"Nemesis Tori" by Gregory Francis (part 3 of 3)

 

- - - Part III - - -

CHERIBUM VOID

TIMON DATE (TD) = TD-41999.358.0713

(Christian Date = 1999 AD, 7 days till years end, 7:13 a.m.)

3:1

                   "Fears from afar

              Killing many Holy ones -

              Spears made of stars

              A Testament in quantum sums -"

                            The Day of our Lord 9:19, v,5

                            AHKANON

  (Seventh Decription, WC-ARC-DIV.)

Content in the knowledge that theirs was superior, a secret sect, affiliated with a branch under control of the advocates of the New Order, initiated the final sequence of commands that would loose upon the world a wave of stars, setting them down upon the cities of their adversaries, reducing them in the cleansing nuclear fires. To them, no choices were left. One course only remained. With their masses starving, their allies turning away from them, the Common Market closing them off from the economic flows of the world, their lifeblood was swiftly draining away. What was there to loose? What could justify continuing such an existence? 

"Nemesis Tori" by Gregory Francis (part 2 of 3)

NEMESIS TORI (part 2 - find part one HERE)

- - - Part II - - -

NEPHILIM CRUX

TIMON DATE (TD) = TD-28999.280.2220

(Christian Date = 11,001 BC, 80 days till year's end, 10:20 p.m.)

2:1

Deep in the Sides of the North are hidden the Machines,

Disciples of the New Religion -

Start to see meaning in the seams -

That sew hot fabrics close together -

Forming patterns on their elemental reams.

                            Denominations 9:18

                            AHKANON

  (Mountain Archives, Edonos)

                                             

"Man should not play God!" Jahamon Gabrali pressed through clenched teeth. He was a devout student of The Path. How could the simple readouts on a computer screen challenge his faith thus? 

For many centuries, The Path had been accepted as the only true belief. It was the very Word of God! None could challenge its simple laws leading to a cleaner, healthier, happier life. And unlike most of the secondary religions, its references to bygone times were backed up with hard archaeological evidence. From the emergence of Man through the destruction of paradise by the flood, to the eventual reclamation of the land by wandering men.

"Nemesis Tori" by Gregory Francis (intro & part one of 3)

 NEMESIS TORI

by

Gregory Francis

Lose Weight in 4 Easy Steps

I first read this a few years ago when it went viral. It is among the best fitness pieces I've ever read. Right up there with Henry Rollins' piece "The Iron".

Check it out:

I’ve spent the past year losing 80 lbs and getting in shape. A lot of people have been asking me how I did it; specifics like what diet I was on, how many times a week I worked out, etc etc. So I thought I’d just answer everyone’s questions by giving you guys step by step instructions on how you can achieve everything I have… IN JUST 4 EASY STEPS! Ready? Here we go!!!

1.) NO BEER
This is a big one, and one that you’ve probably heard before. Every time you drink a beer, it’s like eating seven slices of bread. That’s a lot of bread!

2.) PORTION CONTROL
This is especially true when you go out to eat at restaurants. A good trick to do is when your meal comes, cut it in half and right away ask for a takeout container, so that you can save the rest for later — and even better, if you start your meal out right by ordering lean meats and veggies, you’ll slim down in no time!

3.) HAVE YOUR HEART BROKEN
And not just broken; shattered. Into itsy bitsy tiny little pieces, by a girl who never loved you and never will. Join the gym at your work. Start going to the gym regularly, and even though you don’t know that much about exercise and you’re way too weak to do pretty much anything but lift 5 lb weights and use the elliptical machines with the old people, do it until your sweat makes a puddle on the floor. Then go home and go to bed early and the next day do it again. And then again. And then again.

2 Years....

A Tribute to Prince

Lindsay Caudill

I can’t believe it’s been two years.

It’s all still so vivid. We were sitting in the McDonald’s drive-thru, about to head back from our walk at lunch, and I opened up my Facebook app while we waited. I tapped my notifications. The top one was from one of my sweet, sweet friends. I opened it, assuming it was a birthday greeting. Instead, it was a tag to a TMZ article that a dead body was found at Prince’s Paisley Park estate and was rumored to be Prince.

I started messaging everyone, seeing if they’d heard anything. I texted my parents, asking them to turn on the news. My mother tried to reassure me. “It’s probably not Prince but someone he has working there,” she said. “Don’t get upset, Linz.”

