#*The oil burned for eight days and eight nights* (from what I remember from public elementary school in Atlanta)

[lioryaakov]

The one question so many Jews dread this time of year....

"So. What is Hanukkah actually about?"

[mypoisonedvine]

Satisfied | Andy Barber x reader (chapter 1)

summary: you’re the only lawyer in Boston who can get under Andy Barber’s skin, but you didn’t realise that he was trying to get under your clothes.  as is the nature of law, it’s only a matter of time before the truth is discovered.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: smut, semi-public sex, terrible courtroom decorum, two lawyers with 0 (zero) brain cells

You were early. You were always early. Being so early gave you time to prepare but more importantly, it gave you time to warm up. You had time to go over your notes and to read about the prosecution expert, Lieutenant Burns, of the fire department, and find out who the opposing counsel was. 

You got an email first thing in the morning saying that there was a change as the original state representation was unwell. It annoyed you, but there was no prosecutor in the state that you did not know, so it couldn’t be a complete surprise. That was the smallest relief you were granted.

Your coffee burnt your hand as the flimsy paper cup did little to insulate your skin from the scalding liquid. It was a bad start to your day. That paired with an unknown prosecutor made your mood more sour than usual. 

You thought that it could not get any worse. You were wrong. It was as if your worst nightmares had all rolled into one when he walked towards your courtroom. Glancing down, you hoped that he had not noticed you.

It was when he stood outside of your courtroom that you realised he was your prosecutor.  Just your luck.  Why did it seem like you ended up with him more than anyone else, when it was allegedly random chance?

The good news was, you were the lawyer who could handle him best.  Didn’t mean you liked to, but still.  At least you could play with your food a little bit before you ate it.  “Andy Barber…” your voice trailed off when he turned to you. “I didn’t expect to see you here.  I thought you actually had to pass the bar to go in and represent someone...or something.”

Andy sighed and rubbed his temple.  “Do we have to start this shit now?” he glanced down at his watch, “it’s half-past eight in the morning.”

“Start what? I’m not starting anything, I just wanted to remind you that you must be qualified to be here.”  You took a swig of coffee and let the words settle in, “I hope you were up all night googling what a deposition is.”

“It’s too fucking early for this. I refuse to deal with it. I refuse to deal with you.” Andy put emphasis on the last word to try to get through to you. “I just got this case this morning and I can’t… I just can’t, right now.”

“Giving up so soon?  I thought you were Andy ‘nobody-can-fucking-faze-me’ Barber,” your tone was mocking but it was ambiguous as to who you were actually mocking. Was it yourself? Was it Andy? You hoped that it was Andy. “And remember, there’s no judge today so you’re going to have to ‘deal with me’ all by yourself.”

“I swear, if you act this way during the deposition...” Andy was livid, his grip on his coffee and pastry was white-knuckle tight. The vein in his neck was bulging over the top of his collar. “Can you just be a fucking adult for once in your life?”

“What have I done for you to be in such a fucking sour mood?  It’s as if you want to wind me up.” You threw your arms in the air as Andy walked off. In your mind, you were unsure as to whether it was actually a victory or not.

---

“Thank you for joining us today, Lieutenant Burns. Please could you please state your name and occupation for the court.”

“Your name is Lieutenant Burns?” you interrupted the deposition causing Andy to look over at you in annoyance. A small giggle erupts from your lips as you try to compose yourself.

“Yes, my name is Cole Burns, and I’m a lieutenant firefighter at the Suffolk County Fire Station No. 7.”

“Wait,” you, once again, interrupted the deposition, trying to hold in your laughter, “your name is really Cole Burns? Like ‘coal burns’? And you’re a firefighter? This can’t be real.”

“Didn’t you read the report?” Andy asked incredulously.

“I did, but I assumed that you changed the names just to mess with me,” you shrugged and sat down.

“This is what is going to happen now, you’re going to be good, shut up, and sit down so that I can ask my questions. The sooner you do that, the sooner we can get away from each other.”

You shook your head in response and Andy ignored you. He went back to questioning his witness as you watched.

“Was it true that there was accelerant found at the site of the fire which was not found in the building prior to the fire?”

“Objection-- that’s a leading question.” You raised your hand briefly in the air to signify both verbally and physically that you objected. Andy turned and glared at you not hiding his displeasure. The poor witness looked around the room and waited patiently for you to stop arguing. “Lieutenant Burns, please do not answer that question.”

“Okay.  Are you going to let me examine the witness now--” Andy already sounded exasperated. You knew that it would be a long day with him and he knew that too. The premise of the deposition was easy but Andy Barber made everything difficult.

“No, but--” You raised your finger and tried to finish your sentence. You blinked for a few seconds in surprise that he actually had the audacity to cut you off again.

“--or are you just going to--” he continued, speaking over you again.  Andy rubbed his hand over his beard in frustration. If he had just let you speak, the deposition would have been far easier. You clenched your jaw as he spoke. Had he no manners?  

“What I’m going to do is try to be as big an asshole as you are, Andy, and I’m going to object whenever I need to,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest and grinned at him smugly with your head cocked to one side. ‘Whether you like it or not.”

“Okay.  That was a bad word you just used.” He cocked his eyebrow at you and tutted. You breathed out, nose flaring and sighed. The sooner the day was over with, the sooner you were able to get away from Andy. 

“Really?  You recognize that word.” You gasped and pretended to be surprised by the announcement. Your voice dripped with sarcasm. It was lucky that there was no judge present as there was a high chance both you and Andy would be disbarred for your behaviour.

“Yeah,” Andy deadpanned. You glanced around at the room and saw both your client and the expert witness shift in his chairs uncomfortably. The air was tense whenever you and Andy were in a room together and today was no different.

“Do you?” You tried to wind him up even further. You wanted to push him as far as you could. The tension made the rest of the courtroom uncomfortable and the stenographer looked to you multiple times to see if she should continue noting down the argument. 

“Yeah.” You could tell that Andy had reached the end of his tether. “Is that so much of a surprise for you?”

“Well, good.  You want me to write it out for you?  I can make it an exhibit for you, if you’d like.  Alright?” You grabbed a pen and started to write the word on a piece of paper on your desk. It was littered with exhibits and documents. So much so that you were surprised that you were able to find a scrap of unused paper.

“Why don’t we keep our language appropriate, okay?” His tone was condescending and he threw you a tight-lipped smile before snatching the new ‘exhibit’ from your hand. You fake gasped when Andy threw the paper away and Andy skimmed through a document in his hand ignoring you. If he was not an attorney, Andy would have made a good teacher with the tone he always used on you. Patronising. 

“Well, why don’t you ask questions, and I’ll worry about what I’m doing.” Andy continued his questioning of his witness before it was your turn to question him. “Lieutenant Burns, please could you give us your expert opinion on what you saw at the scene of the fire?”

“The fire did not start from an electrical device nor did it come from the kitchen. This meant that there was already a greater suspicion of arson--”

You tapped your pen against the table as the Lieutenant spoke. “I’m sorry to stop you, Lieutenant,” Andy turned to you with a tight jaw, “can you stop, please?”

“What am I doing? I’m letting you ask all of your important questions.”

“You’re tapping the pen.”

“Is that what I was doing?” you feigned innocence as the poor stenographer typed away at the argument.

“You know that’s what you were doing.” Andy turned back to his witness, “I apologise, Lieutenant, please could you continue what you were saying.”

“Thank you, ADA Barber,” the Lieutenant looked uncomfortable, ‘I was speaking about why we suspected the fire to be arson. The burn patterns indicated that there was an accelerant used.” 

Andy pulled out a picture and walked towards the witness, “Lieutenant Burns, are these the burn patterns you were referring to? Please note for the record that the prosecution is showing the witness exhibit 12.”

“Yes, that is the pattern.” Andy retrieved the exhibit from the witness and thanked him for his time. It was your turn to question the witness.

“Lieutenant Burns, in your professional opinion, is there any other reason that could have caused the fire?” you hoped that Andy had not had the time to completely look through the disclosure yet and would not have seen the exhibit you would rely on.

“It is highly unlikely due to the amount of accelerant found at the scene,” the firefighter shifted in his chair.

“Is it not possible that the accelerant found its way into the building without a person?” you picked out an exhibit and handed it to him, “please note that defence is giving the witness exhibit 52.”

It was a report on the building’s previous use as an oil storage unit. It was evident from the state of disrepair that the building had been fairly dangerous and the previous owners had not cleaned off any oil spills. 

“Please could you read out the report, Lieutenant Burns.” you had a smug smile on your lips that you tried your hardest to suppress. Andy’s hands were clenched into fists as he watched it all unfold in front of him.

“After an inspection of the property, Unit 42, it was found that the building was unsafe to be in and should be foreclosed immediately.” the Lieutenant looked at you and you nodded for him to continue reading it. “There was evident oil spillage on multiple surfaces of the building including but not exclusive to the floor, walls, and ceiling.”

“Please could you read out the author of the report, and when it was written.”

“Lieutenant Cole Burns, dated 24th April 2020.”

“Would it be possible for a fire to have started without the presence of a person, Lieutenant?” you raised your eyebrow and turned to give Andy a victorious smile.

“In certain cases...there could be a chemical reaction that would cause a fire,” the Lieutenant shifted in his seat under your intense gaze, “it would be possible.”

“And as such, in a building that is known to have been unsafe due to a mixture of chemical spillages and one with oil, could that cause a fire?” 

“Yes. The oil would act as an accelerant.”

“Counsel, would you still like to try and get your boy to take the stand?” the smug grin on your face was now undeniable. 

“Objection, form.” Andy rose from his seat and you turned back to glare at him. There was nothing wrong with your line of questioning, nor was there anything wrong with your phrasing of it.

“I’ll object--” You cut Andy off once more and roll your eyes. 

“Your boy, over there,” you pointed at the witness, “has-”

“I’ll object to your blatant sidebar there,” Andy grew tense and you knew that you were getting under his skin, “furthermore, Counsel, my witness is a decorated firefighter. He is a Lieutenant. Show him some respect.”

There was then a short break. You stormed out of the courtroom to get a cup of coffee and to get away from Andy. The man infuriated you. But it brought you so much delight to wind him up.

---

You checked your phone to find a text from your friend: 1 Attachment Image.  Just as you were about to open it, another popped up.  Check out who’s alone and getting wasted at O’Leary’s.

You opened the conversation to find a picture of Andy Barber, mid-gulp of a boilermaker at the bar.

Seriously?  With the deposition continuing tomorrow? you typed quickly in reply, and sent it.

You must have seriously gotten to him, she answered with a shrugging emoji.

You erased your apartment from the map destination on your phone and put in O’Leary’s Pub instead. Maybe a drink would do you good. Or so you thought.

“Well well well,” you greeted with a grin as you stepped up to the bar, lavishing in the way his face dropped when he saw you, “look who’s drinkin’ away the loser blues.”

“I haven’t lost,” he frowned and sighed. It was heavy and resignatory. He was tired of you. That much was clear.

“Yet,” you added with a wink.  “Tell me something, Barber.  How is it that you manage to convince everyone you’re a perfect angel, in spite of everything you’ve done?  I swear, if I had stolen the valedictorian title from you, everyone would’ve called me a bitch.”

“Oh, people still call you a bitch,” he reassured, casually lifting his beer to go for another gulp.

You slapped the glass out of his hand and watched it crash onto the floor.  He looked at the foamy mess on the ground before turning to you.  

“Fucking seriously?!” he exclaimed as you tried to stifle both a laugh and a scream.

You looked up instinctively at the sound of the door opening, only to see Andy in the reflection behind you.

“This is the women’s washroom-- can’t you read?” you quipped before looking at your own reflection again. As best as you tried to avoid Andy, his presence was undeniable. There was a blatant shift in any room he entered.

He said nothing, shutting the door behind him and stepping up to you.  You continued washing your hands as if you weren’t suddenly feeling dizzy and your heart wasn’t racing. Andy, however, could see through your faux-composed demeanour. 

As you dried your hands, you felt him right behind you, nearly pressing against you, the smell of alcohol and cologne drifting towards you while you threw the paper towel away.

