All Saints – inspiring reel take of the real!



Ah! It’s been said, that books pick you! Yes, they do and so do movies in this age of downloads and streaming. And All Saints was so timely; one’s belief finds thirst quenching sparking water. Timely for me in my microcosm, am sure it talks in deeper and urgent tones to others too.

So, to the movie:all saints

Michael’s (John Corbett) first assignment as newly ordained Parish priest, is a small job: clean up the church and its premise and ready it for the market. He sets out to do so earnestly. Ah! Right, cleanup has been reduced to this these days, not quite what Christ did with the rope around his waist, whipping the merchants out of His father’s house alone. Today the merchants own it fully. In our small church by the park, the voluntary position of the treasurer is usually with the guys who love money – they will treat it with care, like handing over the keys to the thief and he is thus reformed. Well, that theory is as whopped as all those solutions that grow back hair or pills that will rid you of envy and jealousy.

No big deal, there are only a few people who come in on Sunday mornings. I have heard this being said of the church I go to as well: it’s a church of just senior citizens and a handful of them. We should ask them to move to a church close by and do something else with the large plot that houses the church. The small difference being that in our case there is so much devious activity in an already demonic thought fueled atmosphere, thankfully not so with All Saints.

And Michael works at being a good priest, works out a couple of nice sermons and talk to the few old who still continue to hang in there on Sundays, before they are sent off to a larger parish. close by. Yes, you sigh, sitting here in a new urbane India, it seems the initial scenes of the movie is where we (our church) would be at in less than 5 years from now, if we continue down on the road we are on. The west has, we assume again, easily let go off its churches for more creative purposes. We see our future played out in another land’s history, and with the prayers of waiting on the messiah to come as our only hope in our rather stubborn apathy. Our solutions are all outside. Like a visiting priest who told me the other day, the solutions to the trouble the South Indian churches finds itself will come from the laity. I almost choked on my smile. This small congregation of ours believed our solution was the next Clergy in flowing shining white robes. So there goes that!! So, we continue looking into the dark clouds that offer no rain. 

Like empty hopes filled to the brim with superhero movies, I waited for a bishop/messiah to step in and give this tale which was also turning melancholy with the misty-eyed -camera looking sadly on at the small congregation. No! Messiah is not coming! But Yes! God is at work though.

And into this gloom several refugees come in, misery does love company! They’re members of the Karen people group, farmers from Burma who’ve been transplanted to the little town of Smyrna, Tenn. They don’t speak much English but they are Anglicans. And its right fit for Anglicans in this episcopal Church.

And about this time God starts to talk to Michael. One rainy night and he reads the signs and His voice in the thunder. The roads will smoothen out with god on your side, the angels will plough you land! We think, and we will sit through like we do at sermons that are soothing, like common candy, sweet only for as long as it lasts and soon forgotten. Michael now just has to say and the red sea would part! Well, if our Christian/life journey were to be thus, would not Christ have turned those stones to bread? Michael all inspired and with the light bursting out of him meets the bishop and tells him, that he will make a Church of All Saints, the property should not go on the market. Ah! The red sea lays still to the gesturing of his rod!

Yes, the story, true story, is more the real gospel, quite unlike the tele-evengalical spiel that ends with your cheque books and their promise of comfort and lots of money pouring straight out of our leaky roof and into our bank balance. This movie does not attempt to proselytize, just tell a transforming tale is all. The story is well told, and no, it’s not just a ‘Christian’ story, it’s a story of transformation, of love, and the reassurance that in humanity is our hope.

Oh yes, the movie is based on a true story and adapted for the screen wonderfully. Many of the church goers that are shown in the movie are from the actual congregation and the real-life Karen refugees from Burma too. It was filmed at the actual All Saints’ Church where the events took place, located outside of Nashville. It is definite impetus for sagging faith, most definitely for guys living in urban milieus; going with the generalization that all cities are just the clone of a big city we aspired to be and become, Became!

