In memory of George Floyd…
George Floyd and his family deserve justice for what happened. Justice takes money. Please consider donating to their family fund…
The first time I remember using the term “Minnegeddon” was back when I was a flute performance major at the UofM. I was talking to a friend after a theory class. I said, “Someday I think there is going to be a Minnegeddon at Orchestra Hall.” At that time it didn’t really make sense to me. But now it does.
Minnegeddon, to me, today, means that the whole truth about what happened to Wolfgang Mozart, which has been a closely-guarded and highly occult secret, is being revealed. Since his death, which I now call an assassination, in December 1791, only a chosen few have known the truth. And these people have used their hidden knowledge to control the public into believing things that are not only false but detrimental to them. I think the underlying reason for the persecution (I’ll explain that later) and assassination of Mozart was a gift that everyone he was in contact with who understood it refused to acknowledge. It was a gift that went far beyond his unsurpassed musical gifts. It was a gift of an essence, of perfection. No other musical voice had this gift. In spiritual terms, it was a gift of the Holy Spirit — a priceless entrance from the natural into another realm — the kingdom of God.
Mozart himself had some sense of the grandeur of the struggle between good and evil in his life. But what he may not have known until late in the game was that he had been, for most of his life, surrounded by a vortex of the evil eye — people claiming to be his friends, who had in fact agreed to his gradual murder by way of systematic poisoning and what we would today call mind control. The objective of this deadly treatment was to be a form of alchemy — to use the energy of the gift for selfish means…
The portrayal of Mozart in the movie “Amadeus” was perhaps deliberately constructed by those in the inner circle who were trying to keep the truth about what really happened to him from coming out. In JFK research, this would be called a ‘limited hangout’, as clues were given, but everything returned to Mozart’s being manic, irresponsible and immature. Blame the victim. It as worked, as in the schools of today Mozart’s ‘inability to handle money’ is regularly discussed. That is false, as he was doing his best under circumstances he was unable to completely understand.
So now the truth is coming out in a most unusual way. The dreadful CV-19 has, in effect, everyone distrustful of everyone else. Everyone is separated. We all have to watch everything we do. Anyone can infect us. We can’t see the germs. This is ironically consistent, to my thinking, of how Mozart lived for as long as he did.
But, as if the pandemic itself were not enough — slowing down the economy of most of the world and darkening the stages of all the venues where Mozart’s works were sometimes carelessly performed by people who had no interest or empathy for what had happened to him, we also have plagues of locusts and this violent sandstorm in West Africa just a few days ago.
But the sound of Mozart’s gift lives on in the Zauberflote that I play. I too have been surrounded by those having ill intent, some of whom have caused me bodily harm. I won’t go into details here about that, except to say that I believe his Zauberflote…the gift for which he gave his life… protects us, and gives us an alternative to fear and despair… it always helps…
Now we are also dealing with the terrible wildfires on the West Coast…
As waves of desolation wash over us as a result of this CV-19 virus, I have found myself just holding my breath, waiting for the next round of bad news. It has been a rollercoaster for all of us, unprecedented in our lifetimes. I am originally from the NYC metro area, and the images and statistics there have seemed almost unbearable.
However, even though my daily routine, as all of yours, has been turned upside down, a few things have remained in place…simply because I have done them every day no matter what.
In the morning, soon after I get up, I read the Bible. In fact, I recite Psalm 19. It is a glorious statement of God’s love through His incredible creation of the earth and heavens. It also happens to be the epitaph on the grave of NASA’s extraordinary and controversial Werhner von Braun.
I have had a connection to Werhner for almost as long as I can remember. I probably could have met him. I wish I had. I did not realize the significance of his influence though until fairly recently, and, when I did, I decided to honor him by declaring his favorite psalm every morning. That photograph, by the way, was taken at Edwards Air Force Base in Lancaster, California. I have spent time there at NASA. The dry lake bed there was a backup landing location for the space shuttles.
