.CA

The Considerable Apple: Not to be Confused with the Big Apple 

 Part A

The lift of the back hatch and the spurt of Portuguese Water dogs, three, was the lid off a shaken pop can that had been left in the sun. The local man, who was the companion and trusted Alpha of the dogs, added a directional, that tall drinking glass, to catch the exhilaration and boundless energy that sprayed out liberally over the designated gravel parking space.  Sweet was the shaggy caramel coloured dog who championed the sniff  test methodology of orientation, and headed in our direction. He gifted us with  a delicious greeting like a silver tray etched with floras and filled with canapes. Adoring eyes of amber and pink tongue caresses that translated into "Love ya, you bipedal wonders," we took a long sip.   I bent down low to give him a rub on his head and over his ears.  The brief BF moment was like the heavy rain on a searing hot day.



 A woman dressed in  careful  coordinates    of colour and style sailed by us. Her pencil gray  mud boots were rimmed in hot pink and her eyes were shuttered in dark glasses.    With warmth and confidence she beckoned us forward with the mention  of a hearty healthy  luncheon menu and local fare. The noon hour nemesis of growling stomachs must have echoed across the lot as  morning trail mix, after a 10 km hike,and dried snap peas only goes so far. We fell into step with her as as she seemed to be a woman in the know, a woman of some pragmatism,  presentation and poise as she guided us through the mud, across the rural setting and into the unique experience of Spirit Tree cider house.  Her husband was a distinguished man and I had noticed him standing tall and still- chin up, eyes registering the sky. I would offer him a penny for his thoughts, but the penny is defunct now and I knew his thoughts were probably priceless and possibly private, his own.

Potential of the outdoor  patio and view from the Indoor restaurant

The Dining area and their Ice Cider  innovation that is selling widely.

 A fence-less lot, an orchard of dwarf trees with 37 kinds of apples, and fields edged in pearl whites and slate to mouse grays of an emerging spring was a great spot for locals and out of townees to take note of the considerable diversity inherent in the apple.  A fourth generation farm family had an idea, a smart solution, that went   well beyond the long tradition of Mac, Delicious, Crispin, Mutsus and more.  They saw that the apple had potential beyond crisps,  pies and that first bite, the resounding crunch and flavour infusion, as individual to the apple type as a thumbprint on humans. The harvest , with a little innovation, imagination and hard work could be more green in a  a tough economy. The centuries old building insulated with straw and heated by an immense brick oven could avoid  dilapidation, broken boards, age old decay by   reinventing  the apple, reinventing and refurbishing  the barn. This farm on the southern side of the escarpment protected from the winds and seated in clay over loam would continue to produce apples  over condominiums and housing units. They had found  the considerable apple was larger than what they had thought as they took the time and made the effort  to explore.  Looks like this: A restaurant with local food and chef schooled in France, a store with specialty breads, local jams, maple syrup a community hub where people come to relax, engage, taste, test and appreciate the hospitality and a little adventure for the pallet. <Breath> :)   Here there is  Draught or draft cider, Apple Lager, Pear Cider,  Crab Apple Cider and Ice Cider  to name a few.  The expansion into new territories,  the  pioneer spirit for generating and burgeoning an industry  is  huge, brave and historically captured. Recognized as essentially  human  in say, Thanksgiving celebrations in  North American.  There are many others events throughout the world that do the same.

The Beginning

  The contrast is the  modified espalier of techniques used out in the grove and the cryogenic concentration for ice cider.  In the orchard of 7 foot trees with an 18-24 inches spread of limbs and  4- 5 feet apart,  the farming methodology and processing  keeps things trimmed, controlled for high yields, easy pick'ns and annual yields. The thaw and freeze repeat was learned from Quebec cider makers for working with chestnut crab apples to produce  ice cider. These are the small piece of  know how, shared learning, the work, the vision needed to make money grow on trees in the larger groves of agriculture based economics. Their current success is a landmark for many and a boon for their customers who now come from all over Ontario.

