Orlando Lujan Martinez, IWAA
6020 Kathryn Ave. SE #16
Albuquerque NM 87108
Get Your Kicks On Route 66
I was still rummy from a night of drugged sleep achieved with the aid of a load of booze and an assortment of sleeping pills. All I wanted to do was drink a cup of coffee, and read the newspaper so I could find out about the progress of my fellow citizens in this land of the free, and to know what laws had been passed by the politicians to protect me from the obscure shadow forces I knew were gaining on me but to get that information I had to wade through a bunch of stories about murder and a lot of other violent bullshit.
How, oh how, could all these terrible things happen and just overnight to boot, I thought, as I looked at a picture of a couple of bodies, with bug eyed people watching from the side lines, in a Macdonalds parking lot on the front page. Could this be the fault of the prevailing violence on television or the easy accessibility of guns and drugs or the lack of moral fortitude in the general public; or the collapse of christianity; or the failure of education, mommy and daddy: or the fall of Western Democracy, of course not, I told myself. It happened just like that, overnight, without a bit of warning-- whatsoever. Those terrible things were not, I repeat, the fault of the bad example set by some of our highest religious and political leaders.
Repeat after me, "The guy that did the Double Decker at Mcdonalds was a lone nut." The newspaper assured me the cops had capture the criminal: a lone nut they called the guy and told me everything was alright. The public is safe again. Nothing to worry about they said.
I put the newly oiled 347 magnum under a newspaper on the seat and left for my daily forty minute drive via a freeway packed to the gun ports with cars driven by people I suspected had escaped from a mental institution or a Georgia chain gang.
I was wondering why everyone was violent. One never knows when a bad person will appear. The problem is that these days you couldn't tell the bad from the beautiful. That's what I liked about the good old days identification was sometimes possible. Now days the bad guy could be a fellow worker who was always talking about God, and doing good favors without being asked. How generous. Or a guy that was so polite and naive that his friends ended up borrowing money from him and taking advantage of his generosity or God forbid, a doctor in the next lane in a brand new car that gave off aura of respectability and worth. You just didn't know if it would be this or that guy that would pay you back in spades for something someone else did to him.
So you always had to be careful and never be dependable so no one would trust you enough to make you responsible for something you didn't do. So that when a gun was pointed you could always say I didn't do nothing and you would be right asrain--as you took the slug. The one mistake you made was thinking that the guy was hunting for someone, some special someone, when in fact he was just hunting for a victim, and anyone would do. Then suddenly you became the center of attention, a star is born, in the trauma room of your local corporate owned hospital looking up at the hair in the attending physicians nostrils as you lay vertical with a load of morphine in your brain.
The gun had a nice heft to it. I did my Robert Deniro part from Taxi Driver in front of the mirror before I left, and cruised out on the freeway on the way to my wonderful job and my wonderful boss--with my gun on the seat under a newspaper. The glove compartment was to far away. I needed to feel safe. I began thinking about all of my troubles and was sure that nobody ever showed me any respect--never not in my whole life. You would think a guy with my money and position would not have this kind of trouble but your wrong. Dead wrong.
I worked up a head of steam. Raw hatred boiled in my brain. I was sure everyone on the highway that day was there for only one reason: to screw me over. Sure enough, like it was just waiting for me to come along, a car with a guy in smokes, looking like an executive, talking into a phone fast like he is closing a defense contract deal for hundreds of millions of dollars, swerved in front of me without regards for my safety. I lost my cool. "Mother------r! Son-of-a------!! ----sucker!!!" He sneered at me, and gave me the finger. That was his fatal mistake.
I was enraged because here I am a man of peace, a regular church goer, being provoked by this fucker. "I'll kill you," I screamed, my face contorted with rage and went for the gun, loaded with dumb dumb bullets, on the eat. It came up in my hand along with a overload of exhilarating hatred, and the emotional makeup of a mad dog, and a pattern of paranoia that I had been laboring under for years despite the full pot, full wallet and living in the wonderful land of the free. It seems I had everything and nothing.
Nobody loves me my brain screeched. The hate exploded. I fired several rounds. The thought never occurred to me that I would be doing life or that this guy had a lovely wife, two charming children and probably several guns for protection but lucky for me on that day was not carrying a piece and had everything to live for, including the big week end game on television. He had a case of beer in the fridge to tide him over until the game was over. He had everything to live for. To bad. Toot Toot Tootsie goodby.
