tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26030569713201493032024-03-19T21:30:26.520-07:00Musingschounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-66701701686135741762017-11-25T09:47:00.002-08:002017-11-25T09:47:28.534-08:00Dangers in the Desert is live :D<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/098985941X/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1511629688&sr=1-4&keywords=dangers+in+the+desert" target="_blank">Dangers in the Desert</a> is here! </div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">It ships in time for Christmas :D</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkyvb4phC2H896PSOuqToOuri2wzsMT-j2i5Qf_nMrj237ZbwpfFW7Uo0SlYh1RxIbipLh65vfKnVNFJu8JluKxqjaOICwndU_09EYQXrNRA9l8kXqHHdzg4bWisbhYMI4cW1zIMSpiAg/s1600/Dangers+Cover+final+adjusted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1020" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkyvb4phC2H896PSOuqToOuri2wzsMT-j2i5Qf_nMrj237ZbwpfFW7Uo0SlYh1RxIbipLh65vfKnVNFJu8JluKxqjaOICwndU_09EYQXrNRA9l8kXqHHdzg4bWisbhYMI4cW1zIMSpiAg/s320/Dangers+Cover+final+adjusted.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>It's Christmas break, and the Queen is still missing...</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>Maylee and Rafi trek through the Sinai desert on camelback, </b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>headed for Cairo—but they aren’t the only ones looking for the Queen. Danger is waiting for them </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>amongst the pyramids, and a </b></span><b style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;">secret society that teeters on the edge of good and evil might just </b></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>take them down. Or, it might be their only hope. </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b></b></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>In the meantime, Smith is still in Montana—but with the click of a mouse, the world is a very small place. </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>The shield between Smith and his data trackers is only as thick as his Internet security, and with the </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>college students on </b></span><b style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;">vacation, his TOR blanket is pretty thin. </b></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>On top of it all, Johann Barker left a trail of clues behind him </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>when he died—clues that point to a secret far more personal </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>than the missing Queen. Amjad and Jerome must find all </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>the clues, decipher the code, and face a familial </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>shock that tests their integrity. </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>One thing’s for sure, they’re going to have to </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>work together to find the Queen, but in this </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>game of intrigue, it’s hard to know </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><b>who they can trust. </b></span></div>
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chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-25940098067242455142016-04-11T07:46:00.001-07:002016-04-11T07:46:53.195-07:00Overview of my talk at TEDxPlano 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uh_PA8EKr1TROGzq2QZMOwC617jhWUJlPC_9QabZKkZQfMaxMwq9Y5J_uDkMlHsKsTnOOr7Wvf5czaYGX4aVvT1ky4aRif44iOWyl5D7r4mGHZP6zVO1G67pl7L8qUJBezOoVJWGYRI/s1600/Plano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uh_PA8EKr1TROGzq2QZMOwC617jhWUJlPC_9QabZKkZQfMaxMwq9Y5J_uDkMlHsKsTnOOr7Wvf5czaYGX4aVvT1ky4aRif44iOWyl5D7r4mGHZP6zVO1G67pl7L8qUJBezOoVJWGYRI/s320/Plano.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_zMc9T4ekA&index=2&list=PLGbwNR_-QmDOoe4FefgcaAHkuXILREglr&nohtml5=False" target="_blank">Do Hard Things: Applying Krashen's Input Hypothesis to Personal Growth and Achievement</a></h1>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3;">You can't microwave success. There is no shortcut, no easy way to reach your goals. It's going to take a lot of hard work, discipline, and consistency. What you can do, however, is reframe the way you think about success and failure and create a systematic pattern that allows you to maximize your efforts. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRw5HrsR_jmxIqswmYA0-2i7ma32-Dz5nzGV5WxgNFF4K3tLOwULnk9KMUxZxEIlRy5a7JsHm80dBhltez0eOCWsSFjjxc3Fw1NkApBEaKb_aXH__R1ENt5DNYe83MteNg15_LKBUC2U/s1600/nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRw5HrsR_jmxIqswmYA0-2i7ma32-Dz5nzGV5WxgNFF4K3tLOwULnk9KMUxZxEIlRy5a7JsHm80dBhltez0eOCWsSFjjxc3Fw1NkApBEaKb_aXH__R1ENt5DNYe83MteNg15_LKBUC2U/s400/nose.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Stephen Krashen's Input Hypothesis deals with second language acquisition, but we can apply this language principle to other areas of our lives as we tackle doing hard things. Three simple symbols provide the formula for success: <b>i+1</b>. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt6qaLywp8-kSMouiOi3dXu4tc-wKO3qetoXjSztWop08bFVbariXy6xrow3wnPtnnXF0dIXLFEblJ-lS-M1Yq7DPZ7ccUnoIwdGJGEEe6kSRAG4AAdAykaWkNK1Lo9dZCC4Py0094jHY/s1600/TED+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #232629; float: right; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt6qaLywp8-kSMouiOi3dXu4tc-wKO3qetoXjSztWop08bFVbariXy6xrow3wnPtnnXF0dIXLFEblJ-lS-M1Yq7DPZ7ccUnoIwdGJGEEe6kSRAG4AAdAykaWkNK1Lo9dZCC4Py0094jHY/s320/TED+group.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px;">In the</span><span style="color: #232629; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_zMc9T4ekA&index=2&list=PLGbwNR_-QmDOoe4FefgcaAHkuXILREglr&nohtml5=False" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #8c68cb; font-family: inherit; font-size: 18px; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">TED talk</a><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;">, we take a look at what both the <b>i</b> and the <b>1</b> mean in the context of our goals, but we really focus on dealing with the discomfort and insecurity that comes as we acquire new habits and skills, incorporating those into the person we are.</span><span style="color: #232629; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiJ51Sm0ktO0cuOTv3ztPMz8S-qeeNPLif6-2wwzRHnLeiejqH_qT7QvoAfdMF00aa5fyphmgHDkFslLbn10aAC9rLk8819GpHPtMiKNKwsA27wb3Fncx1lH-OFgSaAo9JbsmzMljldw/s1600/stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #232629; float: left; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiJ51Sm0ktO0cuOTv3ztPMz8S-qeeNPLif6-2wwzRHnLeiejqH_qT7QvoAfdMF00aa5fyphmgHDkFslLbn10aAC9rLk8819GpHPtMiKNKwsA27wb3Fncx1lH-OFgSaAo9JbsmzMljldw/s400/stage.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px;">I share some personal experiences and some embarrassing stories in the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_zMc9T4ekA&index=2&list=PLGbwNR_-QmDOoe4FefgcaAHkuXILREglr&nohtml5=False" target="_blank">talk</a></span><span style="color: #232629; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;">which I won't spoil here for you. I had several comments from members in the audience and from those who saw the video on YouTube who were able to identify with the awkwardness that comes in between "I can" and " I must stretch." But they all agreed that the rewards on the other side of growth far outweigh the discomforts!</span></div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-81142286499703860012015-12-05T17:08:00.001-08:002015-12-05T17:08:18.281-08:00Humanism Finds a Place at Our Table Just published this on Dallas Morning News<br />
