Welcome to BOOK READERS HEAVEN! Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
As some of you know, I had been on Facebook for over 20 years... Until I decided to forget trying to get past all the obstacles of getting back into my account. And created--GABixler--a new one. One of the things I have been trying to do is "find" what was already established... I've been trying to friend some of my old friends, but FB won't let me! I was active in Music, and found Ben's group and shared a post to see if it was "acceptable" for his group... So many groups are now closed... Thankfully it was... So, if you enjoy getting playlists that appear in books, but don't want to read and listen at the same time, join Ben's group and just listen to the music! LOL
I don't know how many have been coming from this group, but I appreciate sharing...
And then Ben wrote the above poem/lyrics... I found I wanted to respond and start promoting his songs... The first one I listened to was on SONO with the link above and I loved the words...Do take the time to listen!
Hey Ben, how about telling us more about you on your group and letting people know about your other songs...or you could share that info here as well... Just keep Writing!
“You’re just a sore loser,” the drunken man shouted. “But the judge is going to side with me. Me!” Joe Roswell was somewhere in his fifties, I guessed, balding with a salt-and-pepper mustache and wire-framed glasses. His face was lined from years of working outside in the sun and wind and cold. My grandmother would have said he had nice eyes. The man yelling at him was somewhere either side of thirty. He was a couple of inches shorter than Roswell and probably thirty pounds or so lighter, with sandy blonde hair that hung in his eyes. “Back off,” I heard Roswell say. Even twenty-five feet away I could see the warning in his eyes. Liam and Nick exchanged a look and started for the two men. Joe Roswell had clearly had enough. He rolled his forearm out and snapped it down on the other man’s arm, breaking the man’s grip. Then instead of moving away he took a step closer. “Walk away, Healy,” Roswell said, his voice sharp with warning. “Otherwise I will call the police. This party is invitation only and you don’t have one.” They glared at each other for a long moment, then Mr. Healy said something I didn’t catch and made his way toward the bar. The argument was over. People were already shifting their attention back to whatever they had been doing; in fact, I realized that not everyone had even noticed the brief altercation. Liam was talking to Roswell. Nick just stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, listening. I saw the contractor shake his head.
All three men looked in the direction of the bar and I did the same. As I watched I saw the female bartender shake her head at Mr. Healy. I didn’t think I was wrong about his state of intoxication and the last thing he needed was another drink. She set a cup and saucer on the bar in front of him, picked up a carafe that I assumed held coffee and poured a cup. He made a face at the coffee and said something. The bartender in turn pushed the cup at him. I had the sense from their interaction—the way he leaned in toward her, the way she seemed to snap back at him—that they knew each other. And it was all none of my business...
Rose still seemed to be distracted by what was happening at the bar. The bartender had moved on to serve someone else and Mr. Healy was drinking his coffee and surveying the crowd. She turned to look at us. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just wondering if that poor man is okay.” I glanced around the room. Joe Roswell was standing by the windows now talking to Liam and Jane Evans. I tipped my head in their direction. “I think he’s fine, Rose,” I said. She turned in the direction I’d indicated. “Oh I didn’t mean him,” she said. “If you weren’t referring to Joseph then who did you mean?” Mr. P. asked. “The young man over by the bar, of course.” She frowned as though she didn’t understand why we didn’t know that. “Rose, he’s drunk,” I said. “I can see that,” she replied. “Maybe you should ask yourself why.” Conversations with Rose could very easily get off track. I knew she had a point to make but I had no clue what it was. “I would assume he consumed more alcohol than his body could process,” Mr. P. said. Rose nodded approvingly. “Exactly.” She shifted her attention to me. “Why?” I was officially off in the bulrushes, as Liz would say. “You mean, why did he get drunk?” “Yes. He got drunk, then he came to a party he hadn’t been invited to and made a bit of a scene.”