Only a week before, Prince’s plane had to be emergency landed and it was revealed he had to be given Narcan, although at the time it was reported as the flu. We all took to Facebook then to talk about it, worrying about what had happened on the plane and his failing health. He had been frail in recent years. Had he been terminally ill and we hadn’t known? He was a painfully private person.

By the time I got back to the office, I’d read and seen enough on Facebook via various news sources to know that what I feared to be true, in fact, was. I sat down at my desk, stared blankly at my computer, grabbed my bag, and left. On my way out, I told our then-commander the news and he teared up because he, like I, had grown up on Prince’s music. I turned the radio on in the car and the Sirius’s “80’s on 8" station was already playing a tribute.

Prince was dead.

On my birthday.

He was just 57 years old.

Poetry Series - Wild Sweet Bird

~Wild Sweet Bird~

Liz Fink-Davenport

I am glad I hit the ground.

I am glad I falter.

I’m glad my flight is flawed.

And I am glad that you see it.

My sweet bird, who watches at the cusp of the nest as the wind pulls the edges of your round hearth and home, small dry straw and bright pieces of yarn I gathered with diligence, are now on the breeze. You are stretching your neck to see me try to navigate the strong press and lift of the air. You shiver against the brisk upturn of downy feathers. And two bright eyes take in my every move. You are learning to fly and fall through my wings. Coast the up current and turn and dip through the sea of wind waves.

I will lose my way, wild sweet bird. I will turn right when left was the answer. I will search for a warm lift and find a cold press and try to bolster through. And I will sometimes fall completely to the earth and lay stunned for a moment. And you will watch. I am glad. Because I would take a thousand hurricanes of terrifying dark and cold solo flights for you. I will show you that the fall can stun but not stop. And I’ll look up with eyes full of relentless strength to feed your eyes.

My child. My bird. You are watching from the nest. But soon you will test timid wings. I’m here. You can rest in my fall. You can take comfort in my harm. I’ll take on the brutal wind and storms for you. But know this, I am glad. Glad that you see my stumble. Glad that you watch me struggle. I’m imperfect, sweet bird. But my love is enough to shelter us both. To give you strength to learn from my failures. And to bolster your flight from the nest that is falling apart.

You are strong.

You can fly.

I’m here to see it.

Poetry Series: Joey and Jesus

~

Joey and Jesus

Liz Fink-Davenport

What small smile starts in your heart when you hear your child’s name?
I’m sitting cross legged and running my fingers through hair that is as familiar as mine. DNA being redistributed through a small electric current that is solely yours and theirs. The smell of this smaller being is a hard earned fist clinched. That moment you held a blanket that was breathing and you took in the scent of them and you fell madly in love. How can a tiny angry boiled looking pink wiggling thing elicit love? Because this is a piece of your heart walking around on this earth outside of your chest. Independent footprints in mud. Dirty fingernails on chubby fingers. Drool on your shoulder that smells like milk and you both adore it and cry over it. And you will always smell like Goldfish crackers and spit. But this is what you should know, it changes. The clock in the hall moves faster than you. It speeds up and the nap turns into the walk to school turns into the sleepovers turns into the cat’s cradle turns into the can I drive turns into the mom I’m in love turns into the hold your grandbaby turns into I will care for you mom turns into don’t go yet turns into my baby is holding me.

Sweet little one who wants braids tonight, I’ll braid. I’ll hum. I’ll say the goodnight prayer. The one that asks Jesus to take your soul if you don’t wake. But I won’t mean it. I’ll ask Jesus to take me long before you, my growing up angel. Because I have one purpose on this Earth and it’s to be here until you are strong enough not to need me. And tonight you need braids. So this night is not it. The small smile starts at the corners of my mouth and rolls up and around your name.

Poetry Series: a Winter Morning Haiku

~A Winter Morning Haiku~ 

Liz Fink-Davenport


Come back to bed
The world is frosted for us
Hibernate with me.

Poetry Series:Flags

~Flags~

Liz Fink-Davenport

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. Turned inside out. It’s all the love you want to give but there is no receiver. Sorrow is a battle flag. You can wave to say that you paid it all. You were in the trenches. You risked. Proudly holding high the tattered piece of your pride. You loved.

We all ache. Losing love is like a window to the soul. And my sweet, you have every right to live deep in this hurt for a time. And then, come out. This was a lesson. And so if you must, crawl through the lesson and then into the light. To find love without the grief. Without the bite. To leave it turned right side out. Wait and then find the one that will gather you up in their arms and give you your last first kiss. And wave a new flag. Hope.

Poetry Series: To All Our Heartbreaks This Year

~To All Our Hearbreaks This Year~

Liz Fink Davenport

 (Last poem of the year)

Screw you. 