And importantly God’s voice was not in the thunder; the voice is so finely intertwined in the lives of all who have now become part of the community and from there comes salvation. The strength: to withstand the lashing of the storm, to bear a loved one leaving, the disappointments. There are thanksgivings and joy of providence of grace, there is all of it and the light that makes life come alive with meaning, God with you.

And meanwhile in a small town in Bangalore, in our little church amidst the apathy there rests this hope that the present priest will go and then will come a new shepherd and a sheep whose fleece will from years of apathy suddenly start to sparkle and crackle. God does work in mysterious ways, but it still would need us to put our hands and voices into what he called us to. We presently have left the church to come to when you absolutely nothing else to do, we come looking for some fun amidst weltering flowers expecting them to all perk up for us. Ah! Well, it’s beautiful to find momentary solace and a stirring in our hearts from the goings-on on the silver screen. Hopefully, and until such time as we heed that voice inside so dulled with material possession and consumeristic delight. And the hollow eyes and emptiness inside we continue to beg the outside to fill.

So going back to the story, it lives in you; am writing about this movie, month after I have seen it. It continues to be the flickering little light in my finding love and warmth in my brotherhood – at the moment cold awaiting the messiah from a pool that’s already quite deplete. Yes, as bad as the water table of our city, 2nd in line in the list of cities to run out of water after Cape Town. And Cape Town already has been hit. And like empty court verdicts that we think are cures, we await the man in white cloth to wake up the living-dead. While we continue to sing the lord inside to sleep, with songs of new cars for bad roads, and one more house in the country (good investment boss!!! She said! – to the Janis Joplin tune) But ofcourse there’s hope: there were only 25 members when Michael Spurlock took over as pastor and a mortgage it couldn’t afford. We have a few more than that at our Services.

All Saints reiterates the truth (that humans are gregarious) that we are meant to live together and we are made humans to be thus, there are no answers in cutting and running away and hiding behind material fortress. Nay! NO!

A good nice cinema: not preachy and the message not taking anything away from the script.   A very enjoyable uplifting tale!   could easily fit into list of : ‘movies at lent’.


Elijah at Horeb: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. – 1 Kings 19:12
the link to the reel / real:


The Neighbor – stay away from the window


The NeighborTheNeighbor2018

William Fichtner slow walk and working from home pace, is the pace of the movie’s narrative. It creeps upon you slowly and hits you on the head, bleddy hard too. I felt myself at various times restlessly wanting for the pace to pick up. Urging Mike (William Fichtner) to move faster – to his doom and even sometimes to safety. But no, and NO is right!

Mike with his easy routine and a wife who is intensely into her career and a son who is away is easily drawn into the distraction that moves next door. Beauty of the youth and as often as is its wont the recklessness of that phase of life which adds to the glow and zip, well, that somehow doesn’t sit well with you when you are older. WE know this but we continue to walk that path, so confident what was true to a million others will most definitely not be yours, and so does Mike, that damned slow pace doesn’t still help him get over that feeling of love/concern and that god-knows-what- is -this -thing that makes one feel this way. It does takes you down streets that has been your reluctant prayer to keep out of: keep me away from temptation. Oh how often we give into the other dictum: the best way to deal with temptation is to give into it. Oh, at various times it does even seems god sent, into your barren land an oasis for the many years of perseverance and boredom you braved. Oh, yes, deserving you say. Oh right, entitled!

Jenna (Jessica McNamee) is bang on as the forbidden fruit in the neighbor’s garden. Lovely, comely and also helpless, intelligent and sensitive, ‘perfect!’ as Mike’s friend Brain reassures him. You will find yourself tell Mike to walk away: hey Mike, ok you got to sip that much of the water now leave. And then even when circumstances turn right on its head to lead you away from the path to the house of the rising sun, cause the sun shine is always better on your neighbor’s grass. You can’t keep away, cause it’s as sweet as the leaf that Mike and Jenna shares. How am i to let a helpless girl fend for herself?

