Old Movies & Saturday Nights!

Old Movies & Saturday Nights!
Mike and I have been getting one good old movie a week, usually on Saturday night, to watch, sometimes it is better to see a movie years later, than dead on the spot, so last night was “Field of Dreams, perfect for a mid-summer movie, yeah, we both cried and awwwed over some of the scenes we had forgotten.
Ever get that feeling of nostalgia during different months, like summer? I usually have a lot (I repeat, a LOT) of free time on my hands during the summer months, so I tend to catch up on a lot of things (games, movies, TV shows, etc) that I was too busy to enjoy earlier. And this last year, it has been great doing all that catching up with Mike home, we have grown in new ways, closer somehow, new to us and each other, better, more grounded, centered, for summer months bring out the best in me, I like that.
Kind of a random way I wanted to end this month’s posts by pointing out that with the nice weather, comes lots of nostalgia. I never realized this until I pointed it out to my husband a while ago, but during the summer, I get this nostalgic feeling, and I want to go back, view old movies, sit to talk about our childhoods, another aspect of us getting to know each other better after ten years. It didn’t really hit me this summer, and today, here is Alberta , is was a surprisingly nice day. And something about it just made me…happy, and as I said, nostalgic.

I like that feeling that overcomes me from random thoughts, good conversations, old books, a good movie….. Life is blessed and I am really enjoying it, living it and loving each day as it comes.

I am Viesta, I am out

I search the internet and found old verses of me

Mimesis of face

I met a woman in a field
Sunshine teasing through thin fabrics
as long spnindles of rays hit under her
flowing skirt, she was slapping me as she
spun in the gold gleam of her inhibited smile,
she made love to the sun in that field, with the
warm rays that followed her, the shadows made
way for her as she was the idle of all that was,
with regard to her foot steps, I viewed her, watching
her in the sun, playing with the freedom of all she
was, I stayed in watch for I became entrenched with
her semblance, not seeing me, she was barefoot, passing
the time with her hand made songs, trampling down on
weeds, the tiny blades of grass, her footsteps soon became
leaps, as she made her way to the edge of waters winding
along the fields, my eyes followed, all too soon, her form
departed my sight behind the bushes of the water's banks,
making my way to the water, I searched the scene, playing it
again in my head, where had she gone, I wondered, then looking
into the smooth liquds, I found her again, looking down into the
mirror of the river, she smiled back at me, She was me~

Viesta

Untitled

I always said it was the perfect end,
the only way to go,
never fade away,
no, I'lll never fade away,
I said I will just burn out,
and that's just what I'll do one day soon,
no one will miss what I was after a time,
I'll be stored in memeory, with time and
the passing seemly easier for those that live on,
for I always said it was the perfect way to go,
to die with pride,
to die so good about who I was, what I left,
to live it up fast, not wasting a minute,
to then make my escape,
from the urgency of too many faces,
save myself the grief,
everything else can go to hell,
it doesn't matter anyway,
I'll go out with a bang,"
and that's what just I will do one day soon~

Viesta

Raft

In my moonlit dreams I swam across the crystal mirror
To a sad country beyond
Made of rain and silence and
Empty fields of broken shades
Where dark trees arcade the stars
As comets discard the black night's reveries.
Toward the harbor of shadows
The curling sky arches over faded statues
At the end of the sea.
Here our pulses slow, mesmerized by beautiful collapse,
And the lonely outlines of an isolated home,
An island of ghosts and unwritten request,
and in this island of love I see, I feel,
a new beginning, stray from the past,
as the twilight of our days together,
re-fresh us, we begin in *Us* anew,
our eyes excelled the morning sun
Your smile laden my breast with flame
I'll boast upon that lilting sun
Your beauty worthy of a name
O what shall I give but a song
A song to sing my love for you
A song to time and space belong
Until the world is born anew

Viesta

Oh the Man and His Pleasures

Push apart your white legs.
Let my eyes see
those rapacious followings of
roaming aisles
of the world's
best candy shop,
and creep,
a little guilty,
up to the gumdrop counter
past where your stockings end.