<a href="http://www.dallasnews.com/opinion/latest-columns/20151205-diamond-wilson-the-return-of-humanism-over-thanksgiving-dinner.ece" target="_blank">Humanism Finds a Place at our Table</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56eR97rQYCzXoZVBy0VJG6iGw-ZX7zzuFiAQMQ5KI_m0UTvfy5gyZ23olkXdnmvCst5tT5J5VSPUAM1RbpWk7VeyWqqRZz1Mzem74Z-XHUG7nfHjXtw_cIvGjVwxOtPrqyCQxiuJdaHE/s1600/humanism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56eR97rQYCzXoZVBy0VJG6iGw-ZX7zzuFiAQMQ5KI_m0UTvfy5gyZ23olkXdnmvCst5tT5J5VSPUAM1RbpWk7VeyWqqRZz1Mzem74Z-XHUG7nfHjXtw_cIvGjVwxOtPrqyCQxiuJdaHE/s320/humanism.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
<br />chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-1069971622081976872015-10-22T04:37:00.002-07:002015-10-22T04:37:32.186-07:00Summoned to jury duty, wondering if peers were up to taskJust posted this article in Dallas Morning News:<br />
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<a href="http://www.dallasnews.com/opinion/latest-columns/20151021-diamond-wilson-summoned-to-jury-duty-wondering-if-my-peers-were-up-to-task.ece">http://www.dallasnews.com/opinion/latest-columns/20151021-diamond-wilson-summoned-to-jury-duty-wondering-if-my-peers-were-up-to-task.ece</a>chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-49488600101221976522015-03-05T07:34:00.002-08:002015-03-05T07:34:54.105-08:00For George<br />
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He is one of the few people who sees life from thirty feet in the air. His forearms are darkened from long days at the stern, and he carries the salt-water breeze in his eyes, even when he looks away from the ocean. Waves slap the belly of his boat, but he stands unjolted, for he is not only part of the ship, but its heart.</div>
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He leans against the prow with his arms bent, fingers loosely intertwined, and with a Carleton curled between his lips. The wind teases the smoke out into the open where it gets lost among the turquoise hills and valleys. </div>
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As he looks over this cool desert from his perch, he can spot the spiny metal strip that lurks below the surface. It is the backbone of a monster who, face down, engorges itself on the blood of the earth that lies miles deep into the ocean floor. As fierce as any known by seafaring Greeks, this underwater monster, the ocean rig, would shred his boat if he ventured too close to where the thirsty metal breathes.</div>
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These waters have shown him many great and terrible things, but none truer than a reflection of himself. Indeed, when he looks into the waves, the man he sees there is noble, honest, and ever-growing with the tide. Mirrors show the man only as he is today, but the ocean...the ocean conjures both the past and the future in its dimensions and creates an outline of the soul.</div>
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He flicks the butt of the cigarette into the water, straightens, and walks away. The time has come to find his place on the shore, to quit the space where birds fly and join his feet again to the gravity that calls us all. He looks to the water and it winks at him. Of course he'll be back. His home address isn't in street names and numbers, but shifting coordinates of degrees as he chases the sun as it dips daily into his ocean.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-52632527601892297702015-01-08T10:23:00.002-08:002015-01-08T10:23:59.560-08:00The Bridge<br />
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His every footstep landed heavy, choices stamped in cement too hardened to notice them. Below him snaked thousands of blank eyes, souls rushing through life at the pace of heavy traffic. The melody of rubber against concrete silenced the dull thud of progress as he walked the tightrope between now and his destiny. </div>
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He looked at his feet as he walked, the only flash of color in this world of gravel gray. See, the sun was shining brightly that day, but he shut his eyes against the glare instead of embracing the light; he found its brilliance to be as blinding as its absence at night. And onward he plodded, his heartbeat the drum line, the shuffling of his feet keeping rhythm in this fatal dance. </div>
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A bird soared above him, stamping her shadow upon the ground a little brokenly, like frames in a moving picture. As he walked, two semicircles fogged up the lower half of his glasses, proof of the warmth of his ruddy cheeks. Broken glass, green and silver shards of last night, littered his path and he crunched over it, half hoping it would hold fast rather than give way to his undecided stride.</div>
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He reached the center of the bridge and stopped. The swooshing of drivers whizzing by was perfectly balanced here, a comfort he rarely found elsewhere in his life. A horn blared somewhere in the sea of painted metal below him, pop can sized cars with tiny angry drivers. A man in a crane with a highlighter yellow hat shaded his eyes against the sun as he shouted orders to those below him, words that couldn't swim above the city sounds.</div>
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He placed his hands on the railing and felt decision weighing in his gloved hands--cold, hard, and definite. He pulled one leg over the rail, then the other. In that moment between rock and air, he never felt so unsure of anything in his life. Irony laughed at him holding on so tight right before he had planned to let go. The wind pushed at his back and black words warning of icy bridges scolded him as he felt his feet slip on the cold metal. </div>
