Auschwitz in America Yesterday I learned that on the 15th of April a 91 year old Auschwitz survivor named Gina, died in her apartment on the lower east side of Manhattan. Since they both worked at the same advertising agency, she had become a very close friend of my mother's whilst living in New York City, back in the 1960s and 70s. The frayed threads of shared war stories, escaping the bombs, the tanks, the Nazi nightmare... helped heal or should I say manage their ever-smoldering memories. They became 'best sisters', the most trusting and loyal of friends. Both women, short in stature but so strong in spirit, leaned on one another through all the unforseeable trials and tribulations that came with their lofty dreams, for peaceful and prosperous lives, away from the abhorrent theater of war. Sometimes when Gina would accompany my mother in the late afternoon to pick me up from grade school, their unharnessed smiles, their radiant joy in simply seeing me, had me sense that I was more than a son or a schoolboy. Later, I better realized that I was their secret trophy for having made it across- their bridge of hope, in America. Subliminally, I suppose that because of the recent violent manifestations hinged on the white supremecy movement, I came to wonder about Gina and if I could reconnect with her. It had been nearly twenty years since we last saw one another. To my surprise, In an instant I had found numerous references on the internet to my angel aunty. Why? Because countless news agencies covered the story about how she had been mugged late last year. Some desperate woman had thrown Gina down to the ground as she attempted to steal her purse. She did sustain injuries and was taken to the hospital but, of course, the assailant was unsuccessful in winning her belongings or her pride. The attacker picked on the wrong lady- a lioness. Gina Zuckerman not only escaped twice from the concentration camp as a girl, leaving behind her entire family to perish, but she was an incredibly kind, funny, humble and graceful woman. At only four feet eleven inches, she stood very very tall. Yes, that is how I remember her, a gentle giant. In fact, the video of her describing the violent ordeal, attests that her warm, delighfully animated and forgiving character had not changed one bit. Nor had her courage and zest for life. I can't lie. It would have been more than nice to look into her sprite eyes once more. However, I find great relief that since Gina died this past April, she was saved from bearing witness to the grim reminder of man at his worst, in America. E
From a short distance, one man watched another rolling down the sidewalk in his motorized wheelchair. The chair bound person appeared anything but restrained as he ported a great big smile and an unharnessed laugh. His lively energy seemed to transmit like light itself, bouncing off his accompanying friend, the walls of buildings, cars... everything and everybody that passed the eye. Like a circus lion, the watcher felt trapped, locked in a cage, having to recognize that there was no space for denial or time for delay, for it was evident that the gap between themselves was far greater than just two meters. E
An excerpt from a letter written this evening, concerning 'OUFF' Ouff! The nasty quality of air inside of the Paris metro is beyond imagination at times. Would a swim inside the intestines of a decomposing rat be more inviting? That’s a close call perhaps. But take a sniff and I think you might agree. Yes! Years ago I recall that some of my stops in India were remarkably gaseous too. But noooo. These days, in poodle town, the parfum of piss and puke pervades far beyond poetic consideration. I don’t believe that even Edith Piaf would be inspired to write a song about it. And today, if she dared to trill her pipes down there, under yesteryears pavée, for only ten seconds, she would certainly have that to regret. Indeed, the allure of taking the metro still drives a certain character. The kind with suicidal ideations no doubt. Apart from them, it offers its more stable day trippers and those forgotten souls, transients who seem to have taken-up permanent residence only twenty feet from the third rail, the type of gaseous belly one might read about in futuristic sci-fi thrillers. But who needs to read about it when you can buy a ticket to live the experience, en vraie? Okay, you’re probably asking yourself, 'Why hasn’t he considered bus transportation?' Well, 'he' has. For city outings, I have also considered sporting a ten pack of barf bags along with my last will and testament. It’s that awful. Look, time is not only money it is all that we have. The notion of having to foot around at a bus stop for typically thirty minutes, one can never be certain in France as the Swiss and time itself are typically scorned at, in anticipation of a sardine wagon, stuffed with Betty Boop and Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs t-shirt wearing tourists, quickly pulls my imagination the other way, to more grounded options, like hoofing it. If I do and if I’m lucky, I’ll end-up with summer sweat on my brow but in the cool of a chapel or the Notre Dame Cathedral. At least there, one can pray in god’s pew. That would seem to be the better way to go, right? Instead, however, I usually opt to save my sole and toes in a more soldierly way, by descending into the putrid petri dish of gay Pari. Admittedly, it has been my regular choice. I own up to that responsibility and in truth, contrary to my earlier statement, I am not so sure that the conditions of today’s Paris metro would cause 'The Little Sparrow' to chirp a single note of regret. E
I suggest concerning oneself more with the vintage of the wine than the region in France from whence it originated. With a mere price tag of 3euros or less even, a 2013 or better yet 2015 bottle of fermented grape juice should neither disappoint at the time of consumation or the following morning. This conclusion has been been immeasurably tested and proven. Note however, such similar declarations have been made previously, during the course of frolicsome Parisian soirées. As a result, never has this author been summoned to a follow-up. (sfx: cork pop) Mon dieu!
