several days and that there was an strange smell coming from their apartment. When we went to knock on the door, we could smell it and knew immediately what we were dealing with. But we didn't know the extent until we kicked down the door.

Inside were four bodies laying in a row, all beginning to swell in the September heat. All four were tied, hands behind their backs with electrical cord and had their throats slashed. With syringes and vials and rubber tubing laying about, it was obvious that these deaths were drug related.

It was a horrible scene and one that shakes the faith of even the hardest of cops and it was the kind of scene we had been seeing all summer. By the time we were done, Mike and I were drained, almost oblivious of the world around us. It was the kind of experience that you had to lock deep within you, shoving it in a compartment never to come out again. No way could you go home and tell your spouse - or anyone else for that matter - about it because it would be impossible for them to relate. It would do nothing but disgust others and you in the telling. A necessary part of the job was to file it away in the darkness.

We had just finished the paperwork and left the station for our scout car area which was north of West Grand Blvd., behind the Henry Ford Hospital campus and just across the street from the Motown Museum made famous by Berry Gordy. Driving down a residential street and basking in the warm sunlight, it was just after school had let out for the day. Kids were walking down the sidewalks on their way home, laughing and talking, a lifetime away from the horrors we had just witnessed less than an hour ago.

One young gentleman, about 13 or 14 years old, was walking down the street by himself, singing and whistling some unknown song. He was carrying a music case larger than a trumpet and smaller than a violin. Without a word between us (as was usually the case; we were telepathic with each other) we pulled over to the curb and beckoned him over. With the tension in the city he was nonplussed to say the least.

I was driving and Mike was sitting shotgun and as the boy approached, he asked what was in the case. Guns? Of course not the boy replied in the negative, emphatically. Well, Mike asked, what was in the case then? The boy replied, a saxophone, just as we had expected. Really? Mike said, show it to me, I want to be sure. Mike was playing it like a gruff cop and the young boy was getting nervous. He shuffled closer to the scout car and fumbled to open the latches. Nervous, eh? asked Mike. A muffled mumble in return.

Finally he got the case open and showed us the saxophone. Mike looked at me and I nodded. He asked the boy to take the saxophone out of the case and hand it to him. I knew and Mike knew but the boy didn't, that Mike was an accomplished jazz saxophone player. He affixed the mouthpiece, adjusted the reed and began to play.

I held the microphone for the P.A. system over the mouth of the sax and began to broadcast Mike's renditions over the speakers on top of the car. Mike was (is) a great sax player; he was first chair in high school and I was, well, seventeenth or something. And he loved jazz and that came out over those loudspeakers. I had the gain on high and the music was blasting, turning the neighborhood into a concert hall.

Pretty soon, people began to come out onto their porches wondering what in the hell was going on but it wasn't long before some of them were dancing. You could just feel the atmosphere in that neighborhood; it was like bright sunshine and joy all wrapped together in a flashing, smiling bundle. So far from the atmosphere of the last neighborhood that we had visited that it seemed like years since we had been there.

Mike's concert went on for a good twenty minutes and we had the whole block involved. The boy stood by the car with a huge grin on his face, knowing that he would be the stuff of legends, and loving every minute of it. He would be forever remembered as the "Concert Master" and those twenty minutes did more for the image of the Detroit Police Department than any ten positive news stories could. The department would never know but the people would remember, and that's the way we liked it. Mike and I had a reputation to uphold as those "cool cops with the number 4 on their bubble; Mike and Larry."

When Mike finally slid down his last riff, the neighborhood began to clap. It was a standing ovation for an extemporaneous display of civic connectedness and a bridge between cops and public like nothing ever seen before. We drove away as they all clapped, waving to the people of our scout car area. Though it all was heard only on one block, word would spread and we would be treated as one of their own, helped instead of dismissed.

And that's the way we rolled. Our eyes on making friends and patching up strained relations. It made everyone's day...especially ours.

Faith and Laughter, my friends...

2010-01-11T21:14:00.002-05:00

As Mercury begins to slow down toward going direct on Friday, I have come to some conclusions about the issues facing me. I have decided to keep writing this blog, and writing it for myself, even though the things that make me laugh may not make you do the same. For survival's sake I have cultivated a rather bizarre and macabre sense of humor that I understand may make others wonder at my sanity.

I hold myself to a higher purpose, that of writing a spiritually uplifting memoir, to write of things I endured and things that kept me sane. I have seen so many things in my short life that sometimes they blend together, but not for one minute do I regret any of it. Yes, I have made decisions that hurt others but they were the best decisions I could make at the time. I will not weep over them any longer because life is too short to live it in the past.

I found my Faith so many years ago and have, as intended, been subjected to trials and more trials to see if it were true. Those who think that once you have accepted the Divine, it's clear sailing ahead are in for a rude awakening. It is in the joy of surmounting challenge that we find our most precious moments, and the genuine substance of our Faith.

So, I will reach back and find those moments and the moments that caused me to laugh. Without a sense of humor there is no point to the rest of it and I shall never lose sight of that...

The Oral Board...

2009-12-30T13:11:00.010-05:00

On this second to last day of 2009, just before the moon transits into Cancer and spends it's last hours in Gemini, I feel like talking..

I remember a day in November of 1971, this one as clear in my mind as if I were there today, when I was challenged in a manner I had never experienced before. Just having returned from Vietnam a couple of months previously, still trying to adjust to life in the new world, I had applied to the Detroit Police Department. My last three years had been spent as a military police officer in the good old US Army of A. Trained in law enforcement and combat operations and having spent a great deal of time in both, I was ready to take on my chosen career.

It had been almost six weeks since I applied and three weeks since the physical and psychological examinations. I was notified that I had passed both and had been scheduled for my oral interview. Throughout my Army service I had experienced oral interviews, always a staple of the promotion process. Having exited as a Sergeant, there had been three of them to get that far. They were all the same.

"Private, what is the muzzle velocity of an M-16 rifle?" "Yes, sir, 2386 feet per second. Sir."

"Specialist, how many rounds are carried in the magazine of an M191A1 Model .45 caliber, semi-automatic weapon?" "Uh, yes sir, 7, sir." And on and on. They tried to trick me in the Sergeant's exam by asking, "Who won the Triple Crown in 1968?" "Hmmm, yes, sir, Secretariat, sir." (I think) There were always several "What would you do if?" questions, the answers always being common sense which luckily I seemed to have in bundles, and I was promoted up the line.

On this day, I arrived for my oral interview at the Detroit Police Department dressed in my best suit, new haircut, tight, GI shave - smooth, very smooth - and shoes that shined like mirrors. After waiting for nearly an hour, I was finally called into the interview room. I must say that the state of the building and the decor was better than I had seen in the service, but not by much. Solid wood doors, dull, drab tan and green walls with pictures of the president an chief of police placed precisely in the center. The furniture was old, scarred and mismatched, looking like it had come from the days of post-World War II.

The lighting was low wattage, buzzing florescent and there was an odor in the air that I knew but couldn't quite describe. Like a combination of bad paint, old wax, sweat and fear. It was the fear and sweat part that bothered me a little because I had smelled it before. But, as a veteran of that element, I wasn't bothered that much.

Placed directly in the center of the room was a long wooden table. It had stains and scars and part of the side molding was peeling away. On one side there were three chairs and on the other, one. This singular wooden chair had armrests with shiny finish, except where hands had worn away the gloss. Sweaty hands, squeezing hands, hands that shook and slid. I smiled because I knew what that was about. I was alone in the room.

I sat in that lone chair and waited. The room was hot and the heating vents lifted the dust from the floor and swirled it around the room. I wanted to sneeze but wouldn't. The morning sun beat through the windows to the east, shining directly on the side of my face, causing little beads of sweat to erupt on my forehead. I ignored them. It was another half an hour before the door at the end of the room finally opened. Through it marched three large individuals.

The first was a grizzled, uniformed police sergeant, his face craggy with weather, worry and a fierce, fierce intention. He had short, wiry, salt and pepper hair and looked like he could best a lumberjack without breaking a sweat. Wide shoulders, a slight bulge at the gut and hands that could break your neck in a flash. He snapped back his chair, staring at me with small, close set eyes that were black as coal. He sat in his seat with a cool calculation.

The second person through the door was a tall, immaculately uniformed black man. His face was unlined, his hair perfectly cut to his features. He wore lieutenant's bars on his shoulders and he carried a clipboard like it was a bible. He was intensely good looking but I saw no emotion in his face. He, too, sat down directly opposite with precision yet his eyes showed no interest in me.

The third man just slouched through the door, his arms too long for his body. I judged his age at mid-forties though it was a little difficult to tell. He was white but his cauliflower nose sort of bloomed and spread to the left on his face. He had a Clutch Cargo mouth, nothing more than a slit across his jaw and his moustache was thick and black. His eyebrows matched it, connecting above his nose. He wore a uniform with no insignia and I knew that meant he was - or had been - just a street cop. He slid into his chair, huge forearms on the table and smiled this cruel little smile, looking deep past my eyes into my soul.

Those little beads of sweat kept popping out just below my hairline and the room kept getting hotter by degrees. But I never moved and after meeting their eyes as they entered, stared straight ahead like a statue. I knew what was going on and it was pure, undisguised intimidation. I was grinning inside but kept it there where it quietly amused only me.

We sat for what seemed like an hour while the lieutenant checked and re-checked his clipboard. No one moved and I sat with my hands on my knees, back straight, head erect, eyes looking directly forward.

"Larry Fowler," said the lieutenant, his voice flat.

"Yes, sir." Clipped, respectful and direct.

"Why do you want to be a cop?" asked the sergeant to my left. His dark, penetrating eyes burning holes into mine.

"Yes, sir" I began before I was cut off by the lieutenant. "Honorable discharge," he said.

"Yes, sir, two years, nine months and 8 days. US Army, sir." You could never use too many sirs. The sergeant glared at me.

"I asked you why you want to be a cop," he growled. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "but the lieutenant asked me a question." I knew the game; rank had it's privileges and policy dictated that you answered the higher one first.

"Says here you finished as a sergeant," said the lieutenant. "That's pretty good in a Corps as small as the Military Police. Not much attrition and a lot of competition. Also says that you were awarded the Bronze Star."

"Yes, sir, I worked hard and did my best." Keeping it short, smart and direct.

"How many times have you had intercourse with your mother?" snapped the police officer to my right. His grin had gotten wider, pulling back like a grimace.

I looked calmly to my right, directing my attention to the Cruel Grin. "Sir, approximately fourteen thousand, five hundred and sixty five, if I recall correctly, sir."

"What!" he screamed. "You screwed your mother fourteen thousand times!? Jesus Christ, that's sick!"

Without looking directly, I could see that the sergeant and the lieutenant were horrified, thinking what in the hell do we have here? How did this guy get past the psychologicals?

"Sir, I've had verbal intercourse with my mother for as long as I remember, sir." My close kept amusement started to waver but discipline kept me like granite.

There was a stunned silence and then the lieutenant started to laugh and the sergeant followed. The cop was slower on the uptake but his grin turned to raucous laughter while I sat there like a rock.

"Oh, shit, that was a good one!" laughed the sergeant and the lieutenant looked at me like he had seen the promised land. "Damn, you are quick, arent' you?" he asked.

"I try, sir, I try," barely keeping my face in control. Score one for the recruit.

And on it went, back and forth, question to question. Most were innocuous dealing with my background and experience. I answered quickly, respecting rank and keeping my posture erect. These guys had nothing on me.

"I see you have a roommate," said the cop. "He's from, where, uh, oh, Beaver Island, eh? What, you gay?"

"No, sir," I said, "He's applying for the force, too, and needed a place to live while he did. My landlord, who's on the job, asked if I could put him up. Sir."

No one else said anything so I figured I had handled that one okay. Suddenly the sergeant produced a joint and threw it on the table. A big, fat splib that landed and rolled right in front of me.

