“The Rules Have Changed Today
I Have No Place to Stay
The Lord Has Flown Away...
My Tears, Have Come and Gone
Oh My Lord, I Have to Roam
I Have No Home! I Have No Home.”
Time Has Come Today -The Chambers Brothers

CROSSING ZION 

- by Keith M Johnson

It gets interesting when you start talking about “home” because Betty is from a spot on the coast of Washington where her people hunted whales, fished, dug clams, and gathered plants for the past 2000 or so years. She can show you the exact spot on the beach where her grandmother taught her to weave cedar baskets. You can walk along the rocky shores and sea stacks of the Pacific Ocean where she ran as a child to get away from her dad. This log is where she sat with her grandfather and talked about life and love. And then there’s me. I am part Finn, Swiss and everything else European. I’d like to say I’m part Italian, to give myself a sexier ring, but it’s probably not true. Maybe I’m a bit Greek: kind of chiseled from the statue of David…yes…that’s it. I get Sophocles’s tragedies like he was one of those smart dudes I taught at the Super Max. But the truth is, my dad’s father came to Washington State to log trees, and if he hadn’t drank himself to death, he probably would have logged every tree his crew could get their saws on. There’d be nothing left of Washington’s old growth. It would be a barren wasteland of spindly third growth junk trees. My grandpa was a tough man. A good guy. He just liked booze more than his kids and wife. I met him once. He came out of his dark cave to sign a card for my dad. It was Christmas. His hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t hold the pen steady, so he just signed the card “X.” He smelled of bacon grease, body odor, and booze. The home was a tiny log cabin stacked full of junk. I was probably five at the time. It is my only memory of the man who raised my dad. I do remember his red eyes were moist and held a sorrow I’ve come to know too well. He died in his early fifties. Booze and failure killed him.

The point of this stirring preamble being: when it comes to finding a home, I’m wide open. I doubt there’s a place on earth where I would walk up and say, “Yes…this is where I come from. Bury me here.” Kent, Washington? When I was a boy 13,000 people lived there. We were a cow town on the outskirts of the giant metropolis of Seattle (population 500,000). Now Kent looks like any other place along the overpopulated I-5 corridor…box stores, Dollar Stores, car dealers, and strip malls. As the saying goes, “home is where the heart is,” and to be frank, my heart beats calmly next to Betty’s skin. As I contemplate my future as an unknown writer trying to find an audience who gets the joke, I keep thinking maybe some day I’ll stumble into a town and go, “Let’s move here…and how about we rent first.” But then the phone rings and my youngest grand child is breathing loudly, waiting for me to say, “Hey! What’s going on?” The next morning Betty calls me all sleepy and starts telling me about her day on the reservation. My polar opposite, she has three things she wants to get done before night fall. I think fifty things done before noon would make up a somewhat normal day. If I am a certifiable type A, she is the quintessential type B. The problem is, I cannot think of a home anywhere on the planet without her…and if home is some spot near the grandkids, dark, gray, rain soaked, bone chilling with only some potatoes and canned salmon to live on, so be it. I’ve had my palaces without a lover in my arms. I’ve had the glory of championships without someone in my bed to share my happiness. I’ve opened bills alone. I’ve celebrated victories alone. There is no joy when the lights go out and you have no one to snuggle up to. Yes, I can live the Spartan life, the warrior life. I can live in a cave or a castle…it’s all the same without love. I’ve walked in some of the world’s finest cathedrals, castles, and hotels and I’ve walked the stark corridors of the Super Max, entered the cold pods of the damned and forgotten…and in each and every one of those “homes” the men who had someone to love and care about, were the happiest of the earth’s chosen souls.

 —  Keith Johnson at Arco, Lago di Garda, Italia.

Rina Swentzell, 1939-2015:

Daughter says Santa Clara artist, activist fought for all but put family first - The Santa Fe New Mexican: Features



An amazing lady. Artist, architect and loving matriarch passes, leaving a stirring legacy.