Mike’s darkness or his shade of gray leads him back on the road again and again. A familiar road actually as unique as it does feel to Mike at that time. But you already know from the encouragement Brian heaps on the hapless Mike that it is familiar road for the urban modern man. The easy way does most times lead you along the Chinese-Interesting- times* .

And when Mike finds enough spring in his steps it’s again to that garden wall, the wall that was to keep you away from that fruit of knowledge you so thirst for. This one fruit you have been asked to keep away from. the rest vast expanse all yours, but that tree blinds you to all the other realities that shine sparkle and live and with overreaching open arms beckons you to its throbbing with life, which has been denied only you, oh yes, you are convinced of that.

Well, it’s a nice little fable told well, and the pace of its telling only right. Oh, when Mike is left holding the tomato as the credits roll on, it could well be the very apple Adam looked hard and long at before he moved east of Eden to pick up the plough.


Exit west – Moshin Hamid

A dreamy book!exit west

Moshin lets the book sing out its story; it is melancholic and it is sweet.  Draws you into the think of it with the first few lines, like the first strains of a rock ballad, which promises to deliver an opera’s cringing cries, sighs and crescendos of joy and cheer, tears and goes on and delivers. Oh, and just like that Moshin takes you on a sweet ride as if on Cat Stevens’ gentle moon into its shadows.

It’s the story of Nadia and Saeed which begins in civil war torn city.   They fall in love: it’s innocent, it’s beautiful, it’s liberating as they find strength in each other, even as the world they lived in starts to fall apart around them.  There is hope, as they discover doors that liberate them from the strife that’s ebbing out life around them.  Each door is a little more freeing than where they were at.   Each time paying for freedom with the aching vacuums of a longing for home.

Saeed is as good man as can be in a story that is equally female.    He is the male who doesn’t always state his thoughts.   He is a quintessential today’s urban man, so in some very generally-speak, and so is Nadia a modern urban woman.  She wears a hijab because she wants to, it is has nothing to do with her faith,  but she keeps it on even as she walks the bold strides to exploring the new modern world, and into her walk of freedom.  Oh, yes freedom!  It’s a walk one as we have all learnt a walk for life; as like most state of idealism, the dynamic and being alive and conscious is the only answer we got thus far, definitely no destination to park at.   Or as Zakir Hussain said in a recent interview, the journey continues, looking for the best, and I hope I will never find it.

The pangs of longing, the fear of losing and loss itself, and reaching the unknown and the comfort of the other in journeys are beginning to draw their own roads.   Moshin, like all good authors am sure draws from deep within, and the lyricism comes from the lovely notes he strikes dripping into melancholy but almost never into the abyss of sadness or hopelessness.  There are doors, of perception and of new light and life.

Ah! Don’t we long for happy ending and do we get it?  Of course there are many moments of great happiness that come along on life’s tunnels and crevices and never so in the pursuit of that very end.

A story of love and loss told with such restraint that is throbs with the force from within.    Of course Moshin is the same one who wrote that brilliant book which was a lovely film too ‘the reluctant fundamentalist’.

Will Saeed and Nadia live happily ever after is not even a question I asked even as the love story began to bloom and find laughter in soothing whiff of spliffs.   Saeed doesn’t say much almost even quite content letting Nadia set the pace of the turns and moves in their relationship.  The guilt, and then the freedom from it, and the relief in the spaces you behold from the walls that crumble which you hid behind all along, and behold horizons unlimited.  I also did feel the tug at familiarity and what might seem like an answer does become what it really is: a good question towards the path to an answer.  I did already say it: was dreamy. The tale is as real as our dreams and as nightmarish as our real sometimes.  But the bitter sweet is a lovely narrative.  Do you fall out of love and do doors that open also shut out the spaces you walked out of?   Well, if we have grappled and then let time throw you answers you will find the paths we walk could be as familiar and still completely unique to the self.    Does Moshin attempt to reach for the soul? Do we ever reach to know that invisible?  I don’t think he set out to do that… but he does reach and takes the reader through pastures of delight and celebration, of broken lives and unsung songs.   The journey of the book does refresh your journey on.

