Archive for March, 2016


Posted: 2016-03-26 in Prayer..., Uncategorized



TGI Friday.

Posted: 2016-03-25 in Prayer..., Thoughts For The Day

It’s just another day,

so they say,

their thoughts, their speech, their actions,

just another day.

People go to work.

People stay home.

Children play.

People curse and swear.

And nails get hammered into wood (a man is building a fence).

Irony lost, sacrilege not recognized, no thought given to thoughtlessness, secular society.

Sunday will get more reverence – then there is chocolate and family time – 

but Friday is largely ignored for what it is,

I sigh as I eat my fish and try to focus (it’s hard with all the noise of everyday banality) on the Holy.

I pray.

And, again I open my eyes and see people.


People don’t even want to believe, now that they have more immediate opiates.

Symbolism and love forgotten, faith and possibilities ignored.

No one seems to care about the sacrifice, the death through which came life.

Happy Good Friday.

I tried.


I tried.


Things fell apart.


I tired.


I tried some more.


People lied.


Loved ones and dreams died.


Days turned to months and years.


Life became a misery.


I tired.


I cried.


I tried.

How did we get here,

this place, this time?

It’s not what we planned

but history rhymes.


Screwed-up and decline,

the twin children

of hubris and pride.


We used to be friends,

briefly, after the war,

a time where everything seemed possible,

now we are each other’s demon.


Power plays, greed, exploitation and deceit.

Potential hit out of the ball park,

gone, baby, gone,

a home run of missed opportunities.


Wind of change, changed direction,

children of tomorrow blown away.

The rich get richer,

the poor get evicted.


Somebody’s gaining (monetarily)

and everyone’s losing (monumentally).


The world is an amazing place (Da-da-da-da-da-da…).




It’s been a long day,

traversing roads from the 1980s to today.

A lot of walking, backwards and forwards,

a lot of stretching into the depths of the freezing box,

a lot of wiping ice from walls,

only to replace it again,

one way or another,

in time,

as the capricious machine kicks into action again,

when the human flips the switch.

Most people are too stupid to be pessimistic,

so they breed.

Me, I fear and loathe,

too experience-weary to hope for anything better.

I shake my head and think that yesterday wasn’t so bad,

oh, how my legs ache.

Nina (4): The Point?

Posted: 2016-03-21 in Nina

“Okay, East Germany, what was it like?” he asked the big question, thinking he already knew the answer.

“It was great, a kind of paradise!” she replied decisively and without hesitation.

He studied her face for any sign or sarcasm. There was none.

“You were a champion athlete, of course, no doubt that came with some perks in that sports-obsessed political society,” he probed, maintaining eye contact.

“Yes, true, the training facilities and coaching techniques were very good.”

“Okay, and what about the supplements?” he pressed.

“Yes, every day I was given potent tablets of Vitamin C and D. I believe that kept me healthy and strong.”

“That was all?”



“Yes, seriously.”

“But, everyone knows about the state-sponsored performance-enhancing drug taking, doping, special supplements in the GDR, it’s infamy is legendary.”

“Yes, indeed, legendary. I can only tell you the truth: I did not dope and I was not doped. As well as Vitamins C and D, each morning I had a cup of cider vinegar mixed with black molasses, honey and warm water, and each night I drank a cup of wheatbran water.”

“Wheatbran water?”

“Wheatbran left to soak for a few hours in water.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“I believe it helped. I still drink it, and the other things I mentioned too.”

“Okay, so no doping in your GDR then?”


The reporter looked disappointed, he leaned forward and scribbled something in his notepad.

Nina frowned to herself and wondered what the point of this was. She was having second thoughts and was struggling to maintain eye contact with the man as he asked his hackneyed questions.

The commercial screams: make Easter count this year!

They want you to buy from them, they’re offering a discount on their goods, they’re selling their souls.

*They* just don’t get it.

Easter counts, always, no matter what *you* do.

In a world where things sacred and holy are treated like toilet paper and money is a god, primal urges debase, society spits in the face of its savior.

In this world, we need Him more than ever.

Abba, Father, help us to see, help us to feel, your love and favor.

Help us to perceive.

Easter counts.

Nina (3).

Posted: 2016-03-20 in Nina

“Look, I’m not comfortable talking on the phone. Can we meet, talk in person?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess. I don’t get out of the office much these days but I can arrange something. Modern journalism ain’t what it used to be.”

“So, you do most of your interviews on the phone?”

“Yeah, the phone, and by email. Most of my research is online. I’m at my desk the whole working day.”

“Huh, so much for the beat…”

“Glamorous, huh?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything, I had no idea.”

“Don’t worry. Ideas, idealism, neither have got much to do with journalism today. It’s mainly about churning out low brow trash, stuff to please advertisers, regurgitating details of crime, society pieces, weddings, shit.” He paused and breathed deeply. “But your story is different, really different and *important*.”

She noted his emphasis and allowed herself a wry grin.

He continued, sounding enlivened and genuinely eager: “So, where can we meet? Your place, or somewhere neutral?”

Pray, forgive the preacher who says you *must* forgive,

he hasn’t been here, or there,

he knows not what he’s doing.

Talk is cheap and expensive,

condemnation lingers upon eternity.

Verily, penance has a place for the righteous

and forgiveness is earned,

otherwise it is meaningless.

If you don’t get it, you just don’t get it.

I wish you all a reflective Holy Week.

Nina (2).

Posted: 2016-03-18 in Nina

They ask questions.

They want answers.

They want you to tell them the story.

Well, at any rate, they want you to tell them *a* story.

They like noise, you like silence.

You close your eyes, pause and try to focus.

“Nina. … Neena?” they prompt. “It’s a bold move, the pictures are very explicit.”

“Yes, but the pictures are me, they are from a painful part of my life but I don’t have anything to be ashamed of, by publishing them I make that clear. It’s me. *My* story. And I’m tired of being blackmailed.”