Orchard

Functioning as a furnace and oven for smart solutions.

They are working to build a market and organizational network for cider that replicates  the ages older fermented grape or VQA of the wine industry and sidles up   to,   adds dimension to the beer industry. This infant in the family of  the  alcoholic (5-6% )beverage, stands with  the older siblings and has energy and insight as they work with the local brewery to bottle the Draught ciders and look to the model of the VQA for ideas for establishing associations  to promote and render quality products. They currently have 13 members. They advocate for free market sales over LCBO. Yes, easy access for consumers but can they then put a portion of profits back into rehabilitation programs for alcoholism,  support initiatives against drunk driving and keep teens +drink + cars out of the picture. The tour guide, salesrep with his  multitude of other hats,  took this question in stride but no real answer came forward. I could see that he was thinking it though, defensively and it may come up later as an action in  his journey. When the moment is right he might  recall briefly that one small question, going forward, and he will act. I trust.

Original insulation in the building. Straw.

Taste Sensations

                                                                                 

 Between the locals, The Spirit Tree,  the dogs,  rural expanses and the smell of earth and baking bread,  we knew we had found the antique oak barrel stand with the beautiful floral topper kind of  experience. We had crossed the wood planked porch and slipped inside the most marvelous adventure and engaged in the learning experience that could be shared.  We saw how enterprising people find more from less with a little ingenuity, a lot of collaboration and good boots for when you walk through the mud.  

The dedicated friendly staff.

Youngest and oldest together at the family farm.  

                                             

 

Some people enjoying the hospitality of the place.

Training and employment opportunities are keys to success in the expansion. 

This is a work of nonfiction.  Part B will come in time. I will take you into the basement, the back barns to show you the process.Bring your boots. :)  I hope you enjoyed this piece.  Decide to take a journey by plane, train or auto with a way point in Terra Cotta ,  Ontario, Canada - Spirit Tree-,  to enjoy this slice of life.

By Donna Thompson The Glitch Factory ,  under the Manufacturing tab soon to evolve into "Writation (N) The person, place, ideas and things captured in writing and digital images. " 

All rights reserved copyright 2014 Donna Thompson.

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An Engma: How did the Czar Nicholas II and Family Die and did any Survive

Mystery of the Murder of the Romonofs and role of Lenin One of the mysteries that have fascinated me is the killing of the Russian Tsar and his family at the hand of the Bolsheviks. I am intrigued that whether Lenin himself had ordered the execution or not. Did he have a hand and did the Bolshevik firing squad act on the orders of Lenin? We do know that Tsar Nicholas was an incompetent man and his decision to launch an ill equipped army into battle against Germany spelt his doom. He was overthrown in a coup engineered by Lenin and exiled to Siberia. On 17 July 1918, a Bolshevik firing squad opened fire on the family on the pretext of taking a group photograph and murdered the family. I feel for the Romanoff family and wonder how such a barbaric crime could have been committed.

In 1988 the bodies of the of Nicholas Romanov II, his wife Czarina Alexandra, and their three daughters, Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia were discovered but kept a secret for 10 years as the powers that be wished to bring the details to the fore once communism collapsed. Finally on 17 July 1988 the remains of the last Czar and his family were laid to rest at St Petersburg. Boris Yeltsin the then Russian president himself attended the ceremony. It stirred an emotional chord among Russians. However the remains of 2 of the missing children the crown prince Alexi, and his sister, Grand Duchess Maria were not located and speculation was rife that these 2 had escaped the death squad of the Communist’s. However in 2007 a builder searching for trinkets in the area where the Czar had been murdered came across 2 highly decomposed bodies. The Russians carried out a DNA test and it was proved that these 2 were indeed the missing children. But the romantic notion that the 2 children escaped still holds the imagination of the people all over the world. Lastly was Lenin involved? There is no evidence that at any stage Lenin ordered the murder of the Czar and his family. It is possible that this may have been ordered by some second rung leader. Could it be Trotsky? We don’t know, but Lenin I think was not involved. Published on www.teckler.com 12320