You turned to leave but he was still standing there, caging you in.  Something in his eyes was fiery, more aggressive than you’d seen in him before. Just as you began to side step to get away, he grabbed the sink with both hands from either side and you were trapped.

“Mr. Barber,” you began, your voice coming out much weaker and breathier than it had sounded in your head, “what… what are you doing?”

He leaned in and his breath tickled your ear and neck.  “You,” he whispered, ignoring your question, “are impossible.” The smell of alcohol was equal parts strong and alluring.

“I’m just trying to throw you off, Andy,” you shrugged, “I know you can handle it.  Or, I thought you could.  You need to learn to ignore me.”

His hand moved from the sink to your arm, holding you down tightly.

“I can’t,” he growled.  “I can’t ignore you.  Since that first day at Harvard, you have been… my kryptonite.”

“You’re Superman in this example?” you chuckled trying to break some of the tension.

And that was it.  He grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you with an erratic neediness.  You surprised even yourself by reciprocating instantly, reaching up to grab at his shirt.  He slid his hands down to grab at the back of your thighs, lifting you up onto the faux-marble countertop.

“Fuck,” you mumbled as his hands reached up your skirt, pushing it up from the inside. Goosebumps rose all over your body as it was exposed to the air.

“God, I hate you,” he growled as he pulled you closer to him, pushing his clothed erection against your panties.  You whimpered at the feeling as he rolled his hips and you could feel every detail of his cock through the trousers. 

You didn’t reply, instead slipping your hands between your bodies to start working open his belt and pants. You fumbled with them unsure if it was the alcohol or the anticipation that rendered you useless. He kissed you again, his tongue aggressively sliding into your mouth as one of his hands still held your face with a possessive grip.

Didn’t take long for you to get his cock out and instantly start stroking it, gasping at how hot and hard it felt in your palm.  He barely managed to get your hand off him before he was pulling your underwear aside and lining up with your entrance.

“Somebody could walk in,” you warned him.

“Should’ve thought of that before you let me get this far,” he hissed in reply.

And then he pushed into you all at once, slamming his hips into yours.

“Fuck!” you yelped.  Before you could even process it he was moving again, thrusting into you quickly, ruthlessly.

He pulled back and reached up to your blazer, pushing it aside so he could unceremoniously rip your shirt open, sending some buttons popping off and flying into unknown corners.  He leaned down and left wet kisses down your chest and between your breasts, pushing them together against his face before pulling one out of your bra to suck on your nipple.

You looked down at him-- brown hair falling out of its meticulously styled shape, cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol, eyes shut as he diligently focused on tasting you, lips open to take your skin into his mouth-- and wondered how the fuck you were doing this with Andy fucking Barber.  

His teeth grazed your nipple and a surge of wetness seeped from your walls around his cock.  Both of you moaned.

He stood up suddenly and pulled out of you, manhandling you until you were turned around and bent over the countertop.  He took a moment to pull down your underwear and get a good look at your ass before slamming into you again; you had to put your hand on the mirror to keep from being thrown forward by his brutal thrusts.

He held your hips in place as he fucked you, his head falling back a little when he bit his lip. A low moan escaped his lips as he felt your walls snug around him.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned as he buried himself in you as deep as possible with each movement.  

Your eyes fluttered shut but suddenly he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you up, wrapping his other arm around your waist.  “Open your eyes,” he demanded, and you did.  “Look at yourself.”

You looked pretty fucking wasted, honestly.  Shirt torn open, bra half pulled-down underneath it, skirt hiked up to your waist and below it all, his annoyingly-perfect cock sliding into you, slick with the undeniable evidence of your arousal. 

“I can tell you’re gonna come,” he grinned, biting down on your earlobe teasingly.  “You’re squeezing me.  You love this.”

You didn’t even have the heart to deny it, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder and moaning louder. 

“Gonna come getting fucked in a dirty pub bathroom?  God, you’re filthy,” he hissed.  “My little fuckdoll. Say that you’re my dirty little fuckdoll.”

You gasped and reached back to grab the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.  He obliged, running his hand up to palm at your breast. Unable to speak, Andy gripped your jaw until you stuttered it out between moans.  “Yours,” you whimpered, “I’m your little-- fuck-- your fuckdoll, Andy.”

He hissed and sped up his thrusts, and you were sure your knees would buckle.  Pleasure was burning through you and making everything feel hot and tingly and numb.  You just accepted it when he pushed you back and held you down by the back of your neck as he fucked you harder and faster than ever.

“Fucking say my name when you come,” he demanded.  “Don’t forget who’s fucking you like this.”

You were afraid you’d scream it and get you both caught, but you couldn’t stop yourself.  “Oh god, Andy, oh my god, don’t stop!” you begged.

He did anything but stop, just groaning as he moved faster until you were a complete mess, your walls rippling at the same time as your mouth opened into a silent scream while you came.

“Oh fuck,” he whimpered at the feeling of your orgasm, quickly spiralling into his own.  He growled one last time as he pushed into you and painted your insides with his seed.  “Fuuuuck yes,” he groaned as he pulled out.  You tried to get up but he kept holding you down so he could watch his come spill out of you and drip down your legs.

“Better clean up before somebody comes in,” he smiled as he zipped up his pants, slapped your ass, and started to walk away.

“Been a pleasure as always, Mr. Barber,” you frowned, pulling your blazer back on and buttoning it to cover where your shirt couldn’t.

“I could tell,” he winked.  “You’re as tight as you were in college.  You need to get laid more often.”

(next chapter)

[babbushka]

Sing It Now, Sing It Somehow

Charlie Barber x Reader ; 2k

A sequel to this! <3

                                                        --------

What’s it about?

Seems kinda weird.

Something to do with the fight about love.

If that’s what it is,

Well I hope they win.

For what is a life,

If it’s lived,

Without love?

He’s got you in his arms, when he blinks awake. Your skin, sleep warmed and soft under his palms, the steady rise and fall of your shoulders from the breathing that Charlie keeps in time is a soothing lull to consciousness. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon of the suburban neighborhood when you roll over into his embrace, and he welcomes you, welcomes you into his arms, tucks you in against him and lets out a content sigh.

You snore, but that’s okay. He’s pretty sure he snores too, he’ll have to ask you when you’re up. He has so many things he wants to ask you, tell you, all the time. But most of it has to wait, too much of it still too raw, too soon.

It doesn’t matter right now, he’s got you in his arms, and you’re starting to stir awake just from your internal clock. You always were an early riser, it was one of the thousands and thousands of things that Charlie loved about you. And when you scrunch your face up against the sun that hits your closed eyes as it rises higher and higher, he adds that one to the list too.

He’s about to kiss you awake like always, when the door flings open and your eyes snap open, the both of you startled and yanking the covers up over your naked bodies so Charlie’s eight year old son doesn’t see your bare chest and is traumatized forever.

“Dad, (Y/N)!” He greets you both too loudly, seemingly entirely unaware of the state of undress the both of you are in.

“Shit – Henry, what did I say about knocking before coming in?” Charlie scrubs his face with his hand, groans and stretches into the day as you clutch the sheets around your body.

“Is it today? Can we celebrate today?” Henry is bright eyed and bushy tailed, for all intents and purposes. He’s got the biggest toothiest smile on your face that makes you smile, even more so when Charlie asks,

“Celebrate what, honey?” With a crack and pop of his neck and shoulders.

“Hanukkah!” Henry laughs, like his dad was being silly, was being difficult on purpose.

You smile so warmly, stretch the sleep from your calves and reach over to pick your phone up off the side-table, check the time. It was definitely the right day this time, you think with a fond chuckle to yourself, remembering how Charlie and Henry had worked so hard to throw a surprise celebration a few weeks back, not realizing the different dates.

“Yes – ” You say, and he immediately gets ready to start bouncing off the walls, so you have to put a finger up for a specification, “ – but that’s not until sundown.”

“When’s sundown?” Henry groans with a frown, entirely too much like his father, and Charlie is sitting up now shuffling himself against the headboard, careful to keep the sheets up around his stomach and hips.

“Like six o’clock.” He says, making him groan even louder. “But you and I are going to go out and run errands in a bit to get the stuff for it all, okay?” Charlie tries to make it better, and you help to sweeten the deal.

“Why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll make some breakfast for us and we can all plan it out. How does that sound?” You ask Henry, who then looks between the two of you excitedly once more.

“Can we have waffles?” He asks. He loves your waffles, and every time its your turn to make breakfast, they’re always the first thing he requests.

“I’m going to make something even better; challah french toast.” You tell him in a whisper, like it’s some big special secret, and his eyes go wide at the foot of the bed, never having heard of that before.

“What’s challah?” He asks, trying to pronounce it the same but getting it kind of wrong in a way that doesn’t really matter, not this early anyway.

“It’s that pretty bread you liked two weeks ago, the one that looks braided, remember?” You try and jog his memory.

“Yes -- okay!” He races out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, letting you and Charlie sink back down into the mattress with an embarrassed laugh.

You don’t say anything to one another, not yet. You only roll yourself over so that you’re leaning on his stomach, chin propped up on your hands that are propped up on his chest, and he takes both of his hands and smooths them down the sides of your head, tucking your hair behind your ears and smiling apologetically at his son’s behavior.

You press a kiss to his chest, the spot right between his pecs where the muscles create a little dip between them. Charlie slides his hands down your back, holds you against him, but you have no intention on going anywhere, not for a while anyway.  

Sing it now, sing it somehow.

Sing it to the dark in your darkest hour.

Sing it to the mountain till the mountain falls,

Falls into the ground

Doesn’t make a sound

Doesn’t make a sound.

At the store, things aren’t nearly as hectic as they were last time. Charlie knows where everything is that he needs, all the ingredients and whatever else exactly where they were last time. Except this time things are in much shorter supply because it’s actually the holiday now, actually the right time to be celebrating.

“How come there’s so much more Christmas stuff?” Henry asks, and Charlie sighs.

“Christmas does kind of take over, doesn’t it?” Charlie answers with a question of his own, a little annoyed at the huge display of red and green, and the tiny corner of blue and silver.

He never paid any attention to it before, but now that he goes looking for it, now that he opens his eyes and his mind up to trying to see it, he gets frustrated. Henry does too, and for whatever reason that makes Charlie proud, proud that he’s raising his son to be more open, more compassionate.

He wonders if Nicole ever gave a shit about Hanukkah, but then again, why would she?

He makes a mental note to have Henry call her later, just so she can’t complain that she hasn’t heard from him in a while.

“Dad?” Henry asks, seemingly for the second time, and Charlie snaps out of his daze, looks at his son who is raising an eyebrow at him in that way only eight year olds can really get away with.

“Sorry, what’s up?” Charlie asks, shaking the frustration away as Henry points behind him.

“You passed the applesauce.” He says, and Charlie lets out a deep breath.

“Applesauce, yes.” Charlie says, switches back into happier thoughts, thoughts of you.

“And sour cream.” Henry reminds him too, making Charlie nod, getting more and more into gear, into celebrating mode.

“And sour cream.” He agrees, as the two of them make their way back down the store.  

For what is a life,

If it’s lived,

Without love?

Dinner is a loud affair, loud and exciting. Charlie and Henry help you cook – they chop vegetables together in the kitchen as you’re stationed by the stove, careful of the hot oil as you fry up crispy lacy edged latkes. The roast is in the oven and music is playing courtesy of the Alexa that somehow knew about a Hanukkah station on Spotify.

There’s so much laughter in the house, in the kitchen, that Charlie managed to forget what the holiday is actually about. It isn’t until you’re all sitting at the table, and Henry asks, and you explain, that he remembers it’s about love and faith and hardship, that it’s about survival and perseverance and justice.

Despite it all, despite the too-many attempts at genocide, you’re still here. You’re still celebrating, and what’s more is you’re celebrating with him, with Charlie. You’re patient with him when he storms out of the room after losing dreidel again, his son laughing and rolling his eyes at his dad who would always be competitive, so it would seem.