Been feeling really 'off' these past few days. So dizzy. Could not figure out why. I considered dehydration, WiFi disturbance, celestial alignment, -rump... Since, I recently completed successful physical exams, the extreme disorientation was even more baffling. Hmm... what could have been making me feel so unwantingly inebriated? Truth be told, I was somewhat amused by the effect of a spinning Eiffel Tower but I didn't remember it that way and began to feel very concerned for those dining at Le Jules Verne. So, I told a few people about my symptoms, hoping that they would be able to suggest the cause or a quick antidote. Of course my recent series of rather traumatic dental surgeries, along with the associated medications, also had to be considered as the root of my problem (pun intended). However, I stopped the meds almost at the onset of the dreadful wooziness. So, that didn't seem to be a likely link, either. Well, you may be glad to know that as of this afternoon, it appears that I have finally uncovered the truly disturbing, madening mystery. After a wobbly, daring walk along the Seine, I made an unorthodox stop to satisfy a sudden alien-like craving. It was very non-vegan of me but I had an intense feeling that this was a dietary exception that had to be investigated. Hence, I rolled the proverbial dice and ordered, a three scoop-cup of ice cream from Amorino's. Note, with the 'Grand Cup' selection (only 6 euros), the customer also gets a key-chain sized sugar cone placed daintily atop of his or her cream. Just one more reason to plan your trip to France? Or, perhaps it costs less in Italy? In any case, within only a few minutes after finishing off the cup o' decadence, holy stillness returned. Hallelujah! I and Gustave's tower stopped making like a toy top. Yes, to my surprise, it seems that I have been experiencing a serious case of hypoglycemia. Wow, if you have never had it, watch-out! It can creep-up on you like a snake or a Cistercian monk. As a result, I have subsequently been doing some research on the subject of sugar, insulin... this evening. Fair to say, I have also been inviting the powers of positive visualization, imagining the possibility of just one more run to Amorino tomorrow. Let's just call it an extended window of opportunity. Still, E
I would just like for you to know that I am not disturbed in a negative way. Yes, my dental woes do linger, however, by the half century mark, hopefully, one comes to realize that the process of reinvention or rejuvenation is typically an uncomfortable one. Ask any caterpillar. Still, I have become aware that earlier I wrote to you inside of a sort of square shaped bubble, one that sang of misty misery and steaming surrender. Fatigue and permeating pain, slicing my jaw and humbled brain, surely contributed to the edgy lack of eloquence on my part. I am sorry for that. Fortunately, however, as bubbles are sure to float, they are sure to burst as well, as that one did. So I simply want to clarify that, in essence, I am feeling strongly moved to take clear action, regarding professional and personal pursuits. Whilst virgin ideas and unmanifested desires dangle off the limbs of life’s tree, those fruits require some area to flourish. For seemingly eons, it is this respite of distance that I and billions have sought to invent, to manufacture with such misguided, moppy-minds. Only to, at some point of exhaustion, come to recognize that allowance, not a mighty marteau, is the worthier of tools to behold. This recent visit to Paris has not boxed me in a billowing, stinky scent of regret. However, as a result of the unforeseen deviation and since several hot suns have now past over, I can better see how my writing project, a long desired trek, has once again begun to slip under the shadows of childhood demons. May this dreadful cloak of doubt, unremarkable attire, not usurp or suppress any mounting appetite that my heartened pen and tongue remains prepared and wanting to deliver. If in the end, I may only scribble a few webs with good intention, ones that can merit some moments of attention and perhaps a stone someday, tucked away in Pere Lachaise, I shall transcend on a soft cloud and un-empty gut. From within the intimate confines of summer blazing walls, where my thoughts ricochet to and fro, from a peasant’s wishful perch, one that overlooks sprawling emerald hills, white mountain caps as well as never-ending valleys left unmapped, I can fathom nothing more satisfying at this juncture than to navigate and interpret the annals of all the unaccounted sweet and sour breaths I have taken thus far. Yes, I have come to witness an available space. A place that is not for lease or sale. It is alien to all of that and so it is spared from the drumming of clocks and doom. It is an unearthly bar that invites sobering awareness and where happy hour is but a joke, for that well has no limit. As the saying goes, 'The table is set.' It is time to pull-out my chair, sit and eat with fervor, finally. Lest the mind deprive not a hungry soul. I trust that this expression rings clear to you personally and plants a good notion about the alchemical possibilities for you, me and humankind. With deep appreciation for the light and many bridges you have thus far knowingly and unknowingly lead me to. E~