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The Dash Board

                                                             The Dash Board



2a.m.  Eastern Standard time, I fumble for coverings, casual comforts over sheets and bedspreads. Fly out the door and crash with the night air. The blackness is interrupted by pinpricks of light and the full moon is odd shaped like a glass orb-fortune telling, mine, I imagine. Accuracy in future predictions are those flakes of gold that swirl and sparkle  in clear liquid filled shapes. Wrecking balls are fire in buildings and that is where I am headed now.

Streetlights negate the darkness in some spaces. My body chemistry is an electric current as adrenalin surges through my veins, jolting me awake.  Every sense is a razor's edge. I toss my duffel bag into the passenger's seat. My side kick, a canvas companion, comforts, and protects, gives relief and activates the seatbelt signal on the dash board. The red stick figure flashes red in time to  incessant beeps from two sources, one is my pager,  alarm harmonies. The engine idles as I reach over and buckle up the bag to end the noise. Hand check, good,  steady as a rock.

I  loosen my grip on the steering wheel and release my shoulders, level. The figure in red has disappeared from my dashboard. In my mind it is every person I have ever helped- the hurt, the battered, the bleeding, despairing, crying, stoic and brave.

The message on my cell phone is there still, fire in an apartment complex...scant details. I will know more soon enough. The engine roars, vibrates as I approach the intersection. The green light, a point, morphs into a circle and I press down hard on the accelerator.  The flicker of yellow gold reflects off the hood as I pass under the overhang of the caution signal. I gotta beat the red. See green.

My wife says Batman never looked so competent in the reds, blacks, tans, reflective light strips and Xs. She says this marks the spot where firemen, policemen, city workers and my crew, the volunteers from the Red Cross, become the treasures. She gave me the golden globe last week. Placed it on the headboard as I slept. Found it there. It reminds me to search for gold inside of  myself, shine brightly and avoid the pitfalls that come from tough surroundings, living in glass balls, getting shaken up. I think she should have included soldiers in her  Batman listing. I think they are like me in a way.  I keep driving towards elements out of control. I notice that I am sweating, -22 degrees Celsius  outside- heat in the cab is off. Preparedness is only one layer in the turn of the rubric when you walk into the misalignment.

On site I wrestle  with the duffel bag, who really has a utility belt in EMS, and slide into my "cape", a bright red vest with a white cross and block lettering. I fit the cap on the back of my head and yank down on the brim. Feels good. My mind locks and loads into this choice, this hat at 2:32 a.m. Indecision is the magic and pleasure of court jesters or  shopping mall excursion.  It  has no place here. The other hats, father, son, professional, neighbor, husband are hooked on the hat stand of my collective and diverse identity.

I skid to a halt in my thoughts and and stop the stride near a young woman with a child nestled into her slight frame. She is shivering. Her face is blackened with soot , a mask forged in smoke and fire. I grow close, there is no real moving, and wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Two perfect lines made from the  rivulets of tears glow pasty white next to smudges,  shades of  grey of her face and the circles, large green traffic lights, of eyes. I breath and dive in. Her expression says bewildered as she stares  transfixed at a home now crumbled and fierce with flames. I draw her away.

She is rubbing her lower lid with one slim blistered finger as I try to find out her name, if she is OK. She is watching the path of a stretcher, now, strung with IV tubes. Another mask, oxygen is strapped to a face that must be familiar to her as I hear her gasp and her hand flies to her throat. The boy tucked into the folds of her stretched knitted sweater is so quiet. Fire creeps then roars through structures obliterating windows and doors, licking frames, deadly  but not beyond the abilities of heroes.  Science of elements tucked in a back pocket of our minds in the event that gas, or chemicals complicate.  Every roll of the dice brings a new configuration.

