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Jan Bohuslav Sobota died on May 2nd of 2012 and this is my remembrance of this fine man who was a friend and mentor to me. Each autumn, salmon return to the rivers of their birth a€“ there to spawn and once again trigger a renewal of the eternal passion play. Salmon that do eventually arrive at their destinations must once again compete a€“ this time for mates and to fight for access to the precious and very limited gravels. The profligate expenditure of life and extravagant wealth of biology is there everywhere to behold, as Death dances lightly among the gathering throngs of fish, picking and choosing from among them; who from their number shall successfully spawn and who shall just be food for the gathering predators and scavengers. Spend a day in silence, walking among the spawning salmon, as they dig spawning redds, jockey for position and slash at competitors with those gaping, snaggletoothed, hooked jaws.
Jan Bohuslav Sobota has died, while half a world away; I was preparing these etchings of Spawned Salmon and dedicating them to Jan, the lover of fish.
The book you hold in your hands has evolved from my simply giving these etchings a second life in book form, to my using them as a vehicle for honoring a friendship of three decades. In 1985, Jan and I had been corresponding for some months without ever meeting a€“ all quite distant and correct. A short bit of background on Jan Sobota to begin, but fear not; Ia€™ll soon be spinning anecdotes and thoughts on books as art a€“ celebrating Jana€™s life of course, telling a few stories out of school, but also straying into the personal and speculative in search of the meaning to be derived from the life and death of a friend.
Jana€™s father was a serious bibliophile and collector of fine books, who nurtured that same love of books in his son a€“ an appreciation that steadily grew, until he was apprenticed to master bookbinder Karel A ilinger in PlzeA?.
The pivotal event in Jana€™s early life as a book artist was the posthumous retrospective exhibition of fellow Pilsener, Josef VA?chal in 1969. Jan supported a family, sponsored workshops, exhibited widely, did conservation work on rare historic books, ran a gallery a€“ and on it went.
What Jan did for contemporary bookbinding, was to act as a bridge between the traditionally trained masters of the past and innovators of the present.
America was a great place to be a book artist in the early 1980a€™s precisely because it was an active zone of hybridization and hotbed of creativity. An instructive contrast to the anything-goes US scene was the icy reception I got when I showed a wooden box containing loose sheets of poetry and etchings to a Prague publisher. Neither Jan nor I had much interest in the book-like objects that often sneak into the museums as book arts a€“ the carved and glued together things that sorta, kinda have a bookish aspect to them a€“ rough-looking a€“ perhaps chain-sawed Oaken boards or granite slabs, slathered in tar and lashed together with jute; but lacking text. When Jana€™s books went beyond function, conservation or decoration, they were subtle statements about binding and the place of books, knowledge and art, as well as statements about the dignity inhering in the handcrafted - with a good dose humor.
There are others who know their conservation and those, whose scientific contributions are far greater, but few of them are also artists at heart. It can sound so pedestrian, these eternal compromises between art and craft, yet what Jan represented was not at all common. There is an inflection point at which exceptional craft begins to make the transition to art and it is closely associated with surmounting the limitations inhering to the discipline. Visiting with Jan in his workshop you quickly realized, that he did what a professional must, but ultimately, he just loved messing about with books. A curiously protean hybrid of artist and craftsman, ancient and modern, one cannot think of Jan without seeing an unabashed Czech patriot in a foreign land. Early on in their stay in Cleveland, the Sobotas experienced the quintessential American disaster. Even after their medical debts were retired, money was still an issue for a family of immigrants with three kids a€“ two with special needs. Later on, when they were living in Texas, the massacre at Waco opened Jana€™s eyes to yet another difficult side of his adopted home. In 1979, I apprenticed with Jindra Schmidt, an engraver of stamps and currency, living in Prague. Schmidt had engraved stamps for Bulgaria, Iraq, Ethiopia, Albania, Guinea, Vietnam and Libya. In 1992, Jindra Schmidt was honored for his contributions and depicted on the last stamp of a united Czechoslovakia, before it split into Czech and Slovak republics a€“ a fitting tribute. Unlike most children of immigrants, my destiny remained connected to that of my parentsa€™ homeland. My vocation as artist clarified itself in Prague while learning the increasingly obsolete skills of steel engraving. My first book was indeed, modeled after VA?chal, even to the extent of its diabolical subject matter.
