“Religious Freedom”

There has been a cry on the Religious Right for some time now that “Christians” are being “persecuted” – both here in the States and around the world. As if this was a recent event, and that it is totally and completely uncalled for and must be stopped.

While true that the early Christians were persecuted (first by the Jews as an heretical outcropping of Judaism), and then later by the Romans (who saw the new religion as subversive to the State of Rome – indeed, the Cross was the Roman form of punishment for Sedition Against Rome), religious persecution of “Christians” has only been on the rise recently, and then mostly in conflict with Islam.

Now “Christians” persecuting those with Other Religious Belief Systems has been around for almost as long as the Christian Religion has. Since the Nicean Council of 364 “A.D.” the newly formalized (and ‘restructured’) Christian Church began prosecuting (and outright murdering in some cases) any who did not believe The One True Faith. This was particularly true for the Jews, who the Church began calling the “Killers of Christ” from an early time, leading up to the Grand Inquisition.  Working to ‘convert’ “heathen” to the Church, many were either force converted (upon pain of death) and then continued their practice in secrecy (the Ladino tradition in Spain), or killed during the ‘conversion’ process. Many of those screaming “Christian Persecution” choose not to remember who was persecuting whom for most of Church history.

 “Religious Freedom” does not mean the Freedom to impose Your Religion on Others. It means just that, the Individuals Freedom to believe in and practice the Religion of their choice. This has not however, been the case in the past, and it is not the desire or implication of those who cry loudest for Their “Religious Freedom.”

Excerpt from "The Raceway"

From the new collection "Dreams, Desires, And Dead Ends" All Rights Reserved. 
©2012 Robert Alan Chappell -- Reproduction in part or in whole of this work constitutes property theft and will be prosecuted. 


It was a time of great change, and the Mid-West does not like change.  First there was us, the progeny of the changing nation which would later be called the Baby Boomer generation.  We been born into the seeming prosperity of the aftermath of World War II, and for the time being were one of the welcomed changes occurring in their lives.  That of course would change in just a few short years, centered around the years of '67, '68 and '69. 

John F. Kennedy and Camelot were still in full swing, and he had just announced his intention to Go to the Moon.  Viet Nam and The War At Home were only fragile nightmares for now.  The deaths of the American Ideal that were the assassinations not even in the realm of nightmares as of yet.

And last but certainly not least, were the new motorways (as they were called then), the remaining legacy of Dwight Eisenhower, as far reaching in their consequences for the coming years as the Moon Adventure would be.  The new Interstate Highway System.  Long strips of continuos blacktop spreading and linking all of the major cities in ways that the old highways — often twisty-turny in nature following the whims of the landscape — would not be.  These were supposed to be clean straight lines advancing to and expanding the horizon.  The Age of the Motorcar.

And here I was, growing up in the epitome of speed and advancing metal, Indianapolis; home to The Speedway and The 500.  Sleek shiny pods of metal screaming round and round the circular Pathway of Fate.  

It was also the time of the advent of the (also seeming) Raceway inspired interchange systems designed to re-route long distance traffic around those cities, that would come to be known shortly as Beltways.  These big loops had often ground through neighborhoods, leaving behind (for now) large gashes in the vegetation and housing.  They were at this time, in the process of being born, and like many another change at this time, the birth was not without it muddy consequences. 

that would be the later drainage system under this behemoth, were for now, ramps and tunnels for the gas-fueled dreams of youth.

We of course, the Progeny living within the growing radius of Sub-Urbia, would not find this gouging of the landscape (for now) objectionable.  No, just the opposite.  It allowed for us, living in the shadow of The Raceway, to carve the Raceway of our dreams in this man-made lunar landscape, not for screaming pods of metal, but for screaming bi-pedaled testosterone in the building.  The just placed circular (tubular) concrete conduits that would be the later drainage system under this behemoth, were for now, ramps and tunnels for the gas-fueled dreams of youth.

We didn't have a sports team of note (at that time) to root for, but we did have The Speedway.  It was, at that time, one of the few of its kind in the country, a hint of things to come.  And we used that newly graded but not yet concreted path of the future to our own advantage, speeding around on our bikes, leaping over conduit and change for a time, remaking the larger landscape to our own pathways of dreams.  I spent many an hour where my mother knew I was, going round and round.

And it was also the recent advent of The Mall.  No longer would there be an old-fashioned town center where shops would be, but the clean, gleaming concrete tower of The Mall.  The particular Mall that was close by me at that time, was a siren call to going 'further away from home' than I was 'supposed to be.'  It was the lure of my coming gypsy life, taking me far afield from anything considered home.  
My parents were not amused.  And they also did not see the traveling from city to town far afield influence of my fathers constant need to be On The Road in my further and further wanderings.  All they saw was that I was going where no child of theirs was supposed to go.  Too Far.