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His heart was beating faster now, a dance with steps that he couldn't outrun. He saw a finger point up at him from a child on her way to school. Her mother's mouth turned into an "O," and he watched as she covered her daughter's eyes with her hand, a shield blocking his radiating pain. He turned his head to look behind him, but no hand was there to pull him back--only the sun caressing his face, the breeze whispering along his ear, and the stringent railing holding fast on the brink of life and death. </div>
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He wondered if he had it in his heart and in his pride to climb the hardest path back to the other side. If he could live with himself knowing he had almost committed suicide. If could trust himself to live knowing he had chosen it. He saw his own shadow looming far below him, flickering over the hoods and roofs of cars that passed below. In that shadow he saw a coward too afraid to hang on and too afraid to let go.</div>
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He had gone that day to the bridge to find balance. To hear the wooshing of cars equal. To have the light behind him and his own shadow before him. Ask anyone who has walked such a tightrope, balance requires great strength. A constant shifting, a fight by the second. He released the grip his right hand held on the bridge. Determined, he swung himself around to face the light and to climb the most difficult four feet of his life. His life.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-19417610066643002192014-07-05T23:10:00.001-07:002014-07-05T23:19:50.872-07:003 Things You Must See at Glacier National Park<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piFKYlcXzjc&feature=youtu.be" target="_blank">Click here to see the video of Glacier National Park with Diamond Wilson and Jay Wilson</a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>1. The Wildflowers <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The mountainsides and valleys are fragrant with wild roses, bear grass, and wild lupines. Breathe deeply of the crisp mountain air, and catch a whif of the roses while you're at it.<br />
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2. Iridescent Glacier-Green Waters <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Finely ground silt in glaciers flows into rivers and lakes as the ice melts and blends into the water supply. The water is often so clear it is difficult to guess the depth of the water. Oh yeah, it's pretty chilly too!</div>
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3. Ancient Glaciers - Giant Ice Formations that Flow </h2>
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Great snow drifts under pressure eventually turn to ice and re-crystallize forming powerful glaciers. These glaciers move consistently, undaunted by thousands of feet of rock that lie in their way. They cut almost impossible valleys and canyons, leaving large lakes with mountains that seem to grow right out of the water. Rock layers are exposed as the glacier erodes the formations, slicing the earth and baring the layers that formed it.<br />
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chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-43374855784917254862014-05-06T12:28:00.002-07:002014-05-06T12:28:55.600-07:00Heroes<br />
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The ends of his knees are red where his skin presses into the fibers of this worn rug. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With every breath he exhales, the glass pane in the door fogs up, a blanket between him and reality. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>His cheeks are pink and his nose is cold, and yet he sits there looking, hoping, waiting. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>His pudgy fingers draw smiles in the condensation, and yet he can't seem to bring one to his own face. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You see, his hero leaves footprints in the snow, but all of them lead away. </div>
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Every step makes a muffled crunch, because something in this universe has to reflect the sound little hearts make when they break. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Like knuckles that will crack no more, at what point does a heart give up hope? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Even the most delicate, like snowflakes, will turn to ice when stepped on hard enough. </div>
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His hair is damp and it sticks to his forehead. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>While his face is young, his eyes have grown old and this winter's day will leave a chill in him forever. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He pushes himself up, off the ground. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As he walks away, the glass pane recovers. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is nothing left but some smudged fingerprints that, like a secret code, are only visible when the light strikes just right. </div>
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He takes a lighter from the kitchen cupboard, the long one they use for the grill, and heads off to his room. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He never thinks of hurting himself. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nothing could pain him more than those footprints that are half-filled again with new snow. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He takes a string that has been loose on his bed and he begins. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He looks like a cherub there as he concentrates, biting his lip ever so slightly. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>His foot falls asleep and the tingles crawl up his leg, but the execution has been started. The execution must go on.</div>
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He takes the lighter in his hand and flicks it, just like his father taught him. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The flame dances and bows as it takes the stage. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The fire licks his offering like an ice cream cone, and the string he wound so carefully is the best of messenger boys. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The secrets of fire trail along the path and when it hits the bedpost, the fire sings a high whistle. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The show has started and little drops start to land against the carpet. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They are blue and red and green as faces melt off and weapons wilt. </div>