There is another question we hear every so often in these days of short-term relationships.   Where it’s not doors we walk into together but often without the other, is that a path towards evolving, or are we going back to the caves to learn all over again?   When we call ourselves gregarious, it does include that we can’t really just break off from the stem we leached on, we carry the blood on into our journey on.

Further personal notes:  lately, I have enjoyed reading the authors writing in English from Pakistan.  It perhaps has to do with the feeling of foreign we have grown into in an urban city, even in the city of your birth and residence? do we belong anywhere anymore?   What is this longing for homeland?  It’s perhaps the gray we walk unconsciously through in the rampant material world that starts to speak in the lyricism of these authors… Moshin hits it true… so when I am not hunting for a book of Murakami in the library, I haven’t yet read,  I find reward closer home;  in the writings of authors of our neighbor inhabiting the subcontinent, most also residing out of there.


That feeling sometimes called love



Waste of time, sheer waste of time, that love I poured out!
And she asked, oh, it was yours to pour out eh?
Did you make it and bottle it that you pour it at will?
And as she reached and set the star above in line with the moon,
she whispered

Love blossomed with i beheld you
It was no seed i plafor poemnted and nurtured or brew that i distilled with care
But it did posses me, and it became me, nay not a being like
The makeup i could cake/put on.
It felt it in my eyes, it poured out with
The tears that welled and spilled
It was in the spit that in anger i sprayed
But mostly it had
The warm feeling that surged in my greatest despair, to dispel.

In was in the great darkness I asked about love,
And like a spark I found it within.

She moved the gray cloud away from the light of the moon
And singsonged
Love reared it’s head sometimes when i tried to buy myself some of it
And when at it, a pinch of happiness, and both evaded
I tired to nurture it in me with thoughts and bold moves
It didn’t awaken in me nor could I touch it on the outside

And then she looked down from the moon still reflecting in her eyes
And chimed
Its grace my love, it dwells in us. And when love does dwell
Prayers are the heart’s throb, smiles sparkle in the eyes
The body knows not it’s pain,
And even the ugly world shines forth
And she reached down and kissed deep on my lips
And bewildered i beheld that which i can’t posses or lockup for later.

d – 4 July 2017

a slightly long sigh

The dull throb of listlessness
Waiting on the hurt of the next burning hot drop
To thump into the numb scalp
And then the open eyes see
the epicenter of the deep darkness
of the pitch dark gloom
The promises of light still beckon
‘but it is beyond this threshold’, she whispered.

My knees hurt from the running away

The pain is intense ever so often
From psychedelic full HD nightmares
As real as Maya and her sad laugh

Oh yes, those pinstripes of enabling light
In the darkness of the thick old blanket

The light comes in from the frayed edges
Of patches stitched over old tears of
Half fought battles
Of tough times and stumbling steps

Light that forced itself on my bleakness
That hope, wakes me up in cold sweat

There is solace still at the Rock
My parents set me up on in my far off youth
None at all at the sanctuary where the selfish greedy priest sits
He turned the water that make you thirst never more
Into an abyss of toxic waste
‘You all are to blame, you tragic losers’, his taunts echo.

My sighing and heaving bends the old rod I lean on
Still sturdy though, form the soaking of tears of my mother
The sweat that dropped on it from my father’s brow
when he smiled his bitter sweet
the strains of old hymns
the intermittent outpouring of love
the reluctant obedience of a daughter
the resplendent sunrise and sunset I sometimes see over the city smog
the selfless giving of friends…

I stopped at these water stations via dolorosa
Seeking my salvation

Rangoon – that bridge too far.



