If Life Gives You Nothing But Lemons, Try This Lemon Sheetcake*
1 cup o’ almond flour
1/5th cup o’ coconut flour
7/8th cups o’ Xylit(ol?)
1 pack o’ baking soda
juice ‘n’ peel o’ 1 lemon (or, better, 5 drops lemon essential oil)
approx 1/2 cups o’ coconut oil
approx 3/4 cups o’ mineral water
about a ten-inch baking tray
stir all ingredients, fill baking tray, pre-heat oven, bake at 350 deg. for 20 min.
Gluten free, sugar free, vegan, and totally yummy…**
**unless my metric to shit kings English measurement conversions are off-then it’s out of my hands..8^)
#MenCanBakeShitToo, wait, that sounds wrong…
The following picture, taken by Frank Sykes, first appeared in the book Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland, by Olive Schreiner in 1897. Link to acquire the book: https://archive.org/details/trooperpeterhalk00schriala
It’s time for a change!
“Geomythology indicates every case in which the origin of myths and legends can be shown to contain references to geological phenomena. The venerable Mrs. Vitaliano indicated that geology and geological events, especially catastrophes like earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcano eruptions, are often explained in oral traditions and folklore, and it would behoove us to study these traditions, a position held in ancient Greece by Euhemerus around 400-300 BC. He maintained that myths about divinities and their activities were poetic accounts of real people and events” (“history in disguise”). His followers rationalized myths by stripping away supernatural and impossible details to reveal an underlying core of facts.
The claim is that oral traditions about nature are often expressed mythologically and may contain genuine and perceptive natural knowledge based on careful observation of physical evidence. Geomythology can offer valuable information about natural disasters and other events which are otherwise difficult or impossible to trace.
Up until 2002 it was thought the Greek myth about the Oracle at Delphi was a poetic allegory. A team of archaeologists and geologists, however, found that intoxicating methane and other gases escaped from the ground below the site, which explained how the priestess Pythia became “fuzzy-headed” and “was inspired” by the vapours seeping from the Earth.
Then of course there was the case of the tsunami in 2004, which swept across the Indian Ocean and killed almost 228,000 people. One hard-hit area were the Andaman Islands, south of Bangladesh. When scientists visited the islands, they feared the worst, as the indigenous people there had no warning of the impending wave. To their surprise, all but one community survived with minimal casualties. The islanders related a cultural myth that told them if the ocean rapidly receded, they needed to get to high ground so they would not “be eaten” by the huge waves, a myth that saved their lives. The only community to suffer heavy casualties had been converted to Christianity and many of their oral traditions were lost (Australian Aboriginal Geomythology: Eyewitness Accounts of Cosmic Impacts? Hamacher & Norris, 2009).
Patrick Nunn has done pioneering work in the field. Though the example used below might not have the impact that others do, we have included it, and the example following it, for a far more important and relevant reason:
Nabukelevu (Mt. Washington) is a domed volcano at the western end of Kadavu Island in Fiji which was last thought by geologists to have erupted tens of thousands of years ago. The people of the neighbouring Ono Island had a legend that left that up for debate. In their story, the Ono chief went to watch the sunset from a beach on the island, as was his wont, but found his view blocked one day by a mountain (Nabukelevu) that had suddenly appeared on Kadavu to the west.
He was peeved, and promptly flew to Kadavu to battle the chief of the new mountain, but was overwhelmed. This story naturally implies people were around to see the appearance of the mountain, which meant the eruption and consequent forming of the mountain must have happened within the last 3000 years. It seems the legend invalidated the science. Years later, a road was cut around the foot of Nabukelevu, and a section through the volcano’s flanks was exposed. It showed buried soil with pottery fragments (a sure sign of human occupation) overlain by freshly deposited volcanic scoria rock. Clearly the legend was a more accurate indicator of the age of this volcano than science had once been (Geomythology—How A Geographer Began Mining Myths, Patrick D. Nunn, The Conversation December 8 , 2017).