The poem could end here, Love. It could. We could tell all our clawed up heartaches to bugger off and never talk to them again. But there is a problem. They are all right there in your hands. So I suggest something different. Here is how we mend and learn and open our clenched fists for the first time since clenching them and hiding away the little demons. Take a deep breath. Unclench for me. Just a bit. You have got this. We are going to let out some things from that fist. 

Roll call: 

Heartache from love unrequited. Heartbreak from a mother’s loss. Heartdeath from “you are wonderful, just not what I want”. Heartdrowning from finding the last talk was the last and they are gone. Heartwrenching from all that you want is just at your fingertips and then the rug is ripped out. Heartsmodering from unforgiveness. Heartsmashing from hearing “I hate you, dad.” through a slammed door. Heartbleeding from trying. God, trying so hard and yet it’s always one more thing. Hearthardening from love placed in the wrong hands. Again. Heartmurder from self sabotage. Heartinceneration from who you never ever ever thought would ever betray you. 

All accounted for. Can you feel them all wriggling in your fist? Angry. Biting. Sulking. Wailing at the wind. They are pissed and you have kept them in your sweaty palm for 365 suns. Now, open up and look at them and thank them. Yes. I said thank them. Thank them for lessons learned, life lived, promises kept, tears that reminded you why we are alive, new chapters, and for sweet baby Jesus’ sake...for the very fact you were here on this earth to have them. Look at them and say thank you as they each fly off like small sparks from a campfire in the cold black night. They will fly. They don’t want to be in your fist anymore. 

Maybe you whisper, screw you to one or two as they take wing. But, my sweet and beautiful dirty human, you have lived this year. You have seen the best of others and the ugliest. You have breathed in and out and moved forward and that is commendable. So, as you close your eyes for the last time in this year and open again in the new...unclench your fists. Be gratitude and light. And say thank you. The little shits sure did make this year interesting. 

Now fly away. We have a new year of love to put in these now freed hands.

Attraction: Lindsay Caudill

(ed note: this article was originally written 9/11/16)

Attraction

Lindsay Caudill

I said Friday that I was going to elaborate on partly why I had dubbed it “Simply Red Day” for me. It was not at all because I had become a redhead on that day two years earlier, but it was fun to find that out courtesy of Timehop. Of course it’s late but here goes.

--Bear in mind this is not really related to Simply Red, per se, although the bulk of it will use Mick Hucknall as a reference point. It’s more of what discussion(s) his music has prompted over the years but in the last few days in particular.--

If you know me or even if you just see my timeline you know that I breathe music and, as a result, have a handful of singers that I love above all others. Mick Hucknall is one of them (also something you learn quickly if you interact with me). I have been openly gushing about his voice, his lyrics, and his performances for many years. But I’ve also been equally open about how attractive I think he is. I save the borderline (and completely) inappropriate stuff for conversations not happening on my timeline but, without fitting some stereotypical “guy” manner of speaking, I think that he is absolutely delicious. Sexy, handsome, gorgeous, beautiful, nearly perfect. And I know that that makes many of you likely want to know what the hell is wrong with me.

This discussion has been had many times in my life since my Simply Red “fandom” dates back to when I was about seven years old. No one ever questions my fawning over Michael Hutchence, Prince, Don Johnson, Lenny Kravitz. With Mick, the eyebrows go up.

Poetry Series: ME TOO

~#Metoo~

Liz Fink-Davenport

This poem is going to hurt. It's going to feel like you just had it happen. Like...just now. Not days ago, weeks, yellowed years. Dusty decades. Not under quilts of lies you tell yourself. And others. Under secrets and in the shed. Burrowed into layers of dark earth. Sleeping. But it just. Happened.

So brace yourself. Grip the counter. Hold tight to the floor with your toes. Clench your teeth. It's going to hit hard like the back of a hand.

"I Just Kinda Died for You..."

“I just kinda died for you, you just kinda stared at me.”

Lindsay Caudill

Lindsay Caudill

We discussed that line - my favorite line from the Foo Fighters’ “Aurora"- as well as the interpretation of lyrics in general and a thousand other topics over our first dinner. We’d met at a Foo Fighters show in April 2000 when they opened for the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

He was handsome, with brown hair, thin glasses, and a beautiful smile. He had, as it turned out, grown up mere minutes from me in our small hometown where he still resided and we knew many of the same people, yet somehow we’d never managed to meet. He loved Queen and could talk about most music for hours on end without missing a beat. Obviously I could do the same, so instantly we connected.

