The Hypocrisy of Kim Davis

To be quite honest, writing about someone like Kim Davis is one of those times where you will speak with disgust or admiration. You either love her or hate her.

You will notice, first of all, that I did not post a picture of the woman on my blog.

Maybe she is not the ugliest woman on the face of this earth, but to be quite honest, I hate looking at her. I hate seeing her name in the news. And I sneer at both sides that promote her agenda, either from celebrating her stand against gay marriage, to diatribes against her that just fire up both sides of the fence.

We can't just blame the "conservative" media for her polarization.

When you skim through headlines on Liberal media sites, every other title has that woman's name in it.

We all know her name. Some of us are just over it quicker than a good spit in the wind.

To give the woman some relatively decent feedback: I admire the fact that she is now refusing to issue any marriage licenses with her name on them.

I guess if you are going to take a stand, then it may as well be an all-for-none kind of stand.

But I would like to break it down a bit: As the county clerk, it is that woman's job to issue marriage licenses.

If you have ever talked with a judge and asked him/her if he/she has ever had to let someone off that they KNOW as guilty, they will answer affirmative. Because it is their job (no the OBLIGATION) of a judge to follow the laws of the land.

In Romans 13: 1-3 we are implicitly told that we MUST obey the laws of our government: "All of you must obey the government rulers. Everyone who rules was given the power to rule by God. And all those who rule now were given that power by God. ² So anyone who is against the government is really against something God has commanded. Those who are against the government bring punishment on themselves. ³ People who do right don’t have to fear the rulers. But those who do wrong must fear them. Do you want to be free from fearing them? Then do only what is right, and they will praise you."

This woman maintains that to put her name on a marriage certificate of a gay couple make her just as guilty of the marriage as the couple.

The reality is that the word "homosexual" is not in the Bible.

While Paul in Romans says: "And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet."

And let's not even get into Leviticus, which bans everything from shrimp to sitting in the same chair which a woman with her period rested.

As I have said before and often, the Bible that we know today, is not the Bible of ancient times. It has been edited time and time for the convenience of the church, and the mindset of the leaders of the church.

With Paul saying hatefully that women should cover their heads in the church for tempting Adam with the apple. (This all probably done while he crunched away on a Golden Delicious...)

And yet Jesus LOVED women. From Martha and Mary to Mary Magdalene. In fact, the only time Jesus every really lost it was when He found the money lenders in the temple. The man was all about forgiveness.

So to focus on the three times that homosexuality is briefly mentioned in the Bible is heresy to me.

It tends to overlook the duty that she accepted when she became the county clerk and swore to uphold the laws of our land (on a Bible).

Gay marriage is now one of the laws of our land... Fact.

            One of my favorite passages from the Bible is Matthew 7:  "Judge not, that ye be not judged. ² For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. ³ And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"

            In all honesty, if that was all that the Bible said, and everyone followed it with their heart and soul, the world would be a better place.

If I look for sin, I look for it in the mirror, and not in the eyes of others, regardless of how much they irritate me to death (yes, I am still working on that one!)

Several people have also pointed out, that although that woman is Apostolic Christian, she is thrice divorced. This is not a big deal for me, to be quite honest.

But in Matthew 19: 9 it says: "And I say unto you, Whosoever shall put away his wife, except it be for fornication, and shall marry another, committeth adultery: and whoso marrieth her which is put away doth commit adultery."

But to give her due consideration, her divorces occurred long before she converted to her current faith.

So in her faith, she will no longer commit the sin of divorce. Kudos to her.

My question would be: Has a man or a woman (divorced) ever come into her office and requested a marriage license to wed another?

If the answer is yes, did she issue the licenses, even though it was something that she found very sinful?

If the answer is yes again, then she is a hypocrite. (Yes, I am being judgmental *eyes to the Heavens* "Sorry God".) She invalidated her own faith by letting people who have sinned against their previous spouses with divorce (if the divorce was not for the purpose of fornification).

So she has broken her own rules and yet refuses to bypass them for the law of the land. Which according to the law of the land, divorced people are allowed to remarry. And according to the laws of the land, gay people can now marry.