I will build a wall around it so that it will be protected from vermin and thrive just the way I envision it. The soil of my ever-sweet garden shall be so very fertile, boasting of only desirable things, what I like to see, to touch, to taste.... to dream about, as I did back then. Blood red strawberries, for instance, shall be plump and promising. The comparison to a seductive statesman would garner a chuckle, perhaps, however, that would be a most unfavorable comparison to something so genuinely sweet and giving. No, they shall be terrifically tender. Soft and trustworthy like Vladamir's unforgettable, fading blue eyes. My late cousin's soul-sheltering lids guarded not from merely the sun's rays. They saved him from the cutting shrapnel of memory and the sanctity of a six year old boy's keen curiosity. From Krakow he brought his garden of love, wisdom, hardworking know-how and frightened family. From there, he also packed his will to share and care for others less fortunate, those who would also barely evade the borders of doom. With modest shoulders and pride that overlooked his now plentiful garth, perching over the limits of Sedan, as German Panzers once did, he demonstrated the grace of generosity in mentoring his cousin, a boy unstarved, who enjoyed yearly summertime visits from America. It was in the hardest of ways in which Vladamir came to discover that country, a little over thirty years prior. It was in the gentlest manner, however, that he taught this fatherless six year old how to plant, to harvest... to be. What he imparted, was special attention to the nuances, of pure notions and simple things. The sort of awarenss that one inhales when kneeling upon and kneading the earth. Even after lunch, when they would set-out to feed the rabbits and dig alongside the worms, clean and proper attire was marked as a consideration for the boy to not or ever ignore, for there were always neighbors watching, gossiping, waiting and wanting for something to go wrong. Yes, impressions mattered back then. Moreso than today, perhaps. Hence, a shirt's top button was never to be left undone even whilst riding on mo-ped up to le beau jardin. As the youngster imagined the palette of fragrances awaiting him there, he clutched his cousin's waist side and suit coat as they zipped through the eerie labrynth of cobbled stone streets, piercing through the frequencies of war hardening history. The engine's motor was loud but could not entirely bury the roaring vibrations of echoing Heinkel bombers. Even their shadows could be pictured as they loomed over bygone buildings. Boarded shut from tresspassers and tme, sullied structures conveniently abandoned as monuments, forever tumbling into the annals of defeat. The twenty minute ride would take the duo past the city cemetary and over slim dirt roads, flanked on both sides by peaceful pastures, lush fields of forgiveness. As the perfume of bountiful berries grew more potent, the boy's mind would clear from the din and smoke below. In substitue, the light of youth, would resurge and usher him back to joyful faith and purpose, in Vladamir's garden, in the hills of the Ardenne, overlooking Sedan, where in May, 1940, the gardens of France were lost. E
Staying awake longer. Into the longest hours. This feels right, sometimes, to accompany time on a slow and then slower walk. Traversing over, under and around all the other times. Crawling by their windows. Still looking. Still Open. But they too shall shut and be... still. As the other siblings, tick and tock. Sisters and brothers. Conjoined yet constantly pulling, pulling apart, at the fragile seams. It seems that ticks prefer to race. By choice, tocks do not. Running to choose. Freely. It is a choice to run. It is a choice to not run also. From that which is front and center. In the heart of the matter, where the stitches of time do not resist or fray. Instead, patiently, they wait. Without resisting. Craving. Only accepting and anticipating something anew. And somewhere else than what is no more a... new. Where ticks and tocks rewind wildly, wandering as a herd, lost ponies, together, lost as one. Instinctively, halting in unison. Unknowing of how, why or why not. Suddenly, not needing to. It is a choice to need. But not the only choice. There are many. And so, for the last longest hour, tocks are left alone in the desert of icy silence, without a tick to count... to count on. It is left searching in a vast prairie, in winter's blistering wastelands, a white drape over a forgotten hole. Alone to accept something anew to come front and center, to redeem and revive... whilst suspended over the frozen hands of tim e.