Another convincing geomyth of surprising antiquity is the Klamath Indians’ oral tradition about the largest Holocene eruption in North America, the volcanic explosion of Mount Mazama in the Cascades Range of southern Oregon. About 7,500 years ago, the spectacular eruption blew off the top of the mountain and rained ash over a half million square miles. The resulting caldera formed Crater Lake. Surviving paleo-Native American witnesses created a detailed oral tradition of the violent event, expressed in a mythological story that has been transmitted in the original Native American language over some 250 generations. The Klamath myth contains geological facts about the eruption and collapse of the mountain that were unknown to scientists until the early twentieth century (GEOMYTHOLOGY, Adrienne Mayor, Enclopedia of Geology, Forthcoming, Elsevier, fall 2004.
According to the myth of the Klamath Indians, Llao, the chief of the Below World, standing on Mt Mazama, was battling Skell, the chief of the Above World, who stood on Mt Shasta in California, about a hundred miles away (Clark 1953). They hurled rocks and flames at each other, and darkness covered the land. The fight ended when Mt Mazama collapsed under Llao and hurled him back into his underworld domain. The large hole that was created then filled up to form Crater Lake. (Geomythology: Geological Origins Of Myths And Legends, DOROTHY B. VITALIANO , Geological Society, London, Special Publications, 273, 1-7, 1 January 2007)
when she left, she took:
the years following marked by:
the pain & mud
the clawing & scrambling & scraping
his breast thereafter blemished by:
the scar from heart to navel
the ice fire burning cold
that which despised sleep
born from the back end of his misery:
he couldn’t bloom
saw through people
his muscles got huge
& he wielded the power to destroy
it is in the space between breaths
it is between each and every step
it’s in the moment before the tornado touches down
and it dances and prances the moment
you shut off the light
at bedtime every night
it is the pause before the next attacking wave
or the tremble of a leaf before it decides to fall
it is there before you step on the gas and go
while it whispers its stories unkind
when you shut off the light
at bedtime every night
it is the minutes before the rising of the sun
and the second you realize he is gone
it is the moment of silence at the grave
between salvos of a 3-gun salute
and your insomnia at night
in the absence of light
it is New Tear’s morning, new year’s mourning,
the first Christmas after the kids have gone away
an empty house once filled with children
a closetful of clothes with no one to show them to
that make noises at night
in your room without light
it is an early morning coffe shop
and empty, idle conversation
or the one place without distractions
in a world pathetically
shining a lonely light
through omnipotent night
it is make up and a shining smile
or the warbly voice of a pop star
or the assumption you deserve that prize
and the knowledge you’ll never win
it’s there when you shut off the light
no matter how you polish it white
it’s deep inside the cracks sprouting in your mind
and ticking and tocking the minutes away
it’s a world of empty hands and hearts
and a proud collection of lies
to light you up right
at bedtime every night
There was once a small close-knit community of friends and family living in the part of the world we’ve come to call the Middle East. They lived in the highlands, where the air was clean and pure, every kind of fruit and vegetable one could imagine grew, and the water that trickled down from the tops of the mountains which surrounded them was fresh and invigorating. They wanted of nothing. They had it all.
These people stumbled upon the brilliant idea that they could grow their food themselves, harvest it whenever it was ripe, and enjoy whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. The fertile soil that stretched as far as the eye could see ensured their idea would be a total and complete success. And it was good.
One of the mountains, however, was only pretending to sleep. One day, about 5,700 years ago, the volcano woke up with a giant tummy ache. It rolled put of bed and the Earth shook. There was nothing to hold on to. There was nothing to protect these people from the sickly fury of the volcano right at their doorstep. When the ground wasn’t shaking and moaning, flames and fire shot from the top of the mountain hundreds of meters high. Snakes of fire slithered their way down the mountain and scalded everything in their path. The Earth split in places, and poisonous gases spewed from the apertures.
The loss was great. Many of these people perished, and many more of the animals they had learned to cultivate died as well. They could not explain how their gods let something like this happen. They were desolate.
But the volcano wasn’t done.