This invalidates her commitment to the Bible that she swore upon, and her faith that she claims to carry in her heart.

Is she a martyr?

If her religion is one that is dedicated to wiping the idea of "gay" off the face of this earth, then I would volunteer her for martyrdom in her church.

But in my eyes, she has setup her own persecution, and then walked the plank without prodding.

She's still getting paid to be the County Clerk, although she no longer performs all of her duties.

So there is no financial suffering.

She definitely doesn't look starved to death, and has shown no scars from her torture.

A martyr makes the absolute sacrifice for their faith.

            In fact, the literal definition of martyr is: a person who is killed because of their religious or other beliefs. "saints, martyrs, and witnesses to the faith".

If she's still breathing, getting paid, and doesn't have any scars. If she hasn't all of a sudden started Stigmata, I think that we can bypass her martyrdom and go straight for pig-headed (yes, I meant that literally and metaphorically *inject another "Sorry God" here*).

 

 

A Taste of COFFEE & CRIME by Anita Rodgers!

COFFEE & CRIME

 

By Anita Rodgers

 

Waitress and budding chef Scotti Fitzgerald is six weeks away from realizing her dream - buying her own diner. And everything was going according to plan until her investor stopped returning her calls. 

 

Prologue

After five years of working my ass off to buy Manny’s diner I was hurtling down the home stretch. Then, six weeks from closing the deal, my investor George died under questionable circumstances. Suddenly, I was scrambling to find $60,000 that I didn't have and nobody wanted to lend me. When I learned that a secret buyer was romancing Manny to get the diner away from me, I knew I had to act fast. Or lose everything.

 

My only option was to solve George's murder and collect the reward money his widow offered. Piece of cake. I was a waitress and a pastry chef; crime solving was definitely in my wheelhouse, right? But I couldn’t ignore George’s message from the grave or Zelda, who convinced me we could do it. Ignoring the insanity of our plan, we jumped into a world of deceit, back stabbing, and murder. Who could we trust? Would we make it out alive? That was anybody’s guess. Buying a diner can be murder.

 

 

Chapter One

 

Life is a conspiracy of crazy, illogical, and unfair outcomes. And real life is stranger than fiction — so much so that if you wrote a book and told the absolute truth nobody'd believe it. To this day, there are people who don't believe my story though it's the God honest truth. And I'm not somebody who throws God's name around like he's a personal friend.

 

My name is Scotti Fitzgerald and after eighteen years of foster care and ten years of stumbling around, I've learned that life conspires to make you look like a lunatic and a liar whenever possible. And that most people are too busy in their little bubbles to give you the sniff test, much less determine your trustworthiness. That winter was the ultimate in sniff tests, and I'm not sure I came out smelling like a rose.

 

Just when we thought we'd slide into spring with nary a crappy day, winter hit. Winter in California means rain. And the skies opened up and poured that Friday morning at Manny the Cuban's. It was a madhouse. The place was jammed with regulars and first timers looking for an authentic experience. Though authentic might be stretching it. Manny's was a hair above being a hole in the wall and had as much ambience as Mean Mike's cardboard house in Sunland Park. The beat-up booths, old chairs and tables, gaudy posters and bad paint job didn't exactly draw the celebrity crowd — but we did okay.

The place was an orchestra of clanging silverware, mumbled voices, sizzling meat, and Cuban music. The drumming rain on the roof provided a nice backbeat and kept the adrenaline dialed on high. Between dodging other waitresses, customers, and random umbrellas hanging off the backs of chairs, it was one death-defying act after another. But to me, it was as much fun as a day at Disneyland.

 

After ten years of waiting tables, I can navigate around bodies, bus trays, briefcases, and pocket books with my eyes closed, and that morning was no different. I was cranked on adrenaline and coffee, and my pockets already bulged with tips. The rain was good news to me, because people get hungry when the weather sucks — and they just kept coming. I zipped around the tiny dining room, arms loaded with breakfast plates and more waiting in the pass-through.

 

Manny banged on the bell. "Come on mamsitas! Pick up! Pick up!"