somebody, a longtime friend actually, has been acting very distant towards me. why? no idea. there was a time when i would shut the door on a person for such behavior. afterall, what did i do or why can't the person at least express what has happened or changed? this new place i have come to know, however, has no doors. so, there is no thing and no reason to shut anything. so, i remain in the open field, where the sky is clearer, the air fresher and the smile wider than befor e.
A scent and smile to live by Here in Vevey, rain, snow or shine the farmers' market and tiny antique fair (brocante) takes place every Tuesday and Saturday morning. Friendly, warm vibes from the merchants, locals and visitors typically do a good job at offsetting winter's sometimes terribly frigid temperatures. Today's weather was extra-forgiving and user-friendly. So, I ventured outside and unexpectedly purchased some home harvested and made lavendar balm and oil. The merchant was a delighful, soft-spoken middle-aged French woman. With a twinkle of pride and a few photos, she described her high-altitude farm and presented evidence of her hand-picking flora for processing. Then, she explained that she has been religiously attending the Vevey market for many a year, even though she has to drive all the way from Valence, a three-hour mountainous voyage. It's a city that is part of the Drome region, renowned for its never-ending fields of lavendar and acclaimed for its organically grown commercial farming. After a fairly long but enjoyable exchange, I quickly left the outdoor market to give both ambrosial items as a gift. The recipient? The poised, pretty and always pleasant front desk manager who works at the hostel where I have been staying. I must say that one of the unforeseen gains at staying in these accomodations has been the rejuvenated sense of (clear throat) eternal youth! Well, she and the general manager have helped me out so much by offering the vacant/studio space where I have been working in and thensome. One of a few miracles that, in large part, revealed themselves this past Christmas eve. The unfailing cherry atop all of their gestures of support has been the authentic caring, ready to help smile that they have greeted me with each and everyday. The general manager's wife is expecting to deliver a boy sometime next week. Lucky lad, he shall be. Yes, sometimes, a miracle can appear before us like a technicolored hot air balloon, as it just begins to lift off the turf. Conversely, sometimes they can seem to be oh so vague or coy or even scared to be witnessed, like a stray dog in hiding. "Here miracle! Come-out come-out wherever you are!" Well, my lodging, at the well hosted hostel and in Vevey, has clearly been anything but monochromatic, vague or uncertain in meaning. Actually, the story that connects to this city goes back nearly ten years ago, with my early fascinations of Austrian artists Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoshka and a fire-red haired ninety year old lady named Zita. I, however, shall leave that tale for another occasion. For now, my Swiss report is simply aimed at reminding us all that still there are fields of lavendar and still there are cherried smiles to be found and given freely. May such heavenly acknowledgements bring forth a rainbow of magnificent balloons and allow our earthly minds to accept the abundance of our awaiting miracles. E
When one loses their bearings in business, return to basics and start again.
IN CHARLIE'S PARK
Today I sat on a bench in a park named after Charlie Chaplin. I went there after I visited the cemetary where he is buried.
