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Posted by Fred Clark

I’m just going to post these tweets here as a reference point so we can pick this conversation up later after I get back from the Big Box.

Every once in a while, some disturbed person absorbs the language and logic of white evangelicalism’s Satanic baby-killer fantasies and, not realizing it’s all a disingenuous game, acts on it. “Pro-life” evangelicals are then forced to condemn that person’s actions in an awkward dance that forces them to admit, at least implicitly, that they do not take their own words and arguments seriously — and thus that no one else should take them seriously either.






Yes – TWO Thanksgiving comics!

Nov. 28th, 2015 06:13 pm
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Posted by Justin Pierce

My Black Friday Special continues into Small Business Saturday, because I am more of a small business than I am black.

Get one with everything (like the Buddhists!) for yourself or a loved one.

(no subject)

Nov. 28th, 2015 06:57 pm
nny: (Default)
[personal profile] nny
the problem I'm having, of course, is that when one sets upon a place to stay in, one rather wants it to be perfect right away.

The other problem is that there is in actual fact no better alternative, although this may not precisely be a problem, since enducement to staying still is an advantage for The Long Run.

I'm just really tired of having no one near me. I've made some very isolating choices, and suddenly here consequences are, all of a sudden, because I've decided to stay still and face them. And the consequences are most noticeably the physical-ache sort of loneliness. The kind that sits in your chest like something rotten, slowly collapsing in on itself and leaving a vacuum behind.

I had excuses when I was moving. Now I'm staying put and wondering how many people are feeling sorry for me. I'm pretty sure it's most.

Wielder of Names 2-34

Nov. 28th, 2015 07:15 am
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Posted by Abbadon


“My apprentice asked me why I prefer the company of dogs to men. I told her that a man is an kind of intolerable monkey who clings obsessively to his own fate. To subvert his mortality, he inflicts death and unfathomable torture upon the world. My apprentice told me that I was being a little severe, and asked me about dogs.

I told her that dogs keep my feet warm, and they care very little how badly I insult them. In this respect, they are also better than apprentices.”

– Meti, of the Yellow City

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Posted by Fred Clark

I’ve started noticing other stores going with a 1970s soundtrack for shoppers. I think maybe it’s a way of getting around worries about otherwise needing to pick a particular target demographic for the piped-in music. By the late 1980s, pop radio had begun splintering into dozens of categories and sub-categories, but in the ’70s, Top-40 still ruled, with radio offering rock and disco and Manilow in a single block of music. One minute it sounds like you’re riding along in the car with Dean Winchester, and then suddenly you’re docking at Puerto Vallarta with the passengers from The Love Boat.

Anyway, restocking the shelves at the Big Box doesn’t fully occupy one’s mind, giving me plenty of time to meditate on the meaning of the songs being piped in on the store’s music service. Maybe too much time.

• Tavares’ “Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel” starts off as an unmistakable artifact of the 1970s with the strains of Disco behind a hook based on the cheesiest of cheesy pick-up lines. But after the first minute or so the song morphs into something more like old-school 1950s Doo-wop. Maybe “heavenly” Disco songs just become untethered in time because something similar — but even more surprising — happens in the final minutes of Brenda Pointer’s “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” which ends with a burst of brassy scat a la Louis or Ella. It’s completely unexpected, but it fits perfectly, which is a delightful trick.

• The BeeGees’ “More Than a Woman” would be a period piece even without its ultra-’70s arrangement. If you covered this song today, giving it the most contemporary, cutting-edge musical interpretation possible, it would still come across as a relic of its time. No matter the musical setting, the lyric expresses something that could only be said by blow-dryed, bare-chested men in gold jackets with gold chains tangled in their copious chest-hair.

The Bee Gees

The chorus seems intended to praise a woman by suggesting that she is better than “a woman.” It posits womanhood as a category and approves of its object due to her transcendence of that category. If she were merely “a woman,” she would apparently be unworthy of the singer’s love and admiration. Her worthiness is contingent on her being “more than a woman.”

I’ve given this a great deal of thought, but haven’t yet managed to find any way of interpreting that phrase — “More Than a Woman” — that doesn’t require some appallingly misogynistic underlying assumptions.

