Category Archives: Homeless shelter

It Kills Cancer | Greenfaith Ministry

It Kills Cancer | Greenfaith Ministry

http://greenfaithministry.com/blog/cannabis-kills-cancer/

It Kills Cancer
[MUST BE ADULT TO USE SITE]

FREE PDF BOOK about CANNABIS AND CANCER.

Breezy Keifair is a patron and has as much experience with Cannabis Oil as the Rev. She has given us permission to embed her tutorial works here if interested in healing on your own. In addition to being an oil expert, Breezy is a longtime cannabis activist, artist, and writer. Show some love by heading over to her blog and leaving some thanks for her work!

First, for beginners, here’s a FAQ:
https://kiefair.com/2012/10/29/faqs-about-phoenix-tears-therapy-for-the-beginner/

An In-Depth Look at Making Cannabis Cure Oil Easily at Home (set to The Wall!)

The “Large Batch” Method:
https://kiefair.com/2013/05/25/how-to-make-phoenix-tears/

How to Make Cannabis Oil Without Alerting the Neighbors!
https://kiefair.com/2014/03/10/how-to-make-cannabis-cure-oil-without-alerting-the-neighbors/

A powerful Youtube Playlist full of good info on Cannabis Oil / Phoenix Tears!

7 Responses to “It Kills Cancer”

BY BREEZY KIEFAIR FEBRUARY 13, 2015 – 8:43 PM

I am so honored that The oil making method I perpetuate (taught by Ronnie Lee Smith {RIP 2014} was awarded athishigh honor by having these links to the method added here as an outreach education for anyone with the will to learn to make the oil.
The #1 topic I get personal messages and calls about? My oil making methods and questions related to the treatment.
I have been with Greenfaith for many years, sometimes a quiet supporter, sometimes I donate, but in the beginning I was among the needy being helped by the good folks at Greenfaith. These links will lead you to my website and much more information. tons of links within links to read. The information is free to anyone willing to read it. Get some raw materials, and make a batch. You might just save the life of a loved one, give them more time than the doctor thinks, or at very least increase the quality of life as its quantity dwindles. I am honored by the words on this page that speak about me of course, but what really matters is passing on the method. Anecdotal evidence is so important in a climate where little real research is being done. This group of whole plant compounds is a healer of many ills. Learn to make it, feed your soul, then feed the oil to a sick loved one and watch them come back a ways from the precipice of death we all must fall from one day.

Pebbles, thank you for your kind words. It’s been a long hard road for me personally, but if the fruit of that road is giving the method I learned to empower the sick, then every step was worth it.
Thanks to Bill Bartlett and Rev Baker for honoring my oil making master, his method and my changes to it to customize it for smaller batches.

Reply

BY REV B BAKER FEBRUARY 14, 2015 – 3:35 PM

Yes breezy is a good oil maker, we have been donating material to her on and off since 2008; for her to make oil for herself and others! Praise and blessings through greenfaith!

Reply

BY DAVE CASSELL JUNE 5, 2015 – 3:36 AM

i love the lord and his people…i will be visiting now that i know he’ll be there…he always shows up in the smoke

Reply

BY HARRY HOUSTON OCTOBER 26, 2015 – 8:13 PM

I had an opportunity to spend some time with Rev Brandon Baker And several members of the Greenfaith Ministry; it was a true honor to meet people that are so dedicated to helping the sick that they put their personal freedoms on the line to do so.
The good people at Greenfaith Ministry make Holy Healing Oil derived from the Holy Cannabis Plant. And give it to the people who need it. The good people at Greenfaith Ministry have an impressive list of healing ranging from simple scratches to cancer.
How can this be anything less then Gods work?
I urge you to check out the Greenfaith Ministry and all the good they are doing.

Reply

BY BREEZY KIEFAIR NOVEMBER 19, 2015 – 11:15 PM

Yes, I’m a patron of greenfaith, I’m also fragile with my health. I’m willing to help anyone who needs it. It’s best to connect with me on Facebook, same user name or through my website kiefair.com

Reply

BY DIANA SEPTEMBER 29, 2016 – 2:57 AM

Such a good cause in life, to do the right thing to help and heal the sick. Thank you so very much for your courage and faith.

Reply

BY SANCHO GRACIA PEDRO JANUARY 29, 2017 – 6:14 AM

I want to specially thank Rick Simpson for saving my wife’s life with his healing oil. some years back my wife Rose was diagnosed with a deadly disease cancer of the lungs, we try all medication all to no avail, we also try to do the oil our selves but we were doing more harm than worse. until I saw a post on face book on how the cannabis oil had cured a cancer patient, I quickly emailed the mail: rev.420@greenfaithministry.com from that very moment we just have to give it a trier, instantly we got a reply from him asking us what the exact cancer problem that my wife Rose has….. He calculated the dosage for us, i think the dosage he calculated was 60 grams of the oil which we ordered plus 30 grams maintenance and also have body lotion and soap. He told us that if we need the donation we must meet the church elder(s)/leader(s) in person then pick it up or have it delivered, my wife Rose started the medication immediately just after a month of using Rick Simpson cannabis oil (FECO, RSO, HOLY HEALING OIL, etc), Rose is now free from cancer problem, she is living a healthy life my utmost priority of sharing this short testimony is for those that are suffering from my kind of cancer diseases or if your friend or family members are suffering from this deadly disease, please don’t die in silence there is a cure for your cancer today don’t waste anytime further you have to email some one for Rick Simpson Oil directly and save your live and the lives of others
Email: rev.420@greenfaithministry.com

 

 

 

 

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The Greenfaith community supports a wide range of outreach programs, including:

*At this time, these programs are available only to members in Colorado


Special Gift for those pledging $100/mo

The Church thanks all who donate at this level with a retreat in Avon, Colorado, right off I-70 in the middle of the ski resorts. Yes, there are smoking rooms available. 😉

We supply the lodging at our time-share, you do the rest! Thank you so very much for your support for our Church outreach!

 


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House of Mirrors

From the El Paso County Jail. There may be glitches while i learn WordPress. http://hipgnosis21.blogspot.com/2014/07/of-mirrors-june-2014-el-paso-county.html

WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 2014

House of Mirrors

House of Mirrors

26 June 2014

El Paso County Jail

Don’t freak out now, anyone. I’m still out of jail, pending appeal, as of today, 23 July 2014.

Sorry, no footnotes in the blogger. You can get them here
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1umk-RPyxoiQTPSS84Cp4sR80UAXFzsVRpuiRBVzrdNA/edit?usp=sharing

Pogo couldn’t have known the heft and resonance of his words: “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

I wrote a screed a while back, (Today’s Tom Sawyer), excoriating shitty Christian behavior. There’s still plenty to say about all that, and maybe some of it will come out here, but it’s not the point of this one. During that earlier rant, i promised to harp, eventually, about bad behavior on the part of pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, and some of my other natural affinity groups as well.

That isn’t it either. Or maybe it is. But not really. Not quite. I promised to write about the Fear, too, and nor is it that, though the Fear runs through it all. This is about a war.

Many members of of various of the groups on that funny little list i jotted just now recognize and will now openly state that there’s a war looming. They’re wrong about that much anyhow–the looming is all done and the fight is on. Right now. It’s been on for decades, (or maybe forever). I’m here “jotting” because that’s what one does in the county jail, where i am a political prisoner–a POW, really, though i prefer to think of myself as a prisoner of conscience–but maybe it’s a digression to say so. Or maybe not. Let’s explore this amalgam of notions a bit, and see if we can find out.

Here at the county jail one finds a  peculiarly refined microcosm of the way the dynamics of the variously conflicting groups involved in this bizarre  war interact, cleared of much of the dross of false civility that ordinarily circumvents the fight out on the sidewalk, at least here in the U.S.A.