 

I glanced over my shoulder at his big face sticking out of the pass-through like a crazy bobble head. Orders were stacked up under the heat lamps waiting for waitresses to claim them and he was having his usual tantrum. It didn't matter if it was one plate or twenty — anything waiting in the pass-through made Manny's blood boil and turned his face a scary shade of red.

 

I dipped, scooted, and sidestepped my way back to the pass-through to pick up more orders. "Take it easy, Manny — we're on it." While I stacked plates of eggs, French toast, and empanadas on my left arm, I scanned for anything else that belonged to me.

 

He rolled his eyes at the other waitresses on the floor. "Maybe you Scotti, but them?"

 

"You worry too much." I grabbed a coffee pot with my free hand and headed back out to the hungry masses. Manny worried too much about the small stuff in life. Silly of him because six weeks into the future the diner would belong to me. Plates sitting under heat lamps would soon be my problem. I was counting down the days until Manny stopped whining and went back to Miami. Let them deal with him.

 

I zoomed around the dining room and fantasized about the changes I'd make once it was mine. New tables, new paint, nice artwork, and a new menu. The L.A. Times would write me up in their food column. And a few A-list food bloggers would post rave reviews online. I just knew I could make the place a serious contender in the L.A. food scene and was damned determined to try.

 

I’d spent the last five years working to buy the diner from Manny. Scrimping and saving. Pulling extra shifts. Catering on the side. And I’d paid my dues — I handled the scheduling, ordering, and kept the waitresses in line. After all my hard work, God would have to reward me, right? I'd be a real chef. And finally be somebody. I only had to get through the next six weeks.

 

After I dropped off my orders, I ducked outside for a break. I'd been going non-stop since breakfast and needed a few gulps of fresh air — even if it was soggy.

 

When I walked out the side door, I saw Zelda had gotten there ahead of me. She stood under the awning that sheltered the recycling bin and kicked back against the wall with her eyes closed. Like she was meditating.

 

Zelda wore her usual uniform of black jeans, a rumpled white shirt, stained apron, and the oldest pair of black Rockport's on record. Her thick black hair pulled back in her version of a ponytail — like a dagger made of hair. The tail whipped her in the face when she bobbed her head in my direction. "What kept you?"

 

"How do you always get out here first?" I stepped under the awning and took up the spot on the wall next to her. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was still cold, and I hugged myself, shivering.

 

Zelda shrugged. "Can I help it if you lack my skill and speed?"

I snorted. "Maybe I had more customers than you."

 

Zelda's smile skimmed her face and twinkled her dark eyes. "And maybe you're full of crap."

I wagged a finger. "When I'm the boss you'll have to treat me with more respect, young lady."

 

"Or I'll quit and join the circus." Zelda mimed juggling.

 

I cracked the door and checked the dining room. "Yeah, yeah."

 

Zelda peered over my shoulder. "All clear?"

 

I let go of the door and it hissed closed on pneumatic hinges. I stepped back to the wall and pushed my shoulders against it, to work out the knots. "Nothing to do until the tables turn and the next wave hits."

 

Zelda nodded and went back to her daydreaming under the awning.

 

I met Zelda when I was eight and surrounded by bullies in the backyard of the Harmony House foster care facility. Suffice it to say, there was little harmony there, and Zelda saved me from a sure beating. We've been best friends since. We share a small guesthouse that has a big kitchen and tiny bedrooms but is a palace compared to the foster homes we grew up in.

 

I checked my phone and frowned when I saw there were no messages.

 

"George still giving you the silent treatment?"

 

I shook my head. "He's not giving me the silent treatment. He just hasn't called me back yet." I checked the phone again, but nothing had changed in the last ten seconds. "I don't get it, he never blows me off."

 

Zelda went to the door, checked the dining room, then turned back to me "There's always a first time."

 

"Even if he were blowing me off, I still have his briefcase. He'd call about that, at least."

 

Zelda raised an eyebrow. "Why do you have his briefcase?"

 

"He gave it to me last week and told me to hang onto it until I saw him again. But he hasn't come back for it. Plus we're supposed to sign the final papers for the diner."

 

"Maybe he changed his mind."