After the gun bucked in my hand I watched through the rearview mirror as his car swerve off the highway, and seen the cops red light go on and siren go off, as I sped away. There was a high speed chase, weaving in and out of traffic, without regards for human life. They finally had to crash a patrol car into me. I bailed out and I did a Jesse Owens through a residential neightbor hood before three cops brought me to the turf, and as I laid sprawled, on my face, handcuff on the hot tarmac of a Wendys (MacDonalds competition) parking lot I knew that I was lucky because if I would have been black they might have found a very good reason to kill me. The guy lived and I told the judge I was sorry and he gave me fifteen years. That's the best he could do. The judge asked me, after the sentencing, if I had learned anything. "Yea," I said, "Never carry a gun because you might use it."
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
the faralito
The Faralito
Orlando Lujan Martinez
In Malcolm Lowrys novel U,nder the Volcano, written in 1938, Godfrey Fermin, a former American Consul, living in the town of Cahnahauca Mexico, is spending his last day on earth in The Faralito, a sordid dark tavern next to a deep barranca. The barranca's steep incline is an tangle of thick jungle, at the bottom a sluggish stream flows toward the sea.
The consul is an dipsomaniac and on the terminal end of a monumental mescal drunk His slow tango with mescal is about to be concluded. The consul is going to be assassinated and thrown into the deep barranca because, in a drunken stupor, he naively mentioned, to the bar owner, he was in Madrid; a stronghold of the Spanish Republicans, Communists, Trotskyites and the International Brigades, who were the first to fight fascism, during the Spanish Civil War.
A number of Federal soldiers are huddle together, in dusty uniforms, at the far end of the bar voices dropped to a inaudible murmur talking about Fremin because the Faralitos owner had told them about his causal conversation with Fermin, and they are now beginning to suspect the consul is either a Troskyite or a Communist or a former member of the International Brigades. Poison words to the militaries who supported the dictator of Mexico during the 1930s. Occasionally one of them turns to look at the Consul, sitting at a table drinking mescal and reading the love letters of his wife
Fermin is the prisoner of mescal and is familiar with delirium tremens and its world of hallucinations, the late night crys of animals being slaughtered in the kitchen of his house, and the hundreds of dead cattle now posed on the slope of a hill opposite The Faralito. But the consul, despite these apparitions, and the months of submersion in mescal, still manages to think of love. He is reading the love letters of a wife he is separated from, not as the source of a possible revival-which is impossible because his life has been taken by mescal- but as a love dead of true lovet and the dismal memories of a lost soul.
Yet, he is still able in his sodden mind to think about the wonder of love. “What is there in life besides the person who one adores and the life one can build with that person?“ his wife writes. But he is no longer a participant in the pageant of love. There is nothing left of life to build on.
Across the world, thirty years later, in 1968, in the steaming jungles of Vietnam an American soldier is killed by North Vietnamese solders, now silently running down a path. They are numb from fatigue. The death of the American was done with courageous determination, but without hatred.
The soldier will never see his wife in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains of New Mexico again. And spring, summer and winter will pass again and again without him. When he died his life and love became memories that live on in the family picture album. The picture with his unforgettable smile is the one his wife will remember when decades later with her tearful face reflected in the black granite, she tucks a letter to her enternal lover into the crack between the granite slabs of the Vietnam Memorial Wall. The letter says, in part,: “You made my small world shine and my life count for something good. I finally understood for the first time, that love is greater than death. I will remember you forever.
She still believes one beautiful sunlit summer day he’ll walk in the back door. and call her name in such a wonderful tone of vioce that tears will fall.
When the Federales came to an agreement they rose slowly, scraping chairs, and walk silently, in the gloom of The Faralito, towards the Consul: the Troskyite or Communist and former member of the International Brigades.
The barranca next to The Faralito, carved into the earth by 500,000 years of the streams erosion, waits patiently.
Orlando Lujan Martinez
In Malcolm Lowrys novel U,nder the Volcano, written in 1938, Godfrey Fermin, a former American Consul, living in the town of Cahnahauca Mexico, is spending his last day on earth in The Faralito, a sordid dark tavern next to a deep barranca. The barranca's steep incline is an tangle of thick jungle, at the bottom a sluggish stream flows toward the sea.