Jan showed me a great deal in the following years about the tradition of books as the meeting place of art, craft and ideas a€“ where printmaking intergrades seamlessly with the worlds of language, typography and illustration. One can like these things just fine and admire them from an uncomprehending distance, or you can become engaged. The book you hold was to have been a simple reprint of the Spawned Salmon a€“ something fun for Jan to work his magic upon. Nice sentimental reminiscences, but there is still the matter of getting the work accomplished and out before the public, organizing exhibitions, printing catalogs and paying for transatlantic flights.
The Prague show was reconfigured and curated by Jana€?s longtime friend, Ilja A edo, for exhibition at the West Bohemian Museum in PlzeA?. Quite predictably, I like seeing the kind of work I do honored a€“ the wood engravings and etchings made to shine in the context of crisply printed type and an excellent binding. Ia€™ve heard printmakers lament that the surest way to devalue prints is to add excellent poetry, sensitive typography and a bang-up binding a€“ and then live to see the whole thing sell for half the price of just the unbound prints.
Therea€™s nothing quite like seventeenth century Bohemia, the dead center of Europe, for particularly thorough violence a€“ with the Bubonic Plague stepping in afterwards as mop-up crew.
The chapel at Sedlec was rebuilt after the major blood-letting of the thirty-years war as a memento mori a€“ reminder of death. What can you say about the mounds of dead, the ruined lives, destroyed nations and misery multiplied by millions that isna€™t trite or self-evident? But then I pan over to other fields a€“ not the kind where the grass is composting my fellow man, but to fields of endeavor where the ferment is of ideas recombining into ever more refined ways of thinking.
I once lived at the Golem house in Prague a€“ at Meislova ulice, number 8, in the old Jewish ghetto. Horoscopes might seem a curious basis on which to select ministers and diplomats, but it is also more common than youa€™d think.
Picture the scene before you: Ita€™s a late night in Prague, before the Marlboro man dominated every street corner, even before the neon of casinos and the vulgarity of Golden Arches assaulted the nightwalkersa€™ eyes at all hours a€“ back when darkness, oh yes, that beautiful comforting velvety, all-enveloping and blessed dark, broken only by the moon, stars and late night taxis, still ruled the streets after the sun went down. The Golem was a mythic being of Jewish folklore, created from clay and quickened by the Shem, a magical stone engraved with an ancient Hebraic inscription, inserted into Golema€™s forehead. The maternal tongues of these small nations have miraculously survived all the invasions, floods, plagues and foreign occupiers to this day a€“ a gift preserved and delivered to them across the generations. Minority languages, on the other hand, carry an emotional load that can scarcely be exaggerated. Ishi and his sister were the last of the Yahi tribe to survive the genocidal colonization of California. Those whose language and culture are not threatened can never know the burden under which the carriers of small minority languages labor a€“ nor how those in exile bring up their children to preserve that which is beyond their capacities to save. Jan was all about preserving traditions and the kind of ancestral knowledge that today is mostly enshrined in books. Today, the stories of our tribes are less and less passed on as oral tradition and most often read to us from the childrena€™s books wea€™ve learned to treasure a€“ illustrated by fine artists and produced with care for the highly discriminating purchasers of childrena€™s books a€“ for grandparents. A?epelA?k employed binders and typesetters to present complete suites of his work and in this too, he introduced me to a new world.
Later in Prague I missed my flight back, due to the World Trade Center bombing and was delayed by a week. The difficult thing to bear in acknowledging my teachers, models, heroes, suppliers and inspirations, is that these masters of the crafts and industries surrounding and supporting the book arts are mostly deceased.
The fruit we seek is not fast food, but laden with full-bodied flavors, attained by slow natural processes. All of us come from grandfathers who once were wheelwrights, cobblers or instrument makers; men with a profound love of wood and leather, who knew the working qualities of every kind of obscure tree growing in their countryside a€“ men who knew when to reach for elm or hickory a€“ as well as for goat, dog or even fish-skins.