On the bench, I watched a number of children playing, perhaps a dozen or so. They were running and tripping, exploring, laughing and making simple yet undistinguishable sounds. I tried to bring myself to recall such song, such play from those tender days, seemingly eons ago but found it too difficult to do so. My memory's refusal rattled me a bit and so 'Sister Sadness' quickly came to take a seat beside me, on the brisk green pine, my new friend, a playground's pew. Fortunately, however, I managed to deny her prodding. The present was of far greater interest as it offered assurance, the kindling of certainty, just enough to hold at bay the woe of another winter's day. As the seasons grind more and more slowly up the hill, ever-winding, an ashed sky can mash a mending mind with ease, it is so. Still, as the slide, the swings, the climbing thingamajig and the surprisingly still lush turf of November were all being put to the test and devoured with glee, these tired eyes spritely awakened. There were infants all the way up to the monumental age of four, no more. From the playground’s periphery, a few parents kept a dutiful watch, while others plunged into the scene with fearless pride and unbridled joy. Effervescent air filled each of my breaths as I sat in audience to the unfoldment of an unrehearsed play. Suddenly, the heat of hours, minutes and less, extinguished and dissolved into the ether as the exhilarating authenticity of it all whisked my consciousness to the highest of all balconies, with an unobstructed view of yester-year. When I returned, the parents and children were gone. While facing a boasting tree and the brisk of dusk, I found my legs tightly curled under the wood, my brotherly bench. There I was, alone in Charlie’s Park but for the echoes of a saintly sunset and those once hard to recall angelic souvenirs of innocenc e.
In business, there are many ways to spread your wings, to soar higher and demonstrate courageous qualities of character, including gracefully.
Behind every desirable pretty 'picture' is a jungle of beings attuned to your every move. Are you well aware of what lies in the shadows of the object or person you desire, supportive or otherwise? When the mind is tired or uncontrollably scattered, lost in the woods, it is all too common to act with limited information and prudent perspective. Remember your honed mind is not always leading the trek you seek. Sensations have a rambunctuous child-like intelligence and capacity of their own. When they gain the opportunity to overrun a weakened consciousness, they will cease the 'house' with bullish behavior and expose it to possible jeopardy. Like night vision goggles, through the study and practice of meditation you will discover the power of silence and patience. These assets are integral to success, more than a laptop or even company website. They will equip an individual or company to see beyond URLs, through obscurity and ensure the safe and sound progression towards personal and professional aims. Remember, in business or the mysteries of a forest you may find the magic of an alluring flower or pretty and fair princess. You may, however, also pay the price for disturbing a lion's pride. Practice due dilligence and learn to see successfully. Investigate the entire picture of your projects with piercing eyes and prudent patience.
The following reflects numerous conversations, almost to the precise wording, that I have had with citizens of France over the course of many years.
Q: Are you British or are you American?
A: I am human.
Q: What do you do for a living?
A: I used to be a producer now I work as an artist.
Q: Ooh, but what type of artist?
A: I take photographs, I write and I paint.
Q: Oh you paint. But what do you paint, what style?
A: Abstract Expressionism mostly
Q: And you are Franco-American? Ah, but were your parents French?
A: My mother was from France, with Russian and Polish roots.
Q: Ok, but your father, what was he?
A: He was from America with German roots.
Q: So, do you have both passports?
A: Yes, I have dual-citizenship. Excuse me but why is it so important for you to know about my parents?
Q: Because I must know who I am speaking to. I want to know if you come from 'zerr' aristocracy.
A: (end of discussion)
What does 'being an American' mean today?
This planet would be far better off if its tenants ceased using highly generalized, artificial concepts of nation, to segregate themselves, like one football team from another. Why on earth can't humans be loyal to and fans of the world? Answer: because that way wouldn't serve the power hungry/ruling minority. Hence, the beat, I mean, the programming goes on. Surprisingly, the unfurling of this campaign's rippling absurdity may lead to the fashioning of a new and more worthwhile notion of freedom and fraternity. May the mop-heads meltdown to their core so that we may start anew. E
I was just writing a new post, an homage to Glenn, David and Prince when suddenly the screen blinked without warning. Every word, every sentiment, every notion of what I knew and felt immediately vanished. In that fraction of a fraction of an instant, eveything left me. Poof! That about said it all.
Gentlemen of creativity, of courage, of compelling complexity, of kindness and sexy kool, good night from here, from ground control. Thank you for playing your parts the way that you did. Lord knows, you went above and beyond. And maybe that's why.... But, how could anyone have asked for more?
For you to stick around so that we never cease to dream of doves, rain's magic, tequila sunrises and space like we did back when... this is all we hoped for! A short order for such giants of good or so we wanted to believe. Yes you changed earth's terrain when you arrived and again when you left. You showed us mountains and brought us to their peaks, above the clouds, over and over again. For this parting moment, however, how can we not feel dazed, lost in a crater's rubble with weighted wings? Who shall show us how to soar once more? Where shall we go to or lean tomorrow? Will you somehow manage to continue to muse and infuse us with titlating tonics filled with notes, riffs, lyrics and choruses of intoxicating visions? Or are we now simply left to bow down and witness man's silent fate? No! As the atoms of your artistry forever ricochet throughout our arteries, your magic that served so much meaning will forever move us. The fire of man's faith is what you fed. You not only rocked our feet and souls but our minds too, leaving us happier and stronger each and every time. Your visit demanded that our innate freedom, the joy and peace that grows from it, never ever falters. This concept underlined your music, the concerts that we shared.