I know Europeans here that want to skedaddle from this place and others afraid to come here because many of them can see the shitstorm brewing and it scares them. They often seem to see it more clearly than we Americans are able to do at least in part because our access to real news is barely over nil, of maybe because as outside observers they aren’t saddled with the cognitive dissonance we sorry brainwashed frogs that live in this hot-ass boiling lake must so often suffer. I don’t know. I hope they realize this pond holds us all.

Oddly enough, while the interactions at the county jail display some of the finer points of conflict in out absurdly labeled free society, they also show some reasons for hope. There are still lights burning.

“Fuck the Police!”

I don’t know how many times i’ve heard that phrase from some of my dearest friends. I’ve uttered them myself. Often. Sometimes at the top of my lungs. Sometimes it was far more personal: “Fuck you! That’s right, you, personally, whomever you may be in your opposition to me, my pursuits, my people. Maybe i should refer to the less common; “Fuck the Pigs,’ because the police are only a fractional representation of one segment, one camp of that particular overarching social entity the hippies were talking about when they began to disparage swine so badly as to label their opposition thusly in this odd existential war from whence the flesh and blood scrap derives.

“Battle lines are being drawn,” went the line from the Buffalo Springfield some fifty-ish years back. They’re pretty well drawn, now, though they resemble lines a three-year-old might scribble. The shit’s on. People are fighting. The skirmishes often feel like some kind of kids’ game though too, involving blindfolds and billyclubs. Maybe i can’t deny swinging a stick around myself, sometimes. Maybe that’swhat this is–a chance for me to look in the mirror a little, Maybe it’s because it’s hard to sit the game out when i keep getting hit in the head. Whatever. Let’s keep on through the maze and just hope we don’t smash too many mirrors.

During the Occupation we intrepids staged a few years back, (and some of us still engage–viva la revolución and all), my son and i traveled to Denver for the final push when the cops razed the encampment there. The scene that October of 2011 there in Denver was some shit this country hadn’t seen in over forty years maybe, where armored brigades of soldiers–not cops at all but stormtroopers–rolled on a huge, disparate group of unarmed citizens. It was tragic. And beautiful. Versions of the same scene played out all around the world that fall.

There at Civic Center Park, across the avenue from the State Capitol building, the Boy and i stood in the thick of it as those battle lines sharpened, and then blew apart as the whole outhouse hit the fan.

Some thousands of us had marched boisterously through Denver’s business district, pausing for a special visit at the Federal Reserve. After completing a wide loop around downtown we mounted the Capitol steps for whatever confrontation the Denver planners had planned. They, (to claim a thing–we), had been warned explicitly beforehand to stay off that particular edifice, so the moment we took the steps and began railing through one of our ubiquitous bullhorns, the shock teams appeared, as if the bearded-Spock Enterprise had beamed them to the scene.

Honestly, i was pretty fucking nervous at that point. It’s not as though i’d never been beaten up by the cops before, but that stuff is kind of a young man’s sport, and i was never really all that much a fan anyhow. Besides, those had always been cops, not armored sci-fi gladiators. But the main thing was the Boy. He was fifteen then and down for plenty, but he looked pretty worried too, and, (the mainthing, actually), i knew i’d never live through my next conversation with his mother if i allowed him to be beaten and busted by the police. I suggested we pull back to the park and we did, but i felt pretty spineless for having done it, really.

The Boy and i had a quick consult: “You see what this is going to be, right?” “Yeah.” “Are you down, or not?” Nervous but firm, “Yeah.” “Fuck it then…God damn it; your mom is gonna kill me. Let’s get some lunch.”

The park itself  was packed with crowds of Occupiers, some having returned with us from the march and probably harboring thoughts similar to mine. The encampment had been there for a good while by then, and the Black Flag Anarchists’ Free Kitchen was in full flight. It had already been dismantled more than once as a special preparatory project for the cops–kind of a warm-up. Knowing well what was coming, the no-nonsense scrappy men’n’women in black behind the table were all assholes with elbows, flying around in a frenzy with grim serious joy in their eyes as they did their level best to sling as much great tasting free food as possible before the inevitable hammer fell. Those guys were freaking awesome sauce with motherfuckin’ cherries on top!

Rather than spark an actual and possibly justifiable war on the Capitol steps, even the most radical and adrenaline-blinded of the group holding that position chose to retreat and quickly joined us at the park. The scene was oddly festive, with tents and art projects and folks dressed for carnival. The mid-autumn day was one of those beautiful Colorado Indian summer affairs with pristine blue skies through which flitted happy and blissfully oblivious birdies merrily on the lookout for delectable kitchen scraps. But wait! What the hey!!? The second the steps were abandoned and that contingent joined those meeker souls at the park, the rest of the cops in the danged known universe materialized in a huff and began setting up for some sort of paramilitary invasion. No shit–we all saw pretty quickly what the Denver PD had in mind for all those fun military vehicles and equipment they’d been collecting.

The scene changed dramatically there on the sidewalk where the Anarchists’ Kitchen was set up. There was plenty of action before then, but the top-gun radicals had been at the Capitol along with most of the cops. Now a phalanx quickly formed four deep with armored, shielded, armed, dangerous, implacable, and apparently stoically unflappable police stretching all around, up and down–all over the fucking place. Where the Boy and i stood a few sidewalk squares south of the Kitchen the scene was still like a carnival spreading away and outward into the park in every direction save the east, buy more like something Ray Bradbury or John Clifford might have dreamt up. Moving east to west one would have passed through four rows of cops in a formation that i’d only seen before in movies about Fascist  takeovers where American patriots saved the day by vanquishing some identically clad and positioned foe as we occupiers faced that day, armored only with our damn-the-torpedoes ethical certitude. Stepping by the entrenched police if one were to dare it, one would have passed a modest tree lawn, an ordinary sidewalk crowded with dark festival-goers, and could then step up to the folding table that served as the Anarchists’ ordering counter and serving table set up facing east from the immediate western line of the sidewalk across from the antiMayberry lines facing the stubbornly unaltered scene in the Kitchen.

The cops just stood there for what seems to memory like hours, but it couldn’t have been all afternoon or anything. Maybe so. The Boy and i milled around a bit getting a look at the overall scene and scoping out the various sections of the park. Behind the Kitchen to the west were the bulk of the tents, say a hundred or more, though others were scattered about. Further  west a concrete round with maybe a fountain or something hosted a bunch of info tables, some artsy hippies working on various projects, a triage setup, some chanting Hare Krishnas. More cops surrounded the camp, even more moved to close off the farthest reaches of the west side, We all saw we were utterly circumscribed and our physical position was hopeless. There was plenty of Hope, mind you, but all of it founded on our spiritual position, see.

As we awaited  what everyone knew to be inexorable, not so many of us remained quiet, (by “us” i mean Occupiers here; the most visible government employees were silent). I did mostly, and so did the Boy, he for his reasons and i for mine. The whole scene produced its own racket, but the most noticeable volume arose from the collection of spirit-moved Occupiers working the lines of eerily insensate gendarmes. Each was moved by his or her own personal spirit, few of which were very friendly toward the collective juggernaut we faced. More than one strode frenetically up and down whichever line was convenient  hurling f-bombs and spittle with as much force as he could muster. You know: “Fuck the Police!!!” and,“Fuck Yoooou!!!” from distances as close as the collected officers’ gear would allow. The pointillistic rows of cops, each in his own world, stared into space, eyes forward and directed at some Unknown, refusing eye contact. Only God and each man in his solitude knew what blackness filled his vision, (and possibly anyone operating one of those guv’mint mind-reading gizmos, if you’re into that sort of thinking).

Sensibly, few of the “non-violent” protesters were mad–that is crazy–enough to attempt to get physical. Those that did were promptly stomped, smashed and removed from the game. Otherwise with many pushing the envelope right to its most extreme limit, the arms-down-and-rigid-face forward-inches-from-any-nearest-random-cop’s-shielded-face stance of extreme and barely checked agitation rapidly became familiar. I for one was amazed at the extraordinary and rather creepy restraint the beleaguered police were displaying, though few shield-screened eyes could keep from betraying internal turmoil. Virtually none of the cops would assent to eye contact.