Jan spoke fondly of his grandmother, who baked bread every week of the year to feed an entire estate a€“ farm hands, livery people, gentry, trainers and hod-carriers alike.
Working consciously is the ultimate goal a€“ and that is the legacy youa€™ll find evidently contained within and upon the boards of every book bound by Jan Bohuslav Sobota. The etchings you see here first came to life as illustrations for the wedding anniversary announcements of MA­la and Jaroslav KynA?l. Jan Bohuslav Sobota died on May 2nd of 2012 and this is my remembrance of this fine man who was a friend and mentor to me.A  He was an exceptional bookbinder, teacher and promoter of the book arts, but also an exile who successfully returned home after years abroad.
Still, I was smart - smarter than most white folks down here want a black man to be - and I got my degree. I started out walking a beat in Algiers, just across the river from the French Quarter, the Vieux Carre.
I can’t forget the smell - like gutting time at a Cajun boucherie - the snatches of Voodoo gibberish smeared across the walls in blood. But he didn't tell me where to find the scum that butchered Celie, because something scared him more. Still, as I floated in and out of tortured dreams, I remembered the look in Ti' Joe's eyes. Despair is like frostbite - at first it just makes everything numb, saves up all the pain like a debt you can't possibly afford to pay.
Teddy LeDoux's place faced out on an alley near Bourbon Street; Teddy liked to pretend every weekend was Mardi Gras. Papa Jean's address led me to the other side of the Intracoastal - the swampy, desolate outskirts of an immigrant slum called Archahaie. After one of those juice-heads puts you through a wall, you learn to recognize the look… and to fear it.
I stood there, drowning in my own sweat, wondering what the Devil would look like in a dirty black dress.
As soon as the nurse flipped on the lights, I started babbling about Voodoo curses and demon arms. I checked out at the end of the week despite Doc Timmons' protests and caught a cab out to Archahaie. I came to with the help of Baron Cimiterre's smelling salts: the slaughterhouse stench of blood and bile and exposed viscera.
I lay there, trembling in the borrowed clothes of a dead man, staring into the tunnel that joins the evil we live in and the evil that lives in us. There they encounter resident trout and bass a€“ even sunfish, chubs and dace, all keyed into the increasingly plentiful and highly nutritious bounty of salmon eggs.
Situated 90A km south-west of Prague at the confluence of four rivers, PlzeA? is first recorded in writings from the tenth century.
That vision was about innovation and creativity within the context of an historical tradition.
This is what youa€™ll see in a Sobota binding a€“ exceptional attention paid to context and relationships, using materials and technical means that do indeed function and last. He knew his work was valuable and documented it fastidiously a€“ confident that it would be last. There was, however, nothing about his nationalism that demeaned anybody elsea€™s traditions or origins.


That smallish incident within the parade of American fringe politics elicited an insanely violent level of suppression. Masaryk a€“ and the cute little girl with a bouquet of flowers, is my mother Eva, at the age of three. Schmidta€™s income from the federal mint far exceeded anybody elsea€™s in the extended family and supported a network of cars, cottages and rent-controlled flats. Schmidt, as he preferred to be called, was a man of conservative demeanor who preferred polite and reserved forms of speech and address. While visiting their unassuming engraver and extending my tourist visa 30 days at a time, I was quietly becoming qualified for life as a counterfeiter a€“ a vocation within which, one is set for life, however it may eventually turn out. Jan allowed several binders to have their way with it a€“ amo boxes for slipcases with shell casings for hinges and so forth.
This next incarnation of our exhibit in PlzeA? was all just a bit more prosaic and provincial. Is it the binding we consider and exhibit a€“ or is the binding there to conserve a text, which is ultimately the point? There are also binders to whom everything else is merely the text block, who care little if it is an offset trade edition or a book made by hand. The tales therein recorded reflected the accreted wisdom and wit of a people as they retold them across the highlands in modest log cottages after the harvest was in.
The way of working belongs to the Sobota vision I addressed earlier a€“ the honor and soul to be found in conscientiously made handcrafts. I dona€™t feel that accomplished or ready to assume their mantle and yet with every generation that is what must happen.