Wow! It was Friday, even before we could say ‘Thank God’, and He had given us a little more to cheer, it was Shivarathri, and the movie release – Rangoon. Thank you god! We said. A lil too soon we thought, thinking back a little afternoon that day.

I salivated at the thought of the treat from Wednesday (the next Wednesday was Ash) on. Even decided to do the piety of lent for a couple of days – practice run for the coming feast. Rangoon is a Vishal Bhardwaj film, and it had Shahid (with whom he has never really failed, not just that but even gave Shahid new life) and then gorgeous Kangana. Vishal had gotten back to form with Haider after a bit of a slip with Matru Ki Bijlee Ka Mandola, but then with MKBKM would have been difficult to get Imran to be Amir, and even the confidence of blowing the breath of life into Shahid didn’t help then. Cut to the present, Imran seems to have retired and must be in the same state of bliss as Abishek the Bachan! So, move on we will.

And come Friday we rushed about all the chores of the morning and got to the theater for the first show (yes, first day first show). Ah! Shiva’s slumber and the producer having to talk with the Censor board guys seemed to have effected the guys in Mumbai. The censor board is the joker in the pack that brings more tears than laughter. Our censor board is the most hardworking team on earth. Their sharp scissors can’t seem to have enough. They chopped off the kiss from the Bond flick Spectre and with it all of Monica Bellucci, making it a total waste of a cinema outing. We will save the stuff they did Under My Burkha for later. Moving on, after an hour’s wait the movie began. All the better for the lovely feast we thought, licking jowls in anticipation, thoughts that voiced itself in that hall, the 10 of us in the stall (the 11.30 morning show and it eventually got us to Rangoon at 12.30) were fairly well acquainted by now. And because of this instant camaraderie we also found out that in this digital age the movies are streamed at the theaters, show after every show, and that these guys had some issue with the film certificate.

OK, movie now. It was really nice to see Kangana on screen, it was nice every time she was on. Oh, Shahid was solid too, that boy has been working very hard, the debacle that was Mausam, an indulgent one which his father mounted for his son, did disturb his inner blocks. And he continues his good from from Udta Punjab. Saif’s struggle continues, he looks good, he gets to wear crisp tux en-all, the creases in place period wardrobe. Yes, he does carry it off and well, sometimes it just becomes that, and them clothes does not maketh the man. Earnest, oh he was! Also there was Richard McCabe, he had a lot of screen time, if he was out to get us to loathe him, he did a good job of that. He was just over the top, and his Urdu and Hindi mostly made you cringe. So it was nice to see him shot down after that fearless Nadia train rescue, very short lived that was, he came back and how! Kangana’s fearless Nadia would have made Mary Evans proud (yes another Aussie reference) and a lot many others too. She is fragile, strong and she soars, and she lifts your heart. Will the melancholy that only seems to add further to her sparkle consume her too soon? Her screen presence is almost Brandonesque.

The sets and the bridge to Rangoon, the scenic Arunachal Pradesh were just very small drops that promised a downpour this summer. So like one swallow and a few little water drops does not a summer thirst quench, Rangoon too does very little. Rather disappointing horse at the Race from the Vishal stable. So, in some ways it was like the debacle that was Rajni’s Baba(2002_film) . Well, scale it down a bit, and the impact in this small world would have the same feeling of hurt. Rangoon did however get me to dig out a copy of another war flick (Aussie reference again) about the girls who went on to entertain the troops – The Sapphires. And that lovely sound track.

Rangoon OST was bloody good too.bp-Full-Juke-box-out-rangoon-shahid-kapoor-kangana-ranaut-Saif-ali-khan

OK, now for the script. Yes, it had lots packed into it. Vishal was through, so when he made Saif’s Billimoria walk the tight rope and then take off his hand at the wrist very early in the movie, he was setting up a finale that would take the whole lovely bridge down and with it your heart and let you wallow in your tears of loss and love, and also love of our country, that heady concoction was flat beer – neither foster nor our own kingfisher. But there is that wooden feeling, quite like billimoria’s mechanical hand, or a hangover from cheap bad liquor.