The food is good, too good, and Charlie wolfs it down like he’s never going to eat again – and with the amount of oil that you used to cook with, he’s not so sure he will – much to your amusement and Henry’s embarrassment. There’s something that really warms his heart about that, Charlie thinks, about how Henry wants you to like him, wants you to stay.  

Charlie wants you to stay too.

From the look in your eye, and from the way you bend over to whisper something funny into Henry’s ear, no doubt at his expense for being such a sore loser at a game of chance, he knows you’re not going anywhere.

Sing it now, sing it somehow.

Sing it to the dark in your darkest hour.

Sing it to the mountain till the mountain falls,

Falls into the ground

Doesn’t make a sound.

At night, after the candles have burned away into small pools of oil in the bottom of the hanukkiah, after Henry has fallen asleep with a stomach full of kugel and latkes and too much gelt, after the world outside has quieted, do you and Charlie retreat to bed.

This is something special, he knows. The first night of the holiday, yes, but the first night of what he hopes are many holidays. He can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop imagining doing this year after year with you. You’ve only been officially openly dating for a few months, only been out in the public eye together for a little while…but he’s loved you for so long, he can hardly believe that he has you.

Wonders how the fuck he got so lucky to have you want him back, so lucky that you’ve decided to keep him.

Him and his broken heart and his tense family and his history and all the baggage from his past, all the baggage that keeps getting brought up and up and up by a woman three thousand miles away.

He won the lawsuit, but in a lot of ways, it still feels like he lost.

But then again, in the end of it all, he thinks about all that he gained from the bullshit that had been the past year, all the bullshit from the divorce and the separation and the fights. He had his son, his had his job in New York, and he had you.

And really, as long as he had that, he’d be okay.

You kiss him, knowing what he’s thinking. You kiss him and he opens up to you, lets his soul pour out into your mouth, the honey sticky sweet of your lips encouraging him to relax, to hum against your tongue. Your eyelashes tickle his cheek where they brush up against him, and he almost wants to cry when you pull him into a hug, your legs slipping between his, the two of you tangling up under the sheets.

He kisses you, and he tries to put away the thoughts for now, hell bent on enjoying this time with you, this special sacred time that you’ve chosen to share with him and his son. But his son is asleep, and you’re very much awake, and when you grin against his own smile, when you roll onto your back and pull him on top of you, he knows.

He’s okay.

Sing it now, sing it somehow.

Sing it to the dark in your darkest hour.

Sing it to the mountain till the mountain falls,

Falls into the ground

Doesn’t make a sound.

                                                         ------------

Tagging some Charlie loving friends! <33  @driverficarchive​​​    @adamsnackdriver​​​ @dreamboatdriver​​​ @kyloxfem​​​ @solotriplets​​​ @tinyplanet-explorers​​​ @candycanes19​​​ @callmehopeless​​​ @kylo-renne​​​ xsister-serpent @girlyisthatweirdkid phoebewalker04 @stylelovechild​​​ @formerly-anonhamster​​  @magikevalynn​​​ @ccorleones @whiskey-bumblebee​​ @scheherazades-horcrux​

[allenac-blog1]

Silkscreened shirts and tank tops perform a double duty

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[berniesrevolution]

Abdul El-Sayed remembers coughing up black phlegm each night after spending the day in the smog-choked markets of Cairo and Alexandria, Egypt, during summer visits to his grandparents, who were poor vegetable sellers.

It was a jolting experience for a kid born and raised in a manicured Michigan suburb. Yet when El-Sayed started working as a doctor in Detroit years later, he realized pollution wasn’t just some distant problem. In the shadow of the Motor City’s infamous trash incinerator ― where some 650,000 tons of garbage is burned annually, much of it from the surrounding suburbs ― El-Sayed saw soaring rates of asthma and lung cancer in majority-black neighborhoods.

That’s part of what inspired the 33-year-old physician to enter politics, first as Detroit’s top health official and now as a Democratic candidate for Michigan governor.

“In the 30 minutes it took to go from the community I grew up in to the city I worked in, you’d see a 10-year difference in life expectancy,” El-Sayed told HuffPost in a recent phone interview. “I see that as the human cost of failing our environment and failing sustainability.”  

He pointed to Detroit’s high rates of asthma; to lead poisoning in Flint, Michigan; to the toxic sludge left behind in Kent County by the company behind Hush Puppies shoes.

“When we poison our air and water, we are poisoning people,” El-Sayed said. “Nowhere is that more clear than the state of Michigan now. When you talk about Flint, when you talk about asthma, when you talk about Kent County.”

In response to those failures, El-Sayed has laid out one of the most progressive environmental platforms of the 2018 election cycle, setting what could be the new standard for a national Democratic Party that has so far failed to rally around serious policies to deal with climate change and water contamination.

He has plans to increase environmental agency budgets, replace lead pipes and establish a green infrastructure bank to shore up funding for renewable energy projects. He has vowed to shut down an aging oil pipeline that is putting the Great Lakes at risk and sworn off all donations from fossil fuel companies. And he has articulated his vision in terms of tangible public health benefits, outlining what some see as a template for a populist approach to climate and environmental issues.

“This looks like a national model,” said RL Miller, president of the super PAC Climate Hawks Vote.

El-Sayed will face a crowded field in Michigan’s Aug. 7 Democratic primary. The eight candidates include former state Sen. Gretchen Whitmer, whose mainstream progressive campaign emphasizing skilled trades and a $15 minimum wage is backed by influential labor unions; by EMILY’s List, which raises funds for Democratic female candidates who support abortion rights; and by former Democratic Gov. Jim Blanchard. Whitmer is widely seen as the front-runner and has already raised over $3 million.

El-Sayed may face another challenge as well: whether he’s even eligible to run, due to an obscure state law that requires a candidate to have voted in the state in the four years prior to their run. He was registered to vote in New York while he attended medical school there from 2013 to 2015.

(Continue Reading)

[rabbishlomonachman]

Chanukah: Jewish Festival of Lights

Chanukah: The Jewish Festival of Lights

“The mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights is from sunset until traffic in the marketplace ceases”

Rabbi Shlomo Nachman © November29,2018 (updated November 18,2020)

http://learnemunah.com/holidays/chanukah.html

What is Chanukah?

The Gemara asks: What is Chanukah, and why are lights kindled on it? The Gemara answers: The Sages taught in Megillat Ta’anit: "On the twenty-fifth of Kislev, the days of Chanukah are eight." One may not eulogize on them and one may not fast on them [i.e. we are prohibited from celebrating as though we accomplished something great or to mourn as though we are helpless orphans]. What is the reason? When the Greeks entered the Sanctuary they defiled all the oils that were in the Sanctuary by touching them. And when the Hasmonean monarchy overcame them and emerged victorious, they searched and found only one cruse of oil that was placed with the seal of the High Priest, undisturbed by the Greeks. There was sufficient oil there to light the Chanukiah or Temple candelabrum for only a single day. Because of the strong emunah of the Hasmonean Jewish leaders however a miracle occurred and they lit the candelabrum from that single pure stock for eight days while new oil was prepared. The next year the Sages instituted those days and made them holidays with recitations of hallel and special thanksgiving in prayer and blessings. We remember and are inspired today as we confront our current and future enemies who seek to destroy us.

When is Chanukah?

The biblical Jewish calendar is lunar based. Modern secular calendars are Pagan and solar based. In order to maintain the proper seasons of our days of observance and celebration the sages, most notably Hillel HaNasi or 'the Prince' (although he did not personally finalize the task) added an occasional leap year to our calendars in order to maintain their seasonal accuracy. This change first appears in a responsum of Rabbi Hai Gaon, written circa 992 and cited by Rabbi Abraham bar Hiyya in his work from 1123 CE, known as Sefer Ha'ibbur. This important citation specifically references "670 of the Seleucid era" as the year the adjustment was implemented. This date corresponds to the modern year 358/359 CE. Here's how it works: During a Jewish leap year, which occurs seven times in a 19-year cycle (or approximately once every three years), there is an added month called "Adar I." Adar I is inserted before the regular month of Adar (which called "Adar II" in leap years). This adjustment successfully aligns the lunar and solar yearly cycles, ensuring that the holidays fall in their proper seasons. Due to this adjustment, the twenty-fifth of Kislev, which is the first day of Chanukah, usually occurs in the month of December according to modern calendars, but varies a bit year to year. Without this change our calendar would be out of sync with the biblical and historic narrative as we find with the lunar observe of Ramadan upon the Muslims. As Rabbinic Jews we embrace the calculations of Hillel HaNasi and the insertion of the leap year.

Jewish Year 5780: sunset December 22, 2019 - nightfall December 30, 2019    (first candle: night of 12/22; last candle: night of 12/29)

   Jewish Year 5781: sunset December 10, 2020 - nightfall December 18, 2020    (first candle: night of 12/10; last candle: night of 12/17)

   Jewish Year 5782: sunset November 28, 2021 - nightfall December 6, 2021    (first candle: night of 11/28; last candle: night of 12/5)

   Jewish Year 5783: sunset December 18, 2022 - nightfall December 26, 2022    (first candle: night of 12/18; last candle: night of 12/25)

   Jewish Year 5784: sunset December 7, 2023 - nightfall December 15, 2023    (first candle: night of 12/7; last candle: night of 12/14)

How to Kindle the Lights. Despite some historic debates standard observance methodologies have largely been accepted.

Rava said: One must kindle another light in addition to the Chanukah lights in order to use its light, as it is prohibited to use the light of the Chanukah lights. And if there is a bonfire, he need not light an additional light, as he can use the light of the bonfire. However, if he is an important person, who is unaccustomed to using the light of a bonfire, even though there is a bonfire, he must kindle another light.

The Sages taught in a baraita: The basic mitzvah of Chanukah is each day to have a light kindled by a person, the head of the household, for himself and his household. [Some hold to different traditions of lighting more than one Chanukiah however the lighting a single household Chanukiah is standard and acceptable]. Traditionally, on the first night, one candle is placed at the far right of the Chanukiah. The shammus candle is lit and three berakhot (blessings) are recited: These are l'hadlik neir (a general prayer over candles), she-asah nisim (a prayer thanking G-d for performing miracles for our ancestors at this time), and she-hekhianu (a general prayer thanking G-d for allowing us to reach this time of year). After reciting the blessings, the first candle is  lit using the shammus candle, then the shammus candle is placed in its holder. The candles can be lit any time after dark but before midnight as is written: "The mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights is from sunset until traffic in the marketplace ceases." The candles are normally allowed to burn out on their own after a minimum of 1/2 hour, but if necessary they can be blown out at any time after that 1/2 hour. On Shabbat, Chanukah candles are normally lit before the Shabbat candles, but may be lit any time before candle lighting time (or 18 minutes before sunset Friday). Candles cannot be blown out on Shabbat (due to the sabbath rule against igniting or extinguishing a flame). Because the Chanukah candles must remain burning until a minimum of 1/2 hour after dark (about 90 minutes total burning time on Shabbat), some Chanukah candles won't get the job done. On one of the earlier nights, you might want to make sure your candles last long enough. If they don't, you might want to use something else for Chanukah on Shabbat, such as tea lights or even Shabbat candles.

The Order of Lighting.

I will share the main difference of opinion here, however it is most common and completely appropriate to observe the lighting order of the House of Hillel (or Beit Hillel). The Beit Shammai say: On the first day one kindles eight lights and, from there on, gradually decreases the number of lights until, on the last day of Chanukah, he kindles one light. And Beit Hillel say: On the first day one kindles one light, and from there on, gradually increases the number of lights until, on the last day, he kindles eight lights. Again, the later has become the standard in most communities. In either case, the candles are kindled in the opposite direction from how they are placed in the Chanukiah. They are kindled from left to right,   so that the newest candle is always lit first. The shammus (or servant candle) is always lit first and  used to light all the   other candles one by one according to the day's count.

Why this difference in opinion?