                                                                         

                                                                                  ***

Stella from one floor down, I think. 
"Oh God, Oh God, is she OK?" 
"Steady," he says. "What's your name?"  He is dressed in kindness but I am with Stella in my thoughts.
Stella has a voice like a Mockingjay, melodic and sweet.
I heard her sing in  an  imitation that turned  to interpretation of a popular tune.Through the thin slices of  pine floor boards, I listened to her belt  out the song as if the bills were music sheets to be mastered by the instrument of her vocal chords. I did not recognize the melody as it bounded into her own invention, beautiful, just as I knocked at the door. We drank from heavy mugs. Mine had a dishwasher worn icon of a tower: Eiffel, CN, Pisa, Burj Kalifa, Empire... one of those. The coffee was instant. We were hoping to rise above ground level too. On the shiny side of her mug was the logo of her 7a.m. to 7 p.m. existence. The reason she could pay the bills and sing, I suppose.

She had opened up to me her news headlines, The Abandonment and the Found. I had shared with her a few articles and infestation of my own. My hand fluttered to the base of my throat as my stomach churned and my words ran dry.

"Ohh no, " I breath...I feel the firm but soft touch. Kindness is on my shoulder. Ethan squirms and groans and I swell in the happiness that he is there resting against my shoulder. I turn to the man in the red cape, um ,oh, I mean vest and feel relief like millions of  tiny bubbles caressing the most sensitive spot, the pad of  my finger tip and moving up over my skin.  

                                             Nikon Nuance moment.


                                                                         ***

I place my hand on her shoulder and she stops swaying. Her eyes are now alert with the sound of the child. She speaks to him softly.

I am the team lead. The scars, slashes of lights, slick pavement, and  buildings that fold and furnace exacerbate the sense of urgency.  The ladders length, motorized to swing is  attached to the best getaway car, a fire engine, and  rivals  Bonny and Clyde "s vehicular transports. The construction worker on the top floor makes it out.  No time to set up the nets. The police have cordoned off the area as systems begin to form in the face of fire and sometimes we just go with the gut feeling against misanthropic flames. Too bad fire, the damaging kind,  is more than just  the  myth  of dragons breathing. 

                                                                            ***
I approach the team lead, the woman and the child. Walking out of hell is never easy.
"Hey big guy, I'm Willis. You're gonna be driv'n that truck soon."
The boy takes the colouring book I offer.  His eyes bore into me. What does he see?


                                                                             ***

Nice man in red,    stains    on his clothes,                      Ok  other man got me out of the building, TRUST yes. Same people, good, help.               OK.                 It was so hot hot ...                   Eyes burning can't breath  <intake of breath>   Mom  ??!!??? Brought me to mom.   Yes, I remember.             Safe                        !


                                                                               ***

I sprinkle the corrugated metal of the flatbed truck with sticks of yellow, orange and red.  They crisscross jumbled on the pan of the black flatbed where she sits, shoeless, swinging her legs.  The little guy unwinds himself from the trust that is MOM.  He reaches for the lemon yellow, then peacock blue gradually supplanting solid blank spaces with streaks of colour.  The crayon leaps and careens outside of  design guide lines. He clutches each crayon more tightly in a fist. As we visit and start to talk,  he loosens his grasp on the crayon and the colour floods into the interior spaces. He circumvents the tear made by his earlier efforts and smooths it over with his hand. I rummage around the truck for for a flat board and come up with a piece of plywood for a table.
"You're doing good kid."
He offers me a smile of sorts. I want to tell him that his stuffed animals, video games, favorite shirt and money chest are neatly stacked in the cab of  the truck. All I have is a plank of board, a book for colour, caring, accommodation.  His smile is the greatest return.