 

I gave Zelda a little shove. "Shut up. Never say stuff like that out loud." I pointed to the angry sky overhead. "The universe is listening."

 

Zelda grunted and took up her spot on the wall again. "Oh yeah, the universe." She glanced at me. "George hasn't been in, and he’s not returning calls. But the universe is the problem?"

 

I stared at my ketchup-stained Nikes. "Don't start with the negative crap. I don't want to hear it."

 

Zelda stuck her face in mine. "Scotti, I'm serious. Things ain't right here." Her dark eyes were usually filled with mischief but not this time.

 

I slinked away from Zelda and opened the door. "Better get back to work before Manny busts a vein."

 

The diner emptied out around three, and we collapsed into seats at the counter. While we counted our tips, we munched on greasy French fries with lots of Thousand Island dressing. From the cashier stand, Manny watched us like a hawk honed in on a field mouse and whistled. "Made the big bucks today, eh chicas?"

 

Between fries, we counted out our ones and put them in stacks of twenty. "Can we cash in our ones or don't you need them?" I asked.

 

Manny opened the cash register and wiggled his fingers. "Bring it." We scooped up our stacks and brought them to the cashier stand. Manny took his time counting because he loved to needle us like that.

 

I plopped back down at the counter to finish our fries, while Zelda made us hot chocolates.

Manny squinted at me. "You tip the busboy?"

 

Zelda placed the hot chocolates on the counter and sat next to me. "Did you wear clean underwear today?"

 

Manny's eyes bugged out. "What's the matter with you, asking those kinda questions?" He shook his head and muttered in Spanish.

 

"We always tip the busboys," Zelda retorted. "What's the matter with you asking those kinda questions?" Zelda did an excellent impression of Manny.

 

Manny pulled a white hanky out of his back pocket and wiped his face, then pretended a smile. "Oh you're so funny. Make the jokes at Manny's expense. You like to laugh? I got something gonna make you laugh. I got another buyer wants this place."

 

I choked and spewed hot chocolate across the counter.

 

Zelda smacked me hard on the back. "Don't listen to him. He's screwing with you. Are you okay?"

 

I recovered and nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay." I pushed her away. "Stop smacking me on the back, you big goon."

 

Manny snorted and put his beefy hands on his hips. "Ain't no shit. You got competition." He grinned at me and made the wide eyes. "I got an official muy abudante offer, chica."

 

"Prove it!"

 

Manny crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't gotta prove nothing."

 

I jumped out of my seat and backed him up against the counter. "You're lying."

Manny raised his eyebrows and taunted me with a sly smile. "You think so, chica?"

 

Looking up at the big jerk, I jabbed him in the chest with my finger. "Did you forget that we've got an agreement? You can't sell it to anyone else." I smiled too. "I have it in writing. Signed and notarized."

 

Manny looked down at me. "We'll see."

 

I wanted to slug him with the coffee pot, but I held my temper. "Plus, you gave me your word. You saying your word ain't worth a shit now?"

 

Manny pushed past me and waved his arms around the diner. "My word is my gold, chica. I keep my word, but you gotta keep yours too."

 

I didn't get the shift in Manny's attitude. He always liked yanking my chain, but this was different. Something had changed and dread snaked in my gut.

 

He bobbed around like an amateur boxer. "Funny, I don't see your investor guy around lately. What's the matter, he don't like the food no more? He found another chica to give his money to?"

 

Zelda threw a cream pitcher at Manny. "Bastardo."

 

He ducked; the pitcher hit the wall, then spattered the stainless counter with little white cream boogers. Manny shook a fist at her. "You better clean that up, Zelda."

 

"Asshole! You don't have another buyer, and all you do is talk shit. When Scotti gets this place, it's going to be a freaking holiday. You know why? Because she's a real chef. She actually knows how to cook. Customers will stand on line all day for a table when word gets out that they can get great food instead of your slop."

Manny's nostrils flared. "I don't know, Zelda, the people they come, and they eat. Every day. Every week. Somebody likes Manny's slop. You like the tips you get from people who eat Manny's slop?"

 

Zelda glared at him but said nothing.

