I Don't Care!

 And this is what I have to SAY

The World According to israelis and...

...the INSPIRING Palestinians

She's dead. israelis bombed her house, killing both of her parents. 

She lost her leg.

Then israelis bombed the hospital she was convalescing AND KILLED HER.

israelis killed this one too. There was no Hamas yet, so the Romans were blamed. 

israelis have been killing people even before there was an israel.

Dante

(click on photo )

Dante Alighieri

Divine Comedy  | click on picture |

The Human Existence in SEVEN BOOKS...

 I began reading these books again in the order bellow,  I think it depicts the emotional arc of our very short existence..

1

| The Very First Bible |

2

| Ernest Beckers's THE DENIAL OF DEATH |

3

| Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO | ****

4

| Echhart Tolle's  A NEW EARTH |

5

| Miguel de  Cervantes' DON QUIXOTE |

6

| Dante Alighieri's DIVINE COMEDY |

7

| Antoine de Saint-Exupéry" THE LITTLE PRINCE |

A Bench

She offered a view:

of a lake, of a sun

centerfold

framed by a tree and foliage,

green with life.

At the forefront, a bench,

which she described

as just a bench.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to save the day,

the moment that got away.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to greet the day

that in each of us awaits.

As if to bless those less blessed,

she offered a frame, a flair, a tree

sunshine, 

dispersing rays of light over me. 

"Just a bench," she said

by the lake with fishes inside

beautiful as a girl carrying a life.

A bench, a beat, another day

in the city of jazz,

or anywhere else you might be at,

a bench is never just a bench,

a bench is a memory of those who sat:

to unseize the day, to contemplate,

to pray, to give thanks, to rest

to hold hands; to mourn the ones who passed.

|  in the memory of Renee |

                                                    

Fading

 

     Something about a cover of a book: torn, faded, beaten by time; a fate we share.

Before we open, before we witness the lives inside, we know these people have suffered the same condition as us: life, living. A stick floating on a river, determined to make it to its destiny; determined to set the course of its own fate; but fate is where we are, and forever changing.

     The writer inside this one had his own illusions, each movement allusions to a place he knew to be his destiny; while ignoring the houses floating along side the shore. Inside, lived stagnation, or so he thought, as he floated aimless towards a better place; taken by the current. Somewhere. The faith and the unfaithful, bearing witness.

     These are the sort of books we take down from the shelves, and skip through it, reading passages here and there. Because we are busy too, determined we are to reach a destination of our own making, our own Shangri-la. 

     To craft a life, worth of being admired by the mundane persons living inside the modest houses along the shore.

     These are the sort of books the people on the shore take down from the shelves, and sit on a rocking chair, a blank for comfort and warmth; besides them, coffee, and Maria cookies on a plate. 

Content, for the time being, to be where they are.

                                          

Life Lessons From 100-Year-Olds