I glanced over at Mr. Healy again, who was now talking to Robb Gorham. It didn’t look like a very happy conversation. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Joe Roswell was watching them, too. Mr. P. was looking pensive. “Getting so intoxicated suggests the young man was upset about something.” Once again Rose smiled at him as though he were her best student. “You’re wondering what that something is,” I said. “I am,” she said. “I hate to see anyone in such distress.” Her eyes flicked to the back of the room again for a brief moment. “I guess that makes me a nosy old lady.” I slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. “No. It makes you someone with a great big heart...”
Once again my attention was drawn back to the bar. Maybe now I was the one who was being nosy. Healy was still standing there with his coffee. Joe Roswell was walking away shaking his head. Had they had another “conversation” I wondered? Beside me Rose was counting the View-Master reels. Across the room Healy took a sip of his coffee. The hand holding his cup began to shake. He pressed his other hand against his upper chest. He made a guttural sound. The coffee cup fell and shattered and Healy fell to the floor. I pushed past Rose and Mr. P. “Call 911,” I said. I bolted to the man, reaching him at the same time that Nick did. He rolled Healy on his back, felt for a pulse at his neck and bent to listen for breathing.
He shook his head. “Start chest compressions,” he said. “I’ll do the breathing.” I nodded, swallowed against the lump of fear that was lodged in my throat and pushed the man’s sport coat open. I felt Healy’s chest move under my hands. I hoped it would somehow be enough to keep him alive until help arrived. Under my breath I was humming the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive,” something Nick had taught us all to do as a good way to maintain the proper number of compressions per minute.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Healy didn’t move. His color was a pasty gray-green, his eyes almost closed. He had long eyelashes and a scrape on his chin that was probably the result of cutting himself shaving. I didn’t know why my brain had noticed those things. Maybe because I didn’t want to think that he might already be dead. I just continued to work in tandem with Nick as the wail of sirens got closer. I had no idea how long it took the ambulance to arrive. Probably not as long as it seemed to me.
Finally a paramedic in her blue uniform crouched beside me. “I’ve got this,” she said. I moved out of the way and she took over. I got to my feet. It was cold in the room. I wrapped my arms around my midsection for warmth. A suit jacket wrapped around my shoulders and Liam put his arm around me. We watched as Nick and the paramedics got Healy onto a stretcher. His color hadn’t changed. He hadn’t moved. I had the sickening feeling he was dead...
~~~
I often wonder why we have such a fascination of murder, death, killing. There are millions of books and movies that include some type of murder scene. Some simple, as we usually find in a cozy mystery such as this by Sofie Ryan. Others become so bizarre, so sophisticated that some of us want to know the "Why?" of what could have led to a death? For me, the solving of a mystery was always the primary point of interest. The standard "Who, What, When, Where and Why" questions seemed to haunt me until either I have solved the mystery, or I came to the end of the book or television program and learned the "Why?" Then I could ponder how the writer handled the book plot... And whether I was satisfied that the writer was an effective fiction writer... And, of course, I would seek out more of her/his books.
But I have changed over the last 5-6 years. One, after having done nothing but reviews--reading and talking about the books read--for over ten years, I had a major physical breakdown. It was as if my body told me that I had been ignoring it, and most any other thing in life, except reading, writing and blogging... As some of you may know, I had to immediately go into physical therapy and start from scratch; that is, I had to learn how to walk again, stand, bend and more, without collapsing... Two, during that time, I heard that fatal call to the majority of American women when we heard our former president talk about grabbing women by... yeah, you remember, don't you?! Since then I've paid attend to the world around me. I couldn't help but watch when a man with such vulgarity, and lack of respect for women, was indeed running for president... And, three, I have seen the destruction wrought by this man and his political party, especially with the recognition, and the ever-growing loss of life--children's lives--due to lack of willingness on the part of that party to do something about gun control...
So, it was with a tiny bit of awe that I realized, Sofie Ryan, in her presentation of her investigative team, disclosed how she had created all of them involved in justice really felt:
Note: I enjoy listening to different versions of the same song and find in each a certain meaning that was wanted to be portrayed by the respective singer(s)...You may choose to listen to only the first which is the poem spoken rather than sung...