                                                                        ***

Lidiya takes the water that I offer to her. She hands it to her son who is looking up at Willis smiling. Good!
I give her a second bottle from the pack. We begin the kind of conversation that nails down the next small beginnings after the collapse. The fire has let go of its hold against the weapons of spray and the intelligence and technique  of the fire officials. Their moves are as calculated and polished as a Metropolitan Opera . Fire is an unpredictable and vicious foe.  I can hear the human chords of  deficits and gains as we hope for the wind to die down and approach a tall man with his head in his hands. Lydia and the boy are on their way to the hotel as arranged. - respite from a storm.

2:45 a.m. turns to 6 then 7 and the fires are finally under control. The emergency teams and a few bystanders circle the contained morass.  The fire chief tells us that everyone got out as far as he knows.

I know that I've been held in a too tight embrace by Katrina and Sandy. Felt their sloppy kisses and the bite, cut  of their sharp teeth on lips and throat. I left a piece of me and my team in New York. Slave Lake fires, floods in Alberta and Haiyan have challenged level crossings.

Midnight was long ago receding in the face of the dawn of a new day.

I swing my duffel bag onto the passenger seat, fasten the seat belt sign and hit the road. The beep and red light figure stays silent on the dashboard. ....Used to be Paradise By the... .I was just a kid. Hmmmm mmm ...the dashboard light, aww Meat Loaf .   

The porch lights tell me I'm home. My wife is framed by  the soft light of the living room window. She is as strong as me but different and I will lean on her now - just for a little while, for a bit of rest. The door opens in another place. The second door to a Home is well filled, well designed and sturdy, a hat rack in the corner. The rack ,  where I hang my hats,  is the people, professional and personal that support me. Support all of us ...  They are who  we are  gonna call if the ghosts bust in.

 The Lion Rests in Light: To all those that work to keep us safe through their fight with  fire, floods, crime and to keep the peace, preserve our freedoms. Thank you and enjoy your times of rest. You earned them.


This is a work of creative nonfiction,  a genre that is part fiction and part non. The ratio of imagined to real varies in accordance with the design of the piece and the individual style of the author.

 I did have an opportunity to interview one of the members of  the Red Cross. My next blog will  be nonfiction for those that like a choice and it  will circle that conversation.  This is the creative piece that sprang from the meeting.  The character builds pertain to the idea of being an emergency worker or soldier and  are wholly fictional.  PST is an important issue in our times and is touched on as a part of the thematic.

                                                        A Look at Clouds from New Sides... now

Taken on a blue sky day  for a Nikon Nuance moment by me.

 all rights reserved Donna Thompson copyright 2014 . See also The Glitch Factory

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Islam and Women: Disturbing thoughtss

Recently a friend of mine married a handsome Arab. He was rich, had a yatch and a Rolls Royce. Before marriage she converted to Islam and the couple went for a racous honeymoon to France and Spain. The trouble commenced after she went with him to Saudi Arabia. She realized her access was limited and she was confined in special part of the house called the zenena. She also discovered she was wife no 3 and the rich Arab had 2 other wives. She was appalled at this. Her access to the outside world was also restricted and she was confined to the house. I will not dwell further on this tale, suffice that as she was a bold woman she escaped by bribing a taxi driver a Punjabi Muslim from Pakistan and none knew where she went away. She was lucky but there are tens who regret their mistake and spend a life time in the harem. The fact is the status of women in Islam is lower than man.The Sharia gives a subseverient position to women and that cannot be discussed. But non-Muslim women who dream of happy life with a rich Arab finally realize its just a pipe dream 12320

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Ovid, the Roman Poet and his concept of Love and Rape