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The boy curls up on his bed with his stuffed animals and they, the audience, clap for the show. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Some spectacles last too long, and with that and the smoke, this little boy dozes off. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The alarms can't wake him any more than his mother's screams. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When the firemen find him, he lies next to a grave of blue and red and green. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In the pile of melted plastic, a sad blob remains. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Hulk grimaces as if he still suffers at the stake. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He is the last survivor of those who melted away, caught in the fire of a little boy's heartache when he realized that all heroes will at some point walk away.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-84643750149693007122014-04-05T16:41:00.002-07:002014-04-05T16:41:05.800-07:00The Dark<br />
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My eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. The shadows that moved in the darkness as a child are quiet now, and I feel so alone. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The earth is quiet and I can hear my breath, the only life in this still room. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The walls lean toward me and I scramble out of bed to escape them.</div>
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I run through the house, but my feet make no noise, as if the floor can swallow up my urgency. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I fight with the locks and leave the door swinging. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The house is a simple silhouette, reality flattened into the dimensions of the night. </div>
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I run toward the street and I honestly don't know if my eyes are open or closed. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Branches that I can't see clutch at my face. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I trip over a curb and my knees hit cement. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I look to the sky for answers, and I get none. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The moon has closed his eyes at the moment I need him most. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The stars have become candles with no wax and I stare at the heavens that offer no hope. </div>
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Tears run hot against my cheeks, proof that not all in this world is cold. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My throat aches as if it is too small to keep my sadness locked up. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I sob silently in the darkness. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Dust from the street burns my eyes. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can literally feel my heart breaking. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I take a moment to hate this silent earthquake that destroys me from the inside out.</div>
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My hands clench into fists. Anger starts to glow warm in my hands, the only coals in the night. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I exhale and sparks float on my breath, dancing in the cold air. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I look up to the sky again, my gaze shines like a beam to shatter the darkness. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I close my eyes and hug my arms around myself. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can't be afraid of the dark when the light has always been inside me. </div>
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chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-55390794299078803412014-04-02T05:04:00.001-07:002014-04-02T05:04:15.735-07:00The Daily Grind<br />
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All the panes are gray in this smoggy city where dirty rain knocks glasses with tears on weary faces. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The muck and grime of a long day's work slurps up our footprints, and when we look behind us, we see no progress. The shoulders that carry our debts and our burdens are tired, and the days are long where the sun hides behind cement walls. </div>
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So, we drown our sorrows in fantasy, and we wash our souls with handfuls of quarters. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We spritz nature onto our wrists and watch life on a colored box. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We play games with air waves and pay space to send us watered-down reality. </div>
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We hover together in crowded pubs and argue about the referee's whistle, all the while unaware that someone else is making our calls. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We run away for the weekend and think that a salty breeze, clean sheets, and continental breakfast make us free. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But our hearts are chained to that chair with wheels that sits ten stories above what we will ever achieve. </div>
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Our breath is putrid with the lies we tell our children. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can't listen. Not now. Tomorrow. I promise. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Those unheard words that long to fly from soft mouths today will cement lips tomorrow. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Instead of the golden stories of our little ones, we will meet a ghostly silence. Nothing burns quite so bright as innocence before it fades in the eyes of a breathing corpse.</div>
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So, let's paint our faces. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The war mask of the twenty-first century comes in bottles of youth. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Let's color on our health and plump our prowess with silicone. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Let's filter our image so we can't see what dying animals we are, chained to the grindstone of our choices.</div>
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chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-14454969056353205422014-02-02T07:03:00.001-08:002014-02-02T07:03:38.944-08:00The Abandoned Park<br />
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My mouth is a dry well. No matter how much it rains, the bucket always comes up empty. My stomach is swollen with sighs that cannot escape. I swallowed one too many empty promises. Bony arms protrude from this squat center, like needles shoved into a balloon. At some point, everything will have to deflate. So, let's ride this dream on empty pockets. </div>