Gravels, with just the right flow of fresh water running up through stones of the right size are but a tiny portion of the riverbed.A  The salmon must struggle past cities and sewer pipes, farms and irrigation systems, dams and turbines, fishermen and waterfalls a€“ just to reach the streams of their birth. No, the Devil buys on the layaway plan: he trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers. Their members were mostly refugees from Haiti and Jamaica, with a sprinkling of local talent from the Bayou.
We managed to push the psycho bastards back over the river, but we couldn't take the West Bank away from them. I'm a man who knows violence, friend - I grew up with it, learned to use it on the football field, fought against it on the streets of Algiers. I walked to the seedy parking lot around the corner, already planning the moves in my head. The owner, Jean Ducheval, wasn't exactly a snitch, but he was one of my best sources of information on the Voodoo gangs.
He saw the truth: I was not a cop anymore, and I would do anything to get the scum that butchered Celie. At the end of a dead-end gravel road off of Bourresouse, I found a ramshackle hut that matched Papa Jean's description.
And a heartbeat - a monstrous heartbeat - like a thousand men pounding on the Petro drums….
When she killed the lights the second time, I pinched my eyes shut, tried to swallow the panic.
The cabby - a Haitian - looked like his eyes were going to bug out of his head when I told him where to turn. I was just drifting off to sleep when the door of the room exploded off its hinges and slammed against the opposite wall.
Something black and tarry spattered across the walls, the floor, the ceiling, like engine sludge. I could see taloned feet, tree-trunk legs, a body covered with hair that wriggled like carrion worms. My sweet Creole princess, chocolate skin wrapped in a gown of milky white, somber face staring down at me from the top of an ebony cliff. This widely beloved stamp was re-issued in 2000 and mother continues to receive philatelic fan mail to this day.
He died the day I was composing a colophon for the Spawned Salmon with words of praise for his lifea€™s work. By the time he holds the pink slip and consigns your sorry ass to Eternal Flame, you don't even know what happened, or how.
Made second-team all-American as a sophomore, had the NFL scouts drooling all over themselves.
They spread a crazy fever through the streets, more like cults than gangs: Secte Rouge, Cochon Gris, Vinbrindingue, Bissage. The Voodoo gangs packed a higher caliber of fear than I've ever seen - you could feel it crackle in the air all over Algiers, juicing your nerves. The stink of the place nearly made me gag - rotting chicken guts, fermented blood, other smells I couldn't name and didn't want to.
The doc said it was a miracle I hadn't bled to death, said it looked like the wound had been cauterized with a blowtorch. I figured it was the mambo's idea of a joke, but I parked across from the place and waited. By the time that grinning piece of shit realized he'd lit the wrong fuse, it was too late for all of us.
It looked like somebody had painted that whole room with the Cochon Gris and used Vixama's gizzard for a brush. I jerked the Beretta out from under the pillow and pointed it at the doorway, figuring the Gris had found me.
He trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers.
The engraving was masterfully done by Schmidta€™s long-dead colleague, Bohumil Heinz (1894-1940).
The state security apparatus was surely aware of my presence, but if they kept tabs on me, I never knew. These powerful verses are like a mirror.A If you will be brave enough to look honestly into that mirror, you will find that Paul lists fifteen powerfulA points about the love of God and how it behaves.
Figured I'd go hardship after my junior year, pick up a cool million in signing bonuses, maybe more. God, she was one fine Creole woman - skin as smooth and sweet as milk chocolate, eyes as wet and wide as Lake Pontchartrain. The rest is lost in fog, except for glimpses that sometimes leap out of the darkness and rip another chunk out of my soul before I can kick them back into the shadows. I also knew he had a punk named Ti' Joe in one of the cages, a street soldier for the Cochon Gris. Teddy gave me a spare key to his place and fumbled through a few awkward words of sympathy before he made his escape.
The midday sun beat down so fierce that it boiled clouds of vapor out of the steamy marsh beyond the graveyard… but that place still made me shiver, friend. It was huge and shapeless and impossibly black - a hole torn out of the daylight straight into the bottom of a Bayou swamp. I slipped out the side exit, tossed the suitcase in the trunk of the Buick, and got out of there as fast as I could. I propped my head on a pillow that smelled like somebody’s old socks and planned my getaway. Something slithered through the doorway where the mambo had been: a featureless blob, black on black.