The consul is an dipsomaniac and on the terminal end of a monumental mescal drunk His slow tango with mescal is about to be concluded. The consul is going to be assassinated and thrown into the deep barranca because, in a drunken stupor, he naively mentioned, to the bar owner, he was in Madrid; a stronghold of the Spanish Republicans, Communists, Trotskyites and the International Brigades, who were the first to fight fascism, during the Spanish Civil War.
A number of Federal soldiers are huddle together, in dusty uniforms, at the far end of the bar voices dropped to a inaudible murmur talking about Fremin because the Faralitos owner had told them about his causal conversation with Fermin, and they are now beginning to suspect the consul is either a Troskyite or a Communist or a former member of the International Brigades. Poison words to the militaries who supported the dictator of Mexico during the 1930s. Occasionally one of them turns to look at the Consul, sitting at a table drinking mescal and reading the love letters of his wife
Fermin is the prisoner of mescal and is familiar with delirium tremens and its world of hallucinations, the late night crys of animals being slaughtered in the kitchen of his house, and the hundreds of dead cattle now posed on the slope of a hill opposite The Faralito. But the consul, despite these apparitions, and the months of submersion in mescal, still manages to think of love. He is reading the love letters of a wife he is separated from, not as the source of a possible revival-which is impossible because his life has been taken by mescal- but as a love dead of true lovet and the dismal memories of a lost soul.
Yet, he is still able in his sodden mind to think about the wonder of love. “What is there in life besides the person who one adores and the life one can build with that person?“ his wife writes. But he is no longer a participant in the pageant of love. There is nothing left of life to build on.
Across the world, thirty years later, in 1968, in the steaming jungles of Vietnam an American soldier is killed by North Vietnamese solders, now silently running down a path. They are numb from fatigue. The death of the American was done with courageous determination, but without hatred.
The soldier will never see his wife in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains of New Mexico again. And spring, summer and winter will pass again and again without him. When he died his life and love became memories that live on in the family picture album. The picture with his unforgettable smile is the one his wife will remember when decades later with her tearful face reflected in the black granite, she tucks a letter to her enternal lover into the crack between the granite slabs of the Vietnam Memorial Wall. The letter says, in part,: “You made my small world shine and my life count for something good. I finally understood for the first time, that love is greater than death. I will remember you forever.
She still believes one beautiful sunlit summer day he’ll walk in the back door. and call her name in such a wonderful tone of vioce that tears will fall.
When the Federales came to an agreement they rose slowly, scraping chairs, and walk silently, in the gloom of The Faralito, towards the Consul: the Troskyite or Communist and former member of the International Brigades.
The barranca next to The Faralito, carved into the earth by 500,000 years of the streams erosion, waits patiently.
God, Goodal and A Dove
God, Jane Goodal and A Dove
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Jane Goodal said "the sacredness of Nature and God surrounds us and is in all living things and inanimate matter and life is one interconnected whole."
A mother dove built a nest on a vega (post) protruding from a wall on my adobe home and soon two baby birds were born.
Several times a day I would stand below the nest, I did this because I believe that God wanted me to interconnect with nature and knew for certain the mother dove would understand. I look up and coo to her and the baby doves, sending them a message of love and friendliness. I wanted her to know that she and her chicks were wonderful and welcomed.
The mother dove look down on me with that one peaceful eye, on the side of her turned head. She was happy with her two young doves. She was a symbol to me of God and Nature. Then one day they were gone and I missed them.
The next day I walked out of my home in the peaceful and light of morning, the mother dove flew down, from the sacredness of Nature and God, fluttered close to my shoulder and landed directly at my feet, then waddle off watching me, her head turned side ways, with one peaceful eye, saying "Thank you for caring." I cooed back "Your welcome." I knew that God was here at this moment.
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Jane Goodal said "the sacredness of Nature and God surrounds us and is in all living things and inanimate matter and life is one interconnected whole."
A mother dove built a nest on a vega (post) protruding from a wall on my adobe home and soon two baby birds were born.
Several times a day I would stand below the nest, I did this because I believe that God wanted me to interconnect with nature and knew for certain the mother dove would understand. I look up and coo to her and the baby doves, sending them a message of love and friendliness. I wanted her to know that she and her chicks were wonderful and welcomed.