I was an awkward, gangly, bespectacled twelve, entering into the throes of what in my later life would be called geek love.  I was the eldest of three boys, so I didn't have an older brother to ask advice from, and I had an absent father who, when he did come home from being on the road, didn't have a lot of time for me and fatherly advice.  In other words, I was on my own.

So I spent every waking hour that I could at Our Raceway, after school and on weekends.  Racing round and round the circuit of dust and dirt, pretending that we were those Racers that were our heroes.

The only other siren call that was close by with nearly as much pull was the small one runway airport that was also within my bikes pedaling distance.  What time I didn't spend at The Raceway, was spent there amidst the Pipers and smells of spilt airplane fuel.  I stood glued to the chain link fence that separated me (for safety purposes) from the dream of speed aloft.  This one would later replace The Raceway, and it's ground based transit mundi. 

The Perils of Un-Prepared

So I've been in the process of doing this crowdfunding thing (you know, PBS style asking for money without the large captive audience?), and I'm learning a lot -- unfortunately.

To fully do one of these things you need: a Crew; already have money; already have the Whole Thing laid out, and planned to the in-th degree. You live and learn.

Trying to self publish is already a learning curve. Unlike a Company doing it all for you (and taking a large cut of whatever sales you get), self publishing entails being all the departments of the Publishing House, doing it like a 40 hour a week (try 60?) job, and then... doing even more.

At this point, I'm just going to have to scale back whatever I need to do, do what I can, and... Wait. Isn't this the Serenity Prayer?

"Since" [flash fiction from "Dreams...]

From the new collection "Dreams, Desires, And Dead Ends" All Rights Reserved. 
©2012 Robert Alan Chappell -- Reproduction in part or in whole of this work constitutes property theft and will be prosecuted. 


         The sirens were bitterly wailing as they passed his office building, and he knew where they were going.  He could see the smoke drifting off into the sky in the distance, and somehow knew it was close to his home.  He also somehow knew that his wife was still there, still in bed, and had no doubt drifted off again.  But only after she had managed to light a cigarette before drifting off. 
         He was far enough away that he also knew he couldn't do anything about it.  The firemen and trucks would soon be there, their water hoses spraying the house down to no avail.  He knew he'd be getting the call within minutes from one of his neighbors informing him of the state of his house and 'was his wife still there?'         He fought the inability to handle his wife's depression.  She fought the inability to handle her life.  He would miss her once she was gone, but he had been missing her for the last fourteen years since the depression had taken over.  Since their son had not been born.  Since she had begun blaming him for the miscarriage that he had tried to tell her was of no fault of anyone's, that it just happened, that more miscarriages happened than actual births.
        Since then, she had spoken to him less and less.  Since then, he had buried himself in his job, and had long since stopped trying to suggest that they go on vacation.  Had long since stopped trying to seduce her into having sex, and had long since given up on anything other than the porn on the computer late at night.  He had long since given up on her accepting help.  He had long since wondered when this moment would come.
        The phone rang at his desk, sounding insistent, but he chose to keep on working.  He'd long since come to depend on his job as his only refuge.
        The hard truth would wait for later, some part of him decided, and he returned his focus back to work.

"Practicing"

From the new collection "Dreams, Desires, And Dead Ends" All Rights Reserved. 
©2012 Robert Alan Chappell Reproduction in part or in whole of this work constitutes property theft and will be prosecuted. 


You just never know what some of the homeless around the city are thinking about.  Some of them when I walk by are just repeating numbers, others are carrying on 'conversations' with people you and I don't see, but they obviously do.

One of them that I usually find at the bus stop that I use to catch the bus to work, Thomas, always has his arms outstretched and pressing himself up against the chain link fence.  I occasionally feed him, and at other times just give him spare change.

I'd meant to ask him what it is he's doing, spread eagled as he is against the chains everyday.  So I finally just decided to ask him.

"Practicing learning how to fly," he said, with all the due seriousness of the mentally ill focusing on whatever they focus on.

Ok, I thought, with one of those, 'Right!?' sort of sounds in my head that I hear people use when they hear something totally crazy.  He just wants to fly.  That's all. "Good luck on that," I told him.

Without opening his eyes, he tells me quite graciously, "Thank you.  I'll let you know when I do." Right?!  I think.  But instead, I say, "Ok," and continue on my way.  "Have a good day."

And he does.

And I go off to work.  I'm an account by day, a drinker and carouser by night and weekend.  It's not exactly what you'd call a fulfilling life, but it's what I've gotten used to.  I do it pretty much the same way I have since I graduated from college.