Let me ponder
the shape of paradise,
a philosopher
discovering anew,
the sleek truth,
that the universe
is made of water.

I want to marvel
at the soft hair
that frames
your hemmed mouth--
mouse-brown moss
from a marble cave.

Part further,
and I'll watch breathless
how your lily opens,
greeting warm rain
and my nectar-seeking look.

And please, crest
of vanilla skin,
show me that small, smooth
stone of pleasure
that hides
your overwhelming secret--
the reflex arc of heaven.

Viesta

Fragments of a Woman's Disorder~

Abiding in a lonely reality
towers of flesh mount on me,
fill the shimmer of praise for a woman,
with her pumping blood.

And I quake at the need of a man~
See in me this land of fools

that heat my soul, with touch of a hand,
bleeding gums swell in my mouth's own juice,
I, the slave to a fragile requisite of pledges

And I shake at the want of man's touch~

Patheic, be the name of a woman,
who longs for love when only lust
exsist in the heart, it is not destiny in a hauntued
face to feel that glorious momentum of climax

And I break knowing I am a fugitive in man's dark night~

Viesta
'


Feather in Me

Feather of my yearning for life,
feather of my vain desire
to grind the mist with frivolous laughter at the sun,
feather of my longing for embraces
that fill the night with hushed tones,
feather of peace that listens to star-lit whispers
and echos them back to a tender heart of need,

I am the feather that will float in a breeze, carried
away to awaken in your slow decay
and return to the place of dreams,
to the skies of no boundaries or recalling of time,
by silently absorbing the impacts of harsh expressions
As I, the feather will find other meaningless destinations
to abide, weightless, waiting to be carried away in a
current

Viesta

On Jeremy Scahill & Why I Admire Him

Obama is just a sneak Bush administration with other words, don’t be fooled, as quoted by Jeremy Scahill, [ tell the truth people, for the truth will set you free, quoted by Viesta ]

I have been reading on this Jeremy Scahill, he is one the smartest people in the new generation of journalist. Honest, to the point, his words carry both valor and bluntness, something I had always which to achieve. He is the truth in a world setting of journalist that are does not bow before the government gods that dictate how and what we are to write. If you get the chance and earnestly want to be informed of what is going on, read Jeremy.

Jeremy Scahill (born c. 1974) is an American investigative journalist with expertise on a number of global issues, most notably the recent rise of private military companies (PMCs).[citation needed] He is the author of the international best-seller Blackwater:The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army. The book won the George Polk Book Award. He serves as a correspondent for the U.S. radio and TV program Democracy Now!. He is also a Puffin Foundation Writing Fellow at The Nation Institute and a frequent contributor to The Nation.[1] Scahill and colleague Amy Goodman were co-recipients of the 1998 Polk Award for their radio documentary "Drilling and Killing: Chevron and Nigeria's Oil Dictatorship", which investigated the Chevron Corporation's role in the killing of two Nigerian environmental activists.[2] Scahill's work appears frequently on Alternet, Commondreams, Counterpunch, Truthout, Antiwar.com, Huffington Post and many other independent news sites.

Scahill has reported from post-invasion Iraq; the former Yugoslavia, where he covered the 1999 NATO bombing;[3] and from post-Katrina Louisiana.[4] He has been a vocal critic of private military contractors, particularly Blackwater Worldwide, the subject of his book, Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army.[5] The book was the focus of a two-part interview and discussion with Amy Goodman on Democracy Now! in March 2007.[6] The book received numerous accolades, including the Alternet Best Book of the Year Award, a spot on the Barnes & Noble and Amazon lists of the Best Nonfiction Books of 2007, and another Polk Award. Scahill has appeared on ABC World News, CBS Evening News, NBC Nightly News, CNN, MSNBC, PBS’s The NewsHour, Bill Moyers Journal and is a frequent guest on other radio and TV programs nationwide. Scahill also served as an election correspondent for HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher. Scahill has twice testified before Congress on the U.S. government's use of mercenary forces. On 19 April 2007, Scahill was a guest on The Daily Show where Jon Stewart was critical of Scahill's book.[7] On 3 Oct 2007 Stewart then expressed some remorse for his attitude during his interview with Scahill.[8]