 

Manny shrugged and sang to himself as he did a little salsa into the kitchen.

 

Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I grabbed Zelda's arm and squeezed. "Another buyer? What the hell does he mean?"

 

Zelda pried my fingers off her arm. "Jeez Scotti, take a breath. He's messing with you." She flicked a hand toward the kitchen. "Probably thinks if he screws with you enough, you'll pay him more money. It's a bunch of macho bullshit."

 

She frowned at the spray of hot chocolate and cream on the counter. She reached for a towel then said, "Screw it. Let him clean it up."

 

I took off my apron, grabbed my purse from the counter, and put on my jacket. "I hope you're right about Manny, but I don't want to take any chances. I want to get that check now and pay him before something blows up in my face. I have to go see George."

 

Zelda threw on her jacket, grabbed her backpack, and was right behind me. "Good thinking, let's go."

 

I turned back to her. "No, no, no, you're not coming with me."

 

Zelda put her hands on her hips. "Oh yes, I am."

 

"I appreciate the moral support, but I need to see him alone." I nudged Zelda. "This is a business deal — I can't drag my best friend with me every time I hit a snag. Otherwise nobody’s going to take me seriously. Right?"

 

Zelda smirked. "But who's going to drive you?"

 

"I can drive myself."

 

"Fine." Zelda stomped to the door, held it open, and pointed outside. "Have fun taking the bus home in the rain, to pick up your car. Hopefully, it'll start." She made a ta-da gesture, pulled up her hood, and walked out.

 

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" I ran after Zelda and caught up to her in the parking lot. "Okay, okay, you can come with me. But you have to promise to stay in the car."

 

Zelda stared at me over the hood of her beat-up jeep. "What am I, the family dog?"

 

I raked my hands through my hair. "It's not professional. This is business. Zelda, be reasonable."

 

Zelda scorched me with a stare.

 

I huffed and yanked open the passenger door. "Can you at least get me there in one piece? And try not to interrupt me when I'm talking?"

 

Zelda unlocked the jeep and got in. She turned the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. Smiling, she patted the passenger seat. I climbed in, belted up, and sighed loudly.

 

Zelda gunned the engine. "I knew you'd see things my way."

 

I mimed choking her. "Can we go?"

 

"What's in George's briefcase?"

 

"What? I don't know."

 

"You didn't open it?"

 

"It’s not my briefcase to open." I waved my hand at the street. "Time's a-wasting."

 

Zelda backed out of the parking space and nosed toward the exit. "But maybe whatever is in the briefcase will tell you why he’s out of touch."

 

"Or I could talk to George and ask him why he’s been out of touch." I raked my mop of hair out of my eyes. "Besides we're past that. I need that damn check today. We can talk about hurt feelings another time."

Zelda nodded, pulled into traffic, and headed for Pasadena. Neither of us knowing how hard it would be to talk to George.

 

Copyright Anita Rodgers all rights reserved

 

Link to book page: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B014LR48OG

 

No go BUY IT at

A Fantastic Introduction to SUPERHIGHWAY!

Alex Fayman was born in the former Soviet Union. His family immigrated to the United States in 1989 when he was twelve, in pursuit of religious freedom. Alex holds a PhD in finance and enjoys teaching and doing research at a university. He is happily married and has three sons.

This is the first chapter to Superhighway! Read and enjoy!

Chapter 1

            Moving at the speed of light through the darkness of a vast fiber optic spider web always evoked a hypnotic state of peace. The astonishing velocity through hairpin turns and the barrage of oncoming lights falsely insinuated that my problems were being left behind. In the form of amorphous gaseous light, my body was no longer subject to physical pain, augmenting the illusion of healing. At that moment, I was likely in the vicinity of the Gulf of Mexico, approximately ten to twelve thousand feet below the water’s surface.

The reality was simple: I would never escape my problems. The powers, disguised as a gift, became the root cause for everything that went wrong. I knew that the burden would never relinquish its grip on my psyche and, even though it was easy to blame the circumstances, the truth would haunt me forever. My life was suddenly drained of meaning and purpose, forcing me to consider the alternative. It would not take long. I figured a few minutes would painlessly cease the pain.