The Roman Empire is one of the largest and most enduring empires. It spanned a gigantic area from France to Asia Minor. It also produced a retinue of classical writers and philosophers. One of the classical poets of this period is Ovid. This man was born in 43 BC in Rome. This was during the reign of Augustus. Many consider this as the golden age of Rome. It was a period when the Roman empire consolidated and many artists and poets emerged. One of these was Ovid who is recognized as one of the immortals as far as verse is considered. His relationship with Augustus was not very happy. It is possible he was implicated for lovong a high class Roman girl. Many conjecture that this girl was relayed to Augustus or his daughter. But Ovid wad exiled from Rome by Augustus. Ovid died at the age of 57 or 58 in 15-17AD. But in his span of 58 years Ovid created some lovely poetry. In the modern age Ovid is recognized as the last of the classical poets of the Roman era.images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9JSi44FUP_TwOYa5Q3_K Ovid wrote a number of books with verses. His'Art of love` is a stand out verse. Ovid describes love and allows the reader to infer about rape with his verses on the `Gaze.` Ovid was of the view that a rape can only commence after a man gazes at a woman. A gaze by a man in which he takes stock of the woman for carnal knowledge is the beginning of rape. Ovid himself does not describe the rape in his verses, but as a master poet leaves it to the imagination of the reader. This is classical poetry and proves that Ovid was a master of the verse. His other works are Heroides, Amores and Ars Amatoria, and o Metamorphoses, Ovid wrote other works as well, but his forte was poetry and verse. There is no doubt he wad the pulse of poetry creation in his grip. Ovid was perhaps a great lover himself. Ther is no doubt that to write love poetry an element of personal experience is always a great help. Ovid died at the age of perhaps 56 or 58. Despite a relatively short span Ovid is recognized as one of the great romantic poets from the classical age from Rome Read more: http://www.bukisa.com/articles/746890_ovid-the-roman-poet-love-and-rape#ixzz2wkm33bXk 12320

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My Tryst with a Catholic Nun

I am going to relate is a factual account of a happening when I had just joined the Air Force and was under training. The Air Force administrative College is located at Red Fields in Coimbatore. It’s a hallowed college and has been there since the days of the Raj and the Royal Indian Air Force. All pilot trainees were supposed to spend 3 months at this college to get a basic understanding of service life like parade, drills and small arms practice before going on the learn to fly at the Air Force academy. Accordingly I reached Coimbatore and the Drill instructor Sargent Thevar began to put us through our paces. There was no booking out for 4 weeks and that too after passing the Drill test. I passed and heaved a sigh of relief as I could book out. There was however a caveat and the booking dress were a white pant and shirt with the striped blue Air Force Tie.

I remember I saw a movie. I think it was ‘Conon the Destroyer’ and I left the cinema hall to get back to the college before the booking in time of 10pm. Then it began to rain and thunder reverberated and reverberated again and again. I ran to a small shelter and took refuge there. As lightening flashed across the sky, I saw that I was in the foyer of a dilapidated building. I was further intrigued when I saw a nun in one corner of the foyer. She was absolutely drenched and her gray smock clung to her. She was young perhaps not more than 20 and I was also of the same age. My tie was a give way and I think she knew I was from the Air force college. I also made out she was slightly darkish and I concluded she was a Malayali from Kerala. The rain now increased in intensity and I walked to the nun and suggested that we move inside as the rain was lashing all around and she and I were getting wetter. I held out my hand she caught it and we went inside the dilapidated building. It was dark inside and the heavens were roaring. I realized it was rain storm. The nun sneezed and I suggested she remove her smock or she would get a cold. This was an innocent suggestion and the nun began to remove her robe. Lightening flashed across and in the split second I saw the nun naked with just a bra and panty.

God now took a hand and what happened after that has remained a blur in my memory. After the act was over, I could sense that there was some blood and the rain had stopped. I kissed and got up to dress and when I turned around the girl was gone. It was a silent withdrawal, more like a feline cat. I reached the guard room, 30 minutes late and my Course Commander Squadron Leader DL Dhār awarded me 2 pack parades. I will not dwell on what a pack parade is, but it’s a tough punishment. I didn’t regret the punishment one bit. I finished my training and left and as a Flight Lieutenant came again to Red Field 5 years later. I went to the seminary and met the mother superior and was told that many nuns had been sent to USA. It is an episode that is in my mind. Something that happened that was to happen for as Lord Krishna says in the Gita” Not a leaf moves without my will”. Posted on my personal blog Dracula fun 12320

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Did Someone Say Aliens?

by Donna Thompson author and staffer at  The Glitch Factory 

Did Someone Say Aliens?

