Civil Rights March... "Silly"?

Martin Luther King Jr. on NBC's Meet the Press in 1965 

H/T: The Pangea Blog.

Messages, Thoughts, Pictures

 I can be strength.

 K, Z and I.

To the stars, my Love...

Pictures can be purchased at Jeremyville.

When words fail me...

...pictures seldom do. I've decided to take a pause on original content on FAR, but being that I have some sick, innate urge to produce something, I'll share some pictures I've taken lately. Enjoy!

State of Shame

Girls sterilized, women cut open like animals. Boys treated like stray cats. Eugenics. Not in 1875. Not in Russia. In North Carolina. Not so long ago.

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A Little More Lenny...

I woke up feeling thankful today. Thankful for my Sunshine. I decided to bounce a little of that light and warmth over to some Facebook Friends of mine, so I randomly went through my Friends List and started writing. I have received a few "Likes" and written thanks, but I'm not doing it for that. I just honestly want to stop and tell people, even internet, social network e-pals who I've never actually met, that they are appreciated.

There's a song and video by the late Amy Winehouse that makes me think of "Ain't No Sunshine". It's called "Tears Dry on Their Own":

If you look pass Amy's beehive and the hookers in neon in the background, you'll notice the subtle play on light. While Amy sits sadly singing her heart out in that hotel room, the light repeatedly brightens only to dim. In the last scenes, it's night. The sun is actually gone.

I hope to one day look back on the path I've made and still see little flickers of light I set by being someone's sunshine. I hope to do a spin, a la Micheal Jackson, and see my path still lit up like MJ's did when he danced in "Billie Jean".

This morning, I wanted to fly away, and for a bit, I have, feeling sunshine. :-)

Fly Away

Solace in Solemn Solitude

I'm not Catholic, but I slip into a nearby Catholic church to pray. I've been doing this semi-secret ritual for about two years now. I usually walk out with tear-stained cheeks and a humbled heart. At the very least, I walk away feeling more at peace.

Protestant churches, most of them anyway, aren't open like many Catholic ones are. It took time for me to get use to walking into a church and not having an usher or, in today's Purpose-Driven church lingo, a greeter, come bounding at me with a program and/or fliers. I almost felt like it was a mistake. Why was the doors open, lights on and a few people present but the church wasn't "on"?

I've come to love the "offness" of it all. I sometimes walk the whole sanctuary, looking at the Stations of the Cross or reading the creed etched into the stained glass windows. Or, I just stare at the windows.

And after about forty-five minutes, I light a couple of candles, cross myself and leave.

No priest, no absolution, but here is my confession. I seek solace in a church named for a saint who held a marathon prayer session and is invoked to help with illness.

Supposedly so off, but so on point to my life.