As this scene played itself out, a few Occupiers attempted to convince their fellows to mellow. In the midst of the very front and most electrical line of all this, there in front of the aforementioned Kitchen, one lone Occupier was working the line of gear-laden men, moved by a different spirit indeed. He was preaching it, baby. Pleading. Begging. Beseeching. As near to tears as i am now as this scene spills its way from my fingertips, fluid in his expressive motion to and fro as any practiced Sunday morning crowd-pleaser can i get a amen. “Don’t you see it? You are us! We are you! Please, stop this! We are one–we must stop fighting!” And in some brilliant, divinely inspired voice, “Lay down your shields! Join us! Put down your clubs and have some lunch!”

And then …right there in front of the Boy and me…with the scene in the actual Kitchen production area behind the table unchanged from before the lines formed…one of them did exactly that.

There was actually a fat queue at the Kitchen counter that parted like the Red Sea, astonished, for this newborn brother of ours to step up and claim his serving. He ate his food in silence and retook his spot in that other line which remained unaltered as his fellows stood unmoved, apparently in both senses. The Boy and i collected our portion of genuinely bomb-ass risotto and began to  eat with more on our minds than i can possibly describe. Before we were half through our plates the order came and we found ourselves dining amidst a police riot, our rice flavored by tear gas. (I got off the hook before, when the story remained vague. I suppose his mom is going to kill me now, after all).

The rest of the action went down as one would expect, with ample blood, outrage, and pepper-bullet injury and indignity and tears and drama. It was all on the news, with much expansion available on YouTube. You can look it up. None of that is the point.

I heard that one cop was fired perfunctorily that night.

We were there. Right fucking there. It really happened. It was so surreal i almost have to ask the Boy if it actually wasn’t some kind of dream.

Those two guys, though. That cop! When we all do what he did, just maybe then the war will be over. He looked up  and noticed he was looking in the fucking mirror.

The thing about all this is that the crowd of Occupiers was a full-on quorum of average joes with representation across several spectra. There were Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, Democrats, hippies, neo-hippies, and chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas, The cops were disguised as an invading foreign force but we all know they were really just a bunch of Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, and Democrats. The only groups lacking representation really were the hippies and the chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas that stayed with the rest of us till late into the night serving free food as a replacement for the Anarchists who had been quite the hell shut down. Oh yeah–there likely weren’t too many Anarchists on the cops’ side of the lines. I’m pretty sure  those differences are significant. Maybe the cops would be better if they got some of those groups they were missing. The janglier the better.

Back here at the county jail where i’m still Occupying, there’s lots of conflict, though not nearly so boiling hot. The old standby, “Fuck the Police,” is scrawled or carved around and about and plenty of folks on either side of whatever line each has drawn are fully prepared to swing  clubs at one another. Many of the sheriff’s deputies and sad, paycheck-to paycheck “detention specialists” are happy to evoke a very dark spirit indeed in their efforts to control us inmates who represent Other to them. I have been struck by the observation that these obnoxious fucks are the respected  representatives of a society that so many of our deluded citizenry expect us of the criminal class to emulate.

Ha! I may be an asshole myself, but no thanks: I have no interest in joining your obnoxious and shitty club.

Meanwhile, virtually all of us prisoners, including myself sometimes, react…”Grumble grumble fuck the police why i oughtta etc. etc. ad nauseum” Various of us slink around and steal or fight among ourselves or in general practice a sort of blindfolded subservience to Self. (Marco! Polo!…Ouch! Motherfucker!!!). We’re fucking obnoxious. We want the cops and the guards and judges and bankers and presidents to act differently but…why would they want to join our obnoxious and shitty club? When they do we wind up with a spectacular clusterfuck like the found at the Denver county jail last month, where a dep was helping a banger sling dope and administer beat-downs. Happens all the time. In every kaleidoscopic variation you can imagine.

Pogo couldn’t have known the heft and resonance of his words: “ We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

I wrote a screed a while back, (Today’s Tom Sawyer), excoriating shitty Christian behavior. There’s still plenty to say about all that, and maybe some of it will come out here, but it’s not the point of this one. During that earlier rant, i promised to harp, eventually, about bad behavior on the part of pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, and some of my other natural affinity groups as well.

That isn’t it either. Or maybe it is. But not really. Not quite. I promised to write about the Fear, too, and nor is it that, though the Fear runs through it all. This is about a war.

Many members of of various of the groups on that funny little list i jotted just now recognize and will now openly state that there’s a war looming. They’re wrong about that much anyhow–the looming is all done and the fight is on. Right now. It’s been on for decades, (or maybe forever). I’m here “jotting” because that’s what one does in the county jail, where i am a political prisoner–a POW, really, though i prefer to think of myself as a prisoner of conscience–but maybe it’s a digression to say so. Or maybe not. Let’s explore this amalgam of notions a bit, and see if we can find out.

Here at the county jail one finds a  peculiarly refined microcosm of the way the dynamics of the variously conflicting groups involved in this bizarre  war interact, cleared of much of the dross of false civility that ordinarily circumvents the fight out on the sidewalk, at least here in the U.S.A.

I know Europeans here that want to skedaddle from this place and others afraid to come here because many of them can see the shitstorm brewing and it scares them. They often seem to see it more clearly than we Americans are able to do at least in part because our access to real news is barely over nil, of maybe because as outside observers they aren’t saddled with the cognitive dissonance we sorry brainwashed frogs that live in this hot-ass boiling lake must so often suffer. I don’t know. I hope they realize this pond holds us all.

Oddly enough, while the interactions at the county jail display some of the finer points of conflict in out absurdly labeled free society, they also show some reasons for hope. There are still lights burning.

“Fuck the Police!”

I don’t know how many times i’ve heard that phrase from some of my dearest friends. I’ve uttered them myself. Often. Sometimes at the top of my lungs. Sometimes it was far more personal: “Fuck you! That’s right, you, personally, whomever you may be in your opposition to me, my pursuits, my people. Maybe i should refer to the less common; “Fuck the Pigs,’ because the police are only a fractional representation of one segment, one camp of that particular overarching social entity the hippies were talking about when they began to disparage swine so badly as to label their opposition thusly in this odd existential war from whence the flesh and blood scrap derives.

“Battle lines are being drawn,” went the line from the Buffalo Springfield some fifty-ish years back. They’re pretty well drawn, now, though they resemble lines a three-year-old might scribble. The shit’s on. People are fighting. The skirmishes often feel like some kind of kids’ game though too, involving blindfolds and billyclubs. Maybe i can’t deny swinging a stick around myself, sometimes. Maybe that’swhat this is–a chance for me to look in the mirror a little, Maybe it’s because it’s hard to sit the game out when i keep getting hit in the head. Whatever. Let’s keep on through the maze and just hope we don’t smash too many mirrors.

During the Occupation we intrepids staged a few years back, (and some of us still engage–viva la revolución and all), my son and i traveled to Denver for the final push when the cops razed the encampment there. The scene that October of 2011 there in Denver was some shit this country hadn’t seen in over forty years maybe, where armored brigades of soldiers–not cops at all but stormtroopers–rolled on a huge, disparate group of unarmed citizens. It was tragic. And beautiful. Versions of the same scene played out all around the world that fall.

There at Civic Center Park, across the avenue from the State Capitol building, the Boy and i stood in the thick of it as those battle lines sharpened, and then blew apart as the whole outhouse hit the fan.

Some thousands of us had marched boisterously through Denver’s business district, pausing for a special visit at the Federal Reserve. After completing a wide loop around downtown we mounted the Capitol steps for whatever confrontation the Denver planners had planned. They, (to claim a thing–we), had been warned explicitly beforehand to stay off that particular edifice, so the moment we took the steps and began railing through one of our ubiquitous bullhorns, the shock teams appeared, as if the bearded-Spock Enterprise had beamed them to the scene.