When a Boeing 777 vanishes with 239 people aboard in 2014, the full force of our advanced technology bears down on the problem. The backyard pool of expertise and resources rapidly expands into oceanic proportions and nations cast aside their differences to form  global teams. The fact finders  in the shape of P-3, P-8s surveillance aircraft,  ships,   satellites,  computer consoles, drones, scouts,  rovers and, of course, the funds behind this, are gradually organized into an orchestra of pitch perfect precision. Decisions are made to remain agile in the process of investigation for best practices over remaining in stasis with a fixed premise. Eg. The U.S. realized that surveillance planes were more effective than ships and sent  home the "boats", -sometimes more means less and strategy wins out over sheer quantity.

The details began to spill out over social platforms, blogs, newscasts and other means allowing the public to formulate their own theories, engage in the mystery. We continue to imagine and speculate beyond our kitchen tables plunging deep into Arthurian rounds located in the multi-leveled castle of cyberspace. The stories build on each other or repeat.  The responses are immediate as the sheer number of people involved reaches into the millions and crosses over continents.  We are greedy for the fire hose flow of information, logistics and conclusions without letting this eclipse the empathy we feel for the individuals on the plane and their families.

 This rapid synthesis of data by the masses and the pros is no longer a domino or snowball effect that denotes a single starting point. The notes are splayed out into a series of events not sequestered within a single point. These hypothesis scatter and then builds into a solution, like 1000s and 1000s of pixels in the perfect complex image.The more pixels you have the greater the clarity and resolution of the views. We see multi-sequential means that surround  the vanished plane as opposed to just the disappearance itself.  Information and delivery are that fast. This is what I would call the spray effect.   Together we accumulate the facts and emotions based on our own storehouse of suppositions and an initial share from a myriad of resources. We continue to pass this data around, digest, regurgitate and or formulate new until more ground is covered in a shorter time. Yet, this time our communications discussions and opinion acquisitions  have not yet brought results.  The largest piece is missing, the physical evidence of a plane or wreckage of any kind.    The image has an enormous             hole, not a tiny   tear.       We also now know  the flight navigational system that is used to  set the course for the Boeing was overridden or reprogrammed. This task is nothing like tying our shoelaces and therefore points towards a certain skill set.   Have we evolved the system enough to have a series of checks and balances that allows for codes or keys which prevent the manipulation of an aircraft or change in flight plan without the added input or keys from the ground, or air traffic control?  Is there, too much left to the control of the two in the cockpit and whoever else may want to commandeer  a ride , isolated as they are in their airspace. Is this the next evolution for flight safety?-Too early to know. 

In 2014, we are savvy enough to ask the question how much of the information, during the distribution process, is first hand, or third.  Did anyone along the way skimp on a few details in order to steer, lead and or protect us from a knowing that would ultimately rock our world or place us on a far greater tilt than the current natural one?  The conspiracy theory is always part of the package during the examination as it has become the standard go to  expression in modern times.  The topic has been the subject of film, art, music, books and journalism for as long as have known the meaning of the word. Did they also know of this word or one like it as part of regular communication when using the Rosetta Stone for translations of ancient languages? Aww I digress and yes divert from my set course to prove how easily this could happen not  only in aviation but as a metaphor for life and possibly the very thing that happened to the 2 person crew. 