'No Man is an Island'
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. --John Donne
Rose reached across the seat and laid her hand on top of mine. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Both you and Nicolas did your best, but Mr. Healy was dead when he hit the floor. There wasn’t anything either of you could have done to save him.” I’d already come to the same conclusion, but I hated to admit that Nick and I hadn’t been able to save the man. It made me feel profoundly sad and I hadn’t even known him. I suddenly thought of John Donne’s poem, “No Man Is an Island.”
I couldn’t remember if it was Charlotte or my grandmother who had quoted it to me. “‘Any man’s death diminishes me,’
“‘Because I am involved in mankind,’” I said, softly. “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee,’” Mr. P. finished.
I started the SUV and pulled out of the lot. “I wonder why anyone would have wanted to kill that young man,” Rose said. I shot her a quick look. “Hang on a minute,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that Mr. Healy is dead—and even if he is, why would you think someone killed him?”
“He was poisoned.” “Rosie, why do you think that?” Mr. P. asked from the backseat. Rose turned to look over her shoulder at him. “He had a seizure right before he died. His body was twitching, shaking. He made some kind of strangled sound and he collapsed.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her look at me again. “You did see that, didn’t you Sarah?” I nodded and swallowed against the sudden tightness in my chest. “I did, but that doesn’t mean the man was poisoned.” “It doesn’t mean he wasn’t,” she replied. I glanced over at her again. Her hands were folded in her lap and she didn’t seem the slightest bit upset because I didn’t agree with her. This was not a good sign.
“Okay, let’s assume Mr. Healy had a seizure,” I said. “Other things can cause a seizure—a fever, a head injury. He may have epilepsy or be diabetic. He had been drinking. Too much alcohol can cause seizures.” “That’s true. All of those things could have caused that young man to have collapsed the way he did,” Rose said. “But I was watching him. He was fine. He drank some of his coffee and then he wasn’t fine. He was poisoned, Sarah.” “Can we at least wait until we’re sure the man is dead before we decide he was murdered?” I asked. “Of course we can, dear,” she said. She was being very reasonable. That was also not a good sign...
~~~
Of course, we can assume that the man was murdered--it is a murder mystery. And, as soon as somebody dies, there are people who will seek out to learn more and work to help those affected by that death. In this case, it is a small group which includes senior citizens, who I have come to love... Four of the team are seniors who have had an active life, but have continued to work and strive to bring help to others. So it is that, the poem, "No Man is an Island" indeed reflects the entire series. I don't think I have ever seen a series written so that its characters are so involved, loving, and hard-working on behalf of others, as is the Second Chance Cat Mystery Series.
Perhaps that is why when I got to this quoted poem in book 7 (Yes, I've been reading just this series), I was so, once again, struck by the changes I have seen in America during this decade. I can still remember the very first video I saw where the police overcame one man who kept crying, "I can't breathe..."
Note this man was not a murderer! He had not kidnapped or raped or did violence against another. All he did was open a pack of cigarettes he had bought and sold the individual cigarettes to make a little extra money. NOBODY can tell me this was justice... Nor that the police had to act as violently as they did, for such a little reason...
After that, I have grown more angry as I saw what was happening in America, often incited by our president and other politicians. Hate against non-whites soon became to be standard for those republicans in office and apparently for many who were supporting them in their running for office "to help America..."
I have become disgusted not only for the lying, but for the attempts to claim that actions by republicans are based on christianity. I refuse to even capitalize that word now... It is only those who claim Jesus as their Savior...and fight against violence, that I am even willing to have some semblance of respect, even if they don't support my personal opinions and beliefs. Nobody can tell me that what is happening with christian leaders is of God. It is not! Why?
Luke CHAPTER 18
...15 And they brought unto him also infants, that he would touch them: but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them.
16 But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little achildren to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.
17 Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.
~~~
Refusing to outlaw assault guns (military) by the republican party, as just one issue, is far more important than any other. Jesus wanted the children to come unto Him...He wanted to spend time and love them... He died for our children; why are our children being murdered?!