Honestly, i was pretty fucking nervous at that point. It’s not as though i’d never been beaten up by the cops before, but that stuff is kind of a young man’s sport, and i was never really all that much a fan anyhow. Besides, those had always been cops, not armored sci-fi gladiators. But the main thing was the Boy. He was fifteen then and down for plenty, but he looked pretty worried too, and, (the mainthing, actually), i knew i’d never live through my next conversation with his mother if i allowed him to be beaten and busted by the police. I suggested we pull back to the park and we did, but i felt pretty spineless for having done it, really.

The Boy and i had a quick consult: “You see what this is going to be, right?” “Yeah.” “Are you down, or not?” Nervous but firm, “Yeah.” “Fuck it then…God damn it; your mom is gonna kill me. Let’s get some lunch.”

The park itself  was packed with crowds of Occupiers, some having returned with us from the march and probably harboring thoughts similar to mine. The encampment had been there for a good while by then, and the Black Flag Anarchists’ Free Kitchen was in full flight. It had already been dismantled more than once as a special preparatory project for the cops–kind of a warm-up. Knowing well what was coming, the no-nonsense scrappy men’n’women in black behind the table were all assholes with elbows, flying around in a frenzy with grim serious joy in their eyes as they did their level best to sling as much great tasting free food as possible before the inevitable hammer fell. Those guys were freaking awesome sauce with motherfuckin’ cherries on top!

Rather than spark an actual and possibly justifiable war on the Capitol steps, even the most radical and adrenaline-blinded of the group holding that position chose to retreat and quickly joined us at the park. The scene was oddly festive, with tents and art projects and folks dressed for carnival. The mid-autumn day was one of those beautiful Colorado Indian summer affairs with pristine blue skies through which flitted happy and blissfully oblivious birdies merrily on the lookout for delectable kitchen scraps. But wait! What the hey!!? The second the steps were abandoned and that contingent joined those meeker souls at the park, the rest of the cops in the danged known universe materialized in a huff and began setting up for some sort of paramilitary invasion. No shit–we all saw pretty quickly what the Denver PD had in mind for all those fun military vehicles and equipment they’d been collecting.

The scene changed dramatically there on the sidewalk where the Anarchists’ Kitchen was set up. There was plenty of action before then, but the top-gun radicals had been at the Capitol along with most of the cops. Now a phalanx quickly formed four deep with armored, shielded, armed, dangerous, implacable, and apparently stoically unflappable police stretching all around, up and down–all over the fucking place. Where the Boy and i stood a few sidewalk squares south of the Kitchen the scene was still like a carnival spreading away and outward into the park in every direction save the east, buy more like something Ray Bradbury or John Clifford might have dreamt up. Moving east to west one would have passed through four rows of cops in a formation that i’d only seen before in movies about Fascist  takeovers where American patriots saved the day by vanquishing some identically clad and positioned foe as we occupiers faced that day, armored only with our damn-the-torpedoes ethical certitude. Stepping by the entrenched police if one were to dare it, one would have passed a modest tree lawn, an ordinary sidewalk crowded with dark festival-goers, and could then step up to the folding table that served as the Anarchists’ ordering counter and serving table set up facing east from the immediate western line of the sidewalk across from the antiMayberry lines facing the stubbornly unaltered scene in the Kitchen.

The cops just stood there for what seems to memory like hours, but it couldn’t have been all afternoon or anything. Maybe so. The Boy and i milled around a bit getting a look at the overall scene and scoping out the various sections of the park. Behind the Kitchen to the west were the bulk of the tents, say a hundred or more, though others were scattered about. Further  west a concrete round with maybe a fountain or something hosted a bunch of info tables, some artsy hippies working on various projects, a triage setup, some chanting Hare Krishnas. More cops surrounded the camp, even more moved to close off the farthest reaches of the west side, We all saw we were utterly circumscribed and our physical position was hopeless. There was plenty of Hope, mind you, but all of it founded on our spiritual position, see.

As we awaited  what everyone knew to be inexorable, not so many of us remained quiet, (by “us” i mean Occupiers here; the most visible government employees were silent). I did mostly, and so did the Boy, he for his reasons and i for mine. The whole scene produced its own racket, but the most noticeable volume arose from the collection of spirit-moved Occupiers working the lines of eerily insensate gendarmes. Each was moved by his or her own personal spirit, few of which were very friendly toward the collective juggernaut we faced. More than one strode frenetically up and down whichever line was convenient  hurling f-bombs and spittle with as much force as he could muster. You know: “Fuck the Police!!!” and,“Fuck Yoooou!!!” from distances as close as the collected officers’ gear would allow. The pointillistic rows of cops, each in his own world, stared into space, eyes forward and directed at some Unknown, refusing eye contact. Only God and each man in his solitude knew what blackness filled his vision, (and possibly anyone operating one of those guv’mint mind-reading gizmos, if you’re into that sort of thinking).

Sensibly, few of the “non-violent” protesters were mad–that is crazy–enough to attempt to get physical. Those that did were promptly stomped, smashed and removed from the game. Otherwise with many pushing the envelope right to its most extreme limit, the arms-down-and-rigid-face forward-inches-from-any-nearest-random-cop’s-shielded-face stance of extreme and barely checked agitation rapidly became familiar. I for one was amazed at the extraordinary and rather creepy restraint the beleaguered police were displaying, though few shield-screened eyes could keep from betraying internal turmoil. Virtually none of the cops would assent to eye contact.

As this scene played itself out, a few Occupiers attempted to convince their fellows to mellow. In the midst of the very front and most electrical line of all this, there in front of the aforementioned Kitchen, one lone Occupier was working the line of gear-laden men, moved by a different spirit indeed. He was preaching it, baby. Pleading. Begging. Beseeching. As near to tears as i am now as this scene spills its way from my fingertips, fluid in his expressive motion to and fro as any practiced Sunday morning crowd-pleaser can i get a amen. “Don’t you see it? You are us! We are you! Please, stop this! We are one–we must stop fighting!” And in some brilliant, divinely inspired voice, “Lay down your shields! Join us! Put down your clubs and have some lunch!”

And then …right there in front of the Boy and me…with the scene in the actual Kitchen production area behind the table unchanged from before the lines formed…one of them did exactly that.

There was actually a fat queue at the Kitchen counter that parted like the Red Sea, astonished, for this newborn brother of ours to step up and claim his serving. He ate his food in silence and retook his spot in that other line which remained unaltered as his fellows stood unmoved, apparently in both senses. The Boy and i collected our portion of genuinely bomb-ass risotto and began to  eat with more on our minds than i can possibly describe. Before we were half through our plates the order came and we found ourselves dining amidst a police riot, our rice flavored by tear gas. (I got off the hook before, when the story remained vague. I suppose his mom is going to kill me now, after all).

The rest of the action went down as one would expect, with ample blood, outrage, and pepper-bullet injury and indignity and tears and drama. It was all on the news, with much expansion available on YouTube. You can look it up. None of that is the point.

I heard that one cop was fired perfunctorily that night.

We were there. Right fucking there. It really happened. It was so surreal i almost have to ask the Boy if it actually wasn’t some kind of dream.

Those two guys, though. That cop! When we all do what he did, just maybe then the war will be over. He looked up  and noticed he was looking in the fucking mirror.

The thing about all this is that the crowd of Occupiers was a full-on quorum of average joes with representation across several spectra. There were Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, Democrats, hippies, neo-hippies, and chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas, The cops were disguised as an invading foreign force but we all know they were really just a bunch of Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, and Democrats. The only groups lacking representation really were the hippies and the chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas that stayed with the rest of us till late into the night serving free food as a replacement for the Anarchists who had been quite the hell shut down. Oh yeah–there likely weren’t too many Anarchists on the cops’ side of the lines. I’m pretty sure  those differences are significant. Maybe the cops would be better if they got some of those groups they were missing. The janglier the better.