The mother dove look down on me with that one peaceful eye, on the side of her turned head. She was happy with her two young doves. She was a symbol to me of God and Nature. Then one day they were gone and I missed them.
The next day I walked out of my home in the peaceful and light of morning, the mother dove flew down, from the sacredness of Nature and God, fluttered close to my shoulder and landed directly at my feet, then waddle off watching me, her head turned side ways, with one peaceful eye, saying "Thank you for caring." I cooed back "Your welcome." I knew that God was here at this moment.
Bishop Desmond Tutu
Bishop Desmond Tutu
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Noble Peace Prize winner Bishop Desmond Tutu came to Denver in 1984 to speak about the apartheid dictatorship of South Africa and the freedom of the Black South Africans. He was speaking at an auditorium near the Denver Bears baseball field.
I was a supporter and admirer of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela , Bishop Desmond TuTu and the goals of the African National Congress. And Joe Slovo. the white communist, who help to break the back of apathiet and bring freedom to the South African people.
On a warm summer night I drove into the parking lot and went to the stage entrance in back of the auditorium where i used my Montelibre Monthly press card. to gain admission to an area where only the officials, VIPs and other important people were allowed.
I walk to the a wing of the stage and I stood their for a moment looking across the audience, hearing the murmur of their voices, and then turned to look around in back of the stage where i knew Bishop Tutu would be.
I walked into a large room that was softly lit and empty except for the solitary figure of Bishop Tutu in dark violet suit and the white priest collar standing in a pool of soft light that lent the sence an apperance of the opening of a stage play .
Bishop Tutu radiated an aura of holy peacefulness as i walk up and said "How are you Bishop Tutu I am Orlando Martinez and I have admired you and Nelson Mandela valiant struggle for Black African Freedom and I am certain that freedom is near.
And I took his out-stretched hand. it was as soft and light as an angels hand. He smiled and looked at me with gentle eyes and said in a soft voice "Thank you Mr. Martinez."
He had a poise of confidence, a twinkle in his eyes, and a sense of well-being that I have seen in few people.
We talked for a moment in the dim lit corner of the room and i went away feeling that I ad met someone specaiI, a true man of God, and that wonderful had happened to me.
Since then Nelson Mandela was released from the prison Robben Island and became the President of South Africa. Mandela has received more than one hundred awards over four decades, most notably the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993. He is currently a celebrated elder statesman who continues to voice his opinion on topical issues. In South Africa he is often known as Madiba, an honorary title adopted by elders of Mandela's clan. The title has come to be synonymous with Nelson Mandela.
Mandela has frequently credited Mahatma Gandhi for being a major source of inspiration in his life, both for the philosophy of non-violence and for facing adversity with dignity.
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Noble Peace Prize winner Bishop Desmond Tutu came to Denver in 1984 to speak about the apartheid dictatorship of South Africa and the freedom of the Black South Africans. He was speaking at an auditorium near the Denver Bears baseball field.
I was a supporter and admirer of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela , Bishop Desmond TuTu and the goals of the African National Congress. And Joe Slovo. the white communist, who help to break the back of apathiet and bring freedom to the South African people.
On a warm summer night I drove into the parking lot and went to the stage entrance in back of the auditorium where i used my Montelibre Monthly press card. to gain admission to an area where only the officials, VIPs and other important people were allowed.
I walk to the a wing of the stage and I stood their for a moment looking across the audience, hearing the murmur of their voices, and then turned to look around in back of the stage where i knew Bishop Tutu would be.
I walked into a large room that was softly lit and empty except for the solitary figure of Bishop Tutu in dark violet suit and the white priest collar standing in a pool of soft light that lent the sence an apperance of the opening of a stage play .
Bishop Tutu radiated an aura of holy peacefulness as i walk up and said "How are you Bishop Tutu I am Orlando Martinez and I have admired you and Nelson Mandela valiant struggle for Black African Freedom and I am certain that freedom is near.
And I took his out-stretched hand. it was as soft and light as an angels hand. He smiled and looked at me with gentle eyes and said in a soft voice "Thank you Mr. Martinez."
He had a poise of confidence, a twinkle in his eyes, and a sense of well-being that I have seen in few people.
We talked for a moment in the dim lit corner of the room and i went away feeling that I ad met someone specaiI, a true man of God, and that wonderful had happened to me.