"You were in 'Nam," he said, "and I know that pot was everywhere so I'm sure you smoked some. So why don't you fire that one up for me?" The grins were back except for the lieutenant who looked at me with equanimity.

Of course, having smoked my share during the war, my mouth started to water at the sight of that white, fat joint on the table. My composure was wavering but I remained strong.

"No, sir." My eyes were locked on the lieutenant, gauging his reaction. I wasn't falling for this one. "Never touch the stuff."

"I said smoke it," he growled.

"No, sir, thank you, sir" I said. "That's an illegal substance and I do not indulge."

"I gave you a direct fucking order!" he swore. "And I expect you to obey it!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's an illegal order and I'm not required to follow it. Sir."

I could almost see the smoke coming from his ears as the lieutenant and the cop watched the action. I was sweating profusely at this point but would not raise a hand to wipe my face.

"Get the fuck out of here!" he screamed. "Just get the fuck out of my sight!" He stood up knocking his chair to the floor. Spittle was forming in the corners of his mouth and I was sure he was going to come across the table at me.

"Yes, sir!" I stood straight up, pushed back my chair, smartly did an about face and exited the room.

By the time I found a chair in the waiting room, I was shaking. Aw, fuck, what did I do to myself? I thought. Nope, I did the right thing, I know I did. I found a men's room and toweled the sweat from my face. My shirt was wet and sticking to me and I felt like crap. My head hurt and I was sore all over.

Back in the waiting room, I sat on another ancient, uncomfortable chair with 10 other faces looking at me like, what in the hell happened to you? They had yet to go in and now I could see their faces were filled with fear.

"They kicked me out." I said softly and sat there wondering what in hell was happening. God, I wanted a cigarette! Twenty long, nerve shattering minutes went by before the door opened again.

"Fowler!" snarled the sergeant. "Get your ass in here!"

I returned to the room and sat in my chair. By now the sweat was pouring down my back.

"I'm gonna give you one last chance," said the sergeant. "Are you gonna smoke that joint?"

"No, sir," I said with as much confidence as I could muster. "I will not. Sir."

Silence that lasted an eternity. I stared at the lieutenant across from me until a smile broke across his face. "Ok, son, that's all. We'll be in contact."

I was afraid to move but I did. Performing another perfect about face I left the room never looking at the sergeant or the cop.

Three weeks later I was accepted to the department, first to work as a trainee until a slot at the academy opened up. I was gainfully employed in the career of my dreams and sang "Joy to the World" for days.

Heartlight, Lovelight and Peace...

2009-12-29T12:35:00.008-05:00

The Moon is in Gemini today which presupposes that we all want to communicate about everything. The night sky is getting brighter in the evening as it makes it's way to a full blue moon New Year's Eve. I'm not sure about all the talk and blather that's supposed to be going on because I sit in solitude up in the wildwoods of Michigan. More like the moon in Cancer on the last day of the year.

I like it this way, no one around to ring my doorbell, no traffic up and down our street which is only a few hundred feet long anyway. Up here, in the winter, there are only 92 residents living along a 7 mile stretch of beach on Lake Huron. Everyone else has gone home. Not till May or June will we hears sounds of tourists and summer residents. It is God's country and God's peace.

All year long we park the truck near the carriage house with the keys in it, doors unlocked, home windows open to the night. In the winter there is a fire going in the woodstove and the cats laze in their cat tree near the heat. It is a bucolic sense of well being living here and the only intrusion is the television which is never on during the day.

If the square between Saturn and Pluto is causing havoc and disarray elsewhere in the world, we do not feel it here. Uranus moving toward the cusp of Aries, a harbinger of great and tremendous change, has no effect on us. Even the mighty Mars, retrograde in Leo, slides silently by on it's way to war. Somewhere, but not here.

It is my sense that it takes the friction of people together en masse to distribute the energies symbolized by these planets and no such friction exists in the north, where we are. No telephone lines buzzing with the conversations of millions, no great and blasting cacophony of city sounds to rend the nerves and shatter the eardrums with constant disharmony. No, here there is peace, warmth and a feeling of love for all creatures.

This is what heaven must be like. Where the only sounds are the waves lapping at the ice building on the shore. Where you can only feel the rhythm of your heartlight as it thrums softly along. Where pain exists somewhere far away and joy de jour is the special of the day.

I wish everyone could have what we have, no tears, no fears, no regrets. Just the love between two people whose souls have connected over years. Who have come to know one another in spirit, to love one another gently and to care in unconditional ways.

But all we can do is hope and to keep our fires burning, sending lovelight into the ethers, lighting, for moments, the way home to the heavens for all...

The Simple Joys of War...

2009-12-26T21:44:00.006-05:00

It was a long ago Christmas. 1970 Vietnam to be exact. We were 18,000 miles from home and secluded in a bunker high atop Khe Sahn, just a few miles from the demilitarized zone and North Vietnam. We were Military Police leading convoys up and down QL1, the main "highway" west to east. It was only a lane and a half wide dirt road through mountains and valleys and elephant grass. At some points we were curling round a mountain pass with a 150 foot drop on one side and a sheer cliff upwards on the other.

We had no armored vehicles, no Humvees, nothing but an open jeep mounted with a machine gun. We didn't call them IED's but simply mines. Ambushes were commonplace; they usually hit the middle of the convoy trapping half on that narrow dirt road. We would have to go back to the truck that had been hit and push it off the cliff so we could continue. It was pretty tricky duty.

This day, in our sand bagged bunker, the incoming was non-stop while Charlie was trying to take out the airfield behind us. Every so often a short round would land near us and shake us to hell and back. The sandbags would tremble and dust would cover us from head to toe. We had built it solidly but a direct hit would have sent us all to the promised land.

The concussions were so constant that the ringing in our ears never stopped. We would wrap our arms around our chests so that the innards wouldn't shake out. But, like GI's and Cops and Firemen, when you're in a situation like that, you use humor to get you through. You laugh or cry but you have to choose one.

The names I will use are to protect the guilty, because none of us were innocent then. The gentleman I am referring to, Standish we'll call him, slept on a pillow full of marijuana. Everywhere he went, his pillow went, too. We didn't care as long as he took care of business, and he did. Never smoked it on duty as far as I knew.

So, with the calamity around us, with the walls shaking to beat hell, Standish decides to fill his pipe. Dust all around now mixing with the smoke we all started to catch a contact high. Then, of course, the pipe started moving around the bunker. There were 6 of us and only two had ever tried the stuff and one of those wasn't me. Up until then I was a straight arrow patriot.

Well, it wasn't long before the giggles started; the pot from the Golden Triangle was some very potent stuff I discovered. Then the giggles turned to hilarious laughter as the explosions continued. Booom! Boooom! Dust everywhere to the point we couldn't even see each other. But, boy, that pipe continued around.

Pretty soon we began to rate the explosions on a scale of 1-10. Whaammm! Uh, 7, no shit, that was only a 6! Laughing and choking and rolling on the dirt floor. It hurts we're laughing so hard. Boooom! Oh, shit, that was a definite 8, Jesus! That was waaay too close! Bullshit, man, I give it a 4, you're a wuss! The metal roof is shaking, the sandbags are shifting and we're 6 crazy people on a raft filled with pot. I think we just bilocated, all of us as a group!

We had constructed a toilet in the elephant grass about 50 yards from our bunker. It was a milk carton with a toilet seat we had stolen from the Cam Rahn airport. It was the only toilet seat in Khe Sahn. Through the dust and the smoke and the shaking roars, Bricker says he's got to go. Of course, we all stopped laughing long enough to look at him like an idiot. Ah, fuck, he says, I can't do it here!

Gathering himself as we started laughing at him, he low crawled out the hole into the night. It was silent for a few moments, Charlie deciding to take a coffee break, I guess, and then came a huge explosion that knocked us all to the floor. Fuckin' A! That was a 10 for sure, yelled Standish. Oronsky seconded that and we all lay there stunned but still giggling.

A scream like a banshee ripped through the night and we thought Bricker was a goner. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't stop laughing, though! All of a sudden, through the hole comes Bricker, low crawling like a madman. His head was high, his neck outstretched, tendons taught and he had a deathly grimace on his face. His eyes were wide and he was covered with dirt, chunks of it sticking in his hair. There was even a shaft of elephant grass caught behind his ear and he was making these grunty little sounds with a growl that seemed to start deep in his throat. Spittle filled the corners of his mouth while tears ran rivers down his face.

Of course, we all stopped laughing for a moment; were far beyond sober but we took turns holding him till he calmed. We could find no injuries, no obvious trauma so we laid him down on his cot. He told us, voice shaking, just as he got 20 yards or so from our 'men's room', it took a direct hit, blowing the only toilet seat in Khe Sahn to hell. Ah, shit, I said, pass the pipe, we'll have to dig a trench like everyone else.

And that's how you survive war...

Terrors Past...

2009-12-25T20:30:00.004-05:00

It's the Eve of Christmas Day and, with my family around me, I find myself reaching back to my past. Not of volition, not of choice but almost as if it's pulling me. I can't seem to escape it.

An astrologer said just yesterday, or the day before, I can't remember, not to fall into the trap that the past will hold as Saturn and Pluto square off in their dance. I vowed to follow, to think of the present and what the future might bring. But I've found myself defenseless to the lure of choices made long ago.

As the planets surround and connect with me natally it seems that I've lost all control. A conjunction here, a T-Square there and another just waiting in the wings. A trine and an inconjunct, another a square and the energies flash around in a fury. When one planet is touched, the rest are afire and spin in my head like a blur.

Back my heart reaches to times where I've hurt and caused my loved ones such pain. If I could only return and do it again would the pain in my soul would go away? But I can't and I know it and this causes such sorrow on a day when all hearts should be free.

That it hurts so deeply I can't sometimes breathe is a wonder to behold on it's own. I raise my eyes and pray for my soul, insistent that I was the cause for such heartache and that I was the cause for my own. The past is a terror that frightens me now and I've never been scared of a thing. I've marched into battle and into the darkness where my life has been there for the taking without thinking if it mattered at all.

But this is new, this past that haunts me and I cry to please be released. May the ache in my heart begone and the spirit of life be with me. I love my family so...

A Chrismas Tale...

2009-12-22T17:15:00.002-05:00

After the other day's rage, I find that the Pisces moon has brought me some needed solace. I wish I could write like Billy Joel in "We Didn't Start the Fire," but I can't. At least at the moment.

It has been one of those months that could be covered by "It's been the best of...and it's been the worst of." I am so thankful for all the new friends I have made, the new things I have read and the things that my Muse helped me to write. Actually, it's been a blockbuster of a month for those things.

I have learned about myself through some amazing experiences and I have been slapped silly by events that I don't wish to revisit. I have always wanted a spiritual Christmas and not a material one. This year I got my wish. First it was repairs to the truck that took away most of the Christmas presents we had planned to buy. Then, it was the Gas and Electric company who continued in their indomitable way by threatening a cutoff - erroneously I might add - followed by one of nature's most torturous visits; a major toothache for my wife, which took away the rest of what might have been a material Christmas.

But, in the positive column, my family is healthy - my wife, too, after some surgical dentistry this morning - and my pets are all fine. I got some free mood cards in the mail for stocking stuffers and though my Wii was blown away, there's still my birthday. I've been wanting the Wii for a couple of years but something always seems to come up. Well, I guess that's ok because it would have made a material Christmas for me. Now, a material birthday is something I could handle. Do you hear that, my Angels?

We have the Congress and the Senate but we also have a white Christmas with my family all together. We have the war in Afghanistan but we have...uh, there's nothing to compensate for that.

Pluto and Saturn are battling in the skies but they have no effect on us if we don't allow it. The Jupiter/Neptune conjunction can confuse us but I prefer to let it bring more of the beautiful spirituality we all need, while Chiron says, "Be healed."

After all, it's attitude that makes the difference in our lives as well as our reactions to events. When we surround ourselves, our friends and our family with White Light, it will be the most wonderful Christmas of all...No thanks to you, Lieberman.