Ulla said: There were two amora’im in the West, Eretz Yisrael, who disagreed with regard to this dispute, Rabbi Yosei bar Avin and Rabbi Yosei bar Zevida. One said that the reason for Beit Shammai’s opinion is that the number of lights corresponds to the incoming days, i.e., the future. On the first day, eight days remain in Chanukah, one kindles eight lights, and on the second day seven days remain, one kindles seven, etc. The reason for Beit Hillel’s opinion is that the number of lights corresponds to the outgoing days. Each day, the number of lights corresponds to the number of the days of Chanukah that were already observed. One authority noted that the reason for Beit Shammai’s opinion is that the number of lights corresponds to the bulls of the festival of Sukkot: Thirteen were sacrificed on the first day and each succeeding day one fewer was sacrificed (Numbers 29:12–31). The rebuttal for Beit Hillel’s opinion is that the number of lights is based on the principle: One elevates to a higher level in matters of sanctity and one does not downgrade. Therefore, if the objective is to have the number of lights correspond to the number of days, there is no alternative to increasing their number with the passing of each day. Our sages debate everything of course and there is great truth to be found in all of their opinions. In the execution, it is usually minhag (one own tradition) that guides us without rejecting the other. In other words, we agree to disagree.

The Main Thing: Am Y'israel Chai!

The Sages taught in a baraita: It is a mitzvah to place the Chanukah lamp at the entrance to one’s house on the outside, so that all can see it. If one lives upstairs, one places it at the window adjacent to the public domain. However in times of danger, when the Gentiles issue decrees prohibiting the kindling of our lights for instance, one places the Chanukiah on a table and that is sufficient to fulfill the obligation. While the external performance of our various Traditions is important, we must be realistic as well. HaShem considers our emunah and kavanah (our active faith and intentions). In all things we are commanded to chose life -- Deuteronomy 30:19.

In Addition to the Lights

It is traditional to eat fried food during Chanukah because of the significance of oil to the story line. There are many traditional recipes available to choose from. Another recent tradition is the giving of modest gifts each of the eight nights. This tradition is largely influenced by the Christian holiday of Christmas. The only traditional gift of the holiday is "gelt," small amounts of money that may be given or earned playing dreidel. Giving gifts is fine but please, no Chanukah bushes! Likewise, while the electric menorahs may be cute decorations, they can not fulfill the requirement of kindling the Lights. Playing dreidel is quite popular. This is a game of chance utilizing a generally square spinning top with Hebrew letter letters. Most people play for matchsticks, pennies, candies, or chocolate coins. It is that during the time of Antiochus' oppression it was illegal to study Torah. Jews would conceal their real activity by playing gambling games with a dreidel, which was both common and legal. Whenever an official or inspector was within sight they reverted to the game lest they rouse suspicion. Dreidels are marked with four Hebrew letters: Nun, Gimel, Hei and Shin. These letters stand for the Hebrew phrase "Nes Gadol Hayah Sham", a great miracle happened there, referring to the miracle of the oil. In modern Israel the phrase is, 'A Great Miracle Happened Here - Nes Gadol Haya Poh'. The letters also stand for the Yiddish words nit (nothing), gantz (all), halb (half) and shtell (put), which are the rules of the game! There are some variations in game play, but essentially everyone puts in one coin. A person spins the dreidel. If it lands on Nun, nothing happens; on Gimel, you get the whole pot; if Hei, you get half of the pot; and if Shin, you put one in. When the pot is empty, everybody puts one in. Keep playing until one person has everything. Then, because we want only shalom, the gelt is usually redivided among everyone.

[det-vackraste]

99 questions I stole somewhere so I could answer them

1: Do you sleep with your closet doors open or closed? I enjoy having them neatly closed, but I always hang clothes and stuff over them, so they end up being open 2: Do you take the shampoos and conditioner bottles from hotel? Sometimes. If they've felt nice when I've used them. 3: Do you sleep with your sheets tucked in or out? Tucked in. 4: Have you ever stolen a street sign before? No, but my dad stole one with a wild boar on it 5: Do you like to use post-it notes?<br> I do, never actually do it though.<br> 6: Do you cut out coupons but then never use them? Yeah.. 7: Would you rather be attacked by a big bear or a swarm of a bees? Swarm of bees? 8: Do you have freckles? I do, but they're mostly visible after I've gotten some sun on my face. 9: Do you always smile for pictures? Very often, but I also do this very stupid thing where I sort of scrunch up my nose and mouth when people take my picture. Don't know why.. 10: What is your biggest pet peeve? Cliché, but chewing with an open mouth. 11: Do you ever count your steps when you walk? Not that I can think of, but I'm easily influenced, so I might start unwillingly now. Thanks. 12: Have you ever peed in the woods? Lol yeah 13: What about pooped in the woods? Lol yeah 14: Do you ever dance even if theres no music playing? Yeah. 15: Do you chew your pens and pencils? No, but I bite my nails when I'm restless 16: How many people have you slept with this week? One 17: What size is your bed? Queen size (?), 160cm 18: What is your Song of the week? Only Angel, by Harry Styles 19: Is it okay for guys to wear pink? Yes. YES. 20: Do you still watch cartoons? Don't really watch tv, so it doesn't happen that often, but when I do I enjoy it. 21: Whats your least favorite movie? I am legend. Fuck that movie. You all know what I mean. 22: Where would you bury hidden treasure if you had some? Somewhere too obvious for people to bother looking there. 23: If you're a girl, bra size? If you're a guy, pants size? Oh, let's see if I can get this right in some sort of international size.. 34DD (75E in Swedish sizes) 24: What do you dip a chicken nugget in? I don't eat chicken nuggets, but I would dip them in ketchup. 25: What is your favorite food? Tacos. End of story. 26: What movies could you watch over and over and still love? Spirit, Hercules.. probably more. I'm very easily entertained by movies. 27: Last person you kissed/kissed you? My boyfriend. 28: Were you ever a boy/girl scout? Nope. 29: Would you ever strip or pose nude in a magazine? Don't like being public, so I wouldn't wanna be in a magazine. I could probably strip in a small club or at a party though. Wouldn't mind that too much. Could be fun. 30: When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper? Wow... eeh.... like 7 years ago when I wrote a letter to future me. 31: Can you change the oil on a car? In theory yes. Never actually done it though. 32: Ever gotten a speeding ticket? Nein. I'm lame in traffic. 33: Ever ran out of gas? No, close though. 34: Favorite kind of sandwich? Tomato, Swedish präst cheese, some salt and pepper on a nice sourdough bread. 35: Best thing to eat for breakfast? I really enjoy oatmeal with fresh blueberries and raspberries, and some cinnamon. 36: What is your usual bedtime? Depends on if I have work the day after. If I do, I try to be asleep by like 11pm. If I don't, I usually go to sleep at like 1am or something like that. 37: Are you lazy? Yeah.. 38: When you were a kid, what did you dress up as for Halloween? Didn't really dress up that much for halloween. Live in a tiny village, so there weren't really that many opportunities. 39: What is your Chinese astrological sign? Rat I think..? 40: Are you horny? Man, most of the time yeah. 41: Do you have any magazine subscriptions? No I don't, had one when I was like ten. 42: Which are better legos or lincoln logs? Legos of course. What even are Lincoln logs? 43: Are you stubborn? I can be... but like in a low-key way. 44: Who is better...Leno or Letterman? Those names don't ring a bell, really... so I don't know 45: Ever watch soap operas? Not my thing really. 46: Are you afraid of heights? If I'm standing on a high edge, I am, but not otherwise. 47: Do you sing in the car? Lol yeah... too much and too loud. I think people on the streets can hear me go. 48: Do you sing in the shower? No, for some reason I don't really do that? 49: Do you dance in the car? Yeah 50: Ever used a gun? I've used an air rifle, but that's about it. Doesn't really count maybe? 51: Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer? Uhhh...? Like... three and a half years ago for picture day? 52: Do you think musicals are cheesy? Yeah. They are. Love them though. 53: Is Christmas stressful? Can be. Especially when I've postponed Christmas gift shopping. 54: Ever eat a pierogi? Yeah man, made 'em myself many times. 55: Favorite type of fruit pie? Blueberry or rhubarb 56: Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid? Okey. So... I wanted to be a ballerina that danced around in a flower shop. No lie. 57: Do you believe in ghosts? Don't know if I believe in ghosts, per se, but I think it seems fishy that death is just nothing? You know? 58: Ever have a Deja-vu feeling? Too many times, man. 59: Take a vitamin daily? I try to take vitamin D sort of daily in the winter, to sort of compensate for the lack of sun we have here in the north during winter. 60: Wear slippers? When I'm somewhere sunny on vacation. 61: Wear a bath robe? When I borrow my boyfriend's to run to the bathroom at night. 62: What do you wear to bed? Nothing. Everyone should. 63: First concert? I think it was Amy Diamond, this really young, Swedish sweetheart that was popular like 12 years ago in Sweden. Saw her when I was like eight. Good one. Besides that, my first real concert was the ark I think.. Great Swedish band! 64: Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart? Don't have any of those in Sweden, and can't remember if I've been to any of them when I've travelled, so.... none? 65: Nike or Adidas? Nike? 66: Cheetos Or Fritos? Cheetos? Maybe? Never had 'em though. 67: Peanuts or Sunflower seeds? I like sunflower seeds, man. 68: Ever hear of the group Tres Bien? Nah. 69: Ever take dance lessons? Yeah I did. A took various kinds of dance classes for like six years. Classic ballet, street, jazz, musical.. really fun! 70: Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing? Oh wow... man I don't even know what I picture myself doing. As long as they're happy with what they're doing, I don't care all that much. 71: Can you curl your tongue? Yeaaa 72: Ever won a spelling bee? Never been in one 73: Have you ever cried because you were so happy? I cry quite easily, so yeah. 74: Own any record albums? I do, very many. Enjoy the feeling of actually having the album. 75: Own a record player? Not anymore :/ 76: Regularly burn incense? I used to, but then I got lazy. 77: Ever been in love? Am in love now. 78: Who would you like to see in concert? Would be cool to see Bastille or arctic monkeys, cause I haven't seen them. Other than that I've seen most of the ones I want to see live. 79: What was the last concert you saw? Uhh... I saw Hozier last February. But other than that the last concert I saw was probably with my friend's band, Royal Prospect. Check them out, they're great and also up and coming! 80: Hot tea or cold tea? Hot. But also cold. Both. 81: Tea or coffee? Tea. 82: Sugar or snickerdoodles? What in the hell is snickerdoodles? 83: Can you swim well? I can, yes. 84: Can you hold your breath without holding your nose? Yes. Is that a thing? 85: Are you patient? I can be very patient, but also childishly impatient. 86: DJ or band, at a wedding? Band. Jazzy ish. 87: Ever won a contest? Won a quiz at school once. Won chocolate. Good one. 88: Ever have plastic surgery? Nope. 89: Which are better black or green olives? Black. 90: Can you knit or crochet? I actually knit half a beanie in school like five or six years ago, but I barely knew what I was doing then, and definitely don't now. 91: Best room for a fireplace? In the bedroom, by the bed. But not too close. Be safe, kids. 92: Do you want to get married? Yes, I'd like that. 93: If married, how long have you been married? Am not married. In a 3+ years relationship though. 94: Who was your HS crush? My current boyfriend. 95: Do you cry and throw a fit until you get your own way? Not really.. 96: Do you have kids? Nope. 97: Do you want kids? Yes I do. 98: Whats your favorite color? Deep, Slytherin green, sunset ish orange, or any shade of grey. 99: Do you miss anyone right now? My friend, who's been backpacking for like four months now, and is home in June or July. Also my other friend, who lives in Scotland, but moves home soooooon. Also my boyfriend, whom I met two days ago. I'm lame.

[raincausespaininmybrain]

The Devil's Dance

((The following is passed down through old stories and hearsay. Michael Myers' Grandmother Ellie Carpenter told this story about her own Grandfather to Michael and Judith every October . Reader discretion is strongly advised:. ))

Down in the valley he could see the river. After walking in the heat it looked so refreshing. Gabriel Sanders came here for a new start. The preacher had come in search of a town in need. When Gabriel came upon the town of Silver city, Montana, he had found what he was looking for. Silver City was formerly a mining town and Saturday nights could be rowdy. But after all the drinking and fighting, the men-folk still needed the Lord, but the church on the edge of town was badly in need of repair. A couple of years later the town changed, all with the help of Gabriel Sanders.