For nearly a decade to follow, we shared our worlds.

Poetry Series: Not a Love Poem

~Not A Love Poem~

Liz Fink-Davenport

This poem is going to make you think.
And when you think, I want you to stop and reassess your world. Because, my love, this is not a poem for the meak.

Here is my assessment of this universe in my 42 years being a presence. Hurt. Pain. Joy. Ecstasy. Strength. Solidarity. Freaking fear so much like a steak raw that it will make you stop and clench your teeth and not breath.

But this is a thinking poem. So I'll not give you flowery words. I'll not light a fireplace warm for your heart. I'm going to give you cold. Hard. Truth.

You need to change. Change what you whine about. Change your wardrobe. Change your location. You need change your job, grocery store, screw buddy. Something else. Something new and brilliant and bright.

I once read an article called "Not This". And I think all lives should be fashioned on a "not this" principle. I know what I don't want. Not this. You know what you don't want. Not this.

Take the Not This and move. Forward. My sweet friend, you are in limbo. It's time that fate smashed your fingers in the door enough that you let go. Let. Go.

This is a poem to make you think. I wish I had words about hillsides and romance. But I have words of movement. And of fingers smashed.

Poetry Series: SLOW

"Slow"

Liz Fink-Davenport

Sometimes, I can't keep up. With the world and how quickly it turns on its axis and how soon red lights become green. Social media tweets when I am romance novels in the hidden corner of forgotten bookstores. I am slow. So slow. And a delicate palette is needed for what I bring. 

I'm a southern song strummed out on an untuned guitar sitting on your lap on a rain wet porch. 

I am going back to bed on Saturday just to wallow in the sun warmed sheets. 

I am waffles on Sunday when there isn't time to make them and the extra cup of coffee on Monday. Because there is less time. 

I am the breath sucked in between your teeth when you are in awe. 

I am patience when patience is used up. 

I am a roll of thunder so far off and smell of lightening anticipation. 

I halt the clock on the wall just to put time in its place. 

I am the sigh that comes after the first kiss. 

I can't keep up with with this world. And it's spin and the feverish pace that love is set to. Slow down. Take time in your hands. And feel the sand drip between your fingers. Don't you want love that works more like a pocket watch barely wound? Don't you want to lengthen the moments between the words, 

I 

and 

Love 

and 

You?

Poetry Series: A BIRTHDAY POEM

~A Birthday Poem~

Liz Fink Davenport

God has a great sense of humor. He seldom gives you what you asked for and generously gives you what you begged not for. My darling, there are years that will ask you why you rowed so far ahead. And years that cry over your turned cold shoulder. And years that you will always try to say "I did my best". But your best failed. Life is funny like that. You fail. Life bites.

But here's what I know, when you hear the rush of love or waterfalls. Paddle towards them. With all your might. Love and waterfalls are always worth it. You will tumble. And you will come up with water in your ears and your nose and your mouth. Sputtering. But you will also learn the rush and the wake. You will feel more alive.

I once heard said that instead of counting towards our days we should count away. I have less than 40 summers coming to me. If I am blessed. I have spent 40 summers frivolously. May I revel in these next 40 like they are softly turned earth.

I'm gonna row. Hard. Toward the spray of the fall. Toward stupid doomed love. Towards destiny. Towards my word. Serendipity. Toward 40 warm and leafy summers.

I row. God and His sense of humor gives me the giggles. And I row. The spray of the water is on my lips.

Poetry Series: My Love Poem And Yours

~My Love Poem And Yours~

Liz Fink Davenport

This is not a love poem,

for a man.

This is a love poem...for me.
And you, sweet girl. Bird. Wild bird. Beautiful broken open heart.

I once spent my waterfall of words on loves that took it and drank it and then turned the shot glass upside down and left the bar. A promise at a taxi. No call. Not in 3 days. Not at all. My milk drunk from the gallon in front of the fridge and put back empty. Fingerprints smudged on my mirrors. Smell of stale cologne in my car. My sheets left untucked. Toothpaste stains in the sink. Key left with the crumbs on the counter. Cigarettes pressed in the ashtray. Ghosts. Shadows.

This is a love poem to my own damn heart. To MY hands. Strong. That have felt slip other fingers through. But still grip. My ribs that opened. And closed. To release and take back in. Over and over. My arms that ached with weight. But still held strong. My mind that searched the whole of desert and dark city and wide wide blue world for him. Still searching. My lips that held tight the last imprint of his. So tight they formed a drawn line. And in that line they stopped breath. They just refused to open again. To not lose that kiss. Breath again!