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I hold your hand and we climb a rickety ladder. The wood creaks beneath our feet and splinters warn us of decay, dead skin cells of a giant body that heaves and wheezes to the time of the wind. Echoes of laughter swirl up like dry leaves and mix with the smell of rancid oil. I wonder if the grease we eat hasn't already slicked these metal bars. </div>
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I hear the lonely whine of a carousel long still, a bird with a crushed windpipe. A breeze strokes my arm and whispers words I already know. We pull the bar down and I can feel where the plastic has cracked. Little bits of stuffing fall out and dance like fairies, spinning slowly into the darkness beneath our feet.</div>
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I close my eyes and tuck my face into the crease between your arm and your chest. I feel safer here, pressed close to you as I meet my destiny. Before we start to fall, I scream. A vision of our broken bodies blinds me even though my eyes are closed. You breath "I love you" into my hair and I know we will die like this, two shadows tangled up, a stamp on the ground. My heart beats faster as we pick up speed and then it flies to my throat and stops as we drop for a moment, completely free.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-10142633455872830842014-01-27T07:53:00.000-08:002014-01-27T08:12:29.573-08:00Caution: Contents Under Pressure<br />
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I cover my ears with my hands and I yell, loud enough so that I can't hear them any more. My teacher took away my headphones earlier today because I wasn't "paying attention." I guarantee you she doesn't know the meaning of that phrase. Not the way I do. </div>
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I know that there are 154 styrofoam tiles that cover the ceiling in our classroom. I know that every day at 10:53, the teacher will sit at her desk and have to raise the chair. I know that my classmates whisper things about me when they think the volume is turned up on my iPod. I know why my chair is the only one in it's row.</div>
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I know that hitting things actually makes you feel better. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There are times when I'm in class and I imagine my knuckles crashing into cold metal. It's definite. The results are predictable. The sound is directly proportionate to the force with which I strike. I also know that things are more important than people. Because when I hit things, I get in trouble, but when people hurt me with their words, nothing happens. I guess we have something in common, my teacher and I. We both wish the other one would pay better attention. </div>
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I have more bad days than good ones. I'm not religious, but I believe in Heaven and Hell. Heaven is a quiet room with a closed door and lots of lamps. Hell exists in an alternate dimension and it's located somewhere between my left ear and my right one. </div>
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I know most people are scared of me. I don't blink often enough or look away. No matter how hard I try, I'm always swimming upstream in a crowd. Maybe it's because I want as far away from them as possible. Their voices are too loud. They don't have a plan. They are a funnel of explosives and I am a spark. We all share the blame. When people are born, they should come with a warning label. Caution: Contents Under Pressure. Since they don't, society just brands a few of us as crazy. The problem is, the majority doesn't understand just how flammable they are until it's too late. </div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-4280075261326870502014-01-20T12:11:00.002-08:002014-01-20T12:11:56.976-08:00Peer pressure<br />
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I stand in front of the mirror, and I can't decide. I don't know who I hate more: them, or myself. My hair is wavy and I pull it straight, wishing myself into a shape that isn't my own. Maybe if I pull hard enough I will become like them. I imagine these roots of my hair reaching all the way into my brain. If I pull hard enough, can I straighten out who I am so that I come out normal? I close my eyes and wish myself into a shape that isn't my own. </div>
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When I open my eyes, the girl in the mirror hasn't changed except for the tears in her eyes that didn't used to be there. I hug myself in the only embrace that seems to understand me and I let the tears splash against my arm. Salty waves crashing on the sand of my sun-kissed skin. I raise my head again to the girl in the mirror. My eyes are beautiful. They are more green when I cry, but when I look at myself, all I can see is sad.</div>
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I sink to the floor because I can't stand. The ache fills my rib cage and takes up all the space where my breath is supposed to be. My voice has become an echo that only I can hear. I'm starting to think that princesses were never locked up in castles with dragons. No dungeon could scar me more than these whispers and secrets that snake around my heart and steal myself from me. </div>
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I clench my small fist and just stare at it. My nails bite into my palm, but I don't care. I decide to build my own walls. Like the Egyptians of old, I'll build a coffin that looks like me on the outside while I'm busy dying on the inside. I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. I've changed already. I grab the flatiron. I hate them all, but I hate myself the most. </div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-47695359816356650862014-01-12T08:12:00.000-08:002014-01-12T08:12:33.212-08:00Backstage<br />
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Come, lay down behind the curtain of my eyelids and dream with me. No, not that side of the stage. I want you to live this nightmare from the inside. You have a part in it, you see. And sitting in the audience doesn't really do living justice.</div>
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Welcome to the cavern of truth. Oh, by the way, be careful of the floor. The foundation is a little shaky, you see. It sits on the backs of withered slaves and tired grandmas and you don't want to slip through the cracks. Also, I wouldn't go around cleaning up any old cobwebs. Some of these spiders are centuries old, and unless you're the Terminator, I'd say you don't have much of a chance.</div>
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Let me show you the dining hall. I present the proverbial fat cows, but don't smile so big. Not yet. Come closer and look. Their bellies are swollen with worms. Amazing what happens when you swallow lies mixed in with a single grain of truth. Well don't look so repulsed! It certainly isn't the cows' fault and you would haven't known any better off if you were still sitting in the crowd. </div>