Everything is just so wonderful and everybody so creative, but suspending judgment long enough to actually look at some artwork and then giving it a chance isna€™t so bankrupt, is it? Human body parts are again flying and the Baron is at his best defeating Turks and evading friendly fire from buffoonish generals.
Farmers would occasionally find their possessions and take them as souvenirs, unaware that the last Indians still lived in their midst. Damn the cost; ita€™s who we are and the last material vestiges of soulful encounters with our elders a€“ onea€™s whose stories are slipping inexorably away, thinned by each passing year and generation. Their kids were grown and they were by then slipping into that last, reflective phase of life a€“ done competing.
Then that lard-ass hillbilly tackle blind-sides me in the Georgia game, and my knee is gone.
I played hard and clean, never touched a payoff… but if the rules got in the way of a good bust, I bent them. They even stirred things up in the Quarter… and the Mayor won't stand for anybody screwing with the tourists.
Nothing obvious… but good vice cops develop an instinct for trouble, or they become dead vice cops. A street cop sees so much human ugliness that the outer layer of his skin hardens into this armor-plated shell that shields him from the madness he has to wade through every day. I'd broken three of his ribs, shattered his right arm in two places, turned that mocking grin into bloody mush. I sat there with my head in my hands, afraid to move… afraid that I would blow away like smoke. I dug around in the trunk of the Buick and pulled out the Beretta hidden in the spare tire.
He was the blackest black man I’ve ever seen, maybe because I always saw him in baggy white pants, a baggy white pullover, and a battered white fedora.
Weird symbols littered the walls, along with newspaper photos of ritual gang murders clipped from the Times-Picayune: Mama Lucille’s shrine to mayhem, New Orleans style. I just wanted out of there, just wanted to put some miles between me and Mama Lucille's Voodoo Kitchen. The muffled glow of street lamps streamed through the curtains, filled the room with ugly shadows.
I had this nightmare vision of my own bloody arm lunging out of the darkness to strangle me, but the place was deserted.
A couple of other punks sat behind what looked like an embalming table, counting out stacks of hundred dollar bills from a leather suitcase. The last thing I noticed was the embalming table, the leather suitcase filled with more cash than I would earn in a lifetime. I couldn't go home, couldn't go to Teddy's - I didn't want to go anyplace the cops or the Gris might find me. Mama Lucille stood there, wearing the same dirty black dress, leering at me like a sooty skull. I stared into a hole chewed through the skin of the world I knew into a shadow world where demons prowl the savage jungles hunting for wayward souls, where dark magic falls from the sky like poisoned rain. She has a contract with the Secte Rouge to take out the Gris; to take out all the competition, eventually. These scraps turned out to be a deck of medieval playing cards - the second oldest such cards known.
A book is so much more than the sum of its parts a€“ and yet each of us tends to have our own bailiwick in which we shine and to which we look first. Ti' Joe had a private cell, because the Voodoo punks scared the shit out of the regular low-lifes.


On the streets they say the Voodoo punks are immune to fear, but I saw terror in Ti' Joe's eyes. A short, plump mulatto woman with coarse gray hair and a dirty, sweat-stained black dress opened it. I glanced down at the place where I could feel my phantom arm resting on the bed, burning with invisible fire. I tightened my grip on the Beretta and slipped across the street, followed the casket delivery boys through the side entrance. I drove around until I found a crumbling flophouse between a strip joint and a Cajun diner on Ascon. What's left will drip down through that black tunnel into the world he sees in nightmares… into a place he doesn't ever want to be. Maybe there's still time for you to buy it back the same way: with one tiny act of penance at a time. These plates have been inked and wiped by hand, employing methods that woulda€™ve been familiar to Rembrandt. I stuck it in my pocket and steered into the crush of traffic crawling across the bridge into Algiers. Papa Jean was one of the good guys in Algiers: always helping the ones who needed help the most, trying to keep the kids out of trouble. A casket that size could probably hold a hundred kilos of junk, maybe more, worth a king's ransom on the streets.