The best I can do is to read this as a kind of repentance of some earlier attitude. Perhaps the singer intends to say that he used to regard all women as objects — interchangeable, disposable, impersonal and sub-personal inferior creatures. But now, he may be saying, this new love has taught him to view her as something more than that. This might have been a teachable moment, leading him to understand that his previous dismissive generalizations about the category “woman” were a distorted lie. But the singer/narrator/protagonist can’t quite come to grasp this. He persists in characterizing the object of his affection as an exception to the general view in which he seems to still regard all other women. By repeatedly hailing her for what he regards as her exceptional quality, he also repeatedly reaffirms his enduring misogynistic ideology, repeatedly reassuring himself and the listener that “a woman” is an inferior category unworthy of respect or love.

And that’s my most charitable interpretation. Am I missing something here? Is there a more positive way of interpreting this song?

• “Have You Heard About the Lonesome Loser?” confuses me. (Beyond my initial confusion of being sure this was Kansas and not the Little River Band.) The song repeatedly shifts between the second and third person in ways that invite competing interpretations. The titular loser is alternately referred to as “you” and as “he,” with both seeming to be ways of referring to the singer himself. When the singer says, in the chorus, “He’s a loser, but he still keeps on tryin’,” it seems that he’s referring to himself. It seems that way in the verses, too, when he switches to the second person — “You have to face up, you can’t run and hide.” This sounds like an affirmation — like he’s addressing those words to himself.

But this gets trickier due to song’s use of the second person in it’s title question and refrain: “Have you heard about the lonesome loser?” That “you” cannot be an indirect reference to the song’s narrator — that has to be addressed to the song’s listener (it seems to be a singular you). Is this the same “you,” with the same antecedent, as the “you” in those verses who’s being urged to face up and not be such a loser?

Later in the song, it becomes harder to tell if these murky, undefined antecedents should be heard as interchangeable or as opposed to one another — “He don’t know what goes on in his head / But if you watch very close you’ll see it all.”

So is this confessional or accusational? Is the Little River Band urging themselves not to be such losers, or is it telling us, the listeners, that we’re all a bunch of losers? It’s hard to tell, so I can’t quite tell if my emotional response to this song should be, “Hey, buck up there, buddy,” or “Yeah? Same to you and the horse you rode in on, you Kerry Livgren wanna-be.”

• The ’70s channel served up this block of songs, in this order, the other night: Abba’s “The Winner Takes It All,” Barry Manilow’s “Looks Like We Made It,” and Linda Ronstadt’s “Long, Long Time.”

Whether you like those artists and those songs is not the point here. You don’t need to like those songs to acknowledge that each of them is, in its own way, effective. And the cumulative effect of three such effective songs, back-to-back-to-back, created a palpable sense of melancholy that settled on the Big Box like a fog, clouding our eyes and thoughts until it was, mercifully, dispelled a few songs later by “Killer Queen.”

This was on a music service specifically designed and marketed to retailers and intended to create an atmosphere conducive to shopping. How is that supposed to work? Some customer grabs a cart and heads over to Aisle 35, thinking about maybe upgrading the lighting fixtures in their living room. Halfway there, they hear Ronstadt’s voice breaking along with her heart as she sings, “I’ve done everything I know to try to change your mind …” I’m not sure how that’s supposed to help sales.

• Whatever complaints I may have about the ’70s channel for our in-store music, I will miss all of this — the Disco, the Manilow, even the Starland Vocal Band — in the weeks to come. Today is Black Friday, the darkest day in retail world, when the soundtrack switches to Christmas music, endlessly and relentlessly, from now until New Years.

I love Christmas music, generally, but not the kind they insist on playing at the Big Box, which features endless versions of “White Christmas” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” recorded by artists who seemed to think Bing Crosby and Gene Autry were too edgy and musically daring. The War on Advent has begun.


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Posted by Fred Clark

Originally posted August 12, 2005.

You can read this entire series, for free, via the convenient Left Behind Index. This post is also part of the ebook collection The Anti-Christ Handbook: Volume 1, available on Amazon for just $2.99. Volume 2 of The Anti-Christ Handbook, completing all the posts on the first Left Behind book, is also now available.

Left Behind, pp. 129-133

We left Buck Williams outside of the offices of “Global Weekly,” somewhere in midtown Manhattan, miles and miles from midtown Manhattan.