Up until 1998, he was a regular contributor to the Catholic Worker. He campaigned vigorously against US policy towards Cuba, arguing that the Helms-Burton Act "discards ... sovereignty ... and attempts to supersede International law with US law" and "creates a legal framework authorizing financial and military support for armed subversion of a sovereign nation".[9]

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Men of Victory Become Men of Waste! ! !

Men of Victory Become Men of Waste! ! !
I was surfing the channels here on Canadian Television, when I came upon a the I_Channel, one of the many I pause on, then continue on with my searching for something to watch- when a story caught my eye, one of a war hero named George *Buzz* Beurling. At first it appeared to be a story on a WW2 war hero, not that different from many of the stories I had seen while growing up, war heroes, war zeros, they had all become a blur over the years, but this Beurling character was different, he was awarded at the start of the documentary, with parades, people saluting him, only to be ridiculed later by his own country that had once welcomed him home with open arms.
George Frederick Beurling was born in December, 1921 in Verdun, Quebec, in a very firm Brethren Christian’s family. He never took on smoking or drinking. He was a loner, a poor student and definitely not a team player. Almost everything associated with his childhood had one common denominator: desire to fly. He manifested this by haunting the nearby Carterville airport and making airplane models, which he tried to sell to get money for flying lessons. He started to learn how to fly at the age of fourteen. At sixteen he soloed in Gravenhurst, Ontario, where he went after quitting High School.
In spring 1940 the RAF was recruiting experienced pilots in Britain. That spurred Beurling. In May he boarded Swedish ship Valparaiso, loaded with explosives and destined for England. After a few "close calls" in convoy, ship arrived in Galsgow. Once there - within hours - Beurling presented himself at nearest RAF station. He was ecstatic to hear that he more then qualified. All he needed was a proof of age, and he did not have any! Young Canadian received another mighty blow. Frustrated and very angry he boarded another ship and returned, by convoy, to Montreal. With birth certificate stored as a treasure, he returns to Scotland in September, again traveling as a seaman. He enlisted in RAF Volunteer Reserve. Full year later, he was recommended for a commission. Beurling turned it down, and was posted to line squadron No. 403, as a Sergeant-Pilot. Four months later, he was transferred to No.41 Squadron, refusing a commission at the same time. On his third mission, a sweep over Calais, Beurling shot down a Fw-190. This happened while he separated himself from his flight, where he flew "tail-end-Charlie".* Two days later he did exactly the same thing. On any given opportunity to jump an enemy aircraft - which he always saw first - he promptly abandoned his formation. Discipline flying was not his style. For this he was scolded, reprimanded and then removed from almost all combat flying. His comrades treated him like a leper. His only solace was flying squadron's liaison Tiger Moth; which he did with a fury. Eventually, he asked for relocation.
He joined Squadron No.249, with S/L Stanley Grant as commanding officer and F/L P.B. "Laddie" Lucas his flight commander. Canadian Robert McNair (who was the other flight commander) did not want Beurling in his flight. He had a very firm, negative opinion about him. Other pilots described him to Lucas:

"...the chap's a loner. Can't be relied on. He will either shoot some down or 'buy it'."

After a straight talk with Beurling, Lucas decided to give him a chance. Later he recalled:

"I felt I was in the presence of a very unusual young man. He didn't give a damn for me. A youngster really, who was champing at the bit to get to it, to get an airplane and have a go."

