Adam de Coster 1586 -1643

28 01 2018




An Afternoon Amongst The Meadows Of June

28 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog

I had a vision of God as a kind of workman. Decent, honest. Never overdoes it. But always shows up on time. And never cuts corners. Even if the boss isn’t around which in God’s terms was never. I figure he wakes up about 4:40, just before sunlight, puts a little time on the treadmill (God is concerned about his weight). Then showers. Has a substantial breakfast. (Tries to minimize his intake of butter and bacon.) Dresses in modest but clean clothes. Gives the honey a kiss on her forehead (she is still asleep or doesn’t exist yet) and then he is off. God is workmanlike. He doesn’t have an axe to grind. Isn’t malicious or vengeful. He just does  his job. And maybe he has a partner. To help. And maybe that partner is a guy. We shouldn’t judge God. He might get pissed.An Afternoon Amongst The Meadows of June4thversion

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The private thoughts of lonely girls

28 01 2018




Legs Diamond

28 01 2018




in the passing crowd

28 01 2018




seconds before impact

28 01 2018




seconds before impact

28 01 2018





May 2013

28 01 2018




Day At The Beach

28 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog

I never learned to swim. My father, an otherwise patient man, had no patience with me. I was terrified of water. My father had been taught to swim by his father. My grandfather had rowed a boat out into the middle of the Ottawa River and thrown my father overboard. That is how my dad learned to swim. My father would take me out into the water and he would support me in the water with his hand but inevitably he would remove his hand and I would sink. Swallow water. Vomit. See God and then be saved by my father. My mother would admonish my father for his cruelty. And I would be planted on the beach for the rest of the day. Bored to death. And burning. The sun tan lotion had washed off me. Looking back I wished that I could have learned to swim for my…

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Guilt and Penance

28 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog

{Read Trash}

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I was brought up in a family where guilt was a potent weapon. The sword of retribution was always held over our heads. My parents wanted to raise children who knew right from wrong and decided on the side of right most often. But the guilt trip was also used to manipulate us into doing what my mother wanted, not because it was the morally right thing to do, but because it was what my mother wanted. (Most tyrannies operate under this basis.) So I like many of my generation are riddled with guilt. Did we always do the right thing? Sometimes I feel guilty for things I might have done, or things I might have forgotten I had done, or for things I dreamed. There is some carnage in my background that although it seems now to be quite benign still plagues me. I lied…

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