The preacher sometimes baptized people in the river, and there were picnics afterwards. The town had come to rely on Gabriel Sanders for help in personal matters as well as public. One such time, there were two farmers fighting over a plot of land. So Gabriel and the sheriff, Ezra Cobb went out to settle the dispute and the rivals were friends again. Gabriel later met a school teacher named Margaret and soon after he was a family man with two children. Things were settling down for the preacher and his wife and they enjoyed life with his son and daughter.

Away from Silver City there was a homestead with an old oak tree. Nobody was living there until a middle aged woman bought the house and moved in. Time went by and she became the only family for three orphaned cousins. They were quiet and kept to themselves. The three teenage girls came into town often to hire workers. Some would work for them and others would refuse. The middle aged woman and the cousins slowly turned the homestead into a working farm. They were thriving while some were failing. People soon began to gossip about these strangers.

One late August evening there was a meeting, and Ezra Cobb was overwhelmed with panicked rumors and hearsay. Gabriel Sanders tried to keep the peace, but one phrase was repeated. "Witches!!" cussed Abigail Stone. "They're all witches!!" Abigail continued. The preacher's wife was trying to keep calm. People asked Ezra what he planned to do. "I can't do anything 'cause I don't know!" the sheriff replied. Abigail called Gabriel's name and said " What are you gong to do?" The preacher stood there quietly. "We gotta save our town!" exclaimed one resident. Some of the town folk agreed while others looked at the floor. A decision was reached by eight people to go to the homestead. Gabriel said he would go, after a stern look from his wife, Margaret.

Ezra Cobb tried to talk the group out of going but they shoved him to the ground. It was after dark when the posse reached the house and demanded answers. Once again Gabriel Sanders tried to keep the peace. One man in the party was stirring the rest up. The middle aged woman was knocked down as they rushed into the house. The three girls were brought outside. One man threw a rope over a branch of the oak tree. The trouble maker asked them if they had last words. The black haired girl spit on him. The brown haired girl was dragged over to the tree. The riled up crowd cheered as she was hanged. The preacher asked if the others would be hanged. The middle aged woman tried to get up but she was shot.

The posse brought over the blonde girl to the tree as another rope as thrown over the branches. "Any last words?" asked another man. She kicked him and he doubled over. An oil lamp was thrown into the house. The fire spread quickly and could be seen in town. "Burn 'em!" shouted one of the men. "Hang 'em!" said another. Gabriel raised voice asking for guidance. . The crowd overwhelms the preacher.

Ezra Cobb and three deputies rode up and stopped outside the gate. "POWWW" the rifle shots echo through the night. "All right!! Them girls had enough!!" Ezra shouted. One of the deputies gets off his horse. "There's already a heap of trouble!! Now everyone get on home!!" the sheriff exclaimed. The eight men start to get riled up when the deputy on the ground points his rifle at the crowd. The men soon depart with Gabriel being helped by the deputies. The black haired girl is left sobbing by the light of the burning house. The blonde girls sits next to her.

That October, the town of Silver City is planning to have the annual Hallowe'en party at the big dance hall. Everybody in town gets ready for the event. The people try to forget what happened that night two months ago and go about their daily routines. Friends greet friends, shop keepers greet customers. Folks come and go. Outside of town, the smoldering ruins of that homestead are long forgotten, except for two graves. The old farm is again in disrepair, but some say they see a fire out in that field at night.

A few days before Hallowe'en, Gabriel Sanders is in the saloon having his morning coffee and talking to friends. Nothing is out of the ordinary, but today the coffee tastes better than before. "That's our new cook, Marie." says the bartender, Joe. That afternoon, the preacher comes in to get more of the new coffee. The saloon is empty except for a few farmhands. Gabriel Sanders soon begins to feel drowsy and falls over. A blonde teenage girl comes out from the back and comments about the new menu. Gabriel soon finds himself staring up at the sky from inside a wagon headed out of town.

In a field, downhill from the burned house, the preacher tries to open his eyes. A large bonfire, a dead tree that was struck by lightening, and two deputies, who disappeared a couple of days before, staring blankly. A pair of hands grab Gabriel and drag him over to the dead tree. The bonfire lights up a cold dusk. The two deputies tie Gabriel Sanders to the tree. The men then fall dead where they stood. A black haired teenage girl comes out of the darkness. She is joined by the blonde girl. They whisper something and ravens crawl out of the mouths of the dead men and fly into the twilight sky.

Gabriel struggles against his bonds. He knows these two teenage girls.... They were the same young women who were attacked by that crowd. The preacher asks what is going on. They replied " This is about our cousin ..." The two girls begin to chant "Nine.. Nine... Nine" as Gabriel asks to be let go. The scene becomes blurry as the preacher falls into a black sleep. Hours go by and Gabriel wakes up in his own bed. His wife Margaret comforts him as he remembers last evening. "Maybe you were having a bad dream." said Margaret. She tells him he was brought home last night by two of Ezra Cobb's deputies after falling ill at the saloon.

That night Gabriel is in the church cleaning up and preparing for the next sermon. Late at night he begins to feel sleepy. The preacher suddenly wakes up tied to that dead tree. There are two pistols on the ground. The cousins are dancing around the bonfire, chanting something in Latin. Gabriel asks to be let go. He remembers that night in August and starts to beg to the young women. " I tried to help!!!" sobs the preacher. He is ignored as the girls dance. Gabriel again pleads to them, asking to be let go for the sake of his family. The women stop and turn to the preacher. The black haired girl points at him and speaks in Latin while the blonde speaks in french. A black sleep overtakes Gabriel Sanders.

It is late afternoon on Hallowe'en day when the preacher awakes in front of his wife. She tells Gabriel he was found passed out in the church and was brought home by the same two deputies. Margaret says the children can't wait for the dance tonight and his son is excited to bob for apples. Night begins to fall as the town-folk come into the dance hall greeted by some lively music. There's games, apple bobbing, pumpkin carving, square dancing, and slow dancing. Margaret Sanders is already there when Gabriel comes in a little after seven o' clock. Ezra Cobb is there with deputies too ensure order, but they are busy drinking punch and playing games. The preacher sees somebody he knows and tells Margaret he will talk to them. Abigail Stone greets him. Her husband is quiet. Billy Cole, a local troublemaker who was recently married comes over with his wife.

Something changes in Gabriel Sanders, he reaches down for the pistols tucked in his belt. Two pistols are raised..... "Bang!!" Abigail Stone is shot in the chest. "Bang!!! Bang!!" Billy Cole and his wife are shot dead. Ezra Cobb and three deputies rush over. "Bang!!" Ezra is shot in the face and drops to the floor. Two deputies grab Gabriel's hands as he tries to shoot the pistols again. The guns fall down as Margaret Sanders looks on in horror. The party is over as people asked to go outside. Margaret shields her two children as others cry. Silver City memorialized those who were killed on Hallowe'en 1890. Tales of what happened afterwards became a local legend and ghost story. Margaret Sanders moved East to live with relatives and changed her name. Ezra Cobb was wounded but survived with a scar on his cheek. Nobody knows what really happened to the preacher, Gabriel Sanders. One story had him going insane and being institutionalized. Others say he hung himself in the church and his ghost could be seen on moonless nights. The town of Silver City, Montana started to fall into ruin and was abandoned. A wildfire destroyed what was left of the ruins and people claim to know the location of the town to this very day.

Peace in The Valley by Elvis Presley

I Put A Spell On You by Creedence Clearwater Revival

(this story was written October 2019)

[rebbe-stories]

The Visible Light of the Menorah

In honor of Yud-Tet Kislev and in connection with Chanuka, this time, we present a story of the first Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Shnuer Zalman Liadi, the “Alter Rebbe”.

Thanks to Yerachmiel Tilles of Ascent of Safed. --------------------------------------- The bitter conflict between Napoleon and Russia had been raging for months. Civilian travel within Russia was treacherous for all, but especially for Jews, for whom such journeys were fraught with danger even in the most tranquil of times. But what can one do if his livelihood depends on traveling from region to region, from city to city? The merchant [whom we shall call] Menashe, with a family to feed, had little choice but to accept the risks of his trade - war or no war.

He undertook these business trips each year soon after the High Holidays, making his way from his shtetl to the distant, unwelcoming regions of Russia beyond. The success of these ventures often depended upon personal connections and sheer guile. Indeed, despite the edicts of the Czar, Menashe had, at times, even sneaked into cities where Jews were denied entry.

This year, he knew, his journey would be especially perilous. Before taking to the road, he fortified himself by receiving a blessing for success from his rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi.

On the day of his departure, he bade farewell to his wife with more anxiety than usual.

Every few days, by mail or word of mouth, Menashe's wife received notice from her husband, informing her of his whereabouts and activities. She was delighted when a letter arrived from Petersburg, dated the second day of Chanukah, informing her that his business dealings had gone well and with God's help, he'd be returning home soon.

The she heard nothing more.

Days passed, then weeks, and still not a word. Her small children stared out the window, awaiting the gifts their father always brought when he returned from his far-away travels. But there was no sign of Menashe. No posts, no regards, no reports of chance encounters. Months passed. It was as though he had disappeared into thin air.

Had these been normal times, a few Jewish community activists would have traveled to Petersburg to make inquiries, but with the country at war, such a venture would be useless. Officials in Petersburg, a Czarist capital city, had more pressing issues to contend with than missing Jews. As for Menashe's wife, she sent urgent letters to every agency that might prove helpful, but received replies from none. Not knowing where to turn next, she sought the advice of the Rebbe.

"I am a veritable agunah" [an abandoned but still legally married woman, since it is unknown whether her husband is currently alive or not], she told the rebbe. "As for my children, they're suffering as though they are orphans."

The rebbe consoled the woman and assured her that, with God's help, her husband would return home safely.

Spring passed, then summer and autumn too, and soon the winter winds were already announcing their presence. The war continued to rage, the Russian forces losing one battle after the next. These were days of great travail for the entire population and, as usual, especially for Jews.

Still, a man must earn a living. The previous year, it was Menashe who had traveled through the embattled region; this year, Tzvi-Hirsch [as we shall call him] would face the same challenge. Like Menashe, Tzvi Hirsch was a devoted chasid of the first Chabad-Lubavitcher Rebbe, and therefore sought the tzadik's blessing before commencing his trip.

As Tzvi Hirsch prepared to leave the room after receiving the desired blessing, he heard the rebbe calling to him.

"Tzvi Hirsch, you said you'd be gone for several months, yes? That you expect to be away during Chanukah?"

"Yes, I'll still be on the road," Tzvi Hirsch replied.

As in years past, he'd planned his itinerary so he could celebrate Chanukah in a town inhabited by Jews and, if possible, with other chasidim. But why was the rebbe asking about this now?

"I want to remind you," the rebbe continued, "an essential requirement of the mitzvah of lighting the menorah is pirsumei nisa, the public proclamation of the Chanukah miracle. That is why the Talmud instructs us to put our menorah outside the front door [1] opposite the mezuzah or next to a window facing a public area so its light will be visible to the world."

"Yes, of course," Tzvi Hirsch said. "I always place my menorah near the window in my house."

"Good," said the rebbe. "But remember, the performance of pirsumei nisa isn't limited to one's own home. One must ensure the menorah is visible in whatever location one finds oneself. May you have a safe, successful trip."

Tzvi Hirsch was a considerably more successful merchant than Menashe, for whom every ruble was a struggle. Tzvi Hirsch's formidable connections allowed him to walk through doors closed to other Jews and to sojourn in royal cities like Petersburg, from which Jews were officially barred. But this was wartime, and all the thoroughfares were controlled by hostile military personnel. Meanwhile, a heavy snow had blanketed the roads, rendering the main arteries impassable.

On the eve of the first night of Chanukah, Tzvi Hirsch found himself stranded in a forsaken, isolated village, where he doubted even one Jew could be found. Given the weather conditions, he had no choice but to resign himself to spending the coming days at the local inn.

