The Snows Of Disbelief The Fiction Of Our Times

Virgos have a nervous attention to detail. They made the cover of the Car Carma book. They'd be slamming their brakes on to avoid hitting a squirrel, but cause a 10 car pile-up.

It doesn't work that way. Wish to argue? I can state 50 cases of unhappy middle-management 40-somethings who are excessively angry at their shortcomings, which are a byproduct of spending 20 years being normal.




In more recent times in Leicestershire in England in 2012, a short but powerful hailstorm saw hundreds of car owners lodging claims, some within five minutes of the sky exploding. Many cars had windscreen damage, broken mirrors and the roof of many cars took on a dimpled look. Dozens of people claimed their car was a write-off. No collision with a pole or another car. No stolen or burnt-out vehicles in sight. Many were unrecognizable as the fury of the hailstones and even shards or ice smashed cars beyond recognition; a car insurance company's nightmare.

My sister was driving on a country road with her cruise control set. As she rounded a bend, her tires caught a puddle. The tires hydroplaned and the car sped up, causing her to lose control and fly off the road. When she landed, she miraculously only had a few bruises, but she had to make a hysterical phone call to our dad to let him know her car was totaled.

The 16th hole is the best offering of the track. There's nothing fancy about it, measuring a meager 370 yards. What makes it such a great hole is the hugely elevated tee box, allowing us common folk to swing out of our shoes in an attempt to carry the green in one. Of course, there's a risk factor as well, with cars zipping by on highway 36 just a slice away. In an attempt to avoid a multi-traffic pile up, Hansard bailed right, then flubbed his approach. With 15 feet to a birdie and redemption, things were looking promising for a tight finish. Things went south quickly when Hans scrambled up a par while I three-rolled for a bogey. Two down with two to play, and my opportunity to finally break out of a losing slump was quickly beginning to fade.

One evening, I set up the Ouija board. It did not come with any instructions. There was simply a board and a little piece with a viewing window called a planchette. According to the picture, each person is supposed to lightly place their fingers on this planchette and allow it to move where it will across a board that has all 26 letters, the numbers 0-9, the words yes and no, and the word good-bye. I had a pad of paper nearby and a pen. As lightly as I could, I placed my fingers on the planchette. I could indeed feel a force moving the planchette. At times, the planchette shot all over the board; however, I never could get any of the letters to form words. I was simply getting nonsense words instead.

It was a rhetorical question and yet it begged for hope. I was trance-like, amazed that I would be so favored as to have this man pour out his story to me. My whole vision of TellingTouch, its mission, came crawling up my back. "These are the real stories of life--these are the Tellings--this is why you have created TellingTouch. These stories need to be heard." I was listening with my soul now. I stared at Ron. I wanted to cry. bìa sổ wanted to thank him for his taking time to tell me his story. I wanted to make it all better, but I couldn't. I could only embrace this tremendous compassion and let it settle in my soul.