Boston, April 15, 2013. Too Painful To Remember. Too Important To Forget.
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The winds beat upon my windows. They had a message for me. They hissed, "You have been given the words. Now we insist that you use them. That is your burden.
That is your glory. Now get on about your work, for the hour is late. The task is important and must be done without delay."
"Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind"
("For whom the bell tolls" by John Donne)
The music that lightens your load, one tear at a time.
I was just nine the year I saw my first photos of brave souls playing the ultimate game, betting they could toss a Molotov cocktail with such precision that they could
dismember a tank before that tank could dismember them.
The pictures of this murderous duel were blurred,grainy and distorted. But I knew that the great game for freedom was afoot and that somehow and certainly I was involved.
I knew even then that the bell tolled for me and that I could not ignore it, though there was every temptation to do that. I had yielded to the blindness that is temptation, always transient and unfulfilling, whatever promises it may make.
But the inexorable bell kept tolling and would not be denied...
When it became known the Boston Marathon murderers were in my neighborhood, their next deadly objective not yet clear but sure, the police authorities protected us
by dismantling our freedom. It was called "lock down", prison talk, no term of liberty.
It may have been necessary, but it was also unsettling to those who have heard the eloquent and most persuasive arguments used for stripping us of liberty, once forfeit, never returned, soon yearned for, forever yearned for, without success or method of
restoral or redemption.
​Buy the book for more intimate accounts.
That is your glory. Now get on about your work, for the hour is late. The task is important and must be done without delay."
"Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind"
("For whom the bell tolls" by John Donne)
The music that lightens your load, one tear at a time.
I was just nine the year I saw my first photos of brave souls playing the ultimate game, betting they could toss a Molotov cocktail with such precision that they could
dismember a tank before that tank could dismember them.
The pictures of this murderous duel were blurred,grainy and distorted. But I knew that the great game for freedom was afoot and that somehow and certainly I was involved.
I knew even then that the bell tolled for me and that I could not ignore it, though there was every temptation to do that. I had yielded to the blindness that is temptation, always transient and unfulfilling, whatever promises it may make.
But the inexorable bell kept tolling and would not be denied...
When it became known the Boston Marathon murderers were in my neighborhood, their next deadly objective not yet clear but sure, the police authorities protected us
by dismantling our freedom. It was called "lock down", prison talk, no term of liberty.
It may have been necessary, but it was also unsettling to those who have heard the eloquent and most persuasive arguments used for stripping us of liberty, once forfeit, never returned, soon yearned for, forever yearned for, without success or method of
restoral or redemption.
​Buy the book for more intimate accounts.