Alone in his room, Reb Tzvi Hirsch welcomed the holiday of Chanukah, reciting the traditional liturgy that recalls the miracles of the past and expresses the hope that they will recur in our own day. At the end of prayers, he removed a menorah from his bag, and prepared to place it on a chair across from the mezuzah affixed to a doorpost, forgetting for a moment he'd find no mezuzah in this gentile inn. Casting about for an appropriate spot, he suddenly remembered the rebbe's exhortation to light the Chanukah menorah in public view.

And so, Tzvi Hirsch dutifully set up his menorah near the window of his shabby room. Who would see the modest flames of these wicks'? The storm had intensified during the past few hours; no one in his right mind would dare extend a finger into the howling wind, let alone hazard a walk outside.

Nevertheless, Tzvi Hirsh set aside his puzzlement and kindled the menorah with all the zeal he could muster. A surge of homesickness overwhelmed him as he thought about the joyful Chanukah celebrations at the court of his rebbe. Fighting pangs of loneliness, he pulled a chair up next to the menorah, and began singing a chasidic melody.

The second night of Chanukah was no different. Tzvi Hirsch lit the two wicks in front of the window as an unrelenting gale lashed against the pane. Once more, he sat across from his menorah and immersed himself in Chassidic song and prayer. So absorbed was he in his devotions that he failed to notice the door open, or the man who'd quietly entered his room.

The unobserved visitor was immaculately dressed in a military officer's outfit, his jacket bedecked with medals. He stared silently at the Jew swaying slowly in his chair, oblivious to his surroundings.

When Tzvi Hirsch finally opened his eyes, he lurched from his seat, and quickly removed his cap in reflexive obeisance. But the officer merely smiled, and readily accepted Tzvi Hirsch's invitation to have a seat.

"Allow me to explain my presence here," the officer said. "I came to this province on military leave. I'm staying in a room nearby. Last night I noticed a peculiar light coming from your room. A mere flicker, hardly enough to yield warmth or even light. I thought, How strange! And when tonight, I saw two such glimmers from this room, I asked myself, What is going on in there? I knocked on the door and receiving no reply, let myself in. And what do I see? A Jew busying himself with a small lamp. And so I ask myself, What is a Jew doing in this remote part of the country? And what is he doing with this little lamp of his?"

"I will explain," said Tzvi Hirsch, speaking in fluent, sophisticated Russian. He recounted the history of the holiday, the Maccabees' valiant battle for freedom, the ritual lighting of the candelabrum, one additional light each night, progressing to eight, in commemoration of the discovery of a small flask of pure oil that miraculously burned in the destroyed Temple for eight days.

"So, the Jew is innocent after all!"

"What Jew?" asked Tzvi Hirsch. "Innocent of what?"

"He did tell us the truth."

"Sir, what Jew? The truth about what?"

The officer leaned back in his chair. "I am a military judge in the military court in Petersburg," he said. "Last year -around this time, in fact - we were presented with a Jew arrested as a spy. His name was Menashe, as I recall. The evidence pointing to his guilt was substantial. For one thing, he was found in Petersburg, where Jews are not permitted entry. For another, he was carrying false papers. And then there was this business of the lights. He was kindling his lamp near a window, one night one candle, two on the nest night and so on. We concluded this was a signal to the enemy, a code communicating the number of battalions arriving in the city.

"The Jew admitted that he was in the city illegally, but insisted that he was there only to conduct some business and certainly not to spy. What about the lamp, the lights in the window? He said this was a ritual belonging to the Jewish holiday of Chanukah.

"He didn't convince the court, although that may have been because, to tell the truth, we weren't inclined to believe his account. The man was sentenced to a ten-year prison term."

"What happens now?" Tzvi Hirsch asked, astonished.

"Well," said the officer, "I see now we should have listened more judiciously to what the Jew had to say. As soon as I return from my furlough, I'll see to it that he is given his freedom."

When Tzvi Hirsch returned to his town, he was greeted by the news that Menashe was already in his own home, reunited with his family. Not even Menashe knew what had prompted his sudden release, although he and his family were exuberantly grateful when they found out.

As for Tzvi Hirsch, each year when he lit his menorah, he made sure not only to proclaim the miracle of Chanukah that had occurred two millennia earlier, but also the miracle that occurred in his own day.

[terryquinnblog]

BAPTISM

His days of envy were over. Or would be by the time this night had run its course. For years he’d watched great singers perform in the concert halls of Boston, Washington, Chicago, New York City. Listened daily on the radio. Had friends who strode out regularly before audiences and sang – whether opera, madrigals, Off Broadway, jazz, gospel, cabaret or pop. He burned to do what they were doing. Above all, to sing the choral masterworks of his gods. The music of Mozart, Britten, Mendelssohn, Ravel. The tenor line in a requiem mass, a sublime Bach cantata.

At the age of 67, three years before this night of his coming out as a singer worthy of a stage, he’d told himself he had in abundance the will and passion that were called for. All he lacked were the skills. He didn’t read music for voice. He’d never sung harmony from a score. And though he had a good ear and could certainly carry a tune, his voice was not trained. He vowed to himself that by the time he turned 70, in the summer of 2015, he would be able to do, in his own way, what his soprano friend Elizabeth, his bass friend Sandy, his baritone friend Paul were all doing – entertain in public as a singer of art songs, arias and great choral pieces.

Throughout the first two of those years, he trekked each Tuesday afternoon from his Brooklyn apartment to the far west side of Manhattan, where Richard Gordon, the vocal coach he’d been referred to, conducted one-on-one voice training sessions in his fourth floor walk-up. And for a year and a half after that, he took beginner, then intermediate, then advanced sight-singing courses at the Lucy Moses School in Lincoln Center. He attended a music theory boot camp and workshops on rhythm and intervals, bought dozens of song scores, hired accompanists for at-home practice sessions, learned tenor parts via YouTube rehearsal files. By the summer of ‘15, he’d researched the New York chorus scene as well and had summoned the nerve to schedule two September auditions: one for a Presbyterian church choir in Brooklyn Heights, another for a 60-member chorale in the Tribeca neighborhood of Manhattan.

Now it was August and he felt he’d go crazy if he couldn’t escape his sheltered practice environments and at last get out in front of an audience. What did it matter that he wasn’t, and wouldn’t ever be, Domingo? He sounded good to himself and to his teachers. He could pick up a score and start singing, undaunted by varying time and key signatures or dynamics and tempo markings rendered in Italian. He felt confident of holding his tenor line in four-part harmony arrangements. Best of all, he had a safe, low-pressure debut date in mind – the Seventh Annual Upstate Salon in Unadilla, New York, a town in the western foothills of the Catskill Mountains.

For the past six summers he’d been producing this series of living room soirées. He, his wife Jane, and eight to ten of their local friends, for the most part writers and artists, assembled on a late-August evening each year to cook and share a gargantuan dinner, then exhibit, recite and otherwise perform for one another. Edmond, a lifelong painter, always displayed a dozen or so of his latest oils. Alicia, the event’s host and a published poet, read a selection of her nature odes and short prose pieces. Diane, a writer who lived in nearby Oneonta, did the same. Charlie, a nationally known sculptor, photographer and crafter of hilltop aeolian harps regularly gave multi-media presentations. Edmond’s wife Kaima showed her pottery one year and performed modern dance another. Charlie’s wife Martha showed the fabrics and baskets she wove and sold at regional markets. Others played music or delivered dramatic monologues.

What he himself had brought to each of the earlier salons was a one act play – sometimes one he’d written, sometimes a classic piece of comedy he admired. He and a couple of the other guests would present script-in-hand readings, following a brief run-through while the dishes were being scrubbed up. He would show, too, whatever figure drawings and portraits he had done that winter and spring. But as if in the throes of the proverbial itch, he determined to change course entirely at this seventh gathering ... and sing.

He’d packed five song scores for the car trip up from Brooklyn. His plan was to ask Alicia to accompany him on piano and to let her choose a piece from among three show tunes and two opera arias. But on the night of the salon, he learned that her vintage upright was out of commission. No major setback, he decided. What he was looking for here was only a test, after all, the sort of manageable trial likely to provide him some seasoning. Fine, he would go a cappella. And he’d sing not some straight-ahead ballad from Carousel, or even the more forgiving of the two classical numbers he’d brought along, but rather the most challenging of the arias he had prepared at Richard Gordon’s studio: La fleur que tu m’avais jetée, the Flower Song from Act Two of Bizet’s Carmen.

“As Jane knows, and as a few of you may be aware,” he announced once his turn to perform had come and he stood in the center of that ring of friends, “I’ve been taking a serious approach lately to solo and choral music.” Smiles of anticipation throughout the room, for who doesn’t like live singing? And Jane, being Jane, beamed in encouragement. This was all good; he felt at ease. “Here’s something I hope you’ll enjoy.” He passed out sheets on which an English translation of the lyric was printed, waited as his audience looked them over, and began.

He knew not to think when he sang, simply to lose himself in the ghost world of the song and let the joy of self-expression quicken his blood. Yet even as the first few measures of the aria flowed from him like liquid – as softly, as richly as he’d hoped, in fact – he could not help but bask in the fierce attention of these friends he’d known for more than twenty years. Their open faces, their eyes widened in lavish good will. Not a movement in the room, not a sound other than what a broken Don José was saying to Carmen ... that he had kept with him the blossom she’d tossed through the barred window of his prison cell ... and that, though the petals had withered over time, they’d never lost their fragrance.

It would occur to him later that if he’d somehow been obliged to finish singing right there – three or four lines in – strange as that might have seemed, all would have been well. But La fleur is a five-minute aria. One that spans two octaves and climbs to a high b-flat at its climax. And a mere two minutes into the journey that is that song, he felt his breath control begin to falter. It happened at the phrase “et de cette odeur je m’enivrais ...”, the last note of which must be sustained at high volume.

This was troubling. As Don José, he was singing of being intoxicated by the flower’s scent, and so by Carmen’s love. But he couldn’t quite support the note long enough to ensure its full emotional effect. And a shortness of breath, he knew from experience, begets anxiety. Which itself can lead so easily to wavering pitch and wobbly vibrato and graceless phrasing and cracked high notes that make you yearn to be done, to be elsewhere. Worst of all, momentary losses of memory can come along and ratchet up one’s fears to the level of terror – what lyric comes next? – and threaten to bring the music to a mortifying halt.

One scant phrase from the end, that happened. For when he sang: “Et j'étais une chose à toi ... ” (“I once meant something to you”) and took a stab at that treacherous b-flat on toi, he could not for the life of him remember the aria’s final four words. Here was an instant of unvarnished panic ...... until he did remember, with immense relief, that Don José himself pauses at this very moment, before singing whatever it is he sings.

He took that opportunity to scan the faces of his salon audience, every one of which was turned toward the carpet that adorned Alicia’s floor. Every one except Jane’s. And that was all he needed – not to save this fiasco but at least to finish up with “ ... Carmen, je t’aime!”

There was clapping, yes, it being unthinkable not to applaud at all after someone has performed for you. And each discrete token of appreciation stung him. Each word, brave smile, upturned thumb. Until, after forever, everyone moved on to the coffee and cordials that traditionally concluded their salons. And as he tried to recover, a barrage of thoughts and feelings assailed him. Each registered only for an instant, but so searingly that he knew he’d be revisiting that thought, that feeling, often enough in the days and weeks to come. For now, though, denial was the ticket. He shook off the initial wave of shame. Rejoined the party.

So much to acknowledge and learn from, he eventually found. The shock to his system drove him back fifty-one years to a judgment his first French professor, Emile Telle, pronounced on him in sophomore year of college. “You are good at all of this, Monsieur Quinn,” that crusty Parisian said with a grin. “Yes, yes, very talented. But you are also proud.” The man had played heavily on the guttural French ‘r’ in voicing that final word, thereby freighting his utterance with the heft of prophecy.

It was true, he admitted a day or so later in a bout of self-analysis. He’d never mastered the virtue of humility. And surely pride had gone before his fall at the event in Unadilla. So be it. They’d all gotten past the awkwardness quickly enough. And he knew now what he must do in the run-up to his chorus auditions the following month. Stay focused on the goal. Keep practicing. Do his best to get his head and ego back in order.