Since then Nelson Mandela was released from the prison Robben Island and became the President of South Africa. Mandela has received more than one hundred awards over four decades, most notably the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993. He is currently a celebrated elder statesman who continues to voice his opinion on topical issues. In South Africa he is often known as Madiba, an honorary title adopted by elders of Mandela's clan. The title has come to be synonymous with Nelson Mandela.
Mandela has frequently credited Mahatma Gandhi for being a major source of inspiration in his life, both for the philosophy of non-violence and for facing adversity with dignity.
The Communist Manifesto
The Communist Manifesto
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Yes, I’ll admit that I’m extremely wealthy and have enough money to buy anything my heart desires. I have possessions piled up in my Westchester mansion that I brought from exclusive shops and art galleries on Rodeo Drive and Park Avenue. When I’m bored I go shopping and always remember a saying that I read in the autobiography of socialite Doris Duke, “If you have to ask the price you can’t afford it.”
One day Ibough a book I was sure would shock and delight my friends. It was a recent printing of Karl Marx’s The Communist Manifesto. Its bright red enameled cover, with black sickle and hammer, was the idea of the books publisher. The proprietor of the book store said the historical significant book was selling exceptionally well as a novelty, a tea table book, and a conversation piece. I brought one and put it in an easy-to-notice place on the tea table next to a very expensive vase that I purchased on shopping sortie in Palm Beach.
When my friends saw the “The Communist Manifesto” they laugh and said “How clever of you, I must get one myself.” Are you a bad Communist they ask and giggle. When I said yes, to go along with the joke, they broke out into gales of laughter. We had a lot of fun. You see we have in this country, I learned in American Government 103 in high school, a ideal called freedom that allows me to posses this bad book full of some really craze nonsense like “Workers of the world rise and break your chains ” and the class struggle, whatever that means.
One day I went to New York to attended an art reception for Fabrizo Plessi at the Guggenheim First Floor Gallery. I was thinking of buying one of his fabulous painting and was willing to go as high as 200,000 dollars. I stayed at the fabulous Sherry Netherland, one of the favorite haunts of Doris Duke, may the sweet dear rest in peace, and it was such a beautiful afternoon that I decided not to call my chauffeur and walk to the Guggenheim gallery.
I turned here and there, mingling with the common folks, and after taking a wrong turn I got lost and I found myself in a strange part of the city that looked like an third world country or Africa. It was definately not a place to be after the sun went down. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. There were signs of pervasive poverty everywhere old cars, dilapidated tenements and hordes of poor people of a darker shade milling about for as far as the eye could see. It was a very depressing place and was definitely not the New York that Frank Sinatra, “Old blue eyes,” celebrated in the song New York New York.
I was frighten and wondered why, oh, why did they want to live in such terrible poverty. I couldn’t believe that such a place existed in our beautiful country, sweet land of liberty, the land of Lincoln and Jefferson and the birth place of democracy. Where were the manicured lawns and the rose bushes of the American dream? How could this happened in the land of the free and opportunity.
You can’t imagine how relieved I was when I finally got to the Guggenheim, Everyone who was someone was there. Even Hillary Clinton was there that wonderful charming woman who someone called a carpetbager and opportunist on television. I stood drinking a cocktail, which God knows I needed after my ordeal in the heart of darkness, and chatting with the delightful Katherine {Bunny} Barrington attired in a dress designed by Alfonso, the rage of Costa Bravo, that can only be described in the words of Cole Porter as “Too marvelous for words. “
Bunny proceeded to tell me about a wonderful week in the Bahamas with the cream of society where the food was scrumptious, and the conversation divine. It was heaven you must go she said in that wonderfully modulate voice of a Vassar graduate and professional socialite. Her father, you must know, left her 500 million dollars. She is an American success story.
That evening while sitting in the great room of my twenty room mansion, with horse stables, four car garage, evening and morning patio, basement exorcise room and lap pool, admiring the Fabrizo Plessi’s painting I had purchased for 180,000 dollars, I looked down at “The Communist Manifesto” on the tea . table and wondered why on earth would Karl Marx write such a weird book
Orlando Lujan Martinez
Yes, I’ll admit that I’m extremely wealthy and have enough money to buy anything my heart desires. I have possessions piled up in my Westchester mansion that I brought from exclusive shops and art galleries on Rodeo Drive and Park Avenue. When I’m bored I go shopping and always remember a saying that I read in the autobiography of socialite Doris Duke, “If you have to ask the price you can’t afford it.”