...as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
If you want to see how God's children lives and works,
and live, involved in mankind,
I am finding this series a treasure trove of God's humanity
towards humanity via the characters... even though
no religious issues are discussed.
Impressions of a Murder
Just One Murder--of any man's death
It diminishes me for I am involved in mankind
How can fiction strike us as truth
while reality fails so badly?
I was trying to think of a song to end this post, maybe A Child of a King, or something similar...and then this popped up! A God Incident? For surely, listening to these two young people, sharing their beautiful talents, we are reminded of all the murdered children in schools that will never be able to develop what special talents God has given to them...all because of a political party that refuses to see that tragedy will continue without congressional action to ban assault guns and add strict control management to buying and owning guns...It's just like owning vehicles. They can do harm, as well...but not like guns... Think about your own children, your neighborhood children, and the children across America who have been gunned down...in their schools! Folks, it is not a time to care about your traditional political party. It is a time to VOTE OUT those who do harm to children...simply by refusing to help... Are YOU involved with mankind, knowing that you can never live alone on an island? Consider impressions of the real murders happening in America... Or, in other words, I cannot NOT speak out when I see the power-hungry lying acts of those politicians now in Washington. Study, do your research, watch a variety of news channels not just your favorite, watch vids on UTube to see what is happening daily... and Vote for Truth! Vote out Liars!
111 years ago, Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky (Арсе́ний Алекса́ндрович Тарко́вский) was born in the city of Yelisavetgrad (present day: Kropyvnytskyi, Ukraine) - he was the son of Aleksander Tarkowski, a Polish nobleman settled in Russia and a Russian dancer Maria Danilovna Rachkovskaya. His son was Andrei Tarkovsky - the famed Russian Film director of the Soviet Era who directed Andrei Rublev (1966) and Solaris (1972).
Arseny Tarkovsky was a Poet, by many accounts one of the greatest poets of the Russian language in the 20th century. His beloved son died before he did. His son used many of his father's poems in his films, in many places in the film Mirror (1975) and Nostalghia (1983) the whole narrative is written by Arseny.
In reading Andrei Tarkovsky's letters and scripts as well as his interviews, one gets the sense that his father was an enormous influence on him. He shaped his mind and soul into the spiritual force of unrepentant sentimentalism that his art would become. Rejecting that dry Western detachment and objectivity that have become the hallmark of modernity, his soul bled, and his heart beat like a war drum, and he passed on that blood and war into his son's heart and soul. In watching Andrei Tarkovsky's films, in reading his scripts, one finds oneself walking along an empty Russian path with Arseny Tarkovsky - and with the ghosts of all the Russias acrosss all the ages.
He died on May 27, 1989 - 29 months (about 2 and half years) after his son died (1932-1986) in self -imposed exile from the Soviet State they both detested with a passion only a poet and a film director can breathe. I fell in love with Andrei Tarkovsky's films in great part because I fell in love with Arseny Tarkovsky's poetry. He invaded my dreams, he entered into my soul.
And this I dreamt, and this I dream
And this I dreamt, and this I dream,
And some time this I will dream again,
And all will be repeated, all be re-embodied,
You will dream everything I have seen in dream.
To one side from ourselves, to one side from the world
Wave follows wave to break on the shore,
On each wave is a star, a person, a bird,
Dreams, reality, death - on wave after wave.
No need for a date: I was, I am, and I will be,
Life is a wonder of wonders, and to wonder
I dedicate myself, on my knees, like an orphan,
Alone - among mirrors - fenced in by reflections:
Cities and seas, iridescent, intensified.
A mother in tears takes a child on her lap.
***
I waited for you yesterday since morning
I waited for you yesterday since morning,
They guessed you wouldn't come,
Do you remember the weather? Like a holiday!
I went out without a coat.
Today came, and they fixed for us
A somehow specially dismal day,
It was very late, and it was raining,
The drops cascading down the chilly branches.