Of course I take a break from it every now and then by going on periodic vacations, where I switch up counting by day and carousing by night, with carousing by day and dancing and finding a different hotter number to digitate with each night.  It's a rough life, and I hadn't really thought much about it until I'd began talking with Thomas (when he wasn't practicing flying, that is).

He's about my age I found out, except that his life took a rather strange turn during college.  He went from being a mathematician thinking lofty thoughts about numbers, to having a little too intense of a trip on some psychotropic substance he ingested at a party and thinking about flying.  His life had been pretty much the same since too, except different.  Very different.

That night when I got off the bus, Thomas wasn't where he usually was this time of night — namely, up against the chains of his existence.  I didn't think about it for more than a few minutes before I wandered off in the direction of home.  I just figured he had wandered off somewhere as well, having come on a new thought.
Except that he wasn't there the next morning as I walked up.  This made me start worrying, as I hoped that he hadn't been roughed up in the night and might not be lying close to death somewhere.

So I began calling his name.  I was surprised when he answered.  I looked around me trying to figure out where his voice was calling from and couldn't see him.

Finally I heard, "Up here!" and looked up to see that he was indeed flying.  At about a hundred feet or so.

Do You really feel Safe?

I live in Hollywood, a half a block off of The Boulevard and about two blocks away from The 101 (or for those of  you who don't live in LA, Interstate 101). I hear helicopters -- circling, standing rock still hovering in the air, zooooooming past -- what seems like 24/7 these days. There have been nights here where as many as 5-7 chopper flyovers happen in a single night. Chasing Bad Guys. Spotlighting Getaway Vehicles. Sometimes... Doing I don't know what. The LAPD have grown quite reliant on the use of helicopters, even though (from what I've heard) it costs $16,000 (Yes, that's $16k) per minute to keep them there. They better be really Bad Guys to justify that, to my mind.

But it also brings up the whole idea that We The People have tacitly agreed to be constantly surveilled, for our own protection, ever since 9/11. 'It's the cost of Freedom!' someone wrote on Facebook, to protect us from BAD GUYS like Al Queida. Never mind that the former President (well, ok, technically he was called the Vice President) of the United States, Richard Cheney said, "Freedom is a luxury we can no longer afford." That's right. Forget that whole Constitution thingy. Bad for business, and won't let Us keep You Safe.

Technology always seems to rule us. I saw an article a couple of weeks ago (centuries, in Facebook time) showing the latest micro-technology -- Drones the size of mosquitos, fully equipped with both video and audio components, capable of flying in the front door with you, attaching to your clothing to be allowed entrance, etc. All once again, To Protect Us. Are you planning a terrorist operation in your very home?! (Sorry for all the italics and bolds, but this sort of thing does seem to call for shrill editing tricks.)

And on the larger Drone front, the (passed last year by Obama) NDAA (National Defense Authorization Act), allows by Presidential fiat, surveillance of All US citizens, without any need for justification or need for a messy wiretap warrant (Habeas Corpus). Just in case...

Now, I'll ask the question that formed the title of this blog once again. Are You Really Feeling Safer?

The Big Hum

In an article I read recently on an experience of a different kind of Sexual Attraction, the Author took on what most people think should be the Big Bang of Attraction and expressed that a recent experience of hers was more of a Big Hum. Instead of fireworks going off when 'he' walked into the room, she felt a deep hum begin inside of her. 

A friend of mine back East once told me, she used to think love was all fireworks, bright and loud and explosive. But then (at the time she was telling me this) she said, "I've rather come to think of it like fireflies, winking here and there in the summer night, not like explosions" that seem to flare and then disappear all too quickly. In other words, "The Big Hum." 

For those of us who hear it, the faint ringing in our ears to science is evidence of the physical 'ailment' of tinnitus, a condition that can be cured by B vitamins filling in a 'deficiency.' I've experienced this 'hum' for quite some time, but only after reading this article did it occur to me, that perhaps what I was hearing was the 'background noise' of Creation itself; this Hum being what used to be called The Music of the Spheres. Perhaps it is the sound of the Superstrings of Quantum Theory ("Harps of Heaven"?) that played this reality into existence once upon a time, humming the firefly light of Creation into existence.

Scientists have also concluded that the "Big Bang" was more of a Long Bang, not Creation in an instant, but building over time, eventually to what we are now. Most Wisdom Paths speak of Inspiration ("The Breath of God") being the quiet, still Voice from Within. Jesus said, "Be Still, and know that I AM with you." 

Creation may seem at times like an explosion, a coming from 'nothing' into Something, but instead for me it plays out as a quiet instant of Inspiration building towards a more full (ful-filled) Big Hum. Love builds (hopefully), from the first Spark into greater Glory, but hopefully doesn't disappear with a Bang.