One day Ibough a book I was sure would shock and delight my friends. It was a recent printing of Karl Marx’s The Communist Manifesto. Its bright red enameled cover, with black sickle and hammer, was the idea of the books publisher. The proprietor of the book store said the historical significant book was selling exceptionally well as a novelty, a tea table book, and a conversation piece. I brought one and put it in an easy-to-notice place on the tea table next to a very expensive vase that I purchased on shopping sortie in Palm Beach.
When my friends saw the “The Communist Manifesto” they laugh and said “How clever of you, I must get one myself.” Are you a bad Communist they ask and giggle. When I said yes, to go along with the joke, they broke out into gales of laughter. We had a lot of fun. You see we have in this country, I learned in American Government 103 in high school, a ideal called freedom that allows me to posses this bad book full of some really craze nonsense like “Workers of the world rise and break your chains ” and the class struggle, whatever that means.
One day I went to New York to attended an art reception for Fabrizo Plessi at the Guggenheim First Floor Gallery. I was thinking of buying one of his fabulous painting and was willing to go as high as 200,000 dollars. I stayed at the fabulous Sherry Netherland, one of the favorite haunts of Doris Duke, may the sweet dear rest in peace, and it was such a beautiful afternoon that I decided not to call my chauffeur and walk to the Guggenheim gallery.
I turned here and there, mingling with the common folks, and after taking a wrong turn I got lost and I found myself in a strange part of the city that looked like an third world country or Africa. It was definately not a place to be after the sun went down. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. There were signs of pervasive poverty everywhere old cars, dilapidated tenements and hordes of poor people of a darker shade milling about for as far as the eye could see. It was a very depressing place and was definitely not the New York that Frank Sinatra, “Old blue eyes,” celebrated in the song New York New York.
I was frighten and wondered why, oh, why did they want to live in such terrible poverty. I couldn’t believe that such a place existed in our beautiful country, sweet land of liberty, the land of Lincoln and Jefferson and the birth place of democracy. Where were the manicured lawns and the rose bushes of the American dream? How could this happened in the land of the free and opportunity.
You can’t imagine how relieved I was when I finally got to the Guggenheim, Everyone who was someone was there. Even Hillary Clinton was there that wonderful charming woman who someone called a carpetbager and opportunist on television. I stood drinking a cocktail, which God knows I needed after my ordeal in the heart of darkness, and chatting with the delightful Katherine {Bunny} Barrington attired in a dress designed by Alfonso, the rage of Costa Bravo, that can only be described in the words of Cole Porter as “Too marvelous for words. “
Bunny proceeded to tell me about a wonderful week in the Bahamas with the cream of society where the food was scrumptious, and the conversation divine. It was heaven you must go she said in that wonderfully modulate voice of a Vassar graduate and professional socialite. Her father, you must know, left her 500 million dollars. She is an American success story.
That evening while sitting in the great room of my twenty room mansion, with horse stables, four car garage, evening and morning patio, basement exorcise room and lap pool, admiring the Fabrizo Plessi’s painting I had purchased for 180,000 dollars, I looked down at “The Communist Manifesto” on the tea . table and wondered why on earth would Karl Marx write such a weird book
Clarification and Being
Clarification and Being
Orlando Lujan Martinez, IWAA
Jean-Yves Leloup,mystic, theologian and scholar, book about The Gospels of Mary Magdalene is a thought provoking book that believers, skeptics, agnostics and atheists should read.
One of the proverbs from the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.: The teacher(God) answered: All that is born, all that is created, all the elements of nature are inter-woven and united with each other. All that is composed will decompose; everything returns to the roots; matter returns to the order of matter:
These words, written 2,000 years ago, are not religious dogma, linguistic meanderings or rhetoric, but ancient knowledge which coincides with what science knows to be true today. Here science and spiritually meet and separate at the same time. Science does, not yet fully agree, with the spiritual dimension of the proverbs from The Gospels of Mary Magdalene. For she knows that the teachers words are the beginning of the return to being fully human and discovering the Real world and the wisdom of God which are also the words of ancient wisdom.
