Soap for Jesus

In modern society, there are many new phases and phrases of "expressing ourselves". There are also many new open forms of behaviour - not merely tolerated, nor even accepted, but promoted and taught by subtlety, blatantly and through constant, thorough inculcation. Most of these began in the last century. From 1,900 years of fairly slow changing, there has been a sudden rush of things generally considered "unacceptable" being promoted in the highest degree. Most of these are not really "human rights-centred", as much as being "me-centred". Not as much about correcting incorrect morality - such as the freeing of slaves - as about ensuring the comfort of individuals, which has now enforced the point of freedom of speech so harshly that most of the liberties it grants are curtailed. For example, you are allowed, encouraged and firmly supported to announce that you are gay/homosexual. Even if I like you and am your friend, I am not allowed to ...

They sold them every year. People in green and brown clothes and people in blue, smiling, with a box around their necks or in their arms, full of small red paper flowers. Other people came up and put some money in the buckets they had on their arms, and walked away with a little red flower that they'd put on. 'Course, not everyone did it. My family was something Daddy called "pacifist", and he hated the people in green and blue. Every time he saw one of them, he'd call us together and herd us past them as fast as he could. Still, that didn't stop my sister and I looking. In the end, Marissa stopped looking. She said that Daddy was right, and it didn't really matter. After all, it was just a paper flower that people wore a few days and then forgot about. It didn't seem to matter that much to them, so why would it to us? I didn't care about what everybody else did. It was the people in green and blue that I watched. And they were there, year after ye...

11-11-11, whether British or American. Armistice Day. Veteran's Day. Remembrance Day. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, on the eleventh month, the Armistice was signed in 1918, "officially" bringing an end to the First World War. Since then, at 1100 hours on November 11th, two-three minutes of silence are held to remember the fallen who died that we might live today, and those currently serving and dying in foreign countries - whether we agree with the wars or not. The past three Saturdays I've been involved in selling poppies to the general public. The Poppy Appeal is part of a nationwide group that makes and sells poppies to the public, calling them to remember - and never forget. Across Britain, perfect strangers are united with one bond - a splash of red on their lapels or tops, calling them to remembrance. Tough biker jackets, upper class dainty scarves, a grubby child's little jacket; all share one common feature - the poppy. There's some coats t...

Linked to me earlier today by my big brother Jay Lauser . “Who am I?” By Dietrich Bonhoeffer (March 4, 1945) Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell’s confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country-house. Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warders freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command. Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win. Am I then really all that which other men tell of? Or am I only what I know of myself? restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, fa...

WARNING: EXTREME ADULT CONTENT AHEAD. IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 16, IT IS ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT READ FURTHER. This shot into my head earlier. I don't really know why, but after a nightmare last night, followed by a hint from the co-authored book Raraavis/Shayna and I are doing with the problems I am working on with several friends right now, I think that's probably the reason. Those titles in the headline must have caught your attention. I confess, they were rather a strain to think of. Because the original title in my mind was "Stripper". Shocking, ja? Yeah, instant recoil off all of you. I can see it right now. Don't judge yet. My story idea is as follows. A young and pretty Jewish girl gets arrested and carted off to the camps. During the selection process, she is taken by the officers to serve as a whore for them. She fights to survive physically, although dead within. After the war, she is treated as an outcast by all of her people, and, refused a job, resort...