[colour-is-sound-blog]

FELA KUTI CREATED MOUNTAIN SIZED GROOVES THAT ENGULF YOU LIKE A BEAUTIFUL AVALANCHE. FOR THE UNINITIATED, A POLYRHYTHMIC SONIC TSUNAMI AWAITS

Music so incredibly full-on, it renders Otis Redding restrained and James Brown lacking commitment. Multi-layered depth charge afrobeats unwinding like an anaconda; medicine for your hips and spirit.

Fela discarded his ‘slave’ name in favour of ‘Anikulapo’, which translates as “the one who carries death in his pouch”. A fearless musician whose own funeral was an act of rebellion. Despite the government’s strict ban on public gatherings, Lagos, Nigeria’s capital city, was brought to a standstill in 1987 when more than a million-people turned out to pay their respects to the 58-year-old voice of the people.

Not one for the small gesture, Fela believed that music was invincible; his weapon of choice for dealing with this “bitch of a life”. Through song he repeatedly challenged Nigeria’s barbaric military dictatorship. “My people are scared of the air around them,” sang the man who declared his home to be an autonomous zone. ‘Kalakuta Republic' comes from the name written on his cell door in ’74, which in Swahilli means ‘rascal’. “If rascality is going to get us what we want, we will use it; because we are dealing with corrupt people, we have to be ‘rascally’ with them,” stated the man who was arrested over 100 times.

The compound was burned to the ground in 1977 after the release of the song Zombie, an afrobeat grenade aimed at a goose-stepping automaton dictatorship. Nigeria was, and still is, one of the world’s biggest oil producers. During the raid, family and friends were savagely beaten and his Mother died from injuries sustained when thrown from a second-floor window. Fela carried his Mother’s coffin to the military barracks before he was banged up, “I want to show them, if they think I’m going to change or compromise. They’re making me stronger.”

Zombie is one hell of a song. Seven minutes of nitro-funk before the singing starts, plenty of time for the band to lock into a mind-bending groove which caught the ear of Miles Davis, a visionary who knew a thing or two about being an originator. The man who led the revolution in modal jazz and jazz fusion, named Prince and Fela Kuti as the future of music in his brilliant autobiography. (If you don’t have a copy you can borrow mine, it’s a must read).

Fela retained his unflinching revolutionary approach to life until his dying day, imbuing his music with uncompromising political urgency, offering a permanent ‘fuck you’ to a system determined to crush him. Femi, his son, had this to say about his Dad’s synthesis of music and revolutionary politics: “the political part was very essential in the music all the time, he couldn’t understand the love songs in Africa, with so much poverty and suffering.”

To maintain such a prolific ability to write, record and perform despite such life-threatening oppression is incredible. Paul McCartney saw Fela play live in Lagos and was moved to say it was the best live performance he had ever seen. Ginger Baker lived in Nigeria from ’70 to '76 and deserves great credit for being talented and brave enough to guest on both studio and live recordings with Fela. Check out Why Black Man Dey Suffer or Live, show-casing why Ginger Baker could hold his own with the band who invented afro-beat.

In an interview, Ginger was asked to compare Fela with James Brown: How much of Fela’s sound, do you think, came from James Brown, and how much of it was his own thing?

GINGER BAKER REPLIED: "100% OF IT WAS HIS OWN THING. COMPLETELY HIS OWN THING. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH JAMES BROWN. FELA BLEW JAMES BROWN OFF THE STAGE WHEN HE CAME TO NIGERIA"

It’s hard to imagine anyone blowing James Brown off stage although it’s easy to imagine someone blowing him on it. As I go deeper into Fela Kuti’s music, I am reminded of how little I know about Africa which is not shaped by the dominant colonial narrative. At the start of a televised concert Fela tells the audience, “99.9% of what you about Africa is wrong”.  When his biography was published in 1985, it was the first time a biography had ever been written about an African musician. There is 1.2 billion people living there; the continent from whence we first stuck out our thumbs and started hitching, and people have been writing about musicians for a very long time. There were at least three books written about Live Aid the year it happened. (Pictures of starving babies sell a lot more records than afrobeat protests such as Coffin For Head Of State.)

Leni Sinclair, a political activist and Jazz photographer, married to John Sinclair, manager of the mighty MC5, who photographed and interviewed Fela, remembers her first meeting:

“When I met Fela Kuti, the self-styled “Black President”, he was in a London hotel, wearing only a pair of red underpants, smoking a massive joint, surrounded by three of his wives (he notoriously married 26 in one day) and his personal magician; a Ghanaian who called himself Professor Hindu…Professor Hindu would come on stage with Fela and do magic tricks like seemingly cutting his tongue out or producing watches from nowhere. His most notorious stunt was to ask one Friday night at the Town and Country Club in Kentish Town in North London for a volunteer from the audience to be buried alive for the weekend. A grave had been dug behind the club. The audience piled out to see the volunteer, a Nigerian guy covered in soil and buried in his suit. On Sunday evening he was dug up again, at which point the guy propositioned a journalist with the immortal words: “Being buried alive makes you horny.”

FELA AND AFRICA 70, LIKE THE WAILERS, WERE STREET-TOUGH REAL DEALS. MUSIC WAS THEIR LIFE AND LIFE WAS CAPABLE OF DEALING PRISON SENTENCES, BEATINGS AND MURDER ATTEMPTS

Everything, from the music to the album covers, their Club (Shrine), was held together by the art and courage of one man. Igo Chiko was Africa 70’s original saxophone player and is still considered to be the one. After a bust up with the singer he left the band. Fela filled the gap by playing sax himself. Not quite the virtuoso that Igo was, nonetheless he nailed it. The mind boggles; revolutionary, singer, record label owner, prisoner, songwriter, band leader and self-styled President elect. A man who released eight albums in one year and whose music, 30 years after his death, is still way ahead of the times; still dangerous.

Music camouflaged as history lessons disguised as an aphrodisiac, delivered as an aerobics session. Fela, through his songs, continues to resist the system. Get some of his albums and join him.

[stars-forever-dwell-blog1]

Blinded by the Light: Part One

So I just got back from vacation, and one of the places we spent a bit of time was the coast in British Columbia, a place I frequented when I was 17 and had just moved out of my mother’s house. And it got me thinking back to that time, which is something I have steadfastly and consistently not done since that time in my life ended, which was when I was 19, which was in early 2001. Because the truth is, it scared me. It scared me that I could become so lost, that I could have been so naïve, that I could have put myself in the face of such dangerous and violating circumstances and still have such a hard time saying no, that the nice-girl smile was so firmly smeared on my face. It scared me that there were people as fucked up as the ones I had met in the world. Yes, my sheltered suburban childhood was abruptly shattered when I went looking for utopia.

So, like many other things I write about in my blog, it’s probably a good thing to talk about, face, process, learn from, and let go of. And also, like many other things I write about in my blog, I’m going to do all that here. So grab your patchouli oil, your tie-dye, your hemp and your bong, and take this cringing walk down memory rut with me.

The beginning-beginning of this story is actually way before the actual beginning, but I need to tell it from here so you understand why it all happened the way it did.

As I’ve mentioned before, my parents are divorced and I have never gotten along well with my mother. After my dad moved out and it was just our mom, my older sister and I, my sister was sort of the buffer zone between my mother and I. If she was gone, the room became palpably tense. If she was there, all was laughter and ease. So when she announced one day that she was getting on a Greyhound with nothing but her backpack, bound for the wild blue yonder with no fixed plans and no intention on arriving, the shock and “Oh crap” moment was multi-layered. I was fifteen, she was nineteen, and she was my world. Maybe because my dad was “gone” and my mother wasn’t “there” for me, but her leaving totally crushed me, yet in retrospect, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me, because I was forced to define my own personality, something I had avoided doing up until that moment. I worshiped her, so being her was good enough for me. It was uncomfortable, but much needed. This rose was long past due blooming.

So she left that summer, and my mother and I barely spoke anymore, and it only got worse as high school progressed. So the following spring break, when I was sixteen and my sister had been landed in the mountain/snowboarding town of Whistler for a while and asked me if I wanted to visit her, it’s pretty obvious that I said yes. My mind was about to be opened to hitherto unknown horizons of possibility.

My sis picked me up from the airport in Vancouver, where I was still dancing-eyed from my first flight ever (it was a cloudy night, a solid blanket of cloud, and once the plane was above them, the crescent moon lit the grey blanket to silver, and the stars were brighter than I’d ever seen. It was a new planet. I had a window seat.) We stayed the night in a hostel in Vancouver, then took the bus to Whistler the following morning. She wanted me to experience the ride, the transition from ocean to deep mountains, and damn, did I ever experience it. My eyes were opened.

From town we hitch hiked north, then walked onto a logging road where she told me with an evil grin we would be hiking up a mountain. I had a massive travel bag with me, so this was extra fun. But it was well worth it when we arrived. Understatement of the last eight millennium.

She was living in a tiny log cabin with a wood burning stove, on the side of a mountain, no electricity. There were still patches of snow on the ground, and lots of firewood. Candles to read by, battery-powered speakers for music, paper and pens and books and little pieces of art everywhere you looked. An eight sided window over the bed showed a sky I had never seen. And silence. A silence that’s indescribable when you’ve only lived in a houses that are always filled with hummings, beepings, clickings, distractions. A silence that’s closer to real peace.

And so there I stayed for ten days. My clothes quickly became saturated with the heavenly smell of woodsmoke, I explored the town and found treasures everywhere. People smiled knowing smiles and their eyes sparkled with secrets that I somehow knew too.I listened to new music and met people who, if you glanced at them quickly enough, you were sure were really gnomes, dwarves or faeries concealing themselves from you beneath their hood. And when it was time to go home, I cried like a baby.

That summer, and the following spring break, I went out and visited her again, and gradually a dream grew in my heart: that when I graduated high school, I would move out to B.C. permanently. One way flight. A new home. I couldn’t wait.

So I graduated in June of 1999, and I was still seventeen, being born in August. But I was determined to go. I worked for a few weeks prior to grad to save up enough for a plane ticket, and I was set. I thought.

My mother, obviously, had serious misgivings about me leaving when I was only seventeen, and I was a young seventeen if you know what I mean. So very, very naïve. But I was bound and determined, and I don’t think I would have stayed even if she had said I had to. In my mind, my hometown of Winnipeg was over, done, and paradise awaited me. I remember cleaning out my room, blithely throwing away things that had huge sentimental value to me then, thinking breezily that I was becoming a new person, that the old me was dead. I honestly thought that I would get out there and all my problems, my bad habits, anything that hurt or was less than perfect, would just magically disappear. Little did I realize back then that, as the Buddhists say, wherever you go, there you are. And I wish I’d kept those sentimental things. I’m just glad I didn’t throw away everything.

I planned my flight so I left on the new moon, July 12th, 1999. New beginning. My mom drove me to the airport in silence, a silence that I realize now was filled with her fear for her seriously naïve, young daughter who was sailing off into the Blue with no money and no life experience. My sister was meeting me at the airport on the other end, something my mom probably insisted upon.

My dad and a couple of my friends were there to see me off, and I remember feeling their sadness and being kind of baffled by it. I was too excited to be sad, and back then I don’t think I really knew the value of a true friend. I was looking ahead, not back.

So I flew and I landed and I almost exploded with excitement, but finally my feet were on the “soil” of “home” as I thought of it then. My sister met me at baggage claim and we hugged and she said, “Hello,” like I was a baby, fresh and new to the world. I totally was.

We hung around Van for a day, and at one point she asked me, “What do you want to do?” I think that was the first moment that I saw the other side (the shadow side?) of freedom: responsibility. I wasn’t in high school anymore, with everyone else making all the decisions about my time, my energy, my life. And I must admit, I didn’t have an answer for her. I had just sort of assumed that once I got out there, my “path” would just sort of unfold before my feet, the Universe (as I saw the Divine at the time) directing me to where I needed to be, who I needed to meet, with no conscious volition on my part. At the time I would have told you that that was the most enlightened way to live. Looking back, I see that I was just a girl who was shit scared to make any real decisions, and I was serenely covering it up under a thin veneer of “spirituality.” (I was soon to meet many, many other people who bullshitted their way through their lives in much the same way. . .and the reflection wasn’t pretty. But we’ll get to that.)