Buck heads inside and meets up with his friends and colleagues for the first time since one third of the world’s people disappeared and hundreds of thousands more were killed in various catastrophes involving planes, trains and automobiles. Since that event, Buck had been on his own, but:

He was with people who cared about him. This was his family. He was really, really glad to see them, and it appeared the feeling was mutual.

That second “really” is what sets Jerry Jenkins apart as a novelist. Passages like this make one grateful that he is sharing this gift with others. You, too, can sign up for his “Christian Writers Guild” and you can learn to be a really, really good writer.

They cheered when they saw Buck. These people, the ones he had worked with, fought with, irritated and scooped, now seemed genuinely glad to see him. They could have no idea how he felt. …

These folks have all just experienced the same world-altering 36 hours that Buck did, so you’d think they actually would have an idea of how he felt. We readers, however, can’t be sure what is going through Buck’s mind as he: “… began to sob, right there in front of his colleagues and competitors.”

There ought to be more of this happening in this book, more spontaneous emotional meltdowns. Few lives would be untouched by the disappearances and the ensuing disasters. All the children are gone, all 1.3 billion of them. That means at least that many grieving parents. Most of the planet, at this point, is probably coping with some form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Random bouts of sobbing should be the new normal.

“It’s all right, Bucky,” one said. “If this is your first cry, you’ll discover it won’t be your last. We’re all just as scared and stunned and grief-stricken as you are.”

That’s kind of nice — a humanizing touch for a character who has, so far, showed scarcely a glimmer of human response to the suffering, loss and mayhem around him.

But who was that speaking? One of Buck’s nameless, faceless coworkers — the people who cheered when he walked in. There’s something a bit creepy about the chorus roles in this book. They surround Buck, offer him cheer, seem genuinely interested in how he is doing and what he has been through. He never reciprocates this concern, and they never seem surprised by that. It’s like they know they’re just extras and he’s the protagonist.

The same odd dynamic is at work on the next page, as Rayford checks in with the office:

Rayford talked himself into calling the Pan-Con Flight Center early in the afternoon. He learned that he was to report in for a Friday flight two days later. “Really?” he said.

“Don’t count on actually flying it,” he was told. “Not too many flights are expected to be lifting off by then. Certainly none till late tomorrow, and maybe not even then.”

If Friday is two days later, then it must be Wednesday, which means, I think, that the disappearances must’ve occurred late Monday/early Tuesday (depending on timezone). So we finally know what day it is, if not what month.

Another thing we don’t know is who it is that Rayford is talking to on the phone. Passive constructions like “he was told” don’t even allow us to figure out this person’s gender for another two pages (when Rayford hears that “he was tapping computer keys”).

But we did learn that a very few commercial flights have been flying again. You know how it is after a big disaster involving multiple crashes closes all the airports. The FAA keeps just about everyone grounded except for private jets for journalists, commercial flights for Stanford students, and members of the bin Laden family.

The nameless Pan-Con voice helpfully tracks down the travel itinerary of Rayford’s daughter Chloe, who apparently took a bus from Palo Alto and is flying home via Salt Lake City, Enid, Okla., and Springfield, Ill.

Rayford asks Peripheral Chorus Guy when he’ll be getting back home if his scheduled flight does take off:

“Saturday night.”


“Why? Got a date?”

“Not funny.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Captain. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“You know about my family?”

“Everybody here knows, sir.”

PCG must also have a family. Every parent in the entire company has lost their children. And dozens of Pan Continental jets have crashed, taking the lives of pilots and crew. But somehow it is Rayford’s loss that is the talk of the office.

“Everybody knows,” and everybody cares, about Rayford. They know that he lost his wife — the same wife he couldn’t stand to be around, the one he blew off to hit on young flight attendants — and they regard his loss as somehow more special, more important than their own. It’s not just that these people are undeveloped extras in the background of somebody else’s story — it’s that they know they’re merely extras in the background, and they enthusiastically embrace this status.

TebowWe could just file this under Bad Writing, but it’s more than that. The self-centered, sociopathic lack of empathy displayed by Rayford and Buck is held up as model behavior. By implicit example, and sometimes more explicitly, this book is trying to teach its readers that Other People do not matter.