I saw every nightmare that had ever devoured my sleep - my private horde of horrors snarling and slobbering at the gates of their unnatural habitat. The Voodoo gangs have some nasty magic of their own, but they never think to use it on a crippled ex-cop who can't do shit. They crashed with my wife Jana and me in Kalamazoo, while taking the a€?orientation coursea€?nearby. I can confidently report back to my English reader, that Jan would only grow in stature for you, if you could have fully understood the subtlety of his thoughts in his own maternal tongue. A lot of the boys at the Precinct House bought into it, especially the ones who grew up around the Bayou. The righteous part of Lucius Freeman - the part that laughed at Teddy's lame jokes, that slid a few bucks to homeless bums instead of busting them, that made sweet love to his sweet woman after a fourteen-hour shift when he was almost too tired to move - that part just spilled out of the wreckage and turned to dust. The stink of him… denim marinated in sweat, like the fur of some sickly animal, wrapped in the ghostly scent of ganja. I couldn't go home - couldn't sleep in that house ever again - so Teddy took me in at his place. They had that crazy, invincible glow you see on a junkie's face when he's dropped some PCP. The crematorium would give the Gris an easy way to dispose of enemies - the parts they didn't eat.
If I could waste Vixama - the mastermind behind most of the horror in Algiers - that would be revenge enough. Before they know different, they wind up looking like a spilled vat of bloody gumbo - Mama's special recipe. Perhaps right for those who shouldna€™t have sharp objects, for fear of hurting themselves.
That show was purchased whole by Special Collections at Western Michigan University and constitutes the largest collection of Sobota bindings and the most complete archive of my work. You could say thatA agape is a love that isna€™t based on response but on a decision to keep on loving, regardless of a recipienta€™s response or lack of response.
New Orleans doesn't just sing, friend: it jitters and jives and wails like a wild animal that can't be caged.
That night, I huddled on Teddy's lumpy couch and suffered through nightmares that refused to end… nightmares that would never end. I paid for the room with a twenty, pretended not to notice while the clerk stared at my vacant sleeve. Few people would have cast a second glance at that glued-up mess of moldering old papers before pitching it, nor would they have recognized what they had in hand or known how to restore or sell it.
The siren in my head screaming now, but my heart thumping louder, pounding out one frantic thought. The Cochon Gris had stolen everything: my wife and my job, the two things I loved in this world.
I felt, I heard the brittle crack of bone, the sharp twang of snapping sinews, the meaty rip of muscle tearing like soggy paper. I figured I'd stop by the house in the morning and pick up my passport, then take a drive out to Moisant and catch a flight to Mexico City. She laughed while it crushed the life out of her, cackled while it plucked off her arms and legs like the wings off a mutant moth.
The stolen arm of the loa wrapped me in a tentacle of fire, lifted me above the bed, hurled me across the room. These folks were a profound blessing to a family facing some truly rough sailing a€“ a Godsend.
Schmidt had worked was signed with warm dedications to him and thus worth real money to collectors. He wanted to see the printmaker in me come to full fruition and I wanted to be worthy of his attentions.
The family has dwelled within sight of the seats of power, pushing copper plates through a press and outlived the Hapsburg Monarchy, First Republic, Nazis and Communists. The intact packages were still there on their shelves, all duly graded, labeled and priced, awaiting an owner who was never to return.
Back home, their Czech neighbors would have envied them and accused them of theft or worse, but people here seemed to be pleased as punch to see them prosper a€“ genuinely happy for them.
Those items too, kept trickling out the door, until there came a sad, sad day, when the golden eggs were all gone.
They bashfully admitted their foolishness and went back to making beautiful books a€“ and their American friends were so relieved to see them regain their sanity.
You take time to grieve and then pick yourself up by your bootstraps (by God a€“ get a grip) and get on with it (Rome wasna€™t built in a day you know).
StrejA?ek was still working, but it was all coming to an inevitable end, as he grew shaky of hand and hard of seeing. The wordA makros may indicate something that is long, distant, far, remote, or of long duration. Enriched by my days of being nurtured by Prague, Matkou MA›st (Mother of Cities), I moved on to meet my destiny with art. It can be translated as the words forbearance and patience.A The wordA makrothumia (a€?longsufferinga€?) is like a candle that has a very long wick.