So I followed my sister back up to Whistler, partly because I actually wanted to, and partly because I was way too scared to be on my own. We hung out there for a couple weeks, swimming naked in Lost Lake, this amazing place (the nudey dock was on the opposite side of the lake to the touristy beach; they couldn’t see us, which amused us) and being forest dwellers, which I loved. The full moon approaching, we hitch hiked back to the city, hopped the ferry, and headed to Sombrio Beach on Vancouver Island for our very first Rainbow Gathering.

[Excerpt from The Oxford Hippie Dictionary:

A Rainbow Gathering (reyn-boh gath-er-ing) is a gathering of people, usually self-proclaimed neo hippies, held on the three days leading up to, the day and night of, then the three days leading away from, the full moon in the months of July and August. The Gatherings can range anywhere from a handful of people to the hundreds, sometimes the thousands in the larger gatherings in the US, and are usually held on a large public beach that is not frequented by the public. Many speculations exist as to why this is, one of the most common being that it is to curb the stench of unwashed bodies which is prevalent at large gatherings of neo-hippies. Sometimes tea tree oil just doesn’t cut it.

A communal kitchen serves everyone three meals a day, generally consisting of certified organic, healthy food, which many of the neo hippies are quite happy to eat on a piece of bark with a stick serving as a utensil. This food is often a bland beige in colour with a taste to match. Whether the majority of the neo-hippies are just pretending to like it, or that their taste buds have somehow been damaged by an unknown plague that afflicts them all remains a mystery. Kitchen helpers are all volunteers, as no money is ever officially exchanged at the Gatherings.

Nudity is accepted among both women and men, and a general “do whatever you want as long as you’re not hurting anyone” attitude is pervasive. Hallucinogenics such as mushrooms and LSD are common, as is marijuana, hashish, and other mind-altering substances, mostly of the “natural” persuasion.

Alcohol is not as common.

The majority of the neo hippies pitch tents as their shelter of choice, but some will brings campers or fifth wheels, and of course the presence of VW microbuses from the 1960’s is always prevalent. Some of the more die-hard among those at the Gatherings will simply string a tarp between a few trees and sleep under it, while others won’t bring any shelter at all, trusting in “the Universe,” “Gaia,” or “Jah” to provide for them. (Luckily for them, their comrades are more often than not willing to share everything they have, including shelter. And if not, well, the hospital is only a four hour drive away, after you’ve bushwhacked through the rainforest for two hours to get to the highway with an acute case of pneumonia or exposure.)

Side note: “The Universe” as used in this context does not refer to ‘the totality of known or supposed objects and phenomena throughout space’ (from http://www.dictionary.com) as most people think of it, but rather a benign, sexless spiritual force that is constantly guiding, but never forcing, humankind to their various destinies; Gaia is a reference to the ancient Greek mother goddess of earth; Jah refers to the Rastafarian singular male God or the Holy Trinity, being Father, Son and Holy Ghost (Psalms 68:4, King James Bible.) The fact that most of the neo-hippies at Rainbow Gatherings are not astronomers, Greek or Rastafarian doesn’t seem to bother them.

There are not many widely organized activities at the Gatherings beyond the three standard daily meals and the nightly “drum circle.”

The aforementioned drum circle unofficially starts around sunset each night, and consists of everyone who owns a hand drum making a circle around the large central bonfire and drumming spontaneously together until the late hours. Unchoreographed dancing and fire spinning often accompany this activity.

Beyond these described activities, the neo-hippies generally keep to their own smaller groups and do whatever they please. Meeting other neo-hippies, bartering for handmade clothing, jewellery, drums and other instruments such as didgeridoos (an Australian aborigine wind instrument) is also a common practice.

Many times during a Gathering you will hear the unified cry of “Leave only your footprints behind!” no doubt as a respectful nod to Gaia. To any newcomers to the group, “Welcome home!” is often called out, meaning that at the Rainbow Gathering, everyone is loved unconditionally and wholly welcome. The pretentiousness of this saying appears to go largely unnoticed.]

So we hit up this hippie gathering, and yes, I am ashamed to say, I was one of the people eating their gruel off a piece of bark with a stick. It added some flavour to it, if nothing else.

I should probably state here that, despite my all-consuming sarcasm and rather excessive cynicism, there were some cool experience I had at these gatherings that still make me smile and think and wonder when I recall them today.

For example, at the first one we went to in July, on the first night that I heard the drumming, I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I can’t explain why, but something in me heard those deep bass tones and just went, “Yeah.” So I was sitting there in the firelight, listening to the rhythm, the pounding, feeling it in my bones and my blood, struggling to overcome my shyness and actually ask someone if I could try their djembe, wondering if it would be alright to ask that. I mean, would it be like asking someone if I could make love with their partner? I can attest that the bond between a person and their instrument (or an instrument and their person?) can be deep. So as I’m sitting there, I gradually started eavesdropping on a conversation between a girl around my age and a guy who was slightly older that were sitting near me. The girl was passionately explaining that she believes that when someone chooses to follow their desire, their passion, their “calling,” it’s not a selfish choice, but rather a gift to everyone around them as well as themselves. I sat pondering this for a few minutes, kind of struck by the irony that she was talking about exactly what I was struggling to do, and then the guy she had been talking to got up and left. I steeled myself and spoke up, telling her that I really liked what she had been saying. She immediately and effusively began talking about it again, reiterating what she had been saying to the guy a few minutes before. She paused then, and asked me, “What do you really want to do?”

I kind of sat there for a minute, struggling against all the self-doubt, then I blurted out, “I want to drum!”

She looked right into my eyes, smiled, and said, “I’ll be right back!”

She came back a moment later with a huge djembe, the exact kind I had been wanting to play, and handed it to me.

I hesitantly took it from her, but as I swung it around so it was facing the fire and I could straddle it like I had seen the other players do, it was like something I’ve done a million times before, as comfortable and natural as breathing. I just sort of started improvising along with the “song” that everyone else was already playing, not even really able to tell if I sounded good. But I found myself slip into it and become part of it, and what it sounded like didn’t really matter after a few minutes.

The drum jams at Rainbow Gatherings just sort of start and finish as they do; nothing is planned, it all just kind of flows, kind of like strawberry jam. As if to complete all of the synchronicities of the whole experience, when I stopped drumming I noticed a guy on the other side of the circle, who I had never met before, stand up and look directly at me. I looked back at him, flushed and elated, and he bowed and said, “Thank you.” I don’t think he had heard my conversation with the girl.

Other noteworthy experiences? At that particular gathering, I remember one, and it was small and doesn’t sound like anything when I retell it, but I think it was one of my first experiences in opening up to nature – really opening up.

I was sitting on a rock by the ocean, and back then the ocean was still a complete marvel to me (it still is, really), because I had barely ever been around it. I was transfixed by how powerful it was and yet how gentle, by the feminine beauty of it, yet the raw power it holds that can be terrifying (go figure). By the way that alone, a drop in the ocean is “weak”; yet when combined with millions and millions of other drops, the power of water can destroy stone, brick, whole cities. Interestingly enough, I read the exact meaning of what I was struggling to grasp several years later in the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu, which is a book of wisdom:

Under heaven nothing is more soft and yielding than water. Yet for attacking the solid and strong, nothing is better; It has no equal. The weak can overcome the strong; The supple can overcome the stiff. Under heaven everyone knows this, Yet no one puts it into practice. Therefore the sage says: He who takes upon himself the humiliation of the people is fit to rule them. He who takes upon himself the country’s disasters deserves to be king of the universe. The truth often seems paradoxical.

I’ve always been really, really bad at expressing the things most close to my heart.

So anyhoo, I was sitting on this rock, gazing at the ocean, feeling the ocean (not physically), and I just remember feeling myself start to expand outside of my former borders, like I was being initiated into something bigger than anything I had previously known. Druids will know what I’m talking about.

Being a Virgo sun sign with Virgo rising and Virgo in Mercury, I really, really love (need?) the earth and the solidity of it, and I have to say that to this day, the ocean and I don’t really get along. It feels too wavey, too shifty, too unsolid energetically. It overwhelms me the way a wave crashing over your head and filling your nose up with salt water might overwhelm you. I can visit her, have an amazing conversation with her, learn from her, humble myself before her, but then I gallop back to my mountains and gleefully dig my roots in deep again before the stars come out. (Well, maybe a bit later than that, sometimes.)

Now, the dark side of Rainbow Gatherings – yes, there is a darkness beyond the gross food and lack of showers. Some people go to them searching for something they can’t exactly describe, and in that searching, they somehow lose themselves. Sometimes it’s from doing too many hallucinogenics. Sometimes it’s from not being mentally stable enough to do even a little bit of hallucinogenics (more about this later). Sometimes it’s from being really, really gullible and naïve and, maybe, not strong?

One of the last ones I ever went to was held at a huge, deep lake in the Kootenay mountain range, and a guy got really high on mushrooms and somehow decided that the meaning of life was on the other side of it. He swam out into the middle of it, and no one ever saw him again.

At this same gathering, two of my friends were told by a woman who claimed to be a shaman and had taken a name for herself from Aboriginal history even though she was white (side note: in my opinion, being a shaman is something you just are. If you have to call yourself one so you can convince other people, something isn’t adding up) that they were soul mates, and they were promptly attacked by a pack of dogs. It turned out later that they weren’t soul mates.

And the interesting thing is, when that Gathering was starting, all of my friends and I had a bad feeling about it. You know that CCR song “Bad Moon Rising”? Well, that about sums it up.

So my first summer was spent at Gatherings, in Whistler having awkward sexual interludes that never actually amounted to anything, and on the nude beach my sister introduced me to in Vancouver, which is called Wreck Beach. An interesting experience, but after careful consideration, I decided that I will not be naked in public places anymore, whether they’re officially called “nude friendly” or not. I don’t care if you call yourself a hippie or a nudist or an enlightened being or what-have-you; humans are still human, and men still stare, and it’s really hard to ignore their huge erections when they’re not wearing any clothes. Ew.

Wild blackberries grow all around on the coast where I first flew in that summer, and I think they were the main staple of my diet. Nothing bought in a grocery store will ever compare to that. Ever.

I remember that summer a friend asking me once, “How are you eating every day if you don’t have a job and you don’t have any money?” I smiled a glazed kind of smile and blathered something about the Universe providing, but in actuality, I have no idea how I ate on a regular basis that summer. Well, I did go through a short “damn-the-man” period in which I was stealing lots and lots of groceries from the huge grocery store (the fact that a huge corporation owned it justified the theft in my mind back then). It earned me the nickname Belly Jean Sticky Fingers (the first half of which needs explaining, but we’re getting there) and it ended after I got caught and arrested (we’re getting there too.)

Still, even though I look back now and shake my head at some of the beliefs I held back then (or at least grabbed, tossed back and forth a few times, then replaced), there were still moments in which I really had to question what I thought I knew about reality, and ultimately have made me a more open minded person. Because do any of us really know?

Example: I was hitch hiking one day, and it was a long journey; I don’t remember where I was going, but it was hot and I was thirsty, and all of a sudden I got a craving for an apple and ginger ale. The thought came and went, and I got a ride about ten minutes later. I hopped in the guy’s car, and after the usual “Hey, how’s it going? How far are you going?” he turns to me and says, “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Have an apple and some ginger ale.”

I shit you not.

Another time I was at the nudey dock in Whistler, hanging out with a mutual friend of mine and my sister’s for the afternoon. Among our conversations, we both said how our favourite “beach food” is bagels with hummus, purple grapes and cheese. About half an hour later my sister showed up, sat down, and opened her bag to produce. . .yup, bagels, hummus, purple grapes and cheese.

Maybe the Universe (?) does provide if you believe it will.