Every evening I declare Psalm 91. This is the Psalm of protection. I claim its protection over all my family and friends, and now, over our lands, and people everywhere;
Like bookends, 19 and 91. I just realized that…
Somehow, that’s helping to keep me grounded…maybe it will you too…
When I married the love of my life, Donner Brown, in 1998, we got along beautifully, except about a few things. One of them was flowers.
Every Valentine’s Day he would buy me a beautiful bouquet of red roses. For the first year or two I simply looked at them with chagrin, not having the courage to tell him what I thought. But eventually I did speak up. “Honey,” I said, “I really don’t like red roses.” “You don’t?” he asked in amazement. I shook my head, feeling guilty. “They are cut. They will die.” “Oh!” he said. I could see by the perplexed look on his face that he was hitting a brick wall. I waited. “What DO you like?” he finally asked. “Something with roots,” I said. He walked away, not quite rolling his eyes at me, but almost. He had the most wonderful sense of humor.
As we approached Valentine’s Day six or seven years into our marriage he took me shopping. Just a regular outing, that we frequently did. With a look of utter adoration, he stopped me in front of the floral department of our wonderful local supermarket and said, “What would you like for Valentine’s Day?” A bit verchlempft, I smiled back at him, and then looked around. Everything was cut…or all green. I looked. I searched. Tulips. Daffodils. Freesia. Ivy. Daisies. And then I saw them, in all their fragrant glory. “A hyacinth,” I said. “Blue”.
And so this mystery was resolved. And every year thereafter we bought a hyacinth together.
Until he died in my arms unexpectedly in the late spring of 2016. On JFK’ birthday, in fact. In a savage irony, it was JFK research that had originally brought us together. And it was red roses that Jackie carried when JFK died in her lap. In greater irony, Donner, who had, before we met, played guitar with bands from New York to LA, especially Donovan, with whom he had recorded, was recovering from drug addiction in his family condo just off of Central Park, and from his second floor window long ago had watched Jackie walk John John to St. David’s School, up the street. Now they were all gone…a perfect circle of pain…
I walked around in a state of shock for most of that summer. It was hard for me to find the energy to speak, at times. It even hurt to smile.
When fall came and school started I was anxious to get back to substitute teaching, to focus on the students and contribute. A new school district was opening to us — a district where students are sent when the regular public schools are unable to meet their needs. I jumped at the opportunity to take the training needed to be qualified for this, and soon found myself in an amazing, and at times frightening environment of locked rooms, one-to-one student teacher or para relationship, wonderful students who could ramp up and turn violent in a moment. I was on a roller coaster and so far outside my comfort zone that I realized I no longer had one. It was just what I needed.
There were days of peace as well as those of intense strife. On one of those days, in January of 2017, one of the paras said to me, “Come with us to the gym. They are giving away Christmas wrappings and ornaments.” “I don’t do Xmas,” I said. “There is nothing I need.” “Come with us anyhow,” she said. And so I did.
In the hallway adjacent to the two large gyms were tables filled with every imaginable kind of holiday decoration. Piles and stacks of things donated to the school from local stores. As I walked along, somewhat numbly, as I just wanted get back to the classroom, I spotted a cloth red polka-dotted rose. I took it back to the room. One of the students had brought back the same rose, in blue. I almost asked him if he wanted to trade, but something said, ‘no’. I brought it home with me and set it on the dining room table.
It wasn’t until I was getting ready to go to bed that it hit me.
It was a rose that would never die.
A wonderful gift. From him. From the great beyond…
My birth family were Methodists, members of the Golden Hill Methodist Church of Bridgeport, Connecticut. Originally, this denomination was on fire for the Lord, but by the time I became a part of it, it was almost completely spiritually dead — at least the church our family was a part of. Oh, there were also Methodist ministers in our family — that did not help.
There was a Bible in our house. It sat, conveniently, on the top shelf of the only bookcase in the house (my Father insisted on borrowing most everything else from the Fairfield library). It sat there untouched.
My Father led us in grace before dinner on two occasions — Christmas and Easter.
It took me a very long time and a lot of agonizing experiences to realize these were the behaviors of nominal Christians…
When you grow up in this sort of environment you have no idea what you are missing. And when you add to that the church family who was your only family, as everyone in your real family lived in the Midwest) you share a communal ignorance.