Advocating Revolt...

2009-12-20T12:45:00.006-05:00

After writing so many posts and talking about the things I've learned, I cannot let this slip by and keep it to myself..

Listening to the morning shows today, I believe that Mars may have taken hold of me as it begins to retrograde. The anger I haven't felt in so long is burning deep below the surface. And it has to do with our government, our democracy which is no longer "of the people, by the people and for the people." It has become "of some of the people, by some of the people and for some of the people." And this is the tragedy.

I listened to the pundits discuss the Health Care Bill with it's watered down consistency and wanted to cry. It was obvious to both sides, Democrats and Republicans alike (Oh, my God!) that the only winners in this one are the health care companies as a direct result of the lobbies.

What is happening here? I understand that it's been going on for a while now but it is definitely getting worse, way over the top. With the majority of the American people wanting the "government option," that was the first thing to go out the window. Let's thank God that the tanning salons will be taxed 10% while plastic surgery is left alone! I realize the media throws this out there just to poke and aggravate the electorate to upset us enough to throw things at the TV.

But it's so obviously deeper than that. The populace has no say anymore in anything that goes on in Washington. Big business and big lobbies have complete control. Why do we stand for this? Why don't we revolt and take back what used to be the greatest country in the world? Why are there so many starving in the world while we fight two ridiculous wars of attrition? It's so way over the top now.

I'll tell you why: because they've got us by the (fill in word) till we can't breathe, can't fight, can't survive, can't pursue the old American dream at all. The oil lobbies, the insurance lobbies and the wall street bimbos who give not an rat's ass for we the people have it all. We are out-gunned, out-moneyed and out sourced while we cry and whine about the predicament we're in. Helpless, hopeless and horrified we watch our lives hanging by the precipice until we think we can only hold on by our fingertips!

We need to do something and that something is not write letters. We need to act. We need to march, we need to all go to the offices of our government leaders. We need to show these half-assed legislators that we mean business!

We need to say that this is how much you get to get re-elected and you will only get additional contributions from individuals. We need to blow the lobbyists and special interests out of the process. I really hate to say this but who has more guns, the people or the insurance lobby? And I'm a pacifist. Not "lets write more emails" but "lets load our own ammunition."

It all has gone beyond the pale and our survival stands at stake. I'm a veteran of Vietnam, my life is compromised by my service and my very life hangs in the balance, but I'm ready to act. What about you?

Folly...

2009-12-19T16:51:00.003-05:00

Twas darker ‘ere than the depths of dawn
and below
the river kept its pace
toward lands beyond my knowing

Amidst the rocks, still reaching up
toward pain and sorrows, small
depressions filled
with crumbled fate
while endless winds kept blowing

As the writhing forces swelled
in mighty song, designed to breach the rise
of struggling hopes
and long kept dreams
left stunned and broken so, I lay
wondering how I came to be
near death beneath these skies

Whose eternal reaches had mystified
and drawn my upturned face
through years of lonely quests
to finally meet myself, my soul
in searing, naked truth

Whose unexplained and beck’ning realms
entranced and bid my journeys
whose captivating, joyous breadth
had loved me since my youth

Yet I’d stayed those rocks through tearing winds
and river’s rage, committed
born of fears and lost in tears
enmeshed in damned desires

Such dire folly had I caused my soul
through those days and nights of searching
straining past my mirror’d soul
to touch those dying fires

Mars Is All The Rage...

2009-12-16T12:55:00.005-05:00

A new friend and an all around great lady, Donna Cunningham, on her website "Skywriter.wordpress.com" posted an article yesterday on Mars in transit. About how everyone was feeling rage these days as it lingers in Leo for a month or so. And how that rage turns to grief the more time goes by.

I posted a response to those intense feelings and talked a little about how I learned to deal with my rage. She wrote me back and suggested that I put it on my blog. I was honored and here it is:

I understand what you're saying about the grief. My wife and I feel it, too. Strongly. But I do not feel the rage, perhaps because I used to be rage many years ago. I recognized it one day shooting pool with someone vastly better than I; I was trying to learn and move up a level and becoming extremely frustrated. I missed a shot and the rage came out. I literally threw my stick on the floor and swore like a sailor - or a cop. My opponent, my teacher, my mentor said to me: "If you ever do that again, we're through playing, you and I!"

I was suddenly dumbstruck with a huge empty feeling in my stomach. No, I thought! I will not lose this opportunity to learn from a genius! And he was. Billiards is a vastly layered game of geometry, touch, feel, consistency and stroke. It is a beautiful game when played correctly.

Something struck me and I reached into my wallet and pulled out a mood card. One of those credit card sized variations on the mood ring. I can't remember where I got it, but I had stuck it deep in my wallet to be forgotten till now. You place your thumb on a certain part of the card and if you're angry, it turns black. If you're feeling good it turns a beautiful shade of blue/green. Much the way a polygraph works measuring heat changes in your skin.

I began to use this card every time I played. If it was black, I breathed deeply and let myself sink. When I got it to turn blue/green, I was ready to start playing again. I used that card until I didn't need it anymore. Much like astrology should be. I knew the signs and I knew when they changed.

Whenever I got that feeling, I held the card in my mind till any hint of anger disappeared, and I haven't been angry in a long time. While reading your post, I was wondering why I didn't seem affected by Mars or the Saturn/Pluto square, and then it came to me. I may be affected by them, buy they don't produce anger. But they do produce the grief you talk about. Maybe I'm lucky, maybe I'm not. Maybe I sublimate any anger that I feel but I don't think so. I feel at peace...

Faith Uncovered...

2009-12-15T15:34:00.010-05:00

When I first came to being spiritual, I accepted Christ as my Savior. I didn't have any problem with that and, although I tried, I just could not fall back when the preacher touched my forehead. I thought there was something wrong with me; my Faith wasn't strong enough - I'm sure because I didn't know what real Faith was - or I was too bad, even for that.

I kept going to different churches for about six months and never fell backwards, never felt a glow when I was supposed to. It was pretty frustrating. I tried Protestant, I tried Lutheran, Evangelism, I even tried Catholicism. That ended for all time when my wife's priest refused to marry us because we didn't attend his church enough. Denise had been going there since she was a child.

I wound my way through different faiths until I was sick and tired of the whole thing; rituals, no you can't have communion, you're a sinner, and the worst, an angry, vengeful God. How could that be? It couldn't, it's ridiculous.

Finally, through my astrology and my search for the Truth, I began to realize that it would be my Truth and no one else's. Everything else was gibberish; I couldn't make hide nor hair of the bible. I think I remember Jesus saying, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, all the rest is rhetoric." The golden rule. It made a lot of sense to me. And it was simple. I loved simple. I believe that Jesus didn't want us to idolize him but rather to realize that he was the example that we should follow. I didn't like being confused, frustrated and being told that I was a sinner. Hell, I knew that! But I no longer wanted to be one. Which is one main reason I hung up my guns.

I was learning about spirit - not religion - and Faith by listening to my own heart. I prayed and I prayed, knees on the floor next to my bed. It felt good but something was missing. I didn't feel right asking for things. Or situations or absolution. If God was a loving, caring God, H/She would understand that without me having to talk about it.

Then I started thinking about Angels and met a few. Not with wings and beautiful glow, but ordinary people who not only helped me at times but actually saved my life on a couple of occasions. I felt very good about that. Then I started running into people or reading their books, who told me about spirit and the Soul. I learned that God was in my heart and that I was God individuated. I learned about the Soul and it's long journey home.

I learned that prayer was something to be lived every day, not just at night or on Sunday. Prayer was a way of living. That made sense to me, too. I had married a lady who knew all these things already and I was changed while being with her. I realized that I was blessed having her and my two, beautiful daughters. And for my life, regardless how hard it got. And it got hard. Really hard. As we passed through those times, I began to understand what Faith was all about. It's not belief, it's Knowing. There's a huge difference.

I found the direct connection between my God and I and it was so, so personal. I never pray to Saints or Goddesses or to Witches - and I had met a few of those; really nice people with the right love in their hearts. I just maintained my connection directly to my God.

And finally, I learned how to ask for things that I needed. That the universe was a reflection of me. My needs, my wants and my glory. I learned about the law of attraction; that how you think determines what and who you encounter. It was a tremendous revelation to me.

I learned to ask God and my Angels for the perfect solution to my situation, whatever it was. I knew that I sure didn't understand everything that I was dealing with, but I knew my God and my Angels did. Since that incredible lesson, I know that whatever I need - not want - the perfect solution would come my way. And it has, every time.

I also know that without Christ, the world is in real trouble. I don't believe that Jesus is going to come back to be on television, I have Faith that the Christ is going to come back as an awakening in our hearts. The knowing that the world needs to continue on in the Light. There are terrible times ahead, we all know that. If we don't we need to pull our heads out of the sand and listen, quietly, to that voice within.

Casual Stroll or Crash and Burn?

2009-12-11T14:29:00.004-05:00

I've been talking to a friend about his upcoming Saturn Return. He says he is a bit scared that it's looking him in the face. It's not an uncommon reaction when you know there's one coming. But it can be a lot worse if you don't. Whoever said "Ignorance is bliss" certainly didn't know about the Saturn Return. I was completely ignorant when my first one came around.

It was near the middle of September, 1979. During the previous year, I had been spinning around like an out of control top. I had left my career as a cop in the dust and my marriage followed soon after. Actually it was final on September 9. We had been separated for a year and a half. When Saturn crossed my Ascendant, the astrologer had said, I would experience a break-up. When it did I told my wife that we needed some time apart. After all, isn't that what he had told me would happen? Not might, would. He got some other things right so I figured he had to be right on that one. That was my first experience with self-fulfilling prophecies.

Anyway, the year before I had been working as a drill instructor at the Detroit Police Academy. I loved it, teaching young rookies how to stay alive at work. I was the quintessential street cop with a huge reputation. All the stories in the world. Except they wouldn't let me tell most of them; couldn't swear, couldn't growl, couldn't do anything that might upset these poor up and coming police officers. It's been said that you come out of the academy knowing about 5% of what you need to know to become a good cop. I could see why.

I didn't remember my days as a rookie in the academy that way. It wasn't long after the riots in Detroit and things were different, I guess. So, as it turned out, I did tell some of those stories and the students loved it! I was their favorite instructor because I tried to tell them what was. My supervisors hated it. Then they began to hate me. I had walked into this place 8 months before having no experience whatsoever teaching. The commander had greeted me, handed me a lesson plan and told me to go to work. No problem. What's new?

I had worked hard to become the best instructor I could be, and I was doing it. But, I was doing it the wrong way. Apparently. So we began to battle, the administration and me. I was learning what happens when you bang your head against a wall enough times; you got a really sore head and nothing else. Do I have to tell you how this worked out? One day I just told them to shove the badge where it don't shine and walked away. Not just from a job but an identity. Walked away from something I loved so much I did it 24/7. Well, we were required to by law. We were always on duty wherever we were in Michigan and I loved that part of it.

One day in October of 1978, as this was all starting, I was confused, depressed and separated from my wife of 6 years. I was sitting on the couch one day trying to figure things out and wondering how I was going to pay all the bills. The phrase "Rent-a-Poet" flashed through me head. I said, "huh?"

I had written a poem for a friend in a lecture at the university who wanted to meet a girl in the second row. He ended up taking her out to lunch. This came out of nowhere like things of that nature tend to do. I immediately picked up the telephone and ran an ad in the Detroit Free Press: "Rent-a-Poet, your thoughts through my pen." One of the things about those flashes of inspiration, you can't sit on them because the ethers will give them to someone else. A telepathic network.

At this point, at the Academy, they knew just how to get to me. The wouldn't give me anything to do. I would walk around all day or sit at my desk and meditate. This got some attention, too. My buddies all knew me and they just threw paper airplanes at me. Management thought I was crazy. The ball kept rolling.