Rina Swentzell, 1939-2015: Daughter says Santa Clara artist, activist fought for all but put family first - The Santa Fe New Mexican: Features

Disclosure, casting out the shadows - throws light on mind health.

isbn 9788792632623

Denmark October 30, 2015— for immediate release:

Australian life coach and radio producer, Jacqui Chaplin, discloses secrets that society would rather keep hidden: the ups and downs of living with mental ill health.

'Disclosure casting out the shadows' is an upbeat and candid exposure of bipolar experiences and the challenges of finding help in a world reluctant to acknowledge mental illness.

Jacqui Chaplin, life coach & radio presenter, wrote 'Disclosure casting out the shadows' along with the complimentary guide: 'strategies for mind health resilience' to help raise awareness and to offer real support to those among us who find themselves 'mental-health challenged'. 

She says:

“Mental illness does not discriminate. It affects all sizes and shapes, all religions and nationalities. And in the face of mental and mood disorder, I want people to know there is a way through and there is hope.”

Chaplin feels that the more people willing to talk openly about their experiences with mental health the better for all of society, because in spite of our modern technology still too many lives are lost through lack of understanding or knowledge of where and how to find help. “It's time for humanity to move into greater understanding, deeper compassion and genuine acceptance of the impact of lived experiences with mind-health challenges.”

Disclosure casting out the shadows will launch in Melbourne Australia on November 7^th and is available world wide, retailing at £17.99 and $29.99 AUD 29.99 Pre-order on Amazon or from all good book stores.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jacqui Chaplin is an advocate of speaking openly about mind health matters and as an executive and corporate coach has helped many find their potential. Chaplin produces and hosts the radio program, ‘But I Feel Good’ She is married and lives in Melbourne.

ABOUT Mill House publishers

Mill House is a traditional English publisher established in Denmark presenting general fiction, non-fiction self-help and inspirational material of a positive nature. The administration is carried out in the UK. http://www.millhouse-publishers.com

media contact: Chris Humphrey orders@cambridgescholars.com

Established and new titles from Whyte Tracks are now available online and in bookshops

Whyte Tracks Books

Book Launch, Bill and a Pearl, by Keith Johnson

One hella book launch.
My publisher, whose hard-to-pronounce middle and last name shall remain unmentioned, (because I can’t spell it) claimed this book selling stuff would be easy. She put it this way: ". . when you've spent enough years writing and revising three or four hilarious books and you're fed up with being completely broke, spiritually bankrupt, and have the manuscripts darned near perfect, just send them to me and I’ll do the rest." 
So my first book "Crossing Zion" was published, copies were printed, and a book launch planned. A zillion face book postings were posted   and even the Queen of England was invited to the launch. (She graciously declined, citing the influenza or was it cramps. Between you and me…this is why I love good people from the UK. They are so kind while holding back the truth when they know it will only hurt to hear.)

The event was shaping up for disaster right at the off when it turned out the events coordinator forgot to order the books which the publisher begged him to take at the last minute and although they did arrive by overnight courier the day before the event, said coordinator opted out of meeting me, fleeing at the last minute to Portland for a Publisher’s convention. The publicity agent did however turn up along with family friends and a few strangers . . word has it the Queen even made an appearance, which galled me to no end, given she dumped my invite citing a lower GI disturbance.

Five minutes before the show, I was standing with one friend who still claims me part of his inner circle, discussing Sherpas, sex on Everest and all that bravado stuff, wondering to myself when my daughter and grandkids would get here so at least I could tell my parents five people showed up. But then seconds before Robert, the sub-event manager got ready to introduce me, in walked a wild collection of local misfits and quasi-intellectuals, none appearing to be on steroids, all of them fit, few of them wealthy, and most of them hoping I would be on my game to actually present this book.

I was, in fact, ramping it up until my first ever crush, Christine, showed up, unannounced, and let the whole room know that I used to write her vain-glorious love letters and that the smart kid who wrote them sounded just like the stooping author sounds today. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or kindly ask her to leave. After all, my wife was there and all we needed was a brawl under that nagging full moon. After thinking about it for a split second I decided having eight people in attendance was better than seven, so I turned this naked exposè into a compliment, announcing to the crowd, how keeping one’s youth was a great way to avoid prostrate issues at my ripe old age. Luckily the comment went right over my grandchildren’s heads… Chris then mentioned she’d kept all the love letters and romance stories I’d written at age fifteen just in case I ever became somebody. Naturally I assured her, much as I did at fifteen, that I’d get right on to becoming somebody worth knowing real soon.