            Upon entering a large opening inside of an optic tunnel, I encountered an intense exhibition of flashing lights that failed to captivate my attention. The weakness came on more quickly than usual. A flash fired right in front of my face. I saw a beach and felt the water caressing my feet. A second flash snapped me out of the momentary trance. My strength was waning; the end was near. Another bright flash to my left, and I saw sparks escaping the barrel. I heard the gunshot, and watched her fall. Flash. My heart pounded like a jackhammer as I stepped through the windowpane of a house lit with red neon lights. The stunningly perfect female form held my hand, leading me up the narrow winding staircase into a small room. I saw myself lying naked in front of her as she helped me overcome anxiety. Flash. As my energy wilted and I began to drift, the flashes around me turned into a solid bright light. I saw my father’s face and felt his disapproval of my cowardly exit. It pierced through me like a bolt of lightning, stinging my vaporous soul. Flash. Instantly, I knew that my life could not end. I summoned the remaining morsel of power in order to accelerate in the familiar direction.

I felt the back of my head as soon as I opened my eyes. The swelling had subsided, but it was painful to touch. My jaw did not hurt as long as it remained motionless, but no English words could capture and relate the intensity of hunger and thirst I felt after that exit. My mouth was dry and my tongue felt like a piece of dangling Velcro. By that time, I learned to cope with hunger pangs. The relatively fresh emotional scars proved to be far more difficult to bear. Rising up to my feet, I felt lightheaded as my brain slammed against the back of my skull. Since I deserved every bit of the punishment, and chose to live, I had to deal with the consequences of my own inept actions.

            The newspaper on the table was dated Monday, September 15th, 2008. I ignored it and, like an animal obeying instinct, followed my gut down to the kitchen, past large windows that offered a glorious picture of a Caribbean sunrise. That morning, I was only interested in the contents of my refrigerators, which were always prepared for such occasions. My hands were shaking as I cut into an ice-cold steak. Each bite filled the void in my abdomen, affirming my desire to live another day.

The business day was well underway on the mainland. Despite my remote location and distance from Wall Street, I had precise knowledge of the historical news breaking that morning. Indeed, I was responsible for what happened, and no one was capable of reversing the course of history. I was tired of feeling the weight of the planet on my shoulders. I was tired of power, tired of failure, tired of making reckless mistakes, tired of responsibility, and mostly tired of being completely alone. There was only one person to blame for everything that happened. That individual was trying hard to ignore the fiery discomfort in his jaw, chewing the last piece of a thirty-ounce sirloin. It was a battle between intolerable pain and voracious hunger.

            Just three minutes to warm up the lasagna would have benefited the flavor of my favorite Italian dish. That morning, I couldn’t wait. I had to stop my body from feasting on itself. The food was not some coping mechanism used to displace emotional anguish. Its only purpose was to relieve hunger. When the meal was finally over, I closed the refrigerator doors, admiring the newly created space inside and a trail of dirty dishes on the dark marble countertop.

The sea looked much more appealing after the meal, so I headed upstairs to change en route to the beach. The massive stone staircase curved around a waterfall that was the centerpiece of the castle’s foyer. The real estate jewel was located on a private Caribbean island that also housed 450 acres of tropical paradise surrounded by pristine beaches and clear green water. The land on the island sloped up to the north, where the main house stood on top of a hill, right at the edge of a cliff that sported a 200-foot drop toward a rocky beach. The island of Galicia welcomed only one tourist: its owner, me.

            I stepped through the opening at the top of the stairs into my bedroom. It was a circular space with a low ceiling supported by a series of evenly spaced columns, occupying the entire top floor. Thin white curtains, left at the mercy of wind currents, were the only barrier that separated the indoors from a narrow glass balcony that spanned the entire circumference of the room.

The bedroom was the highest point on Galicia, and offered a selection of incredible views. The south side presented a view of lush gardens, a beautiful marble fountain, and the entire island. To the north, there was a breathtaking view of the Caribbean Sea. I enjoyed stepping onto the glass balcony, facing the endless blue of the sea and listening to the waves colliding with the giant boulders below.