So, after a week I'd had no response to my ad. I decided, "oh, well, nothing ventured nothing gained." I didn't put it just like that but something close. The last day of the ad came and the phone rang. It was a reporter from the Free Press. He said his editor had seen my ad and thought it was 'cute." Would I mind if he came over to interview me. I thought 'what the hey?' And he came. When he got there and discovered I was a cop, he called for a photographer. They interviewed me and took pictures and left. He said he was going to run it in tomorrow's paper. See where this is going?

The next morning I looked in the paper. I was thinking 'Section G, page 38." Oh, no, it wasn't like that. The article was on the second front page with this big picture of me and the caption, "Detroit cop writes Poetry, he's the Rent-a-Poet." I wanted to cry. What was going to happen to my great rep now? Excuse my language but I would become known as the "Sissy Cop." Lovely. I was thinking, 'I'm calling in sick.'

Luckily, that day they had me assigned to the Federal Prison at Milan to conduct research on a new training program we were developing. I was out of there before anyone came in. When I got home, my brother was there. He had been answering the phone all day long. People were calling every few minutes to have poems done! Dear God, I hadn't even thought about how I was going to do this! So I made it up on the run.

I called some of the people back and found that they wanted mainly poems to boyfriends or girlfriends. One lady wanted a eulogy. On the fly, I started asking them questions about their situations. Important things in relationships, memories, code words, dates and anything they felt was important. I had said in the interview that I was charging two dollars a line. It sounded good at the time. Initially I had about half a dozen poems to write. I hadn't even thought about format, delivery or how to charge. Right at that point, my head was spinning.

Later that day, the story hit the wire services, went all over the United States. The next day, which was a Saturday, thank God, I started getting calls from places as far away as Alaska, Hawaii and Cleveland. I got calls asking me to be on talk shows, radio and TV. But, I didn't let it get into my head; I had poems to write.

It wasn't long before I figured out length, format, delivery and, of course, the money. It took me about 20 minutes to write the average poem which was 4 stanzas or sixteen lines in length. That was worth thirty two dollars and I could do two an hour. My muse was working overtime. Sixty four dollars an hour was a little more than I was making as a cop. Probably ten dollars an hour. This could be worth something, I thought.

Then Monday came. I reported to work and immediately was told, the Chief wants to see you. This was not good. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. In four months I was standing out on a cold downtown street wondering what had happened to my life.

Nine months later was my Saturn Return. Rent-a-Poet had pretty much gone by the wayside; I had no business sense, no marketing ability, no start up money. And so it goes. I was broke, I had to send my dog off to a lady in Washington State because I had to sell my house and move in with my parents. The only thing left from my former life was my pool cue. I had written her a poem and we became friends. I think it was six months later when Mt. St. Helens blew up. She lived at the base of it.

Looking back at the astrology of it, Saturn was conjunct my Saturn (maturity); Jupiter had just crossed my Ascendant, (opportunity, new relationships, greater understanding of self); Pluto was conjunct my Neptune in the third house (creativity, confusion and the beginning of my spiritual life); Uranus was conjunct my IC and opposing my Moon (residence, career, reputation and security); Neptune was conjunct my Mercury in the fifth (more creativity and confusion, sense of self and communication skills); Chiron was conjunct my Moon on the MC (old wounds, new healing and the beginnings of a new self).

All of the major planets save Jupiter were at seventeen degrees of consecutive signs; Virgo through Capricorn. Most of the planets in my chart are in the middle decanates, five at seventeen degrees. All of the planets connect to each other in major aspects. One of them may be a semi-square. Whenever a transiting planet hits one of mine, everything is activated. Is it surprising that I've led such a wild and crazy life?

So, my Saturn Return was an all or nothing time. I suppose I took both the all and the nothing. What would I have done if I had known in advance about the Saturn Return? If I had had someone talking to me about it? I'm sure my choices would have been less radical, less based upon emotion and much more considered. This aspect happens for everyone around the age of twenty nine. It is when you fully - and finally - become an adult. When you let go of things that no longer have a purpose in your life. Baggage. Saturnian rules apply. It's when you move forward with your life toward your second Saturn Return which happens at about fifty nine. That's a story for another time. Suffice to say, "forwarned may be forearmed."

You Just Gotta Do What You Think You Can't...

2009-12-09T14:13:00.004-05:00

September, 1982. I was driving a methadone delivery truck for a security company, part time. There wasn't much work for an ex-Detroit cop who didn't want to be a cop anymore. I had just gotten married and my wife was working but we needed more income. It wasn't much but it was all right as long as I didn't run into any of my old buddies in the precinct. Which I did one day when my truck was struck by a drunk. Oh, that was hard.

My friend Steve, who was a personality on Detroit rock radio at the time, and I had recently applied for a grant to produce a news show on the local cable station. Neither one of us had a clue how to do it, but we were very willing to learn. Our application had been granted and we had taken a 2 hour class on how to turn on and white balance a studio camera.

My wife, Denise, was working for a corporate travel agency as administrative assistant to the president. He told her one day that he wanted to produce some video training tapes on the reservation computers. He said he'd rented the equipment, written the script but he had no one to produce them. Denise, a fast thinker in all kinds of situations said with a big smile, "My husband works at Group W, the Dearborn cable company!" Uh huh, yeah, works. Right.

"Excellent!" said Brent. "Get him in here!" There was no moss growing under this guy. Denise came home with the good news that night. "Guess what, honey! My boss wants to see you tomorrow about doing some video work!" Of course I asked her what was involved and she told me. I looked at her with confused astonishment, wondering if she had all her faculties right then.

The next afternoon, dressed in my suit and tie, I arrived on time at Total Travel Management, still wondering what the hell I was doing. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was going to do. It was a blank slate and I hadn't started thinking about writing on it, much less actually doing it.

Then it hit me. There was no way I could do this, absolutely no way. I had no idea how to make a video, no idea what it entailed. I started to get up and leave when the receptionist said Mr. Garback was ready for me. Ah, shit, I thought, this is really going to be embarrassing. But, by the time I got to his office door, I had a plan. A plan to get out of it gracefully. I have Mars square Uranus. One astrologer called it the "hair trigger" aspect; I was good at making split second decisions. So I did.

I walked in, shook hands and sat down. We covered the pleasantries for a minute or so, then got down to business. I asked him to explain just exactly what he needed. My plan was to quote a figure so high that he would politely kick me out of his office. When he explained what he needed done - I had trouble following him at first because of the terminology. "Talking head, multiple camera shoot, computer screen B-roll, AB editing" and on, I would nod politely when I thought I should and generally acted intelligent. I pretty much had no idea what he was talking about. But I knew how to white balance a camera.

When he was finished, he asked me what it would cost him for me to do the project. I looked contemplative for a while, figuring in my head if I had enough gas to get home. Finally, I looked at him right in the eyes and gave him my figure, trying not to laugh. Then he said it. The words that would change my life.

He said, "Fine, you've got the job. When can you start?" I started to say that it was nice to have met him when his words hit me right between the eyes. I wanted to say, no, no, this was all a joke, I don't have a clue how to do what you want, I only know how to white balance a camera! What I said was, "Let's see. Next Tuesday would be good. I've got commitments until then." He said, "Excellent, I'll see you then."

I walked out in a fog with my stomach churning like a sea storm. Oh, God! What did I just do? Ah, shit, this is ridiculous. I've gotta go back in and tell him the truth! But, I kept walking to my car, a beater, and discovered to my amazement that I did have enough gas to get home.

When Denise came home that evening, I told her what had happened and the figure I had quoted. She looked at me, eyes wide, mouth open and said, "What are you going to do?" I said, "You got me into this and I don't know what in the hell I'm gonna do!" I knew, I would be sick to my stomach for the next week then call him and tell him something had come up, a family emergency and I wouldn't be able to handle his project. Sorry, but I know you understand.

I told Steve what I'd gotten myself into and he just looked at me. "You idiot. You can't do that. What are you going to do?" I didn't have an answer. I finished my soup and rye toast and went home.

Next Tuesday came and I delivered my methadone. There was a shotgun in the truck but I never touched it. If someone had to shoot somebody it wasn't going to be me. Then again, I thought, now there's a way out. Nah, I'd still have to shoot somebody. Me.

After work, I dressed casually and headed down to the travel agency thinking to myself, "You're a poser, an impostor, and they're going to know it as soon as you show up with your thumb in your ear." I walked in. There was an area set up with cameras, this complicated looking two-deck videotape system, wires everywhere and an idiot standing there. What the @#** am I going to do here? I saw a pile of manuals sitting on the counter and picked one up. It was on the two-deck editing system. I opened it and began to read.

I started to come in everyday after work, reading the manuals and playing with the equipment. I was actually having fun and looking intelligent at the same time. After about two weeks I felt comfortable with the cameras and the editing system. I had a deadline, a date by which Brent wanted the videos - yep, multiple videos -done. But now I was fired up.

I finally got everything set up, created my own teleprompter out of an art easel and a dowel and was introduced to my "talent." Three travel agents whom Brent had picked for this project. They were as clueless as I was, but I was determined. Very determined not to embarrass myself.

Do you know that I produced those three videotapes by the seat of my pants and finishing them before the deadline. And, I did it all on crutches. My knee had swelled up like a balloon, the result of a motorcycle accident seven years prior. I had no health insurance so I bought a set of crutches and got to work. It was very hard and very sweaty to do it that way but what was the alternative? Ah, I so love challenges.

Then the day came when I was to show Brent the finished product. I don't know how many takes it had taken to do this thing, probably millions. I wasn't sure if he would kick me out of his office or just cry. He did neither.

What he did was smile broadly and write me a check for that way over the top figure. He was so impressed with my work that he hired me full time as his Multi-Media Manager, bought the equipment I had used and gave me a company car. My salary was more than I had made as a cop.

My life had turned in those three months as I learned a trade and got paid handsomely for it. I would go on to work in the business for the next eight years, producing videos for Ford, Chrysler and other corporate clients. It would become a pattern for me: falling into positions doing something I had no idea how to do. It was always basically the same. I would teach myself how to do whatever it was through on-the-job training. Always saying with confidence, "Sure, I can do that." And then doing it.

I can't delineate the astrology of it because I don't know the exact dates when I presented and when I accomplished. I guess I'll have to see a psychic to get them. Now, if I only knew one besides me.

You Gotta Love That Intuition...

2009-12-08T15:47:00.001-05:00

It was June 1, 2003. I had just received notice that I would be granted a disability pension from the VA and Social Security. We were living in Dearborn, Michigan, our home town in a house owned by my wife's family. We had cared for Denise's parents full time for two years while they died slowly. We also had cared for my mother during the same period though she was living with us. We moved in to her parent's house after their deaths.

Now, Denise's older sister, the executor, wanted us out of the house so it could be sold. We hadn't even thought of where we could go but we finally had the means to go somewhere. This all happened pretty quickly, the retirement, the note we got saying we needed to get out of the house. It was a great time in our lives but a little confusing, too.

On this day, a Sunday, I woke up with this strong gut feeling that I needed to go up to northern Michigan. I am in tune with my gut and it has saved my life on several occasions. I turned to Denise and told her. She has seen me do this before, many times, so she just nodded her head and went back to sleep. I got my things together and left. Going out the door, for some reason, I grabbed my checkbook.

I had absolutely no plan in mind and just started driving north. After about 300 miles I could go no farther north without crossing the Mackinac Bridge and heading to the upper peninsula. So, I turned right. This part of the drive took me through Cheboygan, just south of the Straits of Mackinac. I drove through town but was not impressed. Just as I was leaving the city, I remembered that an old friend from school and the neighborhood had retired and moved up here somewhere. I put on my investigator gear and started looking.