Beurling was assigned to fly with Lucas' good friend: Raoul Daddo-Langlois. When asked his opinion about Beurling after couple of flights, the latter replied:

"God Almighty, he's quick and he's got the most marvelous eyes but, he's a hell of a chap at being able to keep with us."

After nearly a month on the island, Beurling had almost nothing to show for. In one of the six patrols he flew at that period, he shot down one Bf-109, which got its whole empennage blown off from a single burst of his guns. Since no one saw it crash; he was credited with only a damage.

The big day came on July 6th. Beurling flew in one of the eight Spitfires, intercepting three Cant bombers and thirty Macchi 202's escorting them. Spitfires dived on them from 22,000 feet, with sun in the back. Beurling sprayed one Italian bomber with bullets and went after the fighter, which plunged down trying to escape. Beurling caught up with it at 5,000 feet, and with two short bursts of fire scored a perfect hit. At Takali, he found his Spit full of bullets holes. Since it was his flying day, for next sortie he took off in another aircraft. On his third fly that day - a patrol with three other pilots - he split the formation of two Ju-88 and twenty Bf-109F's. Typically for him, he "yahooed" through the opposition and went after the lonely prey. During this lone-wolf performance, he easily finished one Bf-109. Thus, he achieved a status of an ace. However, he was snubbed by his fellow pilots for individualistic performance, and celebrated alone.

After every successful sortie, Beurling promptly recorded all the data of his victories in his black notebook. He analyzed it and invented a set of formulas and graphs, which involved speed of aircrafts and angles. This served him to become (in opinion of many of his contemporaries) the best "deflection shooter can be." These mathematical calculations, together with lizard-practice-shooting, showed his great devotion to the science of killing. He was a zealot when it came to aircraft's guns, and had stuck to his armourers rather than his squadron mates. Since he did not drink and constantly talked about shooting and killing - occasionally adorning it with the Bible verse - the other pilots withdrew from him. When waiting for combat flying, he always checked all the guns in aircraft designated to him. He was obsessive about it. The same time George was completely unconcerned about his tidiness and exceptionally imprecise in his discipline. He was also very eager to fly missions. Unlike many others, he never complained about having to sit in the cockpit while being in readiness. He seemed to be indifferent to scourging sun and foul smell of cordite, glycol, and grease, sometimes even vomit and urine.

Around that time he got his first nickname: "Screwball." In his book Malta, Laddie Lucas recalled: "He possessed a penchant for calling everything and everyone - the Maltese, the Bf-109s, the flies - those goddamn screwballs.... His desire to exterminate was first made manifest in a curious way. One morning, we were on readiness at Takali, sitting in our dispersal hut in the southeast corner of the airfield. The remains of a slice of bully-beef which had been left over from breakfast lay on the floor. Flies by the dozen were settling on it ... Beurling pulled up a chair. He sat there, bent over this moving mass of activity, his eyes riveted on it, preparing for the kill.
Since being awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal in July 1942, Sergeant George Beurling had destroyed nine enemy aircraft, bringing his total victories to seventeen. One of his exploits was the destruction of four enemy fighters in one day. During his brief combats he also damaged another two unfriendly aircraft. His courage and determination were source of inspiration to all of the Canadian people, the narrator announced, then, the story took a downward spiral, one of distain and immense dislike.
Beurling became a darling of ruling party and protégé of Prime Minister, Mackenzie King. During the tour to help sell the war bonds, he took pleasure of being a star. He also scored a lot - this time with the ladies. In Vancouver, before a large audience - many of whom were RCAF aircrew - Buzz all fired-up, vividly portrayed the moment when one of his fellow pilots burned in crashed Spitfire. He was talking with glee using very inappropriate words. Almost everybody just got-up and left.