One common riff used by evangelical speakers involves John 3:16 — the verse made famous by Bannerman. As a reminder of God’s love for each of us, the speaker will quote that verse as a fill-in-the-blank, urging the audience to insert their own name: “For God so loved [your name here] that he gave his only begotten son, that [your name here] shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

This illustration turns the verse into something like the parable of the Lost Sheep (“ninety and nine all safe in the fold”), which is a valid point, but not the point that John’s Gospel is making.

John 3:16 says, “God so loved the world,” or literally, “the cosmos.” It’s not a good idea to substitute yourself for the entire cosmos. Part of what this passage is saying is that God loves the world, so you should love it too. That message is lost if you make it all about you.

If it’s all about you, then it doesn’t really matter what else or who else God loves. God doesn’t even really matter that much, except insofar as you get helped out. You’re the hero of this story — God is just Peripheral Chorus Guy writ large, just another one of those faceless chorus members cheering when you walk into the room.

Lest you wonder if “sociopathic” is too strong a term for the self-centeredness of our hero Rayford, here’s how this chapter of LB ends:

“Well, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, sir, but you can be grateful your daughter didn’t get on Pan-Con directly out of Palo Alto. The last one out from there went down last night. No survivors.”

“And this was after the disappearances?”

“Just last night. Totally unrelated.”

“Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the teeth?” Rayford said.


Rayford doesn’t ask which one of his fellow Pan-Con pilots was aboard the doomed flight. He doesn’t care because it wasn’t him or his immediate family. Neither, “indeed,” does PCG. They are both just relieved that Rayford and his family are unaffected by this event. It “would have” been a tragedy if Chloe had been on board. But it was just Other People who died. So no harm, no foul.


Nov. 27th, 2015 05:01 am
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Posted by David M Willis

DoAbook4frontcover666Thanksgiving is over!  SUPER JESUS MONTH BEGINS.

And so Dumbing of Age book 4 is now in the online store.  You can get it plain or pay extra for me to doodle a Carla face in it.

Also, for just this weekend, you can get a combo pack of all five Shortpacked! books for a sweet-ass low price.

Note for this holiday shopping season: Maggie’s scheduled to get our twins yanked out of her on December 22.  However, twins like to pop out early, so it’s possible they’ll drop at basically any time.  What this means for you is that I can’t, like, super promise any orders you make will get mailed to you before Christmas.  We could be fine and in the clear until the 22nd OR they could randomly birth the day after you order a book and I’m kinda at the hospital for a week.  So keep that in mind!

The Evidence of Life.

Nov. 27th, 2015 08:51 am
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Posted by eden riley

"Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, then poetry is just the ash." - Leonard Cohen

You know sometimes you see or read something so incredibly extraordinary you feel an almost jealousy of the person who created it? Then quickly you let go of such ego because beyond that "thing" whatever it is, a book, a design, a play, film, painting. Anything that makes you feel SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY well, you're a part of it now. You're IN it. A human has expressed something so inordinately powerful and true you stand there reeling from the magnificence.

All good art should make you feel like you belong exactly inside that piece of art all along. Like a homecoming.

This completely fucking extraordinary piece of work was sent to me in the early hours the other night and my heart needed to hear every word of it and rejoiced in the recognition. Not only did I actually used to have a therapist called Sharon (who remains one of the most powerful influences on my life) but I felt every bit of the pain and ache and yaw and blessedness and truth that Desiree is painfully and gloriously showing us.

Desiree's life must be on fire for such words to come. My life is on fire! Huge huge flames, all the time. Everybody's life is on fire, just different degrees.

Desiree did all the speaking here yet I was the one feeling heard.

Thank you

Nov. 26th, 2015 08:08 pm
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Posted by Fred Clark

I don’t want to do that thing where you go around the table and have everybody say what they’re thankful for because I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels anxiously put-on-the-spot during that kind of thing.

I have a lot to be grateful for, but that sort of pop-quiz sometimes makes me freeze up and forget to mention two-thirds of what I should. I’m grateful for health and family and home, and for the chance to get a paycheck that lasts most of the way to the next one. I’m grateful for freedoms and rights and dignity, and for whatever justice can be found, and for the chance to participate in trying to expand all of those and to strengthen them so that more people can share in them more fully.