Back here at the county jail where i’m still Occupying, there’s lots of conflict, though not nearly so boiling hot. The old standby, “Fuck the Police,” is scrawled or carved around and about and plenty of folks on either side of whatever line each has drawn are fully prepared to swing  clubs at one another. Many of the sheriff’s deputies and sad, paycheck-to paycheck “detention specialists” are happy to evoke a very dark spirit indeed in their efforts to control us inmates who represent Other to them. I have been struck by the observation that these obnoxious fucks are the respected  representatives of a society that so many of our deluded citizenry expect us of the criminal class to emulate.

Ha! I may be an asshole myself, but no thanks: I have no interest in joining your obnoxious and shitty club.

Meanwhile, virtually all of us prisoners, including myself sometimes, react…”Grumble grumble fuck the police why i oughtta etc. etc. ad nauseum” Various of us slink around and steal or fight among ourselves or in general practice a sort of blindfolded subservience to Self. (Marco! Polo!…Ouch! Motherfucker!!!). We’re fucking obnoxious. We want the cops and the guards and judges and bankers and presidents to act differently but…why would they want to join our obnoxious and shitty club? When they do we wind up with a spectacular clusterfuck like the found at the Denver county jail last month, where a dep was helping a banger sling dope and administer beat-downs. Happens all the time. In every kaleidoscopic variation you can imagine.

Sorry, reader; a glitch is preventing the end of this from displaying just now. I’ll fix it, but meanwhile, this link is better for the footnotes anyway. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1umk-RPyxoiQTPSS84Cp4sR80UAXFzsVRpuiRBVzrdNA/edit?usp=sharing

Although those of you that have read or will now read the other stuff here on hipgnosis will easily recognize the common ground that one may imagine stands to be found on the lawns inside the moats of our adjacent castles in a neighborhood full of loons, all built on air, i am deeply indebted to Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason for some of the truly fine and beautiful language i snatched more or less wholesale to help me build the last four paragraphs here. Even though their book,The Rule of Four is a best-seller of a popular genre, i highly recommend it as the best book i’ve read produced during the twenty-first century. I wish i had written it myself, (while noting the title of this piece). Everyone should read this book.

POSTED BY STEVE BASS AT 9:45 PM

Homeless Colorado Springs man emboldened by Occupy effort appeals jail time

from the Colorado Springs Gazette

http://gazette.com/article/1534440

By Jakob Rodgers Updated: July 28, 2014 at 2:07 pm

Nearly three years ago, Steven Bass’ tent led to a police ticket – a ticket that led to a trial, an appeal denied and 160-day sentence in El Paso County jail.

Bass, the first person cited under Colorado Springs’ camping ban, remains mired in a legal battle backed by a University of Denver assistant professor working for free.

He represents a small segment of the homeless issue – a man on a personal crusade against the camping ban emboldened by the Occupy Colorado Springs movement. His case is not emblematic of others who have been cited for camping on public property; rather, it is more of an outlier.

While people ticketed for camping typically include the chronically homeless – people whose only home is a tent, and who often rebuff police officers’ offers of secure housing – Bass wants to make a point.

Right now, he is free while appealing the jail time. Bass lives with a fellow veteran of the Occupy movement and blogs occasionally on what he sees as injustices in the world.

“I contend now that this thing has burgeoned well beyond the camping ban itself, and has now become a giant discussion of principle, and just what the hell we’re doing here in the United States of America, and the whole world,” Bass said.

Police issued the ticket in October 2011 when he pitched a tent on a sidewalk in Acacia Park, despite warnings from police that doing so would lead to a citation.

For Bass, the ticket and the Occupy gathering proved an opportune time for a stand against the city’s camping ban – an ordinance passed by the City Council in 2010 that outlawed camping on public land. He said he has volunteered at soup kitchens and for other homeless services for about 30 years, and he lives homeless – usually by couch surfing.

“Just because they don’t have any money, poof, they are made criminals,” Bass said of people affected by the ban.

Eleven tickets have been issued under the ban through June 5, with the majority coming in 2014, according to the Colorado Springs Police Department.

The ban came as camps swelled along Monument and Fountain creeks amid the Great Recession in 2009 and early 2010. So many people lived there that bystanders dropped off donated food and clothing along the creek beds – philanthropy that proved overwhelming to the point of concern, some homeless advocates say. Sanitation issues also arose.

City Council member Jan Martin said she voted for the ordinance for the safety of people using creekside trails, along with concerns about the image that such tent cities would create for the city, she said Friday. Proponents of the ban said it is a tool to get people into more stable housing.

“In my opinion, it’s not a matter of out of sight, out of mind,” Martin said. “It’s just trying to find resources that can help people get back on their feet.”

Because of Bass’ indigent status, a judge decided against a fine in favor of a 60-hour community service sentence for the citation.

Bass said he almost did it – he planned on helping Pikes Peak Habitat for Humanity – until a DU professor offered to help. With the pro bono advice of Christopher Lasch, who teaches at the university’s Criminal Defense Clinic, Bass appealed the case.

A district court judge upheld the municipal court’s decision – a blow to the notion that the ban is unjust.

A subsequent appeal to the Colorado Supreme Court was denied in March, said Rob McCallum, spokesman for the Colorado Judicial Branch.

Through it all, Bass contemplated his 60-hour of community service sentence. And in an April hearing before Municipal Judge Spottswood W. H. Williams, Bass said he will never complete the requirement.

Identifying himself as an Occupier, Bass wrote to Williams that the camping ordinance is “effectively status-based incarceration,” because forcing people into shelters could be another form of incarceration. He also said he already does community service but railed against the court forcing him to do so.

“Therefore, i (sic) am here in front of you forcing your hand,” he wrote. “You must now either acknowledge the ethical poverty of the ordinance, or prove my point.”

In June, Williams answered Bass’ statement with a 160-day jail sentence for contempt of court.

Bass is appealing that sentence with Lasch’s help after having served more than a month in El Paso County jail.

Lasch said the jail sentence was excessive because jail time for failing to pay a fine is usually half of what Bass has served.

Even if he serves all 160 days, Bass has no plans of completing the 60-hour community service order – a requirement that remains.

Lasch wants all of it thrown out.

“The fact that the government would go to such lengths to punish this activity certainly supports Steve’s position that this (ban) effectively punishes being homeless,” Lasch said.

“In this case, it certainly punished him for speaking out against the ban.”

Contact Jakob Rodgers: 476-1654

Twitter @JakobRodgers

Facebook: Jakob.Rodgers

Read more at http://gazette.com/homeless-colorado-springs-man-emboldened-by-occupy-effort-appeals-jail-time/article/1534440#TIqUcdEm4KE8udlJ.99

Toking Through Tin Pan Alley

The audio has been reworked by Breezy Kiefair. The base audio was a live performance of “Tin Pan Alley” by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble  from the Blues at Sunrise album All images created by Breezy Kiefair. cameos in the art by; Steve Elliott of Toke SignalsSonia Guerrero, and Pebbles Trippet all set to a breezy audio altered version of Stevie Ray Vaughan‘s “tin Pan alley” dedicated to the low income cannabis patient on the occasion of the first recreational cannabis commercial shops opening in Colorado. I will let each individual interpret the art themselves.

Dedicated to the low income cannabis patient left toking through tin pan Alley.

“Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)” is track #23 on the album Essential Stevie Ray Vaughan. It was written by Bob Geddins.

Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)

Went down to Tin Pan Alley
See what was goin’ on
Things was too hot down there
Couldn’t stay very long
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place I’ve ever been
All the peoples down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
She get up in the mornin’
Before the break a day
Before she can wash her face and hand
You know she really did go away
Hey, hey, hey, you tell
What kinda place can this here Alley be?
Well now, every women I get here
Every women I get to know
This Alley takes her away from me
I heard a pistol shoot
Yeah, and it was a .44
Somebody killed a crap shooter
‘Cause he didn’t shake, rattle and roll
Hey, hey, hey, hey
What kinda place can a Alley be?
All those people down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I heard a woman scream
Yeah, and I peeked through the door
Some cat was workin’ on Annie with a
Lord, Lord with a two by four
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
All the people down there
Lord, they are killin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I saw a cop standing there
With hand on his gun
Said this is a raid boy now
Run, run, nobody run
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
Yeah, they took me away from Alley
Lord, they took me right back to the pen

Songwriters
GEDDINS

lyrics source click here

Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble – Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place In Town)

the same video in an earlier draft with an album version (audio unaltered) is available here:

2

Hannah Hurnard’s “Hind’s Feet on High Places” audiobook video series

hind'a feet on high places

playlist on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwc43UiVjiudD0DhoUELBfeHOamG_Hvtj

A set of videos in Tribute to the writing of Hannah Hurnard, “Hind’s Feet on High Places” to Art of Breezy Kiefair i just put music and art to a book that has been a favorite since childhood… my mother used to read me that book…. call it a tribute to her and an introduction of the book to an audience that may otherwise remain unaware of it. I recommend it for anyone with anxiety or PTSD

Preface to the allegory

The Preface chapter  to Art of Breezy Kiefair and the Music of Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

Preface to the allegory

https://plus.google.com/photos/108039434993096331483/photo/5856776704305425106

info on the book: “Hinds’ Feet on High Places” From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Hinds’ Feet on High Places

Hinds’ Feet on High Places
Author(s) Hannah Hurnard
Country United Kingdom
Language English
Genre(s) Christian
Publisher Christian Literature Crusade
Publication date 1955
Media type Print (Hardback &Paperback)
Pages 158 pp.
ISBN ISBN 0 86065 192 4

Hinds’ Feet on High Places is an allegorical novel by English author Hannah HurnardHinds’ Feet was written in 1955 and has become a very successful work of Christian fiction, seeing new editions published as recently as July, 2005.

Plot introduction[edit]

It is the story of a young woman named Much Afraid, and her journey away from her Fearing family and into the High Places of the Shepherd, guided by her two companions Sorrow and Suffering. It is an allegory of a Christian devotional life from salvation through maturity. It aims to show how a Christian is transformed from unbeliever to immature believer to mature believer, who walks daily with God as easily on the High Places of Joy in the spirit as in the daily life of mundane and often humiliating tasks that may cause Christians to lose perspective.

The book takes its title from Habakkuk 3:19, “The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet like hinds’ feet, and he will make me to walk upon mine high places.”

The story begins in the Valley of Humiliation with Much Afraid, being beset by the unwanted advances of her cousin, Craven Fear, who wishes to marry her. The Family of Fearings seems to have some strong similarities to the Addams Family. Much Afraid is ugly from all outward appearances, walking on club feet, sporting gnarled, deformed hands, and speaking from a crooked mouth that seems to have been made so by a stroke or the like.

The Good Shepherd is tender and gentle with Much Afraid, especially in the beginning. However, His many sudden departures may strike the reader as bizarre, given the human penchant to expect kindly souls to never do everything that may be interpreted as rude or as hurtful in any way. Yet, though the Shepherd leaves in a moment, He returns the same way at the first furtive cry of the forlorn little protagonist. “Come, Shepherd, for I am much afraid!”

When Much Afraid intimates that she would love to be able to dance upon the high places as do the surefooted deer, the Shepherd commends her for this desire. In order to accomplish this, he offers to “plant the seed of love” into her heart. At first sight of the long, black hawthorne-looking seed, she shrieks in fear. Soon, she relents, and after the initial intense pain, she senses that something is indeed different in her, though she still looks the same, for now.

Just when the reader thinks that Much Afraid is about to reach the High Places, the path turns downward towards a seemingly endless desert. There is incident with an extremely high cliff that must be ascended by a steep, slippery and very narrow zig-zagging track, with the help of her two companions, Sorrow and Suffering. Then days are spent in a forest that is shrouded in a thick cloud of fog. During this time Much Afraid is sequestered with her two friends in a log cabin. The climax is an unexpected twist that comes as Much Afraid despairs of ever reaching the High Places.

Allusions/references to other works[edit|edit source]

The book bears some stylistic similarities to John Bunyan‘s The Pilgrim’s Progress. The name of the protagonist, Much-Afraid, also appears first in Bunyan’s work.

References[edit]

Bosman, Ellen. “Hind’s Feet on High Places” in Masterplots II: Christian Literature. Pasadena, CA: Salem Press, 2007: 779-782. Bezzina, Christopher Felix. ‘Journey to the High Places. Hannah Hurnard’s Spirituality and the Song of Songs.’http://www.amazon.com/Journey-High-Places-Hurnards-Spirituality/dp/1620320983

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Shall We Call it Wail Oil or Phoenix Tears?

Its the bitter watches of the night and I wake. I ask myself what it is that has rousted me this day from my slumber. Its not near my body clock’s time of 4am…. There is a wailing in my mind and I must ask myself “whose pain is this?” for I know it is not mine. My body is aching with the storm on the peak, but I’d just found my center and there was no wail with in me like this to speak.

So trying not to wake the other in my bed, I sit quietly and listen to see what it is this wailing voice has come to seek. Its victims so many victims… victims of war, hungry ghosts of a corrupt system, victims of the human butchers and legal poison vendors, victims of industry and victims of hard work, being eaten alive by cancer and bodily disorder of so many shapes and forms it makes me shudder in vibration with this wail. And within me I hold an answer for so many a gift from above that I try to spread without regard to a patient station in life….. It is a wail of responsibility. It is a wail of the profiteer’s victims. It is the wail of prohibitions ugly head……

I light a candle to guard my heart from a wailing so deep in the thick of the night and I still listen to the voice in my mind reminding me of their plight. I sit a while with the lamb in my breath asking that higher than I to step in and take this wail up with my smoke to the sky. I ask for the means to bless those wailing with even a few grams of healing and hope cause I believe in doing what my creator said. And I know that this life and this path I have chosen for myself has never been easy but its not about self.

I give honor to the earth. I burn sacred sage of the earth and cleanse the darkness from my mind until light only remains. I light incense and honor the air. More candles glow and I honor the firey spirit of the soul and I soak in salted and perfumed waters and try to scrub away the victimization of these beautiful souls. Lambs breath fills my pipe and lungs and mind and I try to send a shining beacon of the creators light to these wailing in my mind and in the dark and in their own lives and pain… Dressed for the day I inhale organic tobacco and ponder quietly.

Then another presence comes upon my mind…. and I am taken back though the years and back in time. To a place and time where my body was not constantly sore…. Its boulder its Ginsberg its 1994. Its a little bookish Jewish dude who howled for his time and who brought me to his feet to sit for a time… You see he was my own personal poet willy wonka who saw a bit of my poetry and brought me on up to the Naropa factory to sit at his feet for the anniversary of his beloved school. It was Allen Ginsberg day in Boulder and I was with the master and yet a child myself….. I remember how he opened my eyes and smoked a blended herbal cigarette with me in an intermission…..

What dreams I have of you tonight Allen Ginsberg as you dreamed of Walt Whitman…. with sick people wailing in the night and my soul howling at the moon of my own inner madness.

I wonder where you are tonight while I feel so small and so responsible. I imagine you my zen master in your own nirvana or perhaps your here again in another body and another life… But from wherever you are I seem to hear your voice reminding me of the power of my pen and of the ideals to which you and I both try to keep. You wanted freedom of the plant and so do I. I’m trying to be a willy wonka for others where you were willy wonks for I… and so my musings and prayers and light intercessions complete I turn to what I can do for those wailing from where I am and put actions to the light that I keep.

And so I begin to wail for these folks online saying with my writers voice and my mighty pen:

I begin with this blessing: Virtual early Sunday morning tokes to all of the Rastafarian sacramental strain lambs breath. For me this strain quiets fears and calms my mind. It clears my mind and puts me in a space where i can enter my creators holy throne room with gratitude and peace instead of chaos and turmoil. It makes me still enough to hear the still small voice of my soul. It points me to currents and springs of strength and reminds me of the good i do. All of this i have for me i extend to you virtually and in energy and prayer.