After short flirt with sales, Beurling was sent back to England and became an instructor. His reputation proceeded him, and RAF was disinclined to send him to the front. He was desperate to go back to fighting, and constantly requested to be posted to an operational squadron. RAF constantly refused. Finally, in September, 1943 he was transferred to RCAF , and No.403 Squadron,(127Wing) which flew Spitfires IX. His main job there, was to teach young pilots how to shoot. But he also flew missions - and continued to be himself. During one mission over France, thanks to his supervision, he spotted enemy aircraft, peeled off, shot it down and returned to the airfield with the squadron. When he reported one enemy plane destroyed, his commandeur, Hugh Godefroy was stunned. Beurling not only did not inform his flight about the spotted plane, but also abandoned his position, exposing others to greater risk. His gun camera, when checked, showed clearly one Fw-190 exploding in mid-air.

Beurling continued to be rebellious and obstinate. He could not accept his place in a back row, where he wasn't greatly appreciated. Thus, he showed-off. Beurling accepted a promotion to Flight-Lieutenant just because it made him responsible for the squadron's Tiger Moth, and Godefroy became main target of his hostilities. He violated direct orders and using this trainer, he performed a lot of stunt flying. In result he was put under open arrest. Still, there were people willing to put-up with him. In November, "Buzz" got transferred to 412 Squadron, stationing in Biggin Hill. Massive fighter sweeps which the squadron flew did not "turn his crank" and he continued to play a lone-wolf. In December he got his last (32?) victory; a Fw-190. Then he came up with a plan to form his own circus of long-range Mustangs. Idea was, to gather few desperadoes like him, go over to the continent, and shoot the living hell out of anything that moves. Although he lobbied quite hard for it, his project did not got any support. Only days before D-Day, Beurling was granted an honorable discharge from RCAF and returned to Canada.

After-the-war Beurling was a very mixed-up guy; unsteady and unconventional; with bizarre and sometimes suspicious behavior. When the news of Jews looking for former fighter-pilots reached him, George went nuts. Although initially wasn't wanted, he got drafted by Israelis to fight for their new, independent state. His way to Palestine led through Italy, as part of the clandestine operation. He sojourned mainly at Urbe Airport in Rome.

There were a few Norduuyn Norseman, which loaded with arms were supposed to be flown to Palestine by volunteer pilots. On May 20th, 1948, Beurling died in one of those Norseman, which crashed at Urbe during a training (?) flight.

Absolutely nothing is clear about this crash. The plane was probably sabotaged. Investigation never really happened. Also, there are few different versions about who died with Beurling in that crush. Sometimes it is American pilot, sometimes British, and one source mentioned three ex-Luftwaffe pilots being in that plane."

George Beurling treated like war excrement in the end, a need to his country when deemed him necessary, a embarrassment when he did not live up to hype of what a hero should stand for.
War does a funny thing to people, it pulls the masses together as a country, begging on lean times, asking people to provide support for a cause that no one of sure of, but everyone is sure they should stand behind, no matter the outcome, no matter the toll on human nature, no matter the tears of families left behind to bury what remains of their memories.

Diner Nights and Classic Cars

Diner Nights and Old Cars

Alrighty then, still living in Canada, middle of May upon us and things are still slow on the growth front of economics, so there are few means of entertaining ourselves, outside of the TV, computers, WII games, you get the drift. I am still one of those dying breeds that hangs on to the blurred hopes that social gatherings and family get togethers will make a comeback.

So being that I am also one of *those* people that is hanging on to few hopes and objects, like a few classic cars, we, ( me and the Mr.) were invited out to a friend’s new diner car restaurant. You know, one of those old railways looking car diners. Actually a dining car (American English) or restaurant car (British English), also diner, is a railroad passenger car that serves meals in the manner of a full-service, sit-down restaurant. Very cool really, hamburgers, fries, milkshake, all the goods that makes a diner what it use to be. With that said, we loaded up in our 75 Dodge Dart, drove the few miles down the winding road to a fun filled evening with people who are looking a social get-together. Lo and behold, the music was playing, the waitress was taking orders, people were all talking at once, in their separate booths and a good time was to be held by all.