Galicia was my great escape. I purchased the island from Genadiy Sverdlovski, a Russian oligarch who made billions on the collapse of the Soviet Union. After buying Soviet-era steel and gas assets in rigged government auctions, the freshly minted oligarch built a multinational empire that accounted for most of the world’s illegal arms trade and human trafficking. Parenthetically, in 2006, the CIA connected Sverdlovski to the only known sale of a nuclear warhead. It took a great effort on the part of a Navy Seals team to recover the weapon from a group of Jihadist militants a few hours after the sale. The Russian president ignored the evidence presented against Sverdlovski. He was never punished.

I put on a pair of swim shorts and carefully walked down the stairs. Post-concussion symptoms would haunt me for a long time, though the headaches were becoming less severe. I exited the building and jumped into a golf cart that sported the name of the island in gold lettering and drove a quarter of a mile to a sign that was mostly hidden by the tropical flora.

The horseshoe-shaped beach was at the bottom of a wooden staircase that carved a path through the brush down the side of a bluff. The sand felt warm underneath my feet. I headed for the water and dove under. The wound on the back of my head began to sting, quickly forcing the feelings of guilt and anxiety to the surface. I let out a primal scream that drained the oxygen from my lungs and hurt my throat. Even the paradise cove failed to mask my feeble emotional state.

If the truth found its way to the surface, neither Galicia nor the farthest corner of the earth would offer protection from the wrath of those wronged by my actions. I had acted impulsively. My perception of reality was skewed, and my anger was clearly misdirected. My actions had consequences I did not foresee. People spent decades in prison for much lesser crimes. My sentence would be a lifetime in paradise, a lifetime of wealth, a lifetime without limits.

I swam to shore and lay down in the cabana. As I lit a joint and let the smoke fill my lungs, the first tear ran down my cheek. The headache was relentless and the pain in my jaw was intensified by the meal. Even in paradise, the world that supposedly belonged to me seemed nasty and cold.

I am not certain whether it was the sea air, the weed, or the post-concussion syndrome that knocked me out.  My body, like a broken tool, gave in and finally shut down.

 

 

To read more, go to http://www.amazon.com/Superhighway-Alex-Fayman-ebook/dp/B0145QOFEQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1441749126&sr=8-1&keywords=superhighway+fayman

Do Humans Have Souls?

It's an important question.

According to some, we are a series of neurons firing away and making random decisions all on impulse. There is no such thing as free will, karma, destiny, personality, or emotion. Everything is done electronically. We are like floating amoebas that cover and swallow our food, occasionally splitting for the purpose of survival or for the viewing of a superior Martian through a microscope.

You can put two 25 year old men under any kind of scan, and unless they are under-developed or sociopathic, the brains will look almost exactly alike.

While they may be mirror images, one of those men may be allergic to dairy. Another will prefer blondes. One may freeze in anything below seventy degrees and the other never puts anything other than a hoodie on, even when it's twenty below.

Genetics can play a big factor in this. Being a chip off the old block is something we live by. And with addictions, it's also something that we die by.

For centuries, scientists have debated nature versus nurture.

When little goslings (not the Ryan variety) are born, they imprint on the first being they see. They imitate and emulate the actions of their imprinted parent figure. If the mama goose picked up a cigarette and started smoking, eventually so would the goslings.

So who hasn't seen the cigarette commercials where the young son wants to be a chip off the old block and picks up the pack of cigarettes after his pop lights one up?

Studies show that the likelihood of a child smoking after a parent smokes runs at about 70%. But if a parent quits smoking before the child is born, or they quit before the child starts, the chances of that child/teen/adult ever smoking drops down to 18%.

The children still have that "addictive" gene, why aren't they smoking?

Because we are somewhat the "monkey see, monkey do", even as we grow older.

My mother has this little ironic quirk to her mouth. When someone says something ridiculous, she purses her lips and pushes her mouth to her right side. I have seen her do this thousands of times (yes, I do say those ridiculous things). I have no idea why she does it.

One day, one of my friends was saying something ridiculous to me, and then laughed at me, "Why do you always make that face?" She asked me.