Shahid does get you to leave your cushioned seat and stand up, with his rendition of the national anthem and his Bhagat Singh stance. Supreme court ruling of which stanza to stand for and when you could snore through, be hanged. Our patriotism being defined by lathi and gun yielding unruly, lacking any culture could do with this selfless lesson no? OK no! But then that is the farther-est we are from today. We understand en-mass chest thumping to lies and self love. Well, that is not the reason why the film didn’t do well at the box office. Rangoon does test your patience quite some in the first half and then the second half gets muddled up with too many of the subplots having to knit. Vishal does lose it every now and then, and sometimes when he thinks he has got it, he has lost you. Was it the big budget and scale that made him lose it? Was he infected with the same virus that got Anurag Kashyap when he was in Bombay ?

And for that triangle that Shadid, Saif and Kangana play, is but just a Tinny percussion discord. Can a girl love two men? Can two men live with the love of one girl? Well, NO answers, maybe they were not even the questions that were asked. But if you ended up asking, then you have Billimoria left alone to walk the tight rope with a tattered flag and a battered hand. Love is a just a thin veiled backdrop, but it still gets the lot of them to perform very brave acts like with grenades and bullets in the brain .

The old world trying to speak to the shallowness of the new world will let your art down. Like after all that tough kissing in the movie, the big question Kangana got asked many-times over was, ‘who is a better kisser, Shahid or Saif?’ hmm m…

Oh yes, Kangana does take a big part of you when she leaves saying, my soul left with the Soldier and of-course ‘Bloody Hell!’ nice touch with that as the famous last words, but the cgiafter a big let down. All puns and spoilers intended.

Bloody hell, Vishal rise up from that drunken mud wrestle and give us another.

home! Wesley home.

 My friend sent this back to me after 15 years… god! how time has flown.. but the situation on the ground has only gotten worse… the analogy of a train with it’s breaks not holding and going downhill has been most used to explain the earth’s deterioration…  the same would analogy can see more clear and very visible physical manifestation in the corrupt ways of our Churches and diocese.