Leloup comments on “everything returns to its roots; matter returns to the original matter. All evolution involves a return. To return is not to go back--rather to go forward..... It is a return to the place that is our origin and our destiny....We return to the Source and the beginning.|"
The Gospels of Mary Magdalene are about a Kingdom we can know as living Beings in this world. The knowledge is meant to re-interrogate humans with their selves so they can become fully human and above the illusions, attachments and the suffering brought to life through the seven deadly sins of: pride, lust, envy anger, covetousness, gluttony, and sloth. Which are present, and the motives, in the greater sins of genocide, wars, murder, fraud, violence, pedophilia, rape and the sins of skepticism. pessimism and cynicism which are the final disillusionment. For God says: There are no sins. It is man that makes sin exist.
Leloup says: “Through the poor use of our senses, intelligence, and emotions, these faculties have become disoriented-they have lost there orient, that is to say, their attunment with the Being that is at the heart of all impermanence, transitory phenomena of the world. It is only this disorientation that enables us to pervert ourselves, society, and the universal order itself.” As we have noticed in the turmoil of our senses and in the world.
And again: “Furthermore the Kingdom that is spoken of in The Gospels of Mary Magdalene must not be confused with the return to some sort of lost paradise or a state of consciousness. Rather it is the awakening to this very dimension of Being that is the source of our existence now, and of the mystery of there being something instead of nothing."
Orlando Lujan Martinez, IWAA
Jean-Yves Leloup,mystic, theologian and scholar, book about The Gospels of Mary Magdalene is a thought provoking book that believers, skeptics, agnostics and atheists should read.
One of the proverbs from the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.: The teacher(God) answered: All that is born, all that is created, all the elements of nature are inter-woven and united with each other. All that is composed will decompose; everything returns to the roots; matter returns to the order of matter:
These words, written 2,000 years ago, are not religious dogma, linguistic meanderings or rhetoric, but ancient knowledge which coincides with what science knows to be true today. Here science and spiritually meet and separate at the same time. Science does, not yet fully agree, with the spiritual dimension of the proverbs from The Gospels of Mary Magdalene. For she knows that the teachers words are the beginning of the return to being fully human and discovering the Real world and the wisdom of God which are also the words of ancient wisdom.
Leloup comments on “everything returns to its roots; matter returns to the original matter. All evolution involves a return. To return is not to go back--rather to go forward..... It is a return to the place that is our origin and our destiny....We return to the Source and the beginning.|"
The Gospels of Mary Magdalene are about a Kingdom we can know as living Beings in this world. The knowledge is meant to re-interrogate humans with their selves so they can become fully human and above the illusions, attachments and the suffering brought to life through the seven deadly sins of: pride, lust, envy anger, covetousness, gluttony, and sloth. Which are present, and the motives, in the greater sins of genocide, wars, murder, fraud, violence, pedophilia, rape and the sins of skepticism. pessimism and cynicism which are the final disillusionment. For God says: There are no sins. It is man that makes sin exist.
Leloup says: “Through the poor use of our senses, intelligence, and emotions, these faculties have become disoriented-they have lost there orient, that is to say, their attunment with the Being that is at the heart of all impermanence, transitory phenomena of the world. It is only this disorientation that enables us to pervert ourselves, society, and the universal order itself.” As we have noticed in the turmoil of our senses and in the world.
And again: “Furthermore the Kingdom that is spoken of in The Gospels of Mary Magdalene must not be confused with the return to some sort of lost paradise or a state of consciousness. Rather it is the awakening to this very dimension of Being that is the source of our existence now, and of the mystery of there being something instead of nothing."
The Face Of God
The Face Of God
Orlando Lujan Martinez, IWAA
In The Young Lions captain Christian Diesel ( Marlon Brando) is a decent man who is loyal to Hitler, to the economic goals of the Nazis, and approves the war because he says, "It will be good for Germany." But it is near the end of the war and the captain has seen while walking through the devastated ruins of Berlin a boy, on crutches, missing a leg and is starting to think about the futility of war in which he has killed and seen many men killed. And has talked to a commandant of a death camp, while retreating through Poland. who has been ordered to kill the 10,000 jewish inmates before the Americans arrive.
Captain Diesel and a woman companion are at dinner with an old friend, also an officer, and his wife, the discussion turns to the defeated Germany and the tragedy of the war.