I reached up and felt my mouth, already knowing what I would find, because I had been doing it since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Yes, I was pursing my lips and pushing my mouth to the right side of my face.

It's not a normal thing to do. but my mommy does it, so I do too!

It's not that I was genetically programmed through DNA or my neurons to send my mouth to the side of my face. It was that I was nurtured to believe that it was something normal to do.

When I was going to school for my degree in psychology, I spent a lot of time listening to professors trying to teach me about the mind, but in the same breath telling me that there was no God and there was no Soul in a human being.

Then I took a class in Meditation and Therapy.

The professor had spent years in Asia learning about meditation and he truly believed in the soul. The meditation he taught was all about strengthening the soul and the spirit.

At one point, he had us close our eyes and we slowly envisioned this white cord coming from the base of our spine. He started linking us one by one to each other, and then expanding our cords outside the room and through the building. When he was done, we had a spider's web uniting the universe.

It was a pretty intense meditation. I have to confess, I bailed before he was done. I was just about ready to let out a really loud howl from all the emotion flooding through me. I opened my eyes and saw the rest of the class visibly weeping.

You can call it emotions, drama, or even overkill.

But if I ever doubted that I had a soul, that one moment changed any doubts. I am a human being with a soul.

The meditative state, and the ability to reach a higher form of consciousness shows a transcendental elevation of the spirit and soul that mimics an alternate reality beyond life, and beyond what we know of ourselves.

Surprisingly, Buddhism discourages the thought surrounding Atman/Anatta (I, Self, or Soul). They believe that if the immortal soul is eternal, then rebirth and growth of the human self can't happen. And yet, what element in a human can transcend the body and then mind to become the next life?

In fact, some Christian sects decry the thought that a soul might exist, regardless of Matthew 10: 28: Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

These sects claim that soul is derived from Greek and Hebrew to mean a "living being or creature."

And yet Jesus did say that dying is not the problem, but losing one's soul is the problem.

In Matthew 22: 37, Jesus separated and named all the values of man by saying: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.

Ironically, Dr. Stuart Hameroff, after studies under MRIs, when the pulse stops, no blood is running, and there are no more brainwaves, the microtubules lose their quantum state, but the information in the microtubules is retained.

When the consciousness returns, the memory returns. In fact, the white light memories come from a death state where the body is gone, but the microtubules in the brain are still working. Hameroff says the memories are indefinite and can live outside the body in the form of a soul.

But what, in an everyday life, can decipher the mystery of the soul?

Not all of us have MRI machines to toy with death. And after we die, although we will know the answer, we can't come back and define it for the living.

So let's take something from circumstance and apply it to the thought of the soul:

There is a fireman standing outside a burning building. The building is burning and he knows it will be a simmering ash in a few minutes.

He hears a child cry inside the building and looks up and sees the child waving her hand from a smoky window begging for rescue.

The neurons in his mind have already made the logical choice. He is not going into the building. It's a sign of self preservation and it's LOGICAL.

His heart has already made it's decision. It is already racing one hundred miles per minute from all his hard work, and it is EXHAUSTED,

The fireman charges into the building.

What made the decision?

We already know that the heart and mind had decided not to run into that building, but something else overrode the decision and he ran into the flames regardless.

People believe that the body can survive without the heart. The heart in the human body can be transplanted/replaced.

Neurons can live outside the body as well. I have seen a human neuron being stimulated under a microscope. But that neuron is nothing without the control of its master. It doesn't know what its function is unless there is something else telling it what to do.

I think that an important part of a human's soul is the ties that said human feels for other humans.

Having watched interviews of sociopaths, who feel no ties to the human race, I sincerely doubt that every human has a soul.

Part of the imprinting process involves the creation of the soul. It is the beginning of learning to love one soul (the mother) that brings about the beginning of a sense of belonging. Without this feeling, the human doesn't learn love, and in the process, doesn't develop a soul.

So you already know my conclusion, based on science, emotion, faith, and spirituality.

And by the power vested in me, (by my blog, because it is MY blog) I now pronounce you body, mind, and soul...