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Oh you're shivering. Cold? Follow me. I'll show you the den and you can stand close to the fire. There we go. That's better, right? I just hope you don't mind that smell. When we ran out of wood, we started burning bodies. It's amazing how much the bones look like logs if you don't look too close. Don't try to wipe the soot off your skin now. It's way too late. You enjoyed the fire; that's an experience you can't erase. Well, don't get mad at me for not telling you earlier! You didn't ask. </div>
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Come on. I'll show you the garden. Aren't the flowers beautiful? Oh, wait! I wouldn't smell them if I were you. Nothing would grow here so we had to paint them. Of course it's all organic. Every morning we coat them with the fresh blood of the unwanted. Well, don't look at me like that! Everyone here has a purpose and we are all proud to do our part. Look, if you don't like the flowers, then stop staring at them. </div>
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Come over here and rest by the fountain. Beautiful, isn't it? Shhhh. Listen closely. This water is made of only the finest souls. Young dreams are the purest so we harvest them early. No, no, no you have it all wrong. Don't think of it as stealing. It's more like a wishing well, really. I think you're perspective is just uneducated, but you're welcome to your opinion.</div>
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Come back in and I'll show you the baths. See how the walls glisten with steam? We used only the finest ivory to make these murals. Where did we get the ivory? Well, you're starting to ask a lot of questions, aren't you? Go ahead and touch them if you want. They won't bite. Any more. </div>
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A mirror you say? Well, we try not to show our guests that part of the house. Oh, you insist? Very well. But I don't think you're going to like what you see. Remember how I told you that you had a part in this nightmare? Well the truth hurts. Go ahead and look. Few have true vision and, as the saying goes, we needed a fresh pair of eyes. Now, now, don't cry. You'll streak. Each of us had to build this with our sweat and blood, no pun intended. </div>
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Well I'm on my way out, it was nice chatting. What's that? Sure, I have time for one last question. What did I sacrifice for its construction? That should have been your first question. See this hole here in my chest, behind my rib cage? Believe it or not, I used to have a heart.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-51643591955165977132014-01-07T05:07:00.000-08:002014-01-07T05:07:09.548-08:00The Hunt<br />
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I must have been drunk. I must have been so far gone on the lows of my sorrows that I didn't see it there, in front of me. My belly ached only for the full feeling of the chase and in hunting that beast I forgot to exist. It consumed me. It did. I foamed at the mouth with a crazy lust and I slept with the barrel loaded, the gun cocked and ready. </div>
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I can't tell you how many times I just closed my eyes and shot into the night, screaming and falling to the ground in a heap when I hit nothing. It crazed me. I left sleep behind in my tent and I left my soul drowning in a river somewhere with a preacher who told me he could wash away my sins. But I got out out of the water before it could save me. </div>
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I grabbed my shotgun and ran into the forest, leaving a trail of wet footprints that blistered the earth as if I were a demon and not a man. I'll always be able to find that river because my own regret is a smell I can trace as good as any bloodhound. </div>
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And I guess that morals must be the pilot light for our eyes because the light went out in mine the day I stopped seeing the world for what it was. Two flat, black discs hovered in my sockets and I saw visions of the beast taunting me, always a stride away from the range of my gun. Once, I shot him point blank in the face but sick laughter echoed back with the crackle of the air and I knew I only shot an illusion. </div>
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My hair grew long and my face became sallow and when I saw my reflection painted in dew drops I titled it, "Jesus, Incomplete" because that's exactly what I looked like. My teeth turned into sulfurous spikes, jagged and broken from incessant grinding. I had only one shot left and I decided to use it on myself, to end the hunt. </div>
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By the time I saw it, I couldn't stop the bullet. This time the beast was so close I could feel his breath on my skin. And as the shot raked through my body, just before my eyes closed in death, I saw his name hanging from his collar. All this time, I was chasing Happiness. And finally when it was too late, I slowed down enough for him to catch me.</div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-51976946310297078412013-10-21T08:13:00.001-07:002013-10-21T08:13:45.498-07:00Ashes<br />
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They said it would be heavy. I honestly thought they meant the velvet bag and the box of ashes I had to carry away from the funeral home. What they really meant was everything that came after. </div>
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You sat in the passenger side next to me, well on the floor actually, because i was terrified of tipping the box over and spilling dust everywhere. I kept waiting for the music to turn sad, for thunder to peal somewhere in distance, for the sun to hide behind a cloud. Instead, a car horn beeped, my blinker clicked steadily in the car, and I waited for red lights to turn green.</div>
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Life was very normal in the world around me. Like I belonged in a dream and stepped into the real world without belonging to it or being part of it. And then I began to understand what they meant when they said your ashes would be heavy.</div>
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I finally understand why the color for mourning is black. For one thing, it's easier. A choice you don't have to make at the beginning of the day. But the real reason is that life isn't in color anymore and everything looks the same anyway. Maybe if the world looks at me in my mournful clothes they will understand, just for a second, how heavy your ashes really are. Maybe they will forgive my tears at the grocery store that seem so out of place, maybe I will be invisible to the advertisements and tweets about Mother's Day, maybe Google will shoot a message to all my credit card companies that I don't want my mother's maiden name used as my security question anymore. </div>