After a couple of dead ends, I checked with the County Clerk's office. There I found, in the Platt book, David's name and address. It was about 25 miles south of me and I headed out. It was beautiful country and US 23 ran right along the shore of Lake Huron. The sky was a deep blue and the water, very calm, was a turquoise color. Much like the Caribbean. Wow. I pulled up to David's house on a little lane that ran down to the water. His was set back a couple of hundred feet and was gorgeous. I remembered then that he had built it himself. I hadn't seen him in five years and was surprised when he opened the door immediately.

It was old home week, just like it is everytime when you see someone from your past. We sat down with a beer and started talking. We weren't halfway through the cold Budweisers when he said, "Hey, man, you've got to see this house!" I kind of looked at him like a crazy man and said, "Why do I need to see a house?" We went back and forth and finally I gave in. We got in his truck and headed south again.

After about seven miles we turned into another little lane that led down to the water and pulled up to the first house we saw. There were only four houses on this lane and the lake was about two hundred feet from the house. It was a ranch style home with an unattached carriage house. It was surrounded by forest in every direction. The home owner met us outside and invited us in.

When I walked in and saw the interior, I was stunned. It was beautiful! It had large windows and french doors that made it seem like the walls were glass. A country kitchen with more windows that looked out into the forest. I thought to myself, "This is ridiculous! Why did he bring me here in the first place? I couldn't afford a place like this!"

The owner offered us coffee and we sat down. After talking for a bit, I asked him how much he was selling the place for. He replied with a figure and my jaw dropped. The figure was about the same as the houses in Dearborn. No way! A beautiful home on a beautiful lake in the middle of a forest, twenty miles from any town. In any of the surrounding suburbs of Detroit this house with it's proximity to water would go for at least half a million. Not so here.

I looked at him, looked at Dave and brought out my checkbook. I asked if he would accept a down payment on a land contract for a year. He looked as stunned as I was. Dave was just shaking his head slowly. He knew I was impulsive; growing up I had proven that. But this!

After a few seconds, the owner shook his head and then shook my hand. I had offered a little less than he was asking but apparently it was no impediment. I wrote the check and handed it to him. Then I thought it wise to call Denise and tell her what I'd done. Since I hadn't called her before I wrote the check. Uh, trouble?

I knew there wouldn't be because when she saw the house, I knew she'd fall to her knees. I was that positive. We had wanted to move up north since we first married, twenty two years ago. But, there were no jobs up here because Michigan's economy had been in trouble for years. So, we dreamed.

I drove home to face my family. The looks I saw struck me. Denise was tight-eyed and stern mouthed. Danielle my oldest had a smile on her face. Jessica, my youngest, looked like she wanted to tear my heart out. She had just finished her senior year of high school and was looking forward to hanging out with her friends. How could I do this to her?

Well, the next week I took everyone up to see the house. Just as I knew, Denise almost fell to her knees and looked at me with this huge smile on her face. Danielle's smile was just as big. She was attending Albion College downstate and it was a straight drive up for her. Jessica still had fire in her eyes but when she saw the private beach and the soft sand, I could see her relent. The carriage house has a finished upstairs and the first thing she asked was, "I can bring my friends up here, right?"

A month later we closed on the house. On our twenty second anniversary and started moving in a week later. We have now been here for six and a half wonderful years. It is our dream house. Back in 1994 we made a list of the things we wanted in our house when we got it. Up on a hill near water. Glass all around and trees, too. A place where our friends could come and relax and the animals would be our friends, as well. There were a few more stipulations that just so happened to match this house, too.

The house was built in 1994 as we were dreaming of it. We didn't get the house we wanted back then but we were here now. And it matched everything on our list to a T. We just laughed. We've been working on trying to understand the universe and the one thing we have learned is that your dreams come when you least expect it, and just when you need it.

I looked at the astrology of June 1, 2003 and laughed again. Almost too much to write about here: Jupiter in the 12th, opposing Sun/Venus/Jupiter in the 6th. Saturn conjunct Uranus in the 11th (in Cancer) with the Moon conjunct them both.

Mercury conjunct Moon and MC in Taurus, Pluto conjunct exactly Chiron in the 4th, Chiron conjuncting exactly Mercury in the 5th, also trining Moon/MC and Saturn in the 2nd. Neptune was exactly conjunct Venus/Jupiter in the 6th and Uranus trining Uranus, 7th house to 11th. Finally, the Sun/Venus/N. Node in transit trining the stellium in the 6th, Gemini to Aquarius.

I'm not going to delineate but I'm sure the aspects are self-evident. No wonder my intuition scored that day! I love the way the universe works, the way my God works, both who know more about what I need than I do. Sometimes we need challenges to wake us up with tough times and other times we are rewarded for our efforts. Myself, I just thank my God every morning for the day and what it will bring. As long as I'm upright and taking nourishment, I'm good...

A Case of Ironic Astrology

2009-12-07T14:22:00.004-05:00

I was an MP in the U.S. Army on April 8, 1970, stationed at Ft. Stewart, Georgia. It was a small, quiet little base where helicopter pilots were first training on fixed wing aircraft. Not much going on at all. Actually, it was pretty boring for a guy who loved action.

I was a good cop and tried to be super professional, making rank pretty quickly. I was 20. I was called into the commander's office and told he was sending me to Sergeant's school in Alabama. It was a very high honor because they were able to send only one soldier a year. Upon finishing the school, I would return to Ft. Stewart as a Sergeant. I was geeked to say the least. I had been in the Army for only 15 months.

I decided that I wanted transportation at Ft. McLellan, so I rode my little 350 Honda all the way there. 3 days of mind and hand numbing travel. Just before I got there, in the early morning dark, I was coming down the side of a mountain in the rain. I was scared to death. All of a sudden I saw these huge headlights in my mirror; it was a semi, right behind me. And I mean right behind. Feet behind. All I could see in my mirror now was this huge grill with huge headlights.

The road was slick and downhill. I was having to go 60 miles an hour to keep in front of this truck. I knew I was dead but I wasn't sure when. My back wheel was sliding sideways and I was nearly rigid with fear. The rain was coming down in sheets. I didn't have a visor on my helmet; it had been cracked by a rock thrown up by another semi the day before. It served it's purpose, though, the rock surely would have killed me.

This horrifying ride lasted nearly a half hour but it seemed like twelve. With this bozo blowing his horn all the way down; it surely hadn't helped my disposition. All of a sudden, after coming out of a sharp turn and almost losing it, I saw the lights of an intersection. I made it to the light as the it turned yellow. I stopped the bike, started breathing and the asshole cut out and screamed by me as it turned red. But, I had made it! Oh, man! I was still among the living. I think I cried.

I was late getting to the base and the company where I was reporting. My mission had not started well. The duty sergeant gave me a nasty lecture then assigned me a bunk. Everyone else had unpacked and repacked their footlockers in the manner prescribed by the sergeant. I had no clue. Ah, shit. But the sun was shining and everyone else had gone to dinner. So I sat on my bunk and waited.

Finally, someone else came in. It was another student. We got to talking and he said he, too, had driven in on his Honda 350 and he knew the base. Thumbs up for synchronicity. I had recovered sufficiently so when he asked if I wanted to take a ride, I agreed. We were going to drive by the WAC - Women's Army Corps - barracks to see what was what. Ft. McLellan was a WAC Basic Training base. I had not known that. It was April 12, 1970.

We took off and started cruising the base. We turned down a street filled with WAC barracks and there were girls everywhere! I could see that it was going to be heaven here. In a flash, as I was looking to the side, my right hand came off the throttle. I lost control and started falling to the right, where my new friend was riding beside me. The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes on the sidewalk with this beautiful face looking down at me. I had no idea who it was or why she was there. I remember thinking that she must have been an angel. I'm not sure how long I was out but it was too damned long as far as I was concerned. An ambulance showed up, they put me in and drove to the base hospital.

When I arrived, two doctors in the ER checked me over. My loss of consciousness was never discussed. My right shoulder was getting sore, I had abrasions down the entire length of my right leg and I was having a little trouble turning my head. After examining me without x-rays, the two doctors pronounced me fine and told me to go to the barracks and clean my up my own leg . What could I say? I think I called a cab and left.

It was dark when I arrived at the barracks, and most of the guys were already asleep. I somehow climbed into my bunk with my uniform still on and passed out. No supervisor had asked me about the accident.

I awoke the next morning and I couldn't move. At all. Nothing. Panic hit me and I think I screamed. At this, a supervisor came running. He called another ambulance and back I went to the hospital. This time there were competent physicians in the ER. They took x-rays and told me that I had a broken collarbone...and a broken neck. If I had moved the wrong way during the night, they said, I might have been dead. Cool.

I spent a month in the hospital, flat on my back wearing a collar and a sling. No pillow. Every 4 hours for that entire month I was given a shot of Demerol. All of us in the ward got one. We were constantly high and in rare humor. I discovered after I was released that I was addicted to the stuff, but never having had drugs before, I thought the extreme pain was due to my injuries. I was sent home for a month of convalescent leave.

When I returned to the base, healed, physically and psychologically, I discovered that I was persona non grata. I had screwed up their plans for a new supervisor and there was no changing their minds. I tried. The next day I was washing scout cars. I did this, and other menial tasks, for 2 weeks before they finally let me back on the road. I was angry. Very angry. Prior to my assignment to Alabama, I had filed two requests for transfer to Vietnam. My buddies were over there dying and I needed to go. Requests denied. I tried again. Request denied. I couldn't understand it.

On the road again, I developed a plan to piss people off, thinking they would send me to 'Nam as punishment. Writing tickets to officers for traffic violations was a no-no. Rank had it's privileges at Ft. Stewart. Unwritten policy. So, I began to write officers tickets. One was the Deputy Post Commander, a colonel. The next day, I was standing in front of the Post Commander's desk. On a red carpet, actually, while I got the crap kicked out of me verbally. I remember a lot of "yes, sirs" before I was ordered out of his sight and back to my company. My plan had failed. I was assigned to wash scout cars once again.

After a week, they needed another body to go out on patrol. Back on the road again but with another plan. There was a company on the base called the POR Levy Section. These people were responsible for putting names in blanks, filling requests for more troops to go to Vietnam. I began to mess with them. Severely. Tickets, minor arrests, just your petty, basic harassment. Within a week I had my orders for Vietnam. I spent 13 months there and was subjected to the defoliant, Agent Orange, and other dangerous things.

I made it home safely - having been promoted to sergeant in the process while receiving a Bronze star - and joined the Detroit Police only to leave seven years later. After that, my career was varied until I finally opened my own Private Investigator Agency. I had banked no retirement savings, no 401k, no stocks or bonds so my future financial situation looked pretty bleak.

One day while on a moving surveillance, I felt a sharp pain in my back. Just about where I had injured it in a jeep accident in 'Nam. It went downhill from there until I was unable to sit in a car for more than a few minutes or walk any distance at all. I was done as a private investigator because I was it for my company. I hadn't grown to the point where I could hire another person. On my way but not there yet. One day flying, the next augering into the ground. Gone, just like that.

On a visit to a doctor, I discovered I also had diabetes and I didn't have any medical coverage. No place to go but the VA. Not at the top of my list of providers but the only one I had. I qualified for free treatment at that time because I was broke. Nothing coming in. Very tough situation for my family and I. Two daughters and a beautiful wife.

During the course of my "treatment", and I laugh at what they called treatment, I was told that my back was too degenerated to be helped by surgery. Not that I would ever do that, anyway. They said, "you're 50, your back is 80. Live with it." So, I did but I couldn't work. On the way out of the VA hospital, I ran into an old friend from the police department. He told me that my diabetes was compensable because I had served in Vietnam. Elated, I applied. I asked my doctor why he hadn't told me this and he replied, "it's not my job." Ah, the VA.

Three long years later - my wife had been working and supporting us while I was battling with the VA - I was awarded my disability. 100%. Now I had enough coming in to retire. We were able to move up to paradise here and I'm covered medically for the rest of my life. Isn't it strange how things work? If I had not attended that sergeant's school and had that accident, I would have spent the rest of my enlistment at Ft. Stewart. Did I unconsciously make some kind of Faustian deal, would I have ended up here anyway, just by a different means?