Then before I could find my wife to apologize for writing love letters to another pretty woman long before she was born, a cast straight out of a romance sit-com walked through the door wondering if they were in the right place. I waved a welcoming hand in the air to let the old friends I hadn’t seen since I worked in the prison system of New Mexico know, that yes, the gray haired, frazzled old ghost was, in fact, me…and not to be afraid! They didn’t seem to know who I was! So I recounted a few small stories about those fun times being broke and scrounging about for anything to get me through hard times. Of course, this conjured up memories of a formerly handsome reservation employee walking about like a pan handler, seeking donations for his meager lifestyle, always planning the next big thing, always talking like I was on the verge of becoming a legend they’d actually want to know.
Suddenly I almost choked up at the sight of Bill the jewelry store owner walking in, also looking lost. In fact, I grabbed him, spun him around like a wind up toy and showed him off to the crowd. “This man…my god…I owe my marriage to this man!” I shouted. No one knew what I was talking about, of course, so I was compelled to share my love story as I walked back to the podium and the two glasses of ice water Robert had set down so carefully.

It was a dark stormy night and I was in my car. There were lots of Christmas ornaments on street poles because there were just four shopping days left til Christmas. Driving along I realized I now had a girl friend and hadn't bought her a gift. So I called the tribal leader and asked him what you buy a significant other that you actually care about. He said jewelry. I didn’t tell him what I am telling you, dear reader, but my new girl friend had told me emphatically, that whatever I did for Christmas, I must never buy her jewelry. Especially gold. So here was the tribal chief telling me to buy her jewelry or go home. Then he said to go to this little shop in Fairhaven and talk to a nice man named Bill.
"Tell Bill I sent you. He’s a good man."
So I did. I parked in front of the tiny store and walked on in, asking for Bill. He was the only one in the store so I told him tribal chief Daryl, had sent me. Bill came around the desk, walked over to a case and asked me if my gal like pearls. I said I didn't know. He said most women like pearls. I said something like most women avoid me. From there he lifted the glass lid and presented a couple of pearls on gold strands. One was rather large and struck me as being similar to Betty’s crooked front tooth. I like that one I said. Do you have earrings to match? He did and within ten minutes I had my Christmas present sealed and wrapped.

Two days later we were at my parent’s home. It was the first time they met Betty and wasn’t life great? We unwrapped presents and I made a big deal of making sure she saved the best for last. Excited as a little kid, I watched her unwrap the best present I’d ever bought that wasn’t on a clearance sale. She popped open the box, muttering something to herself, and then her face froze. The reaction to the gift – as she handed it off to my mom to see -- remained one of calm, but utter dismay. I felt my insides flush and excused myself to visit the men’s room. She wasn’t kidding. No jewelry. She hated it. I had offended her Indian spirituality. Maybe she thought I was making fun of her crooked tooth! I would take back the presents and give them to my daughters…O Jesus…hadn’t the white man been taking back things from the Indians for three hundred years!? I found myself going slowly insane while acting like all was well in front of my parents at Christmas…a fairly familiar diatribe.

Eventually, the painful evening ended with a quick brushing of the teeth and a heading off to respective beds. I had ruined everything. This was the end. I couldn’t do the most basic thing: buy your lover a nice gift at Christmas.
Betty was already there, waiting for me. I crawled in, expecting another Indigenous tongue lashing, but instead she just looked at me. I said I was sorry she didn’t like the gift.
"What are you talking about?" she said.
"You acted like you hated it."
"No. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was going to cry in front of your parents and I froze."
"What do you mean?"

And this was the story she told me:
"When I was a little girl, maybe ten, we were cleaning muscles on the beach near Ozette. I kept finding the best pearls and my grandpa told me the story about how pearls are the good stuff that come from the muscle going through challenges, abuse, beatings, and hard times. Then I said to him, 'well, one day my true love will bring me a pearl the size of my tooth, and I won’t even have to ask him. He will just do it. That is how I will know he is the one'."
Her eyes filled with tears as she told me. Our faces were so close our noses touched and I felt the tears cross my face. I held her as she cried, realizing, Bill had sealed my fate. He was part of this. The pearl had been there waiting for me to show up. It was all his fault.