This is yours. This is your poem too. My darling girl. You are phenomenal. I love you with all the amount of air in this room. And the whole of the earth. I love you with my most treasured gift placed in your keeping. Maybe my grandmother's quilt or a rock I collected when I was 7 that looks like an arrow. I love you in the deep and in the shallows. I love you to the reaches of the sunrise that touch your brow and the closing of the sunset across your lap. I love you with choices. All the choices. Everyday, I choose you. I love you because your laugh is a bicycle bell. I love you because you vibrantly and constantly bewitch me. I love you in your best moments and I love you most at your worst. I love that you fail. Sometimes horribly. And falter. Because that makes you loveABLE. ReachABLE. They are not worthy otherwise. I love your feathery eyelashes that remind me of each tiny thing that brushes your cheek, is blessed to be able to be there. The stars in the black are jealous of those lashes. God, that you had any idea how magnificent you are!

And me. Listen here, me. You are loved too. By me. I'm going to tell me a secret...so I better listen close...I loved me from the moment I was me. You are all I could hope for. You are magic. You are my girl. I think you have done a fan-damn-tastic job of being me. You keep picking yourself up and kissing your own bruised knees and heart and you keep loving. Even when I tell you to stop. You do it again. Boldly. You make me so proud. You are the one I choose. I choose my own heart.

So this isn't a love poem for a man. This is a love poem for me. And you. These are the words I will read and reread to myself in the middle of the night. And sometimes, in the middle of the day. Tuck them in your coat pocket. Bring them out crumpled. Tell yourself you are adored. Treasured.

Because

everyone deserves a love poem.
And this is mine.
And yours.
And the shadows can write their own.

Gilgamesh Tablet Found

This story is actually from 2015, but it bears spreading the news....

Published on September 24, 2015
The Newly Discovered Tablet V of the Epic of Gilgamesh
written by Osama S. M. Amin

I was taking photos in the main hall of the Sulaymaniyah Museum and came across a display case containing a small clay tablet. The description beside it said the tablet was part of the Epic of Gilgamesh and a fragment of tablet V. Immediately I thought it was a ‘replica’ as the description was superficial. It did not say the tablet was genuine, that it was newly discovered or even told about the many new pieces of information it had revealed.

After the US-led invasion of Iraq and the dramatic looting of Iraqi and other museums, the Sulaymaniyah Museum (directed by the council of ministers of Iraqi Kurdistan) started an initiative. They paid smugglers to ‘intercept’ archeological artifacts on their journey to other countries. No questions were asked about who was selling the piece or where it came from. The Sulaymaniyah Museum believed this condition kept smugglers from selling their merchandise to other buyers, as they would have otherwise done so "with ease and without any legal consequences.".....

Read the entire story HERE.

Poetry Series: RISE SISTER

~Rise Sister~

Liz Fink-Davenport

Rise up, sister. Rise up.

Because the mountain's jagged starts are the rocky soles of your shoes. Because the pump and pulse of the oil beneath the ground is your dark drum beat. Because your sleep is that of the fog tangled web in deep forests. Your sigh breathes Spring's warmth resuscitating the cold crusted earth. Steam rising. Lazarus the world. Your hands orchestrate the waltz of leaves on the wind and the stars in their falling from the heavens. Because when you rise, you rise the nations! The very depth and breadth of the planet feels your intake of breath, your setting shoulders square, your jaw clench and lift, your eyes flash white lightening electric determination. Your movement. Your forward steps.

So rise up. Move the world with you. Move the people with you. You hear the rush of the waterfall ahead? Row. Row to it. Like your very life depended on it. Be not afraid because you are made of that very wonder! Row to the sound of the roar and roar with it! Rise up and do that which you were made to do. 

Rise up.

 

editor's note - the original public post contained this preface:

"My play on Still I Rise (the gorgeous Maya Angelou poem that I adore) for Rachel Crabtree. Her birthday poem! Because she is going to do big things. I can just feel it."

Review: "FOREVER WORDS" by Johnny Cash

"...The lights are on past midnite
The curtains closed all day
There's trouble on the moubntain
The valley people say..."

A beautiful little book just came out earlier this year. Edited by none other than Pulitzer Prize winning poet Paul Muldoon (with introduction by Johnny's son, Grammy winning record producer John Carter Cash), it is, simply, a book of poems.

Poems written by the Man in Black: music legend Johnny Cash.