It is readyA to forbear and patiently wait until a certain person finally comes around, makes progress, changes, or hears what you are trying to communicateA or teach him.
In fact, the harder the fight and the longer the struggle, the more committedA agape love becomes. Like a candle with an endless wick, it just keeps burning and burning and burning, for it never knows how to quit. This,A of course, is contrary to human nature, which says, a€?Ia€™m sick and tired of waiting and believing.
In other words, God has magnificently bestowed on you sufficient love to be longsuffering in any relationship or situation.A Goda€™s love has literally been poured forth, dispensed, and shed abroad in your heart.
It supernaturally becomes stronger and more committedA the longer it takes to get through to the heart of the one who is loved. Instead,A agape makes you want to bend over backwards to become what others need you to be for them! Thus, the word a€?kinda€? portraysA a willingness to serve and to change in order to meet the needs of others.
Instead, it is always reaching out, thinking and focusing primarily on theA needs of others. This is a person so bent on getting his own way that he is willing to sacrifice anything or anyone to get it.
A  I learned something from every man I met or exchanged emails with, and Lou taught me a few words in Spanish.A  Ole! He is so consumed with himself thatA he doesna€™t ever think of the needs or desires of others.
You see, real agape love doesna€™t think of itself first but is always looking outward, thinking of the other person rather than itself. Now you must look into Goda€™s a€?mirrora€? and see what it tells you about your own life today. Are you more focused on people around you than on yourself?A If your answer is yes to these questions, then praise God for the great growth and spiritual maturity you have gained in your life.
I realizeA that Ia€™ve allowed myself to get clogged up with my own self-interests far too often.
I realize that the only way I canA become this selfless is to yield to the Holy Spirit so He can do a deep work in my life. I am so concerned about the welfare of others that one of myA chief priorities in life is to become everything I need to be to meet their needs. Although God has given me my ownA dreams and desires, I never neglect to help others achieve their dreams and aspirations asA well. Can you say that you are longsuffering and patient with others, or would you have to admit that you tend to be short-tempered and quick to a€?blow your topa€? when other people dona€™t do exactly what you expected them to do?A 2. Can you say that you are compliant to the needs of those around you, or would you have to say you are continually demanding that others meet your needs? We can take a little walk, maybe get our feet wet, and then lie on a blanket and listen to the waves. I do the same thing myself, when the mood strikes.A  And how about this for being an "in tune with women" kinda guy?A  A few days after I had ordered myself 2 new green dresses and several in black to add to my collection from a mail order company named Newport News, he sent an email asking:A  "So, what are you wearing right now? A  For Christ Sake!!A  How about saving the Taxpayers a buck?A  In addition to that $6 million you've already blown by hovering and covering me, and scheduling a proper Face to Base meeting in your office; at my convenience? Dramatic, but no drama.A  Short black skirt, or long black dress?A  Heels or boots?A  Camo, or commando?
Until then, as in the end,there is much more to come.A A A  Once Upon a Time, a little mushroom popped through the moss covered ground of the Southeast Alaska Rainforest.
Grant, Attorney at Law, Juneau, AK From Wedding Bells to Tales to Tell: The Affidavit of Eric William Swanson, my former spouse AFFIDAVIT OF SHANNON MARIE MCCORMICK, My Former Best Friend THE AFFIDAVIT OF VALERIE BRITTINA ROSE, My daughter, aged 21 THE BEAGLE BRAYS! HELL'S BELLS: THE TELLS OF THE ELVES RING LOUD AND CLEAR IDENTITY THEFT, MISINFORMATION, AND THE GETTING THE INFAMOUS RUNAROUND Double Entendre and DoubleSpeak, Innuendos and Intimidation, Coercion v Common Sense, Komply (with a K) v Knowledge = DDIICCKK; Who's Gunna Call it a Draw?



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Comments

  • Reksane, 14.09.2015 at 15:14:59

    For the breakup (I didn't give her the hole this sort of assist was accessible.
  • K_I_L_L_E_R_0, 14.09.2015 at 12:32:57

    Messages, when used rigorously can resolve content.