Diesels' friend says, at the end of his dialogue, about the futility of the war, "Germany is losing the war and after all the blown off arms and legs everything will remain the same," Then leaves.
Captain Diesel sits with his elbows on the table, his fingers rubbing above his eye brows, his friends words have disturbed him, he is remembering the boy in Berlin, and he says, quietly, to his woman companion,. "We are in a hole and you have to keep something in front of you or you will go insane."
Cardinal Stanislaw Dziwisz wrote in A Life With Karol that In all the images of Karol he has seen, the one struck him most vividly in his heart is the one of Karol's' first visit to Poland, in 1979.
"It was morning, the Vistula was in the background and the sun was barely up. Warsaw was bathed in a extraordinary light. As soon as the Pope started speaking the whole crowd of young listeners was seized with excitement. And at the end of the speech his thousands of young listener, as if on cue, simultaneously raised their little wooden crosses, towards Pope John Paul 11.
But that sea of crosses: held in front and towards the Pope, contained the seeds of something much greater than even the popular Poland's Solitary Revolution which was happening at that time."
Cardinal Stanislaw continued, "The students adoration of Karol held a "mystery" which I wasn't completely aware of at that time." Dziwisz did not see that mystery again until many years later in the endless throngs of people who came to say their last farewell to Pope John Paul II . The intensity of feeling in the crowd revealed the profound legacy of Karol Wojtyla.
I, over the years, had watched The Pope on television and seen the humanity, the loving kindness on his face, and in the holy bearing of Pope John Paul II and did not see the "mystery" and therefore I could not find the words to tell myself what I was witnessing "in front of me" and therefore could not tell others, until Cardinal Stanislaw Dziwisz describe what I had seen in front of me when he wrote in A Life With Karol.
"He showed the face of God. Gods human face. He displayed the features of God incarnate."
Orlando Lujan Martinez, IWAA
In The Young Lions captain Christian Diesel ( Marlon Brando) is a decent man who is loyal to Hitler, to the economic goals of the Nazis, and approves the war because he says, "It will be good for Germany." But it is near the end of the war and the captain has seen while walking through the devastated ruins of Berlin a boy, on crutches, missing a leg and is starting to think about the futility of war in which he has killed and seen many men killed. And has talked to a commandant of a death camp, while retreating through Poland. who has been ordered to kill the 10,000 jewish inmates before the Americans arrive.
Captain Diesel and a woman companion are at dinner with an old friend, also an officer, and his wife, the discussion turns to the defeated Germany and the tragedy of the war.
Diesels' friend says, at the end of his dialogue, about the futility of the war, "Germany is losing the war and after all the blown off arms and legs everything will remain the same," Then leaves.
Captain Diesel sits with his elbows on the table, his fingers rubbing above his eye brows, his friends words have disturbed him, he is remembering the boy in Berlin, and he says, quietly, to his woman companion,. "We are in a hole and you have to keep something in front of you or you will go insane."
Cardinal Stanislaw Dziwisz wrote in A Life With Karol that In all the images of Karol he has seen, the one struck him most vividly in his heart is the one of Karol's' first visit to Poland, in 1979.
"It was morning, the Vistula was in the background and the sun was barely up. Warsaw was bathed in a extraordinary light. As soon as the Pope started speaking the whole crowd of young listeners was seized with excitement. And at the end of the speech his thousands of young listener, as if on cue, simultaneously raised their little wooden crosses, towards Pope John Paul 11.
But that sea of crosses: held in front and towards the Pope, contained the seeds of something much greater than even the popular Poland's Solitary Revolution which was happening at that time."
Cardinal Stanislaw continued, "The students adoration of Karol held a "mystery" which I wasn't completely aware of at that time." Dziwisz did not see that mystery again until many years later in the endless throngs of people who came to say their last farewell to Pope John Paul II . The intensity of feeling in the crowd revealed the profound legacy of Karol Wojtyla.
I, over the years, had watched The Pope on television and seen the humanity, the loving kindness on his face, and in the holy bearing of Pope John Paul II and did not see the "mystery" and therefore I could not find the words to tell myself what I was witnessing "in front of me" and therefore could not tell others, until Cardinal Stanislaw Dziwisz describe what I had seen in front of me when he wrote in A Life With Karol.
"He showed the face of God. Gods human face. He displayed the features of God incarnate."
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