But why be abstract? I’m writing here for the people who read this, so instead of just listing broad, general reasons for gratitude, let me take this chance to say thank you to you — to give thanks for you. Thank you for reading this. Thank you for commenting here — for sharing jokes and encouragement, kitten pics, and the insights and criticisms that help me learn and keep me honest. Thank you for sharing, liking, retweeting and linking. Thank you for reading ebooks and posting reviews. Thank you for donating to the tip jar. Thank you for sticking up for one another, for bearing one another’s burdens, rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning with those who mourn.

Thank you, overall, for being a community that enriches my life, inspires, encourages, and challenges me.

I’ll be sitting down in a bit to eat a fantastic meal with my wife and daughters (and the daughters’ boyfriends, a few other stragglers who couldn’t get home from college, a co-worker whose family is out of town, and whoever else shows up). Then I’ll telephone my dad up in Vermont, where he’s gathering with my sister and her family. And then, after cleaning the dishes and loading all the leftovers into Tupperware, I’ll be back here, on this computer, checking in with some of my favorite people in the world and some of the best friends anyone could hope for, even though most of them are people I’ll never meet face to face.

Thank you is what I’m saying. Thank you.


Nov. 26th, 2015 08:08 pm
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Posted by Tarol

The next page appears on December 3rd.

TL;DR version…


As always, thanks for reading.


saunteringfiend: (roses: red)
[personal profile] saunteringfiend posting in [community profile] poetry
Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued
with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors
was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door.
Your questions were answered fully. No. That didn't occur.
You couldn't sing anyway, cared less. The moment's a blur, a Film Fun
laughing itself to death in the coal fire. Anyone's guess.
Nobody forced you. You wanted to go that day. Begged. You chose
the dress. Here are the pictures, look at you. Look at us all,
smiling and waving, younger. The whole thing is inside your head.
What you recall are impressions; we have the facts. We called the tune.
The secret police of your childhood were older and wiser than you, bigger
than you. Call back the sound of their voices. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Nobody sent you away. That was an extra holiday, with people
you seemed to like. They were firm, there was nothing to fear.
There was none but yourself to blame if it ended in tears.
What does it matter now? No, no, nobody left the skidmarks of sin
on your soul and laid you wide open for Hell. You were loved.
Always. We did what was best. We remember your childhood well.

The Secret Answer.

Nov. 26th, 2015 01:30 pm
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Posted by eden riley

There are ninety-two blog entries I have written and never published. I just counted them all. I wrote this one in August 2012 and called it "The Secret Answer." It was hard to write about my brother back then when he was still alive without "outing" him as struggling so hard with life, his darkness, his suicidal thoughts, his emptiness.

My brother Cambo killed himself in his flat in Newtown on a Tuesday morning in October 2013 - fifteen months after I wrote this blog entry see I can do maths. Last night when I finally got to sleep at 3am after my friend Zoe and me text words and voice messages to each other I dreamt I took a raw piece of corned beef sitting in my car in the hot sun out of its plastic and put it into my my slow-cooker that my mum gave me. I've used that slow cooker many times over the years to cook big family dinners back before I left the family unit and broke out on my own.

I was broke - not financially that's easy to fix. I had finally broken spiritually and that's hard fucken hard as shit man we do everything we can to avoid being broke spiritually but it always catches up to us we cannot outrun our broke or our dark or our fear or pain for very long you gotta stop and catch a breath. If you stop too long it all catches up with you and you face it and own it or you lay down in your flat in Newtown too broke and too tired and you close your eyes because you've run so very hard your whole life until that very moment and now you've decided to outrun your own breath.


The Secret Answer. 12th August, 2012.

I saw my brother last week. I never know how much time will pass before I see him again. When it came time to leave I followed him outside, hugged him, and didn't want to let go. My mind raced with inspirational shit to tell him. How do you give the world to somebody, hand it all on a platter with a nice bow, fix everything? You can't.

I cut all of my advice, my teachings, my truth ... into a few sentences for him.


"You can do any goddamn thing you want, in this world. It's all the unseen things that drag us down. Live your life with an open heart ... tell your brain to shut up. Your brain is not your friend. Pretend for a second that you don't know everything ... and listen to things you can't see. The answer to everything in this life is Spirit. Give more attention to your Spirit - it's the secret answer that not many people know. 

It makes heroin addicts not use heroin anymore. It gives suicidal people other options. The depressed among us ... something to hope for. It's all in your Spirit, man. I swear to God Cam. It's hard - it's why most people don't do it. But fuck me, it's worth it."