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You see, even though I took the urn home and put it where you asked me to, I carry your ashes with me no matter where I go. Someone once told me if you removed all the empty space that exists within the atoms of the Empire State Building, you would be left with an extremely heavy building the size of a grain of rice. That must be why your ashes are so heavy. All the love and memories we shared still carry the same mass even though your physical volume has been reduced.</div>
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They told me your ashes would be heavy. And I'm growing stronger every day to carry them.</div>
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chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-19245210823617737542013-10-18T12:47:00.000-07:002013-10-18T12:47:11.951-07:00Imagine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ECaXOhI3vseNx2zXWeN3uoFBaaYRxhNlbFw0MwqD-U8ZPXJcikGyP4RGXgx-6uVTqXTB5qzQNSY5E1Pty03JSxVxNojW9J0RlLFH7hfhekwF53X37rgP2igKibmFTWYmaBiINqZnYnI/s1600/imagine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ECaXOhI3vseNx2zXWeN3uoFBaaYRxhNlbFw0MwqD-U8ZPXJcikGyP4RGXgx-6uVTqXTB5qzQNSY5E1Pty03JSxVxNojW9J0RlLFH7hfhekwF53X37rgP2igKibmFTWYmaBiINqZnYnI/s320/imagine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-58565979903154398772013-10-18T08:30:00.000-07:002013-10-18T08:30:42.144-07:00Birthday Stream of Consciousness When it’s 5:00 a.m. and the upper story in the old house groans a little bit, foot on flooring, I smile in my sleep because I know I am amongst friends and family. <br /><br />When coffee smells like three-quarters of a cup, that is enough, because I just happen to have milk in the car and when shared with friends, a little becomes a lot. <br />Like Jesus, I think five loaves and two small fish are enough for my world when served with prayer and a smile, well, maybe a little hot sauce too, ‘cause you know we have to represent the Latin side.<br /><br />Leftover milkshakes are a warm reminder of how last night slipped under a blanket and turned into today. These cool mornings have sleepy eyes but I like it so much better when the fog is on the outside and not in my mind. <br /><br />I love that you can flip furniture, cabinets, turn a house upside down and inside out and still have it feel like home, because home is where the animals are, curled up and stretched out on every chair you want to sit on. <br /><br />Sometimes anxiety can turn to butterflies when a message arrives that I don’t want to delete but save for a rainy day like exponentially having 100% of your attention, digital. <br /><br />And, I’ve said it once before in words that you haven’t heard because I spoke them on a different floor of my consciousness, that last stop on the elevator that requires a special set of fingerprints to open my emotions. But today, here’s the view from the top of the building. A snapshot, one that self-destructs with time and the infidelity of memory. <br /><br />Our hearts don’t beat alone, exempt from the source that gave us life. So either I’m an echo and a memory or there is some umbilical cord that connects hearts of mothers and daughters, a cord that doctors and death itself can’t cut. <br /><br />And, if I could, I’d wind that cord around my finger and listen for a dial tone and wait for your voice. The best thing about being half of you is not my eyes, but that we could read each others’ minds, and that sometimes when I talk I sound just like you. <br /><br />Now the coffee is getting cold and the morning is getting brighter, a reminder, that success never sleeps and time sprints through the night. Heartbeats are just reverberations of the funeral drum so I hold my head high because my life is worth dying for. <br /><br />So you can follow in my footprints, blaze the trail ahead, or walk beside me, but keep marching. Make the ground shake with every step and change the winds when you speak, because if a butterfly can have its effect, imagine what your thoughts can do. <br />chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-26656744947452036132013-10-13T09:39:00.000-07:002013-10-13T09:39:26.034-07:00<a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=the+caves+of+qumran&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Athe+caves+of+qumran"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL68yJ2zaXGzG_rRzRatyyJeMxhVrrd61IB5nJN0IpBqxlp7DRPa6KKktbx7iP4j7i_3j5TM6O5hqc2Txlh-jTrCT1O3s1rv7tiN3E3hiQvf5Nkkc7Gh-c8Ml8AX2QCSkngsBeILHc97I/s1600/ebookfree2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL68yJ2zaXGzG_rRzRatyyJeMxhVrrd61IB5nJN0IpBqxlp7DRPa6KKktbx7iP4j7i_3j5TM6O5hqc2Txlh-jTrCT1O3s1rv7tiN3E3hiQvf5Nkkc7Gh-c8Ml8AX2QCSkngsBeILHc97I/s320/ebookfree2.jpg" /></a></a>chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-41065402685705420022013-09-27T10:25:00.000-07:002013-09-27T10:25:17.331-07:00THIS SATURDAY come get your signed copy at Firewheel from 1-3!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNXmQH1aCplGNyw-_JsYcIbcQTjDDRRMZLInwkwI-1kKnb_siXA1HMl9C7YqHh-9AY1GRLGLjk0gR492Qa_TZqKFrYLaFmzFZyT0mhyphenhyphen07rX5waYL0Snp43OW2XmpylyZmPSulnu52d44/s1600/Caves+Poster+Small.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNXmQH1aCplGNyw-_JsYcIbcQTjDDRRMZLInwkwI-1kKnb_siXA1HMl9C7YqHh-9AY1GRLGLjk0gR492Qa_TZqKFrYLaFmzFZyT0mhyphenhyphen07rX5waYL0Snp43OW2XmpylyZmPSulnu52d44/s320/Caves+Poster+Small.jpg" /></a>chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-43670301144724398062013-09-24T08:51:00.001-07:002013-09-24T08:51:52.595-07:00#truebeauty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bK-vlt9s_a5o1Imj5G0VR4GrXUMeJNCKyWZZYhtZaOcJWFwpZe0VfZrt8aXQVhaa6ny4LAvfWLfbG_tKzqzond7Y01CJAVNdKvFHXixqBquy-Kj2MaDc0AgVr6MmWBh_8p8Ejy4r6_U/s1600/Education+Quote+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bK-vlt9s_a5o1Imj5G0VR4GrXUMeJNCKyWZZYhtZaOcJWFwpZe0VfZrt8aXQVhaa6ny4LAvfWLfbG_tKzqzond7Y01CJAVNdKvFHXixqBquy-Kj2MaDc0AgVr6MmWBh_8p8Ejy4r6_U/s320/Education+Quote+2.jpg" /></a>chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-25768205952342201312013-09-19T21:28:00.000-07:002013-09-19T21:28:38.577-07:00DFW Book Signing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUvYTiKwoyCAaHSfHkR8SlwBf3B_mYNJM5UQ6nfcHHwGlDQvx7gXmXGG4j_bvwf4Yzqz0JnD4qepVYoZcQXh45cTOKIouqTtYLDumNHaA_zHSRx_j48MdzNvmYK_ZfMg8NdeqTDkVa_Q/s1600/Diamondsigning+flyer+small+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUvYTiKwoyCAaHSfHkR8SlwBf3B_mYNJM5UQ6nfcHHwGlDQvx7gXmXGG4j_bvwf4Yzqz0JnD4qepVYoZcQXh45cTOKIouqTtYLDumNHaA_zHSRx_j48MdzNvmYK_ZfMg8NdeqTDkVa_Q/s320/Diamondsigning+flyer+small+pic.jpg" /></a>
DFW signing next weekend!