Note***** There are two sacramental strains to the Rastafarian religion. One is called Lamb’s bread (I have never had the pleasure of smoking this strain) and it is said to have cola’s so large that the buds are sliced up like slices of bread. This is said to be more for dancing and rejoicing before the Lamb. Lamb’s breath is characterized by smaller dense highly resinous buds that are mellow, mind clearing and good for quiet contemplation.

I am still looking for new raw material sources to meet demand. I will pay $100 a pound for quality trim. I know a lot of you usually process your own trim but who cant use an extra few dollars around the holidays that the transaction goes to save lives? Call 719 480 0238. you must be in Colorado. I need bulk i need it quick.

I will travel anywhere in the state and negotiate on price for the right weight of the right stuff. I need trim that bad. I am trying to get people served as quickly as possible while longer term sources Relationships are in the works. Call 719 480 0238. A portion of any and all trim purchased goes to provide free phoenix tears to those in need that is why i need good prices. To put goodies into financially challenged cancer and severe illness folks hands. Lets get those free folks their Christmas presents and the paid folks what they deserve. It will make you feel good to give some people tears of joy.

The rest of you who cannot help with actions you may offer you energy to the task. Never underestimate the power of prayer in intercession for someone else. If we focus good vibes on those free peeps and paid peeps their lives can improve exponentially by far more than me just getting Their oil delivered to them. I invite you to join me in that intention…. No, i challenge you to.

Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying
it forward to others?

I just gotta get these people taken care of. For some it means hope to try for another year. There is a couple who lives on the street. One partner has bone cancer and has all but given up. When my oil is there they live as good as they can and enjoy what life they have. Without the oil bone cancer boy gives up. They cant pay and i don’t care. I wanna give them both some hope and quality of life.

There is a writer whom many respect respect within our community whose belly aches him to no end and he cant sleep among other serious issues that are more private. He works hard for our cause but cant afford oil. He is the very picture of a starving writer and artist with a good soul and I wanna get him some rest and comfort so he can continue to serve us all so well.

There is an awesome bud-tend who works for far less than he is worth. The shop he works for sells oil yet it is out of his price range. A grain of rice a day would stop him from needing a diabetic needle yet his pancreas is far overworked. I wanna be sure he can keep giving patients the strains they need with the brain in his head. I have never left his shop with anything other than a strain to treat exactly the conditions I am concerned about that day mostly due to his knowledge that keeps a wide variety of strains for a wide variety of ailments on the shelves and getting into the right hands.

There are Numerous ladies and gents with tumors praying to avoid chemo and folks hoping not to need their noses scraped off their faces Who cant pay and need mercy. How can anyone deny the value of what i”m trying to accomplish? will no one sell me the raw materials i need to enrich these lives. I have shared but the tip of the iceberg.

Someone calls these folks I’m trying to help jewels in my crown. I bristle at the suggestion. I don’t care about jewels in my crown. If the creator blesses me as such that is incidental. I give because i know need better than most and to repay the kindnesses done for me by good people when i had nothing.

I do it because someone needs to and far too many are far too concerned with profit. I do it because these are victims of a corrupt system each and everyone in one way or another.

And i do it because it is in my nature to do it. And to make my murdered son proud of me from where he sits waiting on me in the afterlife and to make his wait have meaning. Help me make these sick people’s wait have meaning too.

So if you have some trim and a heart call me at 719 480 0238 And lets bless some people together. If you have a heart and no trim please just keep these good folks in your thoughts and prayers or however you communicate with the universe offer some strength in the direction of one or more of these people. Don’t direct it at me please. The sick need your love and light far more than i do.

I ask again! Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying it forward to others?

And so I move from being woke in the night, to prayer, to action trying to get some help to those who need it most. Won’t you please help me? I want to buy raw materials to make them medicine. That’s all.

Some Raw Materials images purchased after this post:

This is some sugar out of one of our big bags of trim

GEDSC DIGITAL CAMERA

virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl.....some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl…..
some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

You Can't see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

You Can’t see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

Help a homeless family stay together!

April 8, 2012 8:39 am MDT… I have a conversation with a friend that compells me to post this status message on facebook.

There is this family I know… They have been living in homeless shelters for nearly a year. The parents did all that was required of them by the shelter’s program designed to assist them in getting back on their feet. The mom went back to school (so proud of her) and is weeks away from her certificate….. Now the shelter is saying that they have to leave. There are no other family shelters available. They don’t want their family sleeping apart. Please lift Heidi Joy Hameed, her son Ish, and her husband Raphael in your thoughts energy and prayers today.

On April 9, 2012, Heidi Joy Hameed, a resident in the Torres Community Shelter (https://www.facebook.com/TorresShelter) in Chico, California has this to say under a post I made requesting prayer for her family yesterday.
“Thank you again, everyone. It always humbles me when people care so much! We can’t even get this level of love from “blood relatives”. We need help and $ to keep our family together. Ish is speech challenged and thus unready for school, though he’s much better. For the last year, Daddy (Raphael Hameed) has been teaching him, every day, in t he park. Ish depserately needs a stable living situation. We always knew the shelter wasn’t permanent, of course, but it was a form of stability. I’ve held off contacting “professional” services becasue I DO NOT want my son labeled anything (autistic, etc) as that only complicates things and I don’t believe in speaking evil into my child who has enough to deal with. Under Daddy’s tutilage, he’s learned to read numbers and letters and even to write them, knows small words like dog and cat and such. He didn’t even say MOMMY or DADDY until he was over 3. We came here with a dream and we won’t let it die, pure and simple. Ish and growing/breeding/cultivating. I’m an office person who loves and thrives in said environment. Right now I go to school, work at the local thrift store and perform my required monthly reports for Welfare-to Work, WEX and the other things. Please pray for us, if you can, we need $ to stay in hotels for the time being. Money gram works the best for us. If you can, or know anyone who can, we accept donations under Heidi Joy Hameed, the one I’m known at is at Walmart near 2445 Forest Ave, Chico, CA the walmart’s phone number is (530) 899-8760″

Mrs. Hameed currently has unlimited text message service on her phone. If you wish to be of assistance in any way, please text her at (530) 520-6704

Mr. Hameed has skills with plants. His knowledge of cannabis plants could easily be of benefit many.

All they want is a hand up, they never, ever wanted a hand out. Their circumstances are pushing them into ever more difficult situations. Please help.
https://www.facebook.com/breezy.kiefair/posts/400251706661511

Update, April 11, 2012

A donation was made that bought the Hameed’s a roof over their head last night and will continue to house them until around 3:30pm Tomorrow (4/12/12 pacific time) They are also in need of diapers for Ish. No child should have to sit in a dirty diaper because mom and dad can’t afford to get more.

This morning, Mrs. Hameed’s facebook status message read:

“If any donations come in or are being sent, I must be told. We have NO where to live right now- my ONLY point of contact is FB or our cell 530-520-6704 where I need to recieve texts as minutes are weird and definitely NOT unlimited. Thanks so much.”

Update Friday, April 13, 2012

I spoke with Mrs. Hammeed last night. Things are still unstable, but the family remains safe and sleeping under the same roof (in a hotel)

BZ:  Mrs. Hameed how things were going and what the current needs are.

 Mrs Hammed: We’re in the motel until Saturday at 11 am and have enough for Sunday at 11 and then we’re flat broke.

I got my unemployment extention dealt with today so we’ll be getting some $ next week- 119/week. we need over a thousand, relistically.

it’ll be 400 to go to Iowa (if we take the train, it’s much cheaper and better for Ishy.

I’m going to finish school next week so that’s out the way.

BZ: Do you have a place to go in Iowa? What is the plan there?

Mrs Hammed: “My sister lives there. yes, she said we can stay with her for a minute. there’re jobs and rent is cheaper.”

BZ: Well, that’s good. Do you have transportation worked out for the move? Are there any other needs to add?

Mrs. Hameed: “NO, we have not really worked out transportation. I have no idea what we’ll take- will have to take it one step at a time. without the $ there’s no point in speculating, you know?