Were the 2 pilots  threatened on the ground, ahead of time or during the flight, to comply with a plot? Did they refuse and ditch the plane?  Was one or the other  psychotic or depressed, no, not according the facts.  We know the skill set and parameters required for a communication/radar shut down on a large high tech aircraft.  The transponder and ACAR are also subject to any number of mechanical errors despite the number of built in compensations but it is the human component that seems to be the focus.   Premeditated, deeply rooted plot, diverted thinking,  or mechanical failure we continue to wait it out for the solution beyond theory, speculation and in the absence of complete proofs. 

  There are a few that may still doubt that we will ever find the answer. I would say that the globe is much small than it ever has been and in time we will come to know a truth and hopefully it is the correct one.  We will continue to hope that the people on board are alive because we cannot digest the other idea when there are still so many questions, so many gaps, rents and tears in the re-creation of the series of events that led to MH370 exiting the skies. “All right, Goodnight”  is becoming a film, books and exhibits in the near future. The phrase is, in fact, a  title for chaos on March 8, 2014 and  haunts the radio signals and recesses of our minds  as a reminder that  perceived regularity can so easily transition into  the bizarre.  

The disappearance and the inability to solve the mystery faster is frustrating but not daunting.  More time is needed but should no answer be found, then we may begin to explore new regions of thought more purposefully or in parallel. This would mean delving into the ethereal of the speculative with difficult suppositions into subterfuge, Bermuda Triangles now Indian Ocean Quadrilaterals, wormhole, and or dare we look up, way way up into space.  Did someone say aliens?  

May the answers come to us soon in this our informational, high tech age that is also graced with a real caring for the people on flight MH370.   This is the view from a plane at sun set, the beauty, wonder and energy evoked by the image  is unsurpassed in my experiences. I send this out as a beacon of light and hope for the safe recovery or at least the solution to the crisis of  the missing plane.

The compilations of resources that allowed for this summation of facts are CBC , BBC, and the many interested parties that commented with facts across the net. The analysis is my own.

 I believe it was a commenter with a profile pic of an avitar that suggested the idea of the alien- part joke part serious. I did not have their name but I liked the sense of fun and the spark of  something more.

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Star So Bright

Submitted by dogula on March 16th, 2014 –
Category: Ideology

Star so bright, please come out tonight, and show us the signs of a raised moon. The planet of our dreams, will be close to our hearts, and allow our souls to glisten. The brightness we see, will reflect our thoughts, to be favoring an Ora of delight. We will walk in the valley of people, that have a reflection of ones mind. The direction we take, will support a unity between us and G-D. The path we take, will be measured with substance. Every step we take, will bring us closer to the horizon of matter. A point of despair, will be gaged, but the solution will come from all over. The last message we get, will resemble a time in our lives, to be happy and proud, on the direction we want to take, as respect, will be at our grasp, and the finalization between two people, will have us understand, why we have a purpose on earth, and our lives.
+Star
+So brite

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Why Cassius Clay Converted to Islam

Cassius Clay was the world heavy weight boxing champion when he was drafted to serve in Vietnam with the US Army. At that time military service was compulsory in the USA and everybody had to spend time in the army. This was called the draft. Clay refused to be drafted to go to Vietnam and as a punishment his boxing title was taken from him. This embittered him and he felt the white race was always treating the Negroid race in a demeaning manner. In addition he wanted to cock a fist at the white racial supremacists. Clay in his child hood had grown up in an era of racial segregation and this had told on his psyche. Moreover he felt the church had done nothing for the blacks and he thought it best to convert to Islam. America was shocked when Clay converted to Islam and took the name Mohammed Ali. From then on he taunted the white race and asked them to put a fighter against him. There is no denying that Ali was a great boxer and he retained his boxing titles on the strength of his ability. In fact he is the only boxing champion in the world to have won back the heavyweight crown 3 times. Ali gave up boxing after some time , but he continued to believe in Islam. In fact many celebrity men like Cat Stevens also converted to Islam. These conversions are brushed aside by the American government, but the fact is the blacks are disenchanted with the church, which stood as a passive onlooker when racial policies were at their peak. 12320

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