Uranus was conjunct my Mars in the second house on the day of the accident, which trines my stellium in Aquarius (6th house - Sun, Venus, Jupiter). Mars was conjunct my Mercury in the fifth, part of a grand trine in earth and Jupiter and Neptune were conjunct my Part of Fortune. Seemingly lots of good luck and opportunity there, but obfuscated by Neptune. Oh, and Saturn had just conjoined my Moon and MC. Another third of that grand trine.

Astrology is a tough nut to crack and in life it's usually only through hindsight that we can understand what happened to us. I could go deeper into my chart on that day but I don't know if it would clarify anything any better. The aspects were good yet in the short term it was bad then good again. In the long term it saved my family and I. So, who knows?

But, God, I love it anyway!

Deathless Voyage

2009-12-06T07:14:00.001-05:00

I am a seeker on a deathless voyage
to points unknown
an adventure
I seek light and wisdom
and the opportunity
to share mine

I have lived
six lifetimes in one,
I have seen the shadows
and chosen the Light
I have closed with the darkness
and walked away wiser, untouched
and free

I am a seeker of destiny
and union

My Transit Blessings...

2009-12-05T12:01:00.005-05:00

Back on July 18 (our anniversary - 28 years) my second Saturn return was days from being exact for the third time. Jupiter, Chiron and Neptune stationed on my DSC in Rx and we didn't have enough money to celebrate. I can't remember why; I'm sure it had to do with kids, automobiles or some other unexpected expense. Saturn was in my second house.

We didn't need to go anywhere because we live in paradise already and we'd agreed years before that no gifts were necessary. So we celebrated by walking on the beach in the moonlight. I was recovering from a year of several major surgeries and my physicality was still weak, so we didn't walk too far. It was a beautiful anniversary.

Those three planets I mentioned before kept hanging around my DSC, with Mars conjunct my Pluto in the 12th, opposing them. By September I was pretty depressed. I wasn't healing like I had in the past and I was concerned with mortality. Not concerned in the "fearful" sense because to me, death is the greatest adventure. I've seen enough in my lifetime to know that most go peacefully. I was more concerned with my wife and my children and how they were going to do without me.

I guess I didn't realize that Jupiter and Chiron in my sixth conjuncting my Sun, Venus and Jupiter had pulled me through the mess the year before. They almost lost me a few times and I must have had one hell of a will to live. Neptune there just made it confusing.

By October, I was really down in the dumps, worried even about my purpose in life. I had already lived 6 lifetimes in one and done a lot of things I could be proud of, but I knew I hadn't done "It" yet. What "it" was, I had no idea but "it" was there. Finally, I asked my God and my Angels for someone to guide me, a teacher, or a facilitator. I thanked them and moved on.

In the middle of October, my good friend, Steve Monkiewicz - his Dr. Steve site is on this blog - emailed me with a copy of an essay written by an astrologer about the Saturn Return. He and I were both in the middle of ours. I read it and was greatly impressed so I went to the author's site, where I read more of her essays.

I noticed that she had just published a book called, "North Node Astrology" and based on the content of her other essays, I ordered it. Little did I know that it would change my life.

I read the book and suddenly understood what my North Node in Aries actually meant. I was amazed. I had thought of the North Node as some place we were called to go and the South, where we had been already. This book delineated it far beyond that. I contacted the author, Elizabeth Spring, and eventually we became friends. The gist of the matter was that I needed to start writing again, and get back to my astrology which had lain fallow for nearly a decade.

At the same time, Steve was pushing me to write and we started discussing astrology. Again. So, I started writing and reading and looking at charts. Almost suddenly, in November, we got high speed internet, We had had dial-up for 6 years because of our remote location. Now we had satellite. Jesus! (excuse me!:) There was a whole new world out there!

Since then I have met a great number of people with whom I now correspond. Two of the main ones, astrologers, are Diane Lang and Lynne Ewart. They both have urged me on, encouraged me, along with Elizabeth, almost like my own peanut gallery. And I am so grateful for these three, Elizabeth, Diane and Lynne, that it's hard to put into words. And, as you can tell, I have a lot of them.

Those three planets, Jupiter, Chiron and Neptune cross my DSC for the last time beginning on Christmas Day (Jupiter), just before my birthday Neptune, and finally Chiron just afterwards. I will be sad to see them go, but life goes on, I know. My friends on the 'net have saved my sanity - and maybe my life - and I can only go up from here. Thank you planets and people. Ah, but you are one in the same...

Mars, Mars, Mars...

2009-12-04T15:21:00.005-05:00

Today we arose feeling homey. The Moon is in Cancer and the tough aspects were gone by the time we woke up. Well, the general ones, anyway. Today, Mars in Leo in the 12th is exactly inconjunct my Mercury in Cap in the 5th.

The first indication was a text from my youngest daughter who runs a pre-school program for a local school system. It came just as I made it to my chair in the living room and said, "I need a cigarette (she's not smoked in two days) and these kids are pushing me over the edge!" Oh, lovely. I can't even see yet, feel like a frozen log and haven't even tasted my first sip of coffee and I've got a wild child on my hands!

I sat there trying to figure out not only what I was going to say but how I was going to text it when I can't see and my fingers don't work. The dog is wanting out and the cats are mewling around my feet. What the hell am I going to do?

Well, I'm a dad and I have to be a dad, regardless. Right? So I texted. Slowly. "Hey, baby, you get off in 20 minutes." The instant reply, "Get off what in 20 min?" Back to her, "Work, honey, work." Here it comes: "I need a damn cigarette!!" She had two teeth pulled on Wednesday and hasn't been able to draw very well, and thought it would be a good time to quit.

"Okay, if it's that bad, have one. I can't really tell you what to do because I'm smoking right now." Jessi: " :-(" "Ok, don't smoke then." "But Dad! I really need one!" This is the way it goes. "Ok, smoke then. And I'm sorry about the little rugrats."

She must have left work because I haven't heard from her since that last volley. So I sent her a funny e-card, with music, and commiserated with her in the remarks section. Still haven't heard from her.

A little after noon, my oldest called the house and talked to her mom. She said, "I've got some awesome news but I can't talk so I'll text it!" Mom told me and we waited on pins and needles for the phone to beep. Finally, after 5 minutes it did.

"Some asshole screwed up his paperwork and now my hours are cut to 24. My boss says she'll try to fix it but it might take a while. Happy damn Birthday!" Ah, shit. She works for the State of Michigan, a huge bureacracy and we all know how that is. So, I texted back, "Aw, shit, honey! We're so sorry!"

Denise and I looked at each other and said, simultaneously, "Merry Christmas" and sent her an e-card. It's her birthday tomorrow. So with the Mars inconjunct, no one could see around the corner and we had to handle it all blindly. I'm not even looking at their charts today. The universe will take care of it...

Winter Wonderland

2009-12-03T12:17:00.005-05:00

I woke up this morning to a Michigan winter wonderland. I looked out the window and saw a beautiful blanket of white, small flakes floating down. Lake effect snow. Finally. It's been raining here since the beginning of fall, October 21. So much drudgery. Gray clouds, denuded trees, the fall colors all but wiped out by the constant drizzle and the metal sky. When the sun did come out it was almost an afterthought.

But now, with everything white, the absence of sun makes no difference at all. I look out the window of my den while writing this and see a forest candyland. Sugar covering the branches of the half white trees, the result of gentle winds whispering from the north. The snowflakes small, almost invisible as individuals yet joining to make veils of gossamer drifting to the ground. Lake effect snow is always like that; grains of white, like winter sand slowly covering everything in sight.

I love the white, especially up here. It is so pure and virginal and stays that way all winter. No black and brown covered mounds along the highway, no city slush or dirty grime only snow, white and glistening, just as nature intended. Winter is my favorite season.

And sitting in my recliner, gazing out the glass walls of our living room at the black squirrels leaping and running, standouts against a pure white curtain, I think about peace. A warming fire in the wood stove with the quiet so absolute you can hear your own heartbeat. What pain could there be in the world? What possible distress? Surely the rest of humanity is feeling what I feel. Love. Love has to be white, sweet and comforting, like snow in the wildwoods of the north.

To me, there is no better place to be. Safe and secure in our woodsy wonderland, close to the gentle ripples of the Sweetwater Sea, and far from the worries to the south where discord abounds and the winds of change are blowing.

(R)evolution

2009-12-02T13:25:00.004-05:00

At the very heart of every human civilization lies the drive toward evolution; the inexorable need for growth and progress. At the heart of our human evolution lies the pursuit of wisdom, the illusory key to survival and triumph over entropy. All things save human consciousness are subject to the laws of the physical universe. The warp and woof of ultimate destruction spare nothing, grinding planets to dust, stars to darkness and galaxies into oblivion. The human spirit alone survives. Toward enlightenment’s grasp and the warmth of understanding we move. But it is always the choice of the individual carried along through opportunity after opportunity. This way or that? That thought or this? Sometimes the process is slow, sometimes it is not. Within each of us lie the options; stasis or not, we remain the captains of our destiny.

It has been said that there are souls waiting at the gate, holding lifetime contracts for the momentous game being played out in our arena, twenty-first century Earth. Seven billion have now come through the tunnels to participate in the greatest events of human history. The game is called evolution and evolution has its own rules; revolution precedes each new beginning with wisdom and spiritual growth as the goal. Those who gain the most ground win. To the victors? Survival. Transcendence. The well lit road leading home. Peace, love, connection and the opportunity to move on to the next venue. The next season. We’ve now made it to the world series. Pluto, agent of evolution, impatient and demanding confrontation has called for speed through ultimate challenge. Decisions before nightfall, though it remains our individual choice to accept. Or not. Do we contribute or do we lie fallow, grist for the mill in this game we call life?

Not since the Revolutionary War and the birth of a nation has the American Soul had the opportunity to gain so much experience, so much understanding, to make so many choices and so many changes. In so short a time. To create something so new, so unique that its developing character defies description. In 1753, with Pluto in Sagittarius, few could imagine what the new world would become. Now, across the threshold of a new millenium we stand at the precipice of a similar vision, yet one so much farther reaching in scope that the playing field now encompasses a globally connected civilization. To prepare for the emergence of this new world we have the opportunity to incorporate an incredible depth of self-understanding as Pluto transits nearly six signs over the lifetimes of the boom generation.

Since mid-century, we have been spurred to faster and deeper self-analysis. Since then Pluto, the archetype of evolution, the symbol of evolutionary growth through concentrated effort has transited over four signs to trine its natal position. That is already twice the number experienced by most people over the normal course of sixty years of life. Long before it is done, many of us will have seen a quincunx to its natal position in our charts and we won’t yet have reached retirement age. Some of us might even live to experience an opposition. For perspective, I quote Robert Hand’s, Planets in Transit for Pluto trine Pluto:

“In this century, this transit has happened only to people when they are in their eighties and nineties. I have had no opportunity to observe its effects, but I expect the result to be similar to a sextile.”

Well, we will know, won’t we? If we pay attention, if we recognize the opportunity. If we accept Pluto’s mandate to ‘let go and let God’ and confront our fears with understanding.

Fanaticism, religious tyranny, intolerance, greed and the thirst for power are all elements of the crusty detritus that keeps us from seeing the light. But, we have been given the time and the motivation and the ability to understand ourselves well enough to counter that darkness. More time, more opportunities and yes, more pain. There is no growth without pain. Even trapped by the prisons of our compulsions, our fears and the complex psychological patterns locked deep within, we fight to survive, intact. We cannot surrender now. Not when we stand at the foot of the (R)evolution. To not seize this momentous opportunity, to fail to grasp its incredible significance would be fatal to the life, the spirit and the brilliance of mankind.