While the ground continued to shake and moan, and the mouth of the volcano continued to shoot fiery arrow into the sky, a different kind of snake rose upward instead of crawling downhill. We call this phenomenon a “lava spine” nowadays, an unusual but regular occurrence on volcanoes like Mt. St. Helens (2005) and Martinique (1902). Those primitive peoples, however, had never seen anything like it, and as the lava spine grew to an immense height in a very short time, two things happened to a portion of the survivors: 1), They realized they were forsaken. If they weren’t dead, they might as well have been. It wasn’t so bad that their homes, their families, their animals, and many of their own family members were destroyed, but their gods had deserted them. They were lost.
And 2), one small portion of the community, perhaps it was only one person, looked at the lava spine rising from the volcano, felt how utterly alone he was now that he was without gods, felt the power of the Earth’s core surging all around him, grew his first widdle hard-on he had had in a long time, and began having the first inklings of a very special, new story in his mind.
The volcano roared for a while afterwards. The lava flow from the crater ran down to the West, where the streams cascading down the mountains of that one-time Paradise met the sources of two mighty rivers. A lava dam was built, and the mountain streams began to back up.
The community had up until the eruption lived in a bowl between high mountaintops, and now that the stream outlets were bottled up, the bowl began to fill. All of the houses, all of the livestock, and all of the injured or aging people still in the scorched valley drowned.
The survivors straggled down from the highlands with lifeless eyes. Most of them. With a clear and piercing 1000-yard stare, one did not waste his time to look back. One had already forgotten what had been. One had just invented the word “destiny”. They entered the area known as Mesopotamia, between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. As the land fell away, and these people could see for the first time hundreds of kilometers in every direction, one in their number thought, “it’s all mine.”
It’s kind of a funny story, what happened between that first glimpse of the Mesopotamian plains and today. However, after millions of years of providing a home and food for all of its creatures who all did their best to live in harmony with Nature, the Earth now discovered one small group of humans amongst its many guests who had decided they had their own story to tell, a better one.
And whatever kinds of story you might like to read, this one will not have a happy ending.
When Turner woke up he felt strange, but quickly attributed it to the strange Oriental meal he had eaten the night before. He felt light headed, but strangely focussed. He felt weak, but energized. He decided a shower was a good idea, and moved off to the bathroom, trying not to wake his girlfriend.
After the shower he brushed his teeth, mind empty, until he happened to raise his eyes and look in the mirror. His toothbrush-laden hand stopped brushing. He saw himself.
Turner could not remember feeling like that. Sure, he had seen himself in the morror lots of times, but never really seen himself. He looked past his eyes and his fine-looking features, and the hair he wouldn’t brag about but was definitely proud of, past the well-built shoulders and muscular torso and into the person he really was underneath all the layers. For the very first time in his life, he understood who he was inside, and it was good.
He started brushing his teeth again, looking down, and couldn’t help smiling. He had the feeling it was going to be a great day.
Outside the world was spinning, encumbered by its own morning routine. As Turner walked through it, he felt no longer a part of the disorder, frustration, and anger that draped the city as the night had only a few hours prior. He almost did not want to admit it to himself-it was kind of cheesy-but Turner was a being of light and love, there was no getting around it, and, really, what was wrong with that?
So as the horns sounded, brakes squealed, and voices from people afraid to be shortchanged screeched, Turner passed it all, aloof, and headed towards his office. It was a short walk, but it was long enough to see that others, also, were noticing the change.
“Good morning,” he said warmly, smiling at people. Heads started to turn.
“How’s it going, man?” a young man stopped him. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” Turner agreed, for once in no rush. He stopped and scanned the sky. “It sure is. Anything can happen. What do you have planned for today?”
“Weeeell,” the young man began, apparently satisfied he had stopped the stranger. “I have to work now, but later I’m going to take my girlfriend down towards the water.”
“That sounds magnificent!” Turner couldn’t help saying. “You make sure that girl gets the best of you while you’re with her. She deserves it, doesn’t she? But I guess I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Turner smiled, intensely happy for the young man.
“No, sir, you do not!” the young man answered, moving off. “You have a good one.”
Turner watched him bounce off, admiring his youthful vigor.
At work people all but stared at Turner. He passed the time listening to his colleagues, being generous with his time and smiles, offering a good word whenever he could. The meeting he had-they had all seemed so important-no longer had an aggressive, urgent edge. There was something about his presence in the room that made it easier for everyone else to listen, to appreciate, and even to let their guards down. No one seemed to need to prove anything. Upon leaving, someone mentioned that the meeting was the best one they had had in a long time, and everyone agreed. Turner smiled.