Before actually sitting down to enjoy the good food, beverage and people, one could walk about the large parking lot of the diner, with ewwwwws and awwwwws of others classic cars, a Viper, 1970 Chevy short box truck, a 1963 Corvette, 1930 Ford Roadster, 1933 Anglia, the list was endless over the chatter of energized voices of trading stories of restoration of this bumper, or that chrome, or the 75 Dodge Dart that remains in prima condition, like is just rolled off the assembly line.
It is a good feeling in these down days of spiral trends, Fox worthy news always seeming more depressed than the day before, that people can find a reason to gather, to visit and to just get together, to enjoy a old way of being, just getting together without a whole lot of reasons, other than to just enjoy being with other people who share a common bond, the need to be with others.

I am Viesta and I am out

About this swine flu pandemic!

I have been reading a lot about this swine flu, it never hurts one to be prepared, here are a few interesting facts!
It's an old story scare people make lots of money. The Tamiflu the governments bought a few years ago is at the end of the shelf life. It needs to be replaced. Certain bio companies have profits from 26 to close to 400%. Not too shabby. The WHO chick will probably get a job with one or sit on a few of their boards. TIME CAPSULE 1976: A FEW CONGRESSMEN BLAST THE SWINE FLU HOAX Not all of our Congressmen are hopeless. Some are actually on our side. Congressman Ron Paul of Texas is also a doctor and is able to see both sides of the swine flu question. Most doctors have tunnel vision and see only one side — the side with the dollar mark. Congressman Paul, in an interview with the Enquirer (Dec. 21, 76) said: "I am outraged by this program. It has been a shocking misuse of funds ... and an evil political maneuver. There are people whose careers are in question because of this program. And I predict these blatant advertising efforts to panic the people into taking swine flu shots will fail. "I think Congress has wasted more than one hundred million dollars. The swine flu program should be brought back to Congress and discontinued at once. The program should be stopped, and those who were responsible should be held morally accountable to the American public." Congressman Larry McDonald of Georgia, also a medical doctor, said: "I think the swine flu program is a tailor-made hoax that finds its roots in frightening the American people . . . I believe that a full investigation of those in charge should be launched . . . and if it turns out to be a dishonest promotion, everyone responsible should be removed from their jobs." It’s heartening to find that all our Congressmen are not corrupt. But where were they, the good ones, when the vote was being taken to endorse and finance this mass poisoning program? http://www.whale.to/a/mcbean2.html

TOO FUNNY, sent to me by a freind, Carly THANKS

I'm sure this happened to me too!!!!!!!!


You've heard about people who have been abducted and had their kidneys removed by black-market organ thieves.

My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. I went to sleep and woke up with someone else's thighs. It was just that quick. The replacements had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine? I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans.

And then the thieves struck again.

My bum was next. I knew it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear-end to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. But my new bum was attached at least three inches lower than my original! I realized I'd have to give up my jeans in favour of long skirts.

Two years ago I realized my arms had been switched. One morning I was drying my hair and was horrified to see the flesh of my upper arm swing to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary - my body was being replaced one section at a time.

What could they do to me next?

When my poor neck suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a turkey neck, I decided to tell my story. Women of the world wake up and smell the coffee! Those 'plastic' surgeons are using REAL replacement body parts -stolen from you and me! The next time someone you know has something 'lifted', look again - was it lifted from you?

THIS IS NOT A HOAX. This is happening to women everywhere every night.

WARN YOUR FRIENDS!

P.S. Last
year I thought some one had stolen my Boobs. I was lyingin bed and they were gone! But when I jumped out of bed, I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept. Now I keep them hidden in my waistband.

Thought this was too 'important' not to pass on! BTW - These same thieves come in my wardrobe and shrank my clothes!

How do they do it???