We have seen the Renaissance, the birth of the United States, a nation committed to the ideals of men created equal, and now, the coming of age of a global civilization perched precariously on the edge of utter darkness or brilliant light. Is it a coincidence that the advent of global technology, the neural net, the Internet was born as Pluto reached its perihelion in Scorpio? Was it a coincidence that America, the land of freedom and the pursuit of happiness was also born there? Or the Renaissance, a rebirth of original thought? Logic doubts it and conventional wisdom, well, conventional wisdom fades in the glory of these nascent truths. Man is greater than the chains of his ignorance.

Unfortunately, man’s wisdom rarely has kept pace with his technology, yet the opportunity to throw off these shackles of ignorance stands boldly before us. Not in two hundred and fifty years have we achieved the awareness necessary for such informed and wise choices. What will we do with them? Time, compressed by perception, can be our ally. Pluto’s quick but lengthy transit through our lifetime offers a unique opportunity for greater vistas of experience, learning, understanding. More fuel for the evolutionary fires, driving us to greater introspection, greater understanding and greater enlightenment.

Revolution begets evolution. Let us be sure that we use our lessons for the greater good. To break the material bonds that enslave us. To make the final truth our Truth. We can win the World Series, it can be our destiny but the game has reached its final moments. Pluto in Capricorn awaits, a stern and unforgiving taskmaster.

Astrology and the Truck..

2009-12-01T13:47:00.001-05:00

Well, we're approaching Christmas again and this means - for us - truck problems. Last year at Christmas it was the front left wheel bearing. Cost us $395. On a fixed income this meant fewer Christmas presents for our daughters. I don't mind it so much and the girls don't mind it so much but my wife, Denise, looks at it with somewhat unamused eyes.

I feel that Christmas should be experienced as a spiritual holiday and have been lobbying for this for many years. There's altogether too much commercialism and it bugs me to no end. But, discretion being the better part of valor, I don't fight it too much. It seems, though, that for the last few years the universe has been helping me out. Something mechanical always goes wrong at Christmas or I end up in the hospital for one damn thing or another. I've always been out in time for the holiday but it can put a damper on things.

Today, as the Moon directly opposed my Mercury (to the minute) by progession, I heard that grinding sound again. The progressed Moon also squares my Neptune, Mars is still conjunct my Pluto by transit and transiting Saturn is in my 2nd house. Let's see, Moon in the 11th (hopes and wishes/security) opposing Mercury (local travel); squaring Neptune in the 3rd, confusion and illusion with that local travel and Saturn in the 2nd, uh, tough financial times. I could keep going but what's the point? The point is we're going to be down $500 this year with the towing.

We have learned to laugh at these synchronicities and the universe has yet again come to my aid. Christmas should be a spiritual observance and for another year, it will be. What more can a guy ask for?

Mars and Pluto, together..

2009-11-28T14:38:00.001-05:00

Last night around dinner time, we heard shooting in the distance. Lots of shooting. Not deer rifle shooting but handguns. Whomever it was must have fired off at least 200 rounds - and that was before dinner. I couldn't figure out who would be poppin' so many caps the day after Thanksgiving. It is the wildwoods up here and shooting is fine as long as you don't hit somebody and I heard no ricochets.

I have a love/hate thing going with gunfire and weapons. I used to love to shoot and shot every weapon I could, whenever I could. I was an expert in the Army and the Police Department and was pretty damn accurate under stress - as highlighted by my last post. But, since I left the police 30 years ago, I haven't touched a weapon, nor even really thought about it. Yesterday it seemed as though I might have tried to clear my conscience or something like that, talking about the guy I shot long ago. Mars was just approaching an exact conjunction with my Pluto in Leo.

This morning, the shooting started again, non-stop. With ammunition being so expensive - a county sergeant told me that when I called to have them go check out these bozos - I wondered if millionaires had bought the store out. The cops said they had no jurisdiction in our little township and over the firing of weapons, but said if they were still shooting after dark to call and they would check them out.

The gunfire brings back flashes of Viet Nam and the streets of Detroit and there's something there that I enjoy. And somethings I don't. So, I decided if the cops weren't going to do anything, then I was.

I drove around slowly until I pinpointed the location of the shooters. It was up the road a bit and across from our little community. I sat on the side of the road and just listened, watching some guys back in the woods near a residence moving around. When they saw me watching, they went into the house. Right about this time, Mars was pretty much exactly conjunct my Pluto in the 12th house and Mercury was exactly conjunct Chiron in the 4th.

I fired up the truck and drove into the grounds of the house. There was no one I could see so I sat there for a minute then honked my horn. A few minutes later this gentleman came out dressed in jeans and a hunting shirt. I got out of the truck and introduced myself. He said his name was Bill and he was just corking off some ammo he'd accumulated during the year. It wasn't his house but a buddy's he said, like he wasn't trying to hide something but he was. Whatever, it was no nevermind to me.

We talked for a bit and then he asked, "you want to shoot some?" I was kind of stunned for a moment and then I said, "sure." We walked over to this tree stump and on this stump lay a beautiful, new, Colt Commander .45. I had carried a different version in the Army. He popped a clip of 9 rounds into it and handed it to me.

God help me if that gun didn't feel good and right in my hand. It was like those 30 years had vanished in an instant. He had hung a wire between two trees about 25 yards away and had suspended these round targets, like crumpled up aluminum, from the wire. It was a decent distance away. The average distance in a police shooting is said to be 8-12'. My last shooting was at about 25' to give you an idea.

I palmed that gun and aimed. Centered the sights on one of the targets and fired. That sucker spun around like a tetherball! I fired 4 more times and it spun even faster. I stopped, looked at the target and then at Bill. He said, "30 years?" I said, "yup" and turned to fire again. Bam! Bam! I drilled that piece of aluminum until I finally missed with the last two shots. I think that was because I was dumbfounded.

It was like riding a bicycle and it felt sooo good. Oh, shit, I said to myself, this is not good. I had lost the taste for it way back when I told them to shove my badge where the sun don't shine. The taste was back. What wasn't back was the desire to do it again, to use it to shoot something - or someone. I cleared the weapon and handed it back to Bill. "Thanks, man." He stood there looking at me like, "How in the hell did you do that?" I got the feeling that they had been trying to hit that sucker since yesterday.

I walked away feeling good about myself. The wondering had been there for years: what would I do if I ever got another gun in my hand? Now I knew. A healing of sorts had happened thanks to the "opportunity - Mars and Pluto" and the thoughts, "Mercury on Chiron." And that, my friends, is how astrology works...

Dark Larry

2009-11-20T11:21:00.000-05:00

I woke up yesterday morning with Dark Larry inhabiting my consciousness. Dark Larry is the other half of me, the half that I saw in the mirror after I shot the B&E man. Oh, it was a righteous shooting according to the my department, the Detroit PD. He was in the window, had a large gray object in his hand and I was standing in the dark about 35 feet away. It was a spit-second decision and I pulled my .44 Magnum and drilled him in the center of the chest. Problem was, the thing he was holding was a big ole paper clamp and not a gun.

A counselor once told me that I shot him because that was what I was trained to do. By the Army during Viet Nam who drilled into me the word "Kill." By the police department who drilled into me "Protect Life" even if it is your own. But you know, there was a part of me that night that, I think, wanted to shoot somebody. And, the universe being what it is, offered me the opportunity. The old Law of Attraction. The law that says, "you will attract to yourself the lessons needed to learn what you need to learn."

Anyway, Dark Larry woke up yesterday morning and tore the shit out of Elsa in a private email to her on ElsaElsa.com. I was angry because she was not letting me express my opinion on her site. Up until then, my opinions were logical, caring and written to help the others on the site to see what was going on. I still think they were blocked out of malice but that was no reason for me to attack.

I could fall back on the training I've had, but that's a cop out. I know who Dark Larry is and I should have kept him in his box. I could blame Mercury in Sagittarius but that's another cop out. I'm old enough and wise enough (or I thought) to make the right decision. I didn't. Class is still in session...

Sanctuary

2009-11-16T11:33:00.000-05:00

For the last forty years or so I've been heading to northern Michigan but never quite made it beyond the big city limits. Something always kept me there: responsibility, family, finances, ailing parents, career. It was though I had this big rubber band around my neck and it would stretch so far before it yanked me back. Once it stretched all the way to Big Rapids which isn't really Up North but it was close. That time I was pulled back kicking and screaming, truly angry at circumstance.

I learned long ago that too often we just can't do what we want to do, no matter how determined we are. The timing is wrong, the planets aren't aligned or we are stuck, deep in the mud of our own making. I think usually it's that. We do have free will, it's just that sometimes that will becomes won't. Our lives are crafted by our choices and no matter how hard we struggle, we have to play each one out. After a while they become so intertwixed, so intertwined, that free will seems just a memory and we slog ahead just trying to survive.

I spent a lifetime fighting crime on the mean streets of Motown, first as a cop then as an undercover guy in the private sector. I'm telling you the truth when I say that I forever fought to keep my spiritual head above water and hope in my heart. Vietnam was an experience I wouldn't wish on anyone and I was lucky to come home sane. Well, relatively sane anyway. I know a lot of guys who didn't and suffer to this day.

After so much of that you begin to wonder about the big guy - or girl - upstairs. Is anyone really minding the store? I knew I had to get away but that rubber band just kept pulling me back. I needed sanctuary. Faith was an elusive thing but once I found it, there was no way that I was letting it go. It was during the dark night of my soul that it first touched me and assured me that my promised land was still there. I kept it close, seeking, always seeking that light at the end of the tunnel yet secretly hoping it wasn't another train.

I learned to go with the flow and follow my intuition. I learned it is true that whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger, that challenge is growth and that dreams fulfilled are not always what we've imagined. And I learned that 'someday, someplace, somehow' will come but not until we are ready, and wise enough to recognize them when they appear.

Amazingly, at least to me, they came just over six years ago. The somehow and someday came when my health went south, as events in Vietnam caught up to me and I discovered retirement. The someplace came when I drove north one day and came back the next as the owner of a new home near the shores of the Sweetwater Sea.

Ever since I was a child, vacationing with my family every year at Fireside Inn on Grand Lake in Presque Isle County, I dreamed that someday I would return permanently. That I needed to live Up North where nature held sway became a mantra, an endless ripple in the tides of my consciousness. Wherever I was, wherever life took me, I always imagined that I could smell the wood smoke, sense the water's edge and the sound of the loons on the lake. I yearned for it but, as we know, our choices create the roadmap of our lives, complete with detours and dark alleys.

I negotiated those roads, over years and years, sometimes blind, sometimes focused until I found myself, by chance, in Ocqueoc. I had never heard the name but in the language of the Anishanabe, a long ago tribe of native Americans, it means 'sacred.' Sacred was exactly what I had been looking for. Sacred, sanctuary, peace and tranquility, a place where I could celebrate the Self I had slowly discovered along my epic journey.

Ocqueoc is located equidistant between Rogers City, Onaway and Cheboygan. The heart of the township is a seven mile stretch along Lake Huron, or the Sweetwater Sea as it was called by the Huron Indians, who once lived in a small village at the mouth of the Ocqueoc river where it empties into the lake. Isolated, even today, the banks of the river were once used as a burial ground. History writes that as the tribe prepared for the long winters when the food was scarce, the crippled and infirm would throw themselves from those high banks into the river, their bodies floating into Lake Huron, in courageous attempts to insure the survival of the village.

Called Huron Beach now, the sandy shores of Hammond Bay are pristine, home to a loosely populated group of year-rounders and summer residents, and beckon to those seeking peace, solitude and quiet recreation. Infrequently, one can hear the muted sounds of a few jet skis and powerboats but mostly one sees the kayaks and sailboats as they silently skim the gentle surface of the bay.

The Huron Beach community is a private association of homeowners and ingress is limited to residents and guests. On the beach, more often than not, I find myself the only human for three miles in either direction. The bay itself, on the lee side of the state, is quite frequently calm as glass. The colors of the water on sunny days rival any view I've seen of the oceans of the world, even the Caribbean. A pure sandy bottom stretches out farther than you can walk or swim and in summer, because of the shallows, the water is nearly warm.