And now he was here at my book launch to remind me of those wonderful days, not that long ago, when I would have given anything to be stuck in a traffic jam with Betty so we could spend more time together. When being next to her anywhere, was the greatest feeling of my life…every word so important, every touch the best of my life…every thought she shared entering my heart and sealing the lid tighter. Seeing Bill again let me know I had some catching up to do, with him, with Betty, with myself.  Love is so important.
Without it book launches are a tomb. Fame is pointless. Fortune, the gleam for someone else. Because without a best friend what’s the point of going through what it took to earn the tears?

Launching CROSSING ZION at Village Books, Bellingham

CROSSING ZION a Man-Tale in three acts
Funniest depressing book ever!

Author mountain guide and teacher, Keith Johnson

Weaving from the fog of secrecy

Deciphering the hidden messages
in Old Norse Myths

The Seed of Yggdrasil - deciphering the hidden messages in Old Norse Myths by Maria Kvilhaug, is a book long awaited by Mythology fans, Pagans seeking basis for ritual, and by the general academic historical society interested in the roots of Northern and Western culture.

'1643 AD: The bishop of Iceland, Brynjolv Sveinsson, received an ancient leather manuscript already 500 years old. It had been hidden away for hundreds of years, from the Church authorities. Brynjolv realized that a long lost ancestral treasure had been recovered. Ancient legends and myths speak out from the leathery pages through the almost forgotten language of poetical metaphors.'

This is a fresh and exciting view on a very original subject and an authoritative peeling back of the layers of secrecy and time.

In her first dissertation The Lady with the Mead, Kvilhaug explored the fundamental thematic structure of several Edda poems rendering what could only be explained as a Pagan initiation ritual.

Such a discovery challenges any notion held by some critics that the Old Norse myths simply reflect the time in which they were written down, which was well after Christianity was introduced.
The discovery of the ritual structure of the myths and the detailed accounts of the various stages of the ritual experience, strongly suggests that the myths do in fact reflect Pagan religious practices.
Due out in Autumn, 2012, this much awaited book can be pre-ordered now through Amazon

- Whyte Tracks ApS, Denmark

Author Maria Kvilhaug

 M Kvilhaug talks about THE SEED OF YGGDRASIL

Mystery in land of the long white fog.

Fiction Fog: a viking saga down under.

'...the standard gothic novel elements are twisted in unexpected ways by the New Zealand setting. An apparently fragile and naïve young heroine shows her Viking blood as she fights a modern-day villain and the draughty old mansion with ghostly noises helps her recover her past. Juxtaposing the exotic setting against familiar daily routines, Kat George creates a fascinating world.'

- The Chronicle, Copenhagen

Strange fragrance of the exotic Passion Magnolia lingers into Autumn, and haunts the pages of this saga set in a Danish immigrant town in New Zealand.

'When a tree native to the northern hemisphere is uprooted and transplanted in the south, adaptations to the new environment can result in strange genetic responses, such as found in the Passion Magnolia - a heavily fragrant, claret-red flower that blooms late into the summer, in New Zealand. A rare and exotic variety, examples occasionally may be discovered hidden away in river valleys at higher altitudes.

The same could be said of northerners emigrating south to settle in the mountains and secluded valleys of the Antipodes.'

 - Scent of Summer Magnolia

Kat George

‘Everyone else smelled like dust and sweat and the lanoline from the wool of the sheep, but Kathy smelled like the strange, red magnolia flowers in the hot summer air, down beside the river. Kathy smelled like magic.’  

About the author:
Kat George grew up on a farm run by three generations of Danish women in New Zealand. Leaving home at 16, she travelled the world, passing through cities and lives, collecting stories and picking up degrees in psychology and literature along the way. She has been rich and owned houses and fast cars, and has been poor, living on the street - then to resurrect once more as a journalist and author. George currently resides in northern europe and is studying runic scripts and early northern belief systems.