Your words on 9th May, 2001 – Flashback to an interesting read 🙂

Aashish Joshua

 Mar 2
to me
Dear friends,
Greetings! a little something i want to share with you.
On May Day laboring on another morning, got a call from Manoj to meet him at the old Peoples’ home.  A long while since I ‘d been here and this sure wasn’t something that would have pulled me away from a book and music on a holiday.
A plethora of images passed before mine eyes.  It used to be a place I looked forward to going, not so long ago.  We went there for prayer meetings, to sing, dropped in cause we were passing by.  Somewhere along the way all this changed, haven’t been there since the work on a new place began.  I asked myself why the change occurred, and got some very petty excuses for answers and an insipid one ‘I was busy, didn’t have time’, which in the next 30 seconds was already dismissed as very lame.
Well, we ventured out to the place all the same to find answers along the way.
We walked in and introduced ourselves as guests from Wesley to the warden a kind old lady, Rasathi in her 60s in a youthful zest (a warden in a youth hostel before she came here).  It has been 4 months and she should  now start to age a decade every month.  More about her another time.
A sure way for me to have a disastrous experience is to do something because “it will be good for me”. **
We went around the place, nostalgia completely removed- the harsh reality didn’t even allow me that soft cushioning.  We looked at the size of rooms in the new building from the roof top, the new rooms that are ready are not accessible because they say the contractor has not been paid and he will not allow possession of the rooms. Does not you anger well up? we downed it with a glass of warm water from the kitchen.  We weren’t ready for the inmates (that’s what they are called, a prison they know no escape from).  We walked among the ruins, a comforting sight to most who saw their very lives in such imagery, a feeling at home.
The Home is a row of rooms along the path way- 4 doors that lead into cells which house these old bodies, hands that a few years ago led young lives by their little fingers, who have led exciting lives and traveled around, whose eyes filled with tears of happiness at new life and wept into hungry cold grounds at the loss their loved ones.  Today they will ask you to pray that the Lord take them to an abode we are so accustomed to think is rosy.  A land where your limbs will get new strength and your teeth will be back, wrinkles will only be laugh lines (what else, in a land where there is no sorrow).
Now, as we walked round and round quite embarrassed to meet those that reside in these walls, one of them came out and confronted us,  she said, ‘ you don’t want to come inside and meet us, you would have come in if there were girls, wouldn’t you?’.  We walked up to her not knowing quite what to say. Where these accusations right?, were we afraid to see at close quarters what we were inevitably heading for? Were we afraid to know what goes around and make it difficult to justify our deeds at a later date?  Well, we reached her before we could quite figure out, she burst into a rich laugh and repeated her question to help sink it in deeper and then a little more louder (once more with feeling).  We didn’t come up with any answers but told her we were from the church.
She kept us in splits with episodes from her eventful life, she introduced herself- ‘Mrs. Mary Benedict- but no benediction’, she laughed.
She regaled us with her tales and having told us about marriage and mortgage she spoke of her children in distant lands and of fat pay packs
– pride and regret, sighs and smiles.
We also met Ruth Solomon and Mabel David quite pleased to hear her name though it be to summon another.  One asked that we pray to ask Him to call her to His side at the earliest.
Throw away the wine bottle, put out the candles, no one is coming by this way- said a poet about oldage.
The garden has a few lovely blossoms – no lawn, no evenly laid flower beds, a bright contrast to the garden in Church – what for? Who comes here?
At the new block we climbed the steep stairs that will lead to rooms – god!, they must think that some spring chickens coming to stay here. No thought absolutely about disabled and geriatrics (or is this something Jim Carrey specializes in).  We are to blame – we didn’t question the plan when in sat there beside the alter staring in our face and we saw nothing wrong with it then. Why complain now?- well, our unlearned mind and untrained eyes didn’t see it – and please brethren come behold the sight, a reality jolt.  Will we look at it only when it happens in our
homes, or will we lock them in such closets?   Will we continue to look
the other way?
I remember 2 years ago when a few of us thought some things were going to change for the better, we set up a cool mailing list to correspond with each other, to help build a community in virtual space- to build a home for these old people, we deliberated and we build them a castle in the air, well, some didn’t even bother with that.
This here verbose outburst is not another attempt at building community-
do whatever you think is right at the time you encounter it.   I am
guilty of not being in church and talking to you guys and now suddenly I have all my fears to pour out to you, am angry and very sad, and in impotent rage I have no one to talk to but you who I once knew so well.
Forgive me my outburst, but you sure must ask yourself some questions, the answers are not hard they are blowing in the wind, and what the
world needs now is love.   We must awake and ask these our elders who
are involved in these projects, what they are up to – don’t you want to know about the house your parent is building?  Would you not know his blind side and throw more light onto his lea side.
Does this place not matter to us Wesleyans, are we so far removed from our own, are we so blessed that we are in a land where we will never grow old!
… death under the force of a hurricane is better than life in the arms of  old age*
After such triviality do I have anything to offer you?  Yes, I have a sight that is such a horrid shame to any school of architecture. And the callous behavior of all those involved with the building I will not even get into. They say that there was 10 lacs spent on it, it sure is a
sight to behold!   The future residents will on reaching here believe
that they have at last reached the tunnel and now need only wait for the light.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.*
more later, love
*Kahlil Gibran
**Hugh Prather
Ps: I have no hope of knowing that I have said the right things, or if these are self-righteous ramblings, I might never know.  I must also hereby request a space for these things I have said.  You would write us, call if you think you need us, or you could do your things your way, but for your own and these old people’s sake do something.  And feel free to write me about my short falls or anything you would want to say.  especially mail me if you don’t want me to write you.
God bless.