Still, even as our stunned breaths plunge past our aching guts and buckling knees, we manage to give rise to a sageful smile for we all know that the greatest concert ever remains to be played!
Her name was Zita. We immediately befriended one another in 2009. Our meeting, in a medieval village in the south of France, was nowhere near a coincidence. Yes, a fiery light had been sent to me on one of the most difficult, weak moments of my burgeoning creative quest on the European continent. Earlier that morning I decided to walk away from an artist residency program that I had worked and prayed so hard for. I shan't delve into the details here except to merely say that I needed more than my two giant blue suitcases to lean on that afternoon. Under August's sun, beads of sweat slipped over my forehead and neck like the tender touch of a thoughtful geisha. Suddenly, the broken wings found lift as I quickly fell into Zita's zesty and occasionally zany aura. I found her cheery cheeks and yiddish giggle to sing of compassion, contentment and eventually, endless accounts of the golden age of Austrian art. When I learned that she had studied painting with Austrian artist, poet and playwright Oskar Kokoschka, my moistened eyelids blinked twice. In that instant, those hapless and hopeless clouds, over only my head, flew into the distance, far beyond the rich vermillion rust of the Estérel mountains. OK was one of the three legedary painters to lead Austria at the turn of the 20th century. Although I looked more toward the works of Egon Schiele, this common ground was sure and yet mysterious enough for me to stand straight on, enough to pump some lost breath back into my listless lungs and unfolding spiritual journey.
Reminiscing over tea and cookies was one of her favorite ways to pass time, along with reading, laughing and of course painting. At the age of 99, Zita left the azur sea and sky of the mediteranean for another surely even more sumptuous. One where infinite canvases, colour and inspiration awaited her, along with her adored husband.
So happy that I came upon our photo this ev e.
Do not ignore the homeless, the sick, the wealthy, the poor, strangers, friends, people in need, enemies, family, colleagues, competitors, assistants, the 'bag person' at your supermarket... anybody. When a being calls your name, serves or reaches out for you to collaborate in any manner, a gift is being offered for you to grow and evolve. Especially if that being seeks your assistance/support.There is one thing that I am 100% certain about regarding life on earth and that is, all beings are to acknowledge and learn how to communicate wholly, truthfully, effectively, compassionately and lovingly with one another. This is the daily mission at hand for each and every earthly spirit. In this age of technology, there is no excuse for ignoring. Communication may, for whatever reason, not be immediate, however, it must be. It must take place and not be denied regardless of length, thoroughness or eloquence.
So open your hearts, minds, mouths and hand-held devices if necessary. Put an end to one of the greatest divisive, destructive and dangerous dilemmas on this planet today. Ignoring is an act of war towards oneself and others that can ultimately only foster the individual and collective ignorance, impotence and isolation of all beings on earth. E~
The seeds of some wishes sprouted and some took deeper root. It was another grace-filled day of intentional work, faith, laughter and miraculous surprise. May we walk in the garden that grows so generously, with the most grateful gaze of beholden eyes.
When all the talented artists and skilled technicians cease working like media mercenaries, on productions or projects that significantly counter man’s harmonious relationship with the universe, the dumbing down of society will significantly diminish. Only then will humanity have a fighting chance at making genuinely mindful, not sensorial, choices that lead to its greatest productivity, security, lasting peace and happiness. Until this occurs, however, the essence of these states of being will continue to be drowned by the cunning, Machiavellian digital din that increasingly dopes the decision making process of all demographics, ushering all beings farther and farther down into the dungeon of drunken delusion and debilitating despair. Lest we forget, ignore or deny the power and purpose we in media behold. Evaluate the reins that rest in the palms of your blessed hands. May you use them in an enlightened way, to steer your career over inconvenient hurdles and onto a purposeful path. Look to produce not just crafty but compassionate media that will lift your soul and light the world's futur e.