#caves #mzflawlesschounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-13342208862926209872013-08-23T14:59:00.000-07:002013-08-23T14:59:35.643-07:00The Caves of Qumran is available!<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Caves-Qumran-Diamond-Wilson/dp/0989859428/ref=sr_1_25?ie=UTF8&qid=1377294677&sr=8-25&keywords=the+caves+of+qumran"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPOIqh2_9PKs0_FCSRzE04XbEi6hhs435BToGzHLkoLhCAkYN83rSB5FsK7rs_tlzpUxRDfYz97iKxBa4BAAUvXwA7xSC_PG0gCvM82aLXbq0swL8k8FVRicRVPe9vUGt4glvhKAfufU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-08-23+at+4.57.28+PM.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPOIqh2_9PKs0_FCSRzE04XbEi6hhs435BToGzHLkoLhCAkYN83rSB5FsK7rs_tlzpUxRDfYz97iKxBa4BAAUvXwA7xSC_PG0gCvM82aLXbq0swL8k8FVRicRVPe9vUGt4glvhKAfufU/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-08-23+at+4.57.28+PM.png" /></a></a>chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-35641482526788492822013-07-29T20:54:00.000-07:002013-07-29T20:54:10.173-07:00Continuity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWp87XEVpOYHsH9KMBpej11X8L9OK25izTgpkZ8ZVSyna-uvmT6vv-Ml8Y4OyB0Xabk4n5scBq6zRcHBK6FA0Pn41U1Rnil6tdUCMK4VYe0JOI0K4XVVHaGNoLaq83u3IBrDZz_oXeKSU/s1600/20130728_025329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWp87XEVpOYHsH9KMBpej11X8L9OK25izTgpkZ8ZVSyna-uvmT6vv-Ml8Y4OyB0Xabk4n5scBq6zRcHBK6FA0Pn41U1Rnil6tdUCMK4VYe0JOI0K4XVVHaGNoLaq83u3IBrDZz_oXeKSU/s640/20130728_025329.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2603056971320149303.post-51572729019510671312013-07-23T09:14:00.000-07:002013-07-23T09:14:22.278-07:00Superficial<br />
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The splendor of the night seems tainted </div>
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with <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">the truth of the day,</span></div>
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Where the rays of the sun shine brilliant, </div>
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glistening over a million flaws.</div>
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The diamonds that glimmer at your neck </div>
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under the city lights</div>
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Are drab in the daylight, covered with the ashes </div>
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of last night's dreams.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is a layer of grit that covers </div>
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the silk cushions where you lay your head,</div>
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It smells like cigarette smoke, cheap hairspray, </div>
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and last night's expectations.</div>
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Sunglasses can't hide the hangover in your eyes </div>
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from too many shots of regret</div>
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and a few stale promises. </div>
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<br /></div>
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There is no lipstick red enough to cover </div>
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the pallor <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">of long-dead smiles,</span></div>
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No corset tight enough to give shape </div>
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to drooping potential.</div>
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The high heels you wear could reach </div>
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all the way to the penthouse, </div>
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and still do nothing to elongate your character. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The bartender convinced you that </div>
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an ounce of beauty, a smidgen of charm, </div>
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well shaken <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">and chilled with a little luck </span></div>
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would transform you </div>
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from cheap vodka into a luxury cocktail.</div>
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So you sipped away on lies and gambled </div>
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the price of your happiness only to realize</div>
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that the audience watching you </div>
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was both deaf and blind.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And now, standing here, seeing where your mascara </div>
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has settled into your mistakes </div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
In the reflection of the taxi window </div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
that's already driving away,</div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
The sun burns hot on your skin </div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
that's already scarlet with self-hate,</div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
So you turn back to the shadows and hide </div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 24px;">
with the beauty of something completely fake. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
chounzethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00919499082586619433noreply@blogger.com0