BZ: Does Ishy still need diapers?

Mrs. Hameed:   We’ve been managing, but diapers are an “ever-present” expense. We sure would feel better with some more.

Once again, if you would like to help, here are the instructions!

Please pray for THEM, if you can, THEY need $ to stay in hotels for the time being. Money gram works the best for them. If you can, or know anyone who can, THEY accept donations under Heidi Joy Hameed, the one I’m known at is at Walmart near 2445 Forest Ave, Chico, CA the walmart’s phone number is (530) 899-8760″ Mrs. Hammed can recieve text messages and MUST be notified of your compassion in order to pick up the donation and make use of it.  If you wish to be of assistance in any way,

please TEXT MESSAGE (calls cost more) Mrs. Hameed

at (530) 520-6704

Update April 17, 2012

Author’s note: in the interest of time and preservation of my energy on a bad pain day, I have sanitized all proper names off the below post from whom I do not have consent. This is a discussion Mrs. Hameed asked me to post. I have removed some information to protect individuals that I do not know. Their comments are just as powerful no matter if you know their names or not….. I have not censored spelling errors.

Heidi Joy Hameed

Sunday at 7:28pm near Chico, CA · Mrs Hammeed’s Status message:

Praise the Lord-God showed up, again right on time, and sent an angel to put my family and I up for three days in a motel- we’re back at the Vagabond Inn. Room 122. God is so good- we were literally getting ready to walk over to the Jesus Center and split up as we can’t stay together and once more, God saved us! He is so good. People can say and believe what they want-they really can- but NO ONE will EVER convince me there’s no God cause his angels have been keeping us together as a family even when no one other than wonderous people like Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair and J.S. believes it to be important. God bless all who have loved us and given us the strength to go on- this is a nasty, evil world we live in these days, cold, selfish, greedy and then the GOOD, GODLY people step in and make it ALL WORTH IT!!!! By the way, getting off track a bit, our computer seems to be acting up (I’m currently using the motel’s computer for this update) so I might not be on too much. Pray for us- we’re trying to get to Iowa to be with my sister, J.M.H.P. Believing for the funds to do so.
Comments:

  • Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair glad you got some help

    Sunday at 7:44pm · · 1
  • LP: all continues to go well! Glory to God!

    Sunday at 7:45pm · · 1
  • Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair will update your post when i’m stronger. need anything?

    Sunday at 7:45pm ·
  • KSH: am so glad u r choosing to caome back this way. I have been thinking about sugesting it. WOW great minds think alike. We will be praying for this to all work out and be a good fit.

    Sunday at 9:48pm · ·
  • Heidi Joy Hameed We’re working on it, Karen Simpson Haskins-need the $ as we’ve been unemployed for more than a year and unemployment doesn’t pay enough to feed a chimpmunk lol. Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair, I appreciate that so much and yes, we could use diapers. I’ll probably be able to get some from the diaper bank here at Shalom Thrift Store, God willing. Thanks everyone!! ♥

    8 hours ago · · 1
  • HH

    Noone can really understands how it is too be whitout a home if you have not been in that situtaion yourself! Iam trying thow too understand as the best that ican! what ido understand is that our world today is a very cold and greedy place …and it is full of shit! But there is one thing that is stronger than anything! And that is love and hope! That is what keeps me going cuz as long as there is hope there is life and also love! That is what you have learned me heidi! So ijust say this too you and imean it! You are a loving carying and such a wonderfull friend! And if iever hear or see anyone that would hurt you or what so ever iwill personally kick that someones as! Love you and may god be whit you!See More
    8 hours ago · ·
  • Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefairheidi hun, my energy is drained away already… if i get another energy burst, will do ok?

    7 hours ago ·
  • HH thanks for liking my comment! are you okej?

    7 hours ago ·
  • HH sorry breezy did not mean too snoop! hope that you are fine! and heidi is greate is she not?

    7 hours ago · · 1
  • Heidi Joy Hameed ‎Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair, I’m not tripping at all. you rest as much as possible. Am praying for you hard. I love you.

    3 hours ago ·
  • Heidi Joy Hameed ‎Breezy Mental Ginsberg Kiefair has been a wonderful friend and sister to me, HH. Breez, Hanna’s my friend from overseas. Just had her birthday the other day ♥

    3 hours ago ·
  • AB: Praying you & your family receive the funds needed for ya all to be able to come to Iowa. It would be awesome to have you back, I miss you. Love ya, take care, & don’t give up. God will provide. ♥♥

    2 hours ago ·
  • JS

    How cool. The night before you posted that you’re going to try to get back to Iowa, you and I had “talked” (here) and afterward, I took a moment to talk to God about your situation. I know most people will just write this off as crazy talk …but I felt in my heart the suggestion that maybe it was just where you were and if you could try a new location, things might get better. I decided not to say anything to you and I kind of felt bad about that. But now, it seems maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything because you came up with that yourself. Now it seems more as if He was just telling me He had a path for you to walk to let me know He’s been hearing your cries and our prayers and that He hasn’t forsaken you. So maybe now I won’t have to wait two more years to get out there and meet you guys- maybe instead you guys are coming here and we can meet sooner! I haven’t talked to Raphael as much as I have you but something tells me I could get along with him well. Lol. Still praying and lifting you and yours up to Him. Whatever happens from here, just remember you’re not alone. Christ be with you always.

UPDATE April 24, 2012

Mrs Hammeed asked me to add this update today.

Since we left the shelter on the 9th, we have been staying at various motels until 2 nights ago when we camped out for the first time-then the next day. In the meantime I got busy working on getting us somewhere. School is done, thank the Lord, so that’s one less thing to worry/trip on.I went over to the Torres on Sunday (I think) and asked to be let back in. I was told to call back on Monday at 2:00 and ask the supervisor about the case manager meeting which I did. He set up an interview with me with one of the case managers and said for Raphael to do likewise-which he did. As of now, tomorrow, we hope to be getting back into the Torres. We will likely not have our own room but so long as we’re in the same building, we are fine. Our whole thing was not being split up so that we were physically separate from each other- this way Ish can be with BOTH of us.We are still planning to relocate to Iowa. We hope to be there next month- are still trying to get the $400 needed for the train. We have SOME saved but not enough and have had to spend $ that we couldn’t afford to even when sleeping outside. Still need donations- even if people could send $1-5 or something, it would help immensely! The address that it can be sent to is 250 E 1st St, Chico, CA 95928 c/o Shalom Thrift Store. My supervisor is well aware of our plight and situation and is behind me 100%- that’s her whole focus in life- helping those who can’t help themselves. This thrift store I work at (volunteer) funds the free clinic. 

Please continue to pray for us- we are well aware that it is the prayers and financial gifts of our friends, known and not, that are helping us get started in Iowa where Ish will have flesh-and-blood family and I can find employment. 

Peace out- will come again when I have more to fill you all in. Thanks, Breezy, the wind beneath my wings. I love you dearly!

Update and Peaceful Resolution! PRAISE!

Come on, with the blessing, Lord. If we have been righteous, if we have pleased you at all, please hear our request and open this door that we need opened. Rebuke the destroyer on our behalf and shut down his attempt to strangle-hold this situation. We love you and we need you to shine brightly on us. Needed: 3 greyhound tickets from Chico Ca to Iowa City, IA: who is going to answer this call!!? Please unite our little boy with his cousins-and my sister Joanna Mary Hilton Pope with me!! Thank you- the cost is about $666.25. I know it’s extremely pricey but I so need to get there- jobs are available but I can’t do anything stuck here!! Calls can be sent to my cell 530-520-6704 or to the Shalom Thrift Store: 530-345-7056 but only call if you can help- we really do not need to be kicked any more. We’re sleeping on the streets(literally)- please help us!!

MAY 4, 2012

So thankful for the TEAM Project of Chico Ca and the Lord I serve for the provision that got us from Chico to Iowa. We are safe and the kids are together. Praise the Lord!!

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