When he got home later that day he took his girlfriend in his arms and squeezed her tight. Leaning back, he said: “You are easily the most magnificent thing that has happened to me today, which says a lot. You are the best thing that has happened to me in my life, and I can’t thank you enough for it. There is nothing else I could want from this day, or this life, than to be with you here and now.” He shushed her before she could answer, and pressed a passionate, warm kiss to her lips.
The next morning the alarm went off and Turner hammered at it, bleary-eyed. He stumbled groggily to the bathroom and began brushing his teeth in a daze. He found himself looking in the mirror but could not say how long he had been doing it. Maybe he was done brushing his teeth?
Leaving the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on the door frame, and it took all of his energy not to scream. It was going to be a long day…
I looked across the valley
where a long row of camel-backed hills stood
blanketed in living stubble,
painted in vibrant spring greens
its beard pine, and maple, cedar, elm and birch
clustered in irregular blemishes
that did nothing to the disturb
the beauty of the whole face
and I stared at each of those monoliths
at each leaf on each tree of the forest
and I understood that each was a masterpiece
created by an artist at the top of his or her game
a masterpiece seemingly penned with a yawn
and I looked down at my hands
and I thought of all of my works
so at odds with the world that created me
and understood that the best of them
cast in the best light
and polished to the nines
presented in frames of solid gold
would only warrant one scoffing titter
in comparison to the drafts
cast into Nature’s trash bin
I try never to compare
If I did, I would have to ask myself
what am I doing here?
I am older than most, old enough to reach that age where many of my memories blend together, become less defined, and loose the intensities they once had. Faces lose names, names lose places, and the meanings of certain memories meander their way out some back door of my consciousness.
It is easy, now, to lump the people I have known and know now into the soup of my consciousness; mere ingredients that lose their ability to impress as my taste buds go as well. Words of wisdom or of levity, experiences that once might have made some sort of difference in my life have also lost their weight. All has become bland, colorless, without joy and life. But I have an excuse.
All of these people, and all of the words that make up their lives are but lesser creatures, things that exist far below the realms I inhabit. I have neither the energy nor the desire to waste my time with things inconsequential-for all of these things are of little use to me now. One does not inquire, parading down the street, how well the ants being trampled underfoot are getting along.
Somehow, the people and memories in my soup have left a void deep within, as they out of necessity disappeared, loaded with all of the meanings and importance of their lives. They have taken, as well, the meaning and importance of my life. I wander these streets, alone, forgotten, with only this emptiness inside as vast as the space between stars. The emptiness has a weight mortal men will never understand, one that sucks all other concerns, all other thoughts inwards into its nothingness. At last I’ve become the most brittle shell of someone long gone, unrecognizable to all but myself. There are moments when the emptiness can be held at bay, but they are few and far between. In reality, I’ve long since become a slave to my omnipotent hunger.
There are moments when I’m sure it will swallow all that I am and all I was as well, as it has done with everything else in my realm. These moments are impossible to bear, especially since I know there is a cure.
I remember the first time I tasted blood that was not my own. It was the blood of a young woman, lithe and full of energy, bursting at the seams with the dreams of life. I succeeded in convincing her to lower her defenses, working on primal instinct alone, and she succumbed to my will, exposing her most sensitive regions.
Like a tiger I leapt to the attack and tore her apart. The sensation of having animal strength and prowess overcame me for a moment, until I tasted the first drop of her vital fluid. There was nothing more to think or say, really. It’s warmth was that of the sun, it was pregnant with all I lacked, and filled me more completely-that one first drop-that I could ever remember being filled.
What should one do with arguments of morality, of right and wrong, when one has felt life’s total abundance, and all its mysteries, in but the smallest of drops of a young girl’s blood? What is there left to say or think, really, when one has felt…that? What other uplifting memories could one rationally expect to hold onto besides this one?
It is the ultimate irony and the most despicable of curses that whatever positive, rejuvenating effects youthful blood might have on me is but short lived. For my lifeless life outlasts all-everything, that is, except my hunger.