I always loved the Jewish people and their faith. This infuriated my parents. I repeatedly disobeyed their orders not to have anything to do with the Jewish children in my school. I’m glad I did. I learned a great deal from them, and that has helped me survive the shortcomings of my family’s church.
And one thing that always charmed and puzzled me was Passover.
Now I am a part of a messianic community of Christians and Jews. I am richly blessed. I look forward to passover. I was the second person to buy a ticket to the one we were going to share together this year. But of course that is not taking place.
I am not angry. I’m not even sad. But I am extremely puzzled. I simply cannot remember a Passover like this. In my lifetime. How about since Yeshua chose to be our passover Lamb? Is His Blood protecting us from all the harm and chaos we are facing from this invisible menace, like the blood of the lamb on the lintels of the Jewish people waiting to be free of the Pharoah in Egypt?
Yes. I believe it is…
So let we who are Believers pray for our families, our neighbors, our adversaries, our governing officials, that they too may be washed in His blood…
Let us pray without ceasing…
M4B=Mozart 4 Believers
(For Will, Grant, Alex and Zack)
Is There a Mouse in the Oven? An Adventure of The Brown’s Mouse…
Dashi could not help it.
There was a little ledge on the edge of the
oven door where he could just fit.
It was cozy and warm.
I’ll just rest a bit, he thought.
They’re finished for the night.
I’ll just sit tight.
He did not see
Mrs. Brown slip into the kitchen
To turn up the heat
He was fast asleep.
Elan was nowhere around
Dashi quietly snoozed
On the warm ground
Until the door flew open
And he fell down
Into the oven.
I won’t be a moment,
Yelled Mrs. Brown
I’ll just thaw this out
As she slid a slab of frozen chuck
Onto the rack
Oh no, thought Dashi
Where is the cat when I need her?
Or those two poodles too?
Dashi stretched up as high as he could
And just barely peeked out the glass window
He looked forlornly into the dark and empty room
That sealed his doom
I’m going to roast
If I run around, that will help
Or just maybe make the end come faster…
What if I just try some icy meat
It might just keep me from building up heat…
And so he nibbled on the ice
Forgetting he was in a vise
Whose outcome would not be very nice.
But wait! From afar
He heard a call
Elan! He yelled.
She could not see,
But heard Dashi’s cry instantly.
I’m in the oven! Dashi yelled
So that is what I smelled, she said
You smelled my fur?
So am I dead?
No, I smelled meat,
I’m sure it’s red…
Oh help! He cried
Jumping up and down
I’m not strong enough to move
The door up or down
I know. But what about the dogs? He said.
You bet. Elan raced to scare them
Out of bed.
In seconds, he heard
The clicking of their rapier nails and
Then spotted two golf-ball wagging tails
Dashi jumped up and down
The poodles bared glistening fangs
A light flew on
What’s in the door? Gasped Mrs. Brown
Who then could see Elan
On top of the stove
There is a mouse!
The poodles jumped up and down
In time with Dashi
Elan stood her ground
Mrs. Brown bent down and saw
Dashi hurling himself around…
IS THERE A MOUSE IN THE OVEN? She said
I’m surprised it is not dead!
A ball of fluffy silver dust
That would fall apart with just a touch.
Let him roast! Said Kirk, the son
Let him die for what he has done
Elan glared into his face
All hard and reddened with distaste
You too! Said Kirk
Kill that mouse
We won’t have him in our house
Well, I just don’t know what to do
Said Mrs. Brown
My kitchen is a zoo
Why all the commotion? Yelled Mr. Brown
You’d think the circus was in town
Just a couple of mice I need to drown,
Said Kirk, grimly staring Elan down
Well, I am going to check the meat
Said Mrs. Brown, then reset the heat
She opened the oven door and out
Scrambled Dashi, who fell to the floor
Don’t bother us anymore! yelled Kirk
But Dashi and Elan had already
Scampered away to have at least one more
The dogs forgot, but
Kirk hung a slingshot near the door…
Just in case…