He smiled. Wryly goddamn it. He hugged his earnest sister, hard, and walked off. "See ya Eed."

I threatened all of my Angels. "You better bloody well look after him."

They will. They owe me.


In my dream last night I looked at the use-by date of the cut of corned beef I'd bought from Norm's butchery in Wentworth Falls and it said "Use-by Jan '16" because everything has a use-by date especially people. In episode one of Vikings season three Lagertha dared to ask The Ancient One "When will I die?" and I fucking fist pumped for her as only few among us would ask when we're going to die. Would you want to know? Lagertha wanted to know. Fuck yeah I'd want to know my use-by date. It would make life more bearable.

Anyway the point of my dream was the fact that corned beef was one of my brother's all-time favourite meals and when he lived with us years ago I'd purposely cook it to entice him over from his flat above our garage next door because I wanted to see him sitting at the table with my boys and husband eating a meal he loved. All the men I loved sitting at the one table. Cam would always, always help clean up after dinner. Always until I said "I got this, bro. You want dessert?" But he wasn't a dessert guy so he would thank me for dinner and creep out into the night but he wasn't a creep, oh no. He was a beautiful magnificent broken-spirited man until in the end both life and death got to him. In that order.

In my dream I opened the plastic wrap and put the cut of corned beef in my car and looked in my glovebox for a carrot, bay leaves, peppercorns ... all the ingredients I needed to make the meal I have refused to make since my brothers suicide because how dare I cook his favourite meal if he's not there to eat it? My car was overflowing with boxes full of objects from my entire life and I did NOT want to cook corned beef without my brother I mean I was standing on the side of the road out of breath and there was no power for my slow cooker anyway. Should I just sell my car? There's an answer. Most times there's many answers to one problem, right? Right?

Often there are no answers to things we need to know the most and for the rest of my life until my use-by date I'll be wrestling my brothers death like a crocodile because I have so many unanswered questions it doesn't make sense why he lived, why he left, why I'm still here, what I'm supposed to "do" because life is essentially meaningless we all know that and that's the source of all of our pain but those among us look to create meaning in our lives to make it more bearable. A year ago today I was in Uganda for World Vision. A year later I'm sitting in a half-furnished flat with an overflowing car and no meaning. I mean, I'm not mean. I'm just fucking inherently, filthily sad.

See that photo up the top there? That was the very moment Bono caught my eye in the sea of faces in the crowd of a U2 concert back in Sydney in 2006. I'd waited all day since 6am to claim my place at the very front right up touching the stage. Bono was walking around looking at the people and when he came to me he knelt down and held my hand and sang into my eyes for about twenty seconds. The song was "Love and Peace or Else." The exact words he sang as he and I looked at each other were:

We need love and peace 
Love and peace 
Baby don't fight 
We can talk this thing through 
It's not a big problem 
It's just me and you 
You can call or I'll phone 
The TV is still on 
But the sound is turned down 
And the troops on the ground 
Are about to dig in 
And I wonder where is the love? 
Where is the love? 
Where is the love? 
Where is the love? 
Love and peace 

At that point he let go of my hand and a stage guy handed him a white blindfold with the words "COEXIST" written on it and he sat at a crudely bare drum blindly banged on it. Blindfolded, he couldn't see, just feel. (My youngest son is learning African drumming with his dad. He drums on everything, He's a drummer now - you just do something and claim it, own it like Eminem says.)

I didn't sing along with Bono even though I knew the words I just let him serenade me and the look on my face I imagine was one of pure bliss, thanks, love .. for this man who means so much to me. The songs of U2 are the soundtrack to my life and Bono is one of the best poets this world will ever know. For twenty seconds he and I looked at each other and he recognised something in me as I stood there on my tippy-toes wearing red patent pointy shoes. Magic happens when you wear red shoes. One hundred thousand people roared behind me but that moment with Bono was one of the most intimate moments of my life. More intimate than any sex I've ever had. Spiritually intimate.

That moment? Was one of the moments I was trying to explain to my brother if you just stay and persevere and live this life.

These moments of pure joy in the Spirit do not happen often but when they do, Cam ... oh my sweetheart when they do they are worth everything. They are worth living for.


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