No word of comfort, tears undried…
***
Life, Life
I
I don't believe in omens or fear
Forebodings. I flee from neither slander
Nor from poison. Death does not exist.
Everyone's immortal. Everything is too.
No point in fearing death at seventeen,
Or seventy.
There's only here and now, and light;
Neither death, nor darkness, exists.
We're all already on the seashore;
I'm one of those who'll be hauling in the nets
When a shoal of immortality swims by.
II
If you live in a house - the house will not fall.
I'll summon any of the centuries,
Then enter one and build a house in it.
That's why your children and your wives
Sit with me at one table, -
The same for ancestor and grandson:
The future is being accomplished now,
If I raise my hand a little,
All five beams of light will stay with you.
Each day I used my collar bones
For shoring up the past, as though with timber,
I measured time with geodetic chains
And marched across it, as though it were the Urals.
III I tailored the age to fit me.
We walked to the south, raising dust above the steppe;
The tall weeds fumed; the grasshopper danced,
Touching its antenna to the horse-shoes - and it prophesied,
Threatening me with destruction, like a monk.
I strapped my fate to the saddle;
And even now, in these coming times,
I stand up in the stirrups like a child.
I'm satisfied with deathlessness,
For my blood to flow from age to age.
Yet for a corner whose warmth I could rely on
I'd willingly have given all my life,
Whenever her flying needle
Tugged me, like a thread, around the globe.
***
Arseny was 81 years old at the time of his death. During the Second World War he suffered a wound to his leg, the resulting infection and cure left him an amputee. The Soviets in the last days of their miserable existence awarded him a posthumous award, in much the same manner that they attempted to rehabilitate his son and claim him as one of their own. On his death bed, Andrei said "I was never Soviet, I was always Russian." The same can be said for Arseny - who was born in Russian Ukraine, and died in the Soviet Union, but like his son, he was never Soviet - he was Russian, a quintessentially Russian poet, borne of a Polish father and a Russian mother, in Ukraine - truly a great representative of the Slavic tribe. - KT
"Death does not exist" - Arseny Tarkovsky (1907-1989)
Katrina formed on August 23 during the 2005 Atlantic hurricane season and caused devastation along much of the north-central Gulf Coast. The figures at the bottom of the painting, struggling to survive this deluge, are caught up in a swirl of emotions: grief, disbelief, helplessness. One figure has ascended into the arms of Katrina and is being swept away. Is this a moment of salvation or, perhaps, of death? When this painting is hung up on the wall, you are directly facing those hands, wrinkled by a prolonged wading through the muddy water. TITLE:Katrina
Uvi (Ahuva) Poznansky is an Israeli-born, California-based artist, writer and
poet. Her versatile body of work includes bronze and ceramic sculptures, (such as Mother and Child, shown) oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media. She has a profound knowledge of the human form, and an equally profound compassion for the human story. Her interpretation is unique, personal and charged with emotion. She published a poetry book in Hebrew, Beyond the Window," and two children books, "Now I am Paper," and "Jess and Wiggle."
She wanted to write about her life, and tried to remember who she was, to whom she was writing, and for what purpose; but if she were to put down even one letter—even one mark—all her love, all her loneliness, and all that bitter disappointment that this was all life had to offer in the end, would come rushing out, and nothing in the world could hold her together any more.
In darkness take a leap For trust is blind Imagine me: I'll lift you, Caress you and possess you Imagine us: In passion and in sweep Our limbs entwined
Uvi earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel. During her studies and in the years immediately following her graduation, she practiced with an innovative Architectural firm, taking a major part in the large-scale project, ‘Home for the Soldier’; a controversial design that sparked fierce public debate.
At the age of 25 Uvi moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children. Before long, she received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where she guided teams in a variety of design projects; and where she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan. During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she painted constantly, and exhibited in Israel and California. In addition, she taught art appreciation classes. Above all, Uvi devotes herself passionately to her artwork, creating evocative and compelling images that touch the heart and engage the mind.