There is no town, only the Hammond Bay Trading Post, located near the banks of the Ocqueoc river on the site formerly populated by the Hurons and Anishanabe. I'd often dreamed of a place like this, where I was known at the local store in a small, tight knit community. Where I could find company if I needed it, yet live in quiet seclusion when I didn't. I had had enough of jet noise, trains, traffic, horns and the overpowering decibels of city life. Now, I turn onto U.S. 23, set the cruise and sometimes don't see another car for 15 or 20 miles until I reach a town. I have close to a hundred thousand miles on my Dodge Dakota and still have the original brakes. That should tell you something.

During the summer I can relax on what is essentially a private beach or paddle my kayak out into the bay, meditating while I float on the beautiful, calm waters. The sunrises are magnificent and often, at dusk, I will drift a half a mile out watching the sunset to the west, content, serene and basking in my connection to nature.

Winters are my favorite as the forest around our home grows white, heavy with sparkling snow. The quiet is so absolute you can hear your own heart beat and the deer gather every night, just outside our windows, for dinner. Sometimes there are three, sometimes fifteen but they always come on schedule. I love to sit in my chair by the window and wait for the first one to bound through the woods. They are so beautiful, so guileless, though sometimes competitive about sunflower seeds. I've learned that everyone loves sunflower seeds; the deer, the birds, the squirrels, the chipmunks and skunks and especially the raccoons who will defeat any security you construct. The badgers, well they must love badger food because I rarely see them outside the tunnels they dig.

I haven't seen any bears but I await my wolf when he arrives. The wolf is my totem and very close to my heart. The name of my investigative company was "Wolf's Run," and it was one of the greatest experiences of my life. They say there are no wolves in the lower Peninsula but two were found, last winter, trapped just outside of Rogers City. He will come, I have faith, to be sure. In the meantime, the hawks and eagles keep me company.

I have discovered my paradise, my Nirvana, our personal Garden of Eden. Every day my family is awed by the majesty of the north. Each morning I look out at the forest and know the essence of life is truly with me and that my friends, the animals, will never do me harm. And I can float my kayak in the stream of consciousness finding inspiration as it meanders, gently, in spirit.

Similar Souls

2009-11-16T11:30:00.001-05:00

He wanders the ethers with abandon
searching, seeking, learning
eyes bright with anticipation
hands clutching an old manuscript
torn and darkened at the corners

He moves, paced and resolute toward a tiny light,
visible only briefly and only to those who share
eternal passion for the quest

His past a raging river of choices
his future, the gentle peace of infinite probabilities
His present, filled with love and hope
cares for him, nurturing his need to be

His moments, garnered from the outstretched arms of similar souls,
lay etched in his heart, deeply cut
with the sharp teeth of understanding
Would that some see and some not

His quest, though filled with moments and days of generous reward
lies fallow with want, with need, for a new sustenance
similar souls to search and seek the ethers far
to share the joys of discovery,
to revel in its poignant moments

To laugh when, again, the tiny light appears, distant
and talk of things only they understand

What is Astrology?

2009-11-12T12:59:00.001-05:00

In the beginning, when humans began to walk upright and live outside their caves, there were the heavens. Looking up at the night sky, they saw that the same things happened at the same time and then it started all over again. The moon through its phases, the sun up and down every day. Lights in the sky that appeared to be the same every night. But there were other lights, brighter lights that seemed to move across the sky as the days went on. The same kind of events seemed to happen at certain times, relative to those lights in the sky.

The tide came in and moved out. The seasons cycled through their phases and fertility was higher according to the appearance of the moon. As time marched on, humans began to document the lights and the changes they seemed to have brought. There came a time when man assigned names and values to these lights, their movements and their seeming impact on events. Thus, astrology was born, through the ages changing and growing to become the oldest system and art in this world. And we learned, "As above, so below."

Astrology is a study of the cycles of the sun, moon and planets in their orbits. For most of those thousands of years it was used as a predictive thing. Fortunetelling. It was an occult art, occult meaning only "hidden." Like Alchemy, Tarot and the I Ching. No one but the Adepts had any clue about how they worked. In this form, the Bible came down on astrology hard. Not difficult to understand. The astrologers were powerful people and influenced kings. And in modern times, presidents and rulers all over the world.

Many of history's greatest minds were astrologers. Da Vinci, Edison, Carl Jung, Ptolemy, Galileo, Medici, Frances Bacon and Johannes Kepler to name but a few. Organized astrology began in China and Meso-America in the 6th Century, BCE. Confucious used astrology as did the Mayans to plot the activities of their societies. That equates to 8000 years!

In the late 19th century and the early 20th century a man named Dane Rudhyar helped to develop a new kind of astrology, one meant to help man understand himself. In this form, humanistic astrology was born. Not in the sense of traditional humanism often associated with Atheism, but rather a study of the human spirit, soul, mind and body. Rudhyar combined astrology with the nascent art of psychology. A proponent of Abraham Maslow and his theory of self actualization, he assigned new values to the lights in the sky. It was a "Re-formulation of Astrological Concepts and Ideals, in Terms of Contemporary Psychology and Philosophy." (Dane Rudhyar, "Astrology of Personality" 1935).

Humanistic astrology has grown since Rudhyar and his contemporaries first proposed it and computers have aided it immensely. The birth of our technological society has provided the means to document the movement of the heavens and our solar system with incredible detail.

Now, the planets don’t make you do anything. They are simply symbols of cycles and energies that exist in our world, our minds and our bodies. In the old astrology there were malefic and benefics meaning that some planets were considered evil and others considered good. With the new, humanistic astrology, everything is good everywhere and there are no problems in our world. Ah, caught you sleeping, eh?

In astrology today, at the moment of your birth a ‘picture’ of the solar system is taken. It shows where the sun. moon and planets are at that moment. It is like a blueprint of you as an individual, created at the moment of your first breath. It shows potentials in your mind/body/spirit and that nothing is absolute because we all have freedom of choice. If we understand the natures of the planets as symbolizing energies in our world, then we can make better choices and keep something solid under us when times are hard or crazy. “This too shall pass” is a keynote of astrology; we can see when those stressful times may have an ending and we can see what good we can grab onto to help us through. I think the best thing about astrology is that it shows us we’re not crazy and that there is a higher force or intelligence working in our universe. What could be better than that?

So, the birth chart shows our potentials and, as the planets keep moving in their orbits, we can track the timing of the cycles of which I spoke. These are called transits. We can see when Saturn (the teacher, Kronos, time) conjuncts - or seems to occupy the same space- as Venus (beauty, balance, love). During this time we can understand that our attention will be focused on our relationships and the fact that they will change and probably feel difficult for the duration of this ‘transit.’ Knowing that helps us to view those changes in the most positive way and not as a crisis in our lives. We can expect unnecessary relationships to fall away, money to become tight and resources limited. Knowing these things allows us to focus and plan, making the right choices at the right time.

This is a simplistic example of astrological meaning and there are many more ‘cycles’ going on at the same time. The astrologer notes these and interprets them according to astrological principles. By doing this, your awareness heightens, your clarity grows and your understanding comes much faster.

Astrology is also used for medical diagnoses. It highlights physical problems that could develop in your life based upon the nature of your birth chart. It is used as a psychological tool to understand the original state of your mind and therefore your condition and its roots. Astrology is no longer occult, it is an open book in the mainstream of our lives. Of course, many pooh, pooh the art but that is to be expected. Without critics, anything can stagnate and die. Who is there to point out problems without them? So, let us give a hand to critics and then lock them in the storeroom where they can’t bother anyone! Let’s see a show of hands - how many in favor? (67%), against? (1%). That from the critics who escaped. The rest are sleeping and don’t care. We won’t wake them up.

So, in summation, believers in astrology know that they have a great tool to work with. Because astrology enlightens us and shows us evidence of the divine, it will grow and develop as an art, and eventually a science. Well, maybe not a science because the human condition is involved and who knows anything about that? In the words of the great Swami Beyondananda “The world doesn’t need to be changed, it needs to be toilet trained“ And it’s going to take more than a few astrologers who see with clarity to do that. But, astrology can be used as a basis for understanding our world.

Talk to your astrologer, get a handle on your life and start making choices that will benefit you in your future. Understand what’s happening now, where you’ve been and where you should go. Forget the predictions - no one can predict the future. Well, a few prophets have done a fine job but it hasn't helped us at all. Ever heard the term ‘self-fulfilling prophesy?’ That’s where the danger of fortunetelling lies. Think about now, not when and take the direct routes instead of detours...

Why Astrology?

2009-11-09T20:09:00.000-05:00

Have you ever wondered about God? I use God because it's only three letters; you can use whatever label you choose; Father, the Force, Goddess, Allah and on and on. Jehovah, the choices are unlimited. Regardless of what you choose to call this elusive concept and I say concept because you can't see it, touch it, feel it or hear it, how do you know it's there? The Bible tells you it's there. The Koran tells you it's there. The Kabbalah tells you it's there but none of them can prove it’s there. Each one asks you to take it on faith that it’s there. The scientists can’t prove it or disprove it. Only if you know that the words written in these books are actually the Word of God can you accept them as true.

It’s a rather nebulous way of looking at such an important thing, don’t you think? The Baptist preacher preaches fire and brimstone. The Catholics preach guilt. Every religion has its own way of getting you to believe in God. It’s all very confusing. Faith is more than believing, Faith is actually knowing that God exists. It takes a great leap of faith to have faith; you’re taking it upon yourself to know something that is unknowable. Unless you take a shot at astrology.

What would it mean to you if there was a way to prove that there is a higher intelligence, a God so to speak? What would it be worth to you? For me it was worth my life. Astrology gave me a Faith that I’ve never let go of, even in the worst of times. Especially in the worst of times. Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that God exists. How, you ask? Well, let me tell you...

When I was 29 - called in astrology the first “Saturn Return” - my life was in tatters. I’d walked away from being a cop to become a poet, and that’s no exaggeration. My wife and I were divorcing and life was spinning away from me. In the middle of this storm I happened to meet a guy about my age. By coincidence or synchronicity we got together and the basis for a lifetime friendship was created. He was experiencing the same kind of things that I was. Mucho common ground.

Where he was different, though, was that he was an astrologer and he introduced me to the art. He “did my chart” and proceeded to tell me where I had been. Not where I was going. And boy, did he hit some nails right on the head! He described situations in my past, major turning points, that had brought me to where I was that day. If he had predicted my future I would have taken it with a grain of salt. A large grain of salt. Yeah, right, how are you going to prove that? You can’t and he didn’t.

When I realized just how accurate he was with my past, my question, like everyone’s in that situation, was "how could he possibly know those things?" To me it was gibberish, to him it was right there in black and white. When I finally accepted the fact that what I was hearing was real, I asked myself, “so, who put that together?” If the planets, the sun and the moon had the symbolism to indicate what I had done in the past, then someone had to be in charge of creating them! And, gee, who could that possibly be? God, the Force, Allah and Jehovah? Yep, all of them or all One of them. The point was that there was something greater than I, something I could logically put my Faith in. Proven to me by astrology. I had no idea at that time where my new understanding would take me, but when you choose a spiritual path the only thing clear is that nothing is clear. You have to take it on Faith that the road will lead you in the right direction. Faith not belief. Knowing not hoping.

So, for thirty plus years I’ve been following my Path. I began to study astrology way back then, and will continue to study it until the time comes to move on. When I do a reading, I love the light that comes into a person’s eyes when they finally get it. When it shows them that they’re not crazy, that there are real reasons behind the things that happen. And that the choice is always ours whether to turn right or turn left. And it shows them that there is something greater than themselves. How else would this system work? - It's the oldest system in the world - If not to shed Light on our path to spirituality, to growth, to life? Well then, that’s why astrology.