Book Review for “The Lost Symbol” by Dan Brown

(The Lost Symbol came out in 2009, but I found some issues to be pertinent today in this book review I wrote that year)

The previous 2 books that I’ve read by Dan Brown; “Angels & Demons” and “Da Vinci Code” were quite riveting and fast reads, but “The Lost Symbol” rivaled them.  In addition, Brown chose to write chapter after chapter as a type of sound-bite; a quickly changing scene to keep the attention of the reader.  That was very clever and it worked! The trade-off was character and scene development.  Even though we all know Langdon from the other books, people do grow and evolve.

Yet he portrayed Langdon very 2 dimensional and much the same. I got the sense he was really tired of this character and it showed in the writing.  This was by no means a visionary work, but it was revealing and fun to read.  Inquiring minds want to know!  When you open the book, read the fiction disclaimer and then read the FACT page.

There was an advantage of the setting being on home turf; Washington D.C.  As Americans, the revelation of the inner workings of our government is personal.  Indeed, many of our family members are Masons.  Many of our towns have “Masonic meeting halls”.  In my hometown, there was a “Masonic Temple”.  As a child I was taken by my Mother and Grandmother to many a community concert.  But chapter 82, page 304 was especially personal for me.

At the opening of the chapter was the 10,647 rank organ that my cousin, Wayne Dirksen played and built as Music Director for The Washington National Cathedral in real life.  His father founded the Freeport Organ Co. and taught him.  Wayne was the music presenter for the Cathedral.  Then as the characters proceeded into the Cathedral kitchen to reveal a very telling clue about “the pyramid”, I thought, “I wonder how many church suppers my relatives had in this hall and never imagined it would be the setting for revealing part of the secret about The Masons in a best-selling book?”  The Washington National Cathedral is a Masonic stronghold-including the altar of the church, and my family has roots there.

What strikes me after having read these three books is in “Angels and Demons”, Brown deals with the secrets of The Illuminati and the Catholic Church.  In “DaVinci Code” the antagonist power structure is The Catholic Church and finally, in “The Lost Symbol”-he deals with the secrets of The Masons, but they are protagonists and Protestant.  What do all of these institutions have in common?  They are male dominated with exclusive male membership.  Albeit, DaVinci Code “suggested” the existence of the sacred feminine, but what conclusive power did she have?  There was no real proof of her role.

For all the puzzle jumbling, blood, violence, and torture, there has never been a bigger scandal since the time of Christ than the absolute power vacuum of women in institutions of spiritual power.  There has never been such an insulting, blatant, patronizing lack of comment on the real mystery behind the reason for male dominance in these institutions.  In fact, the reason Dan Brown even HAS a story to write about, even HAS all these mounds of puzzles and symbols to decipher and secrets to root out is because the female has not been portrayed in the real light she holds in the evolution of spiritual power on this planet!

These books lean heavily on the “sacrifice model” to tell the story.  That is because they leave the female out. The Bible completely leaves the female out as an equal to the male.  And the Apostle Paul and Thomas Aquinas have a heyday denigrating her.  That being said, the reason the Catholics can continue to hold power in the world is because their focus remains on the person of Christ and the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, as well as revering Mary.  Yet they are the holdout for ordaining women.

For all the Universal ecumenism propounded by the Masons and some Protestants, what do they have to say about Christ?  Do they think that he was “just another Master” walking the planet or do they really believe, as suggested in the book, that we could each be like him with that level of healing power and love in our hearts? Not if they keep playing their sacrifice rituals over and over as shown in the book!

Love is yielding, not sacrifice.  It is the love that causes one to yield in order to teach a lesson, to further the cause, rather than resist; not sacrifice.  The concept of sacrifice is violent and male.  His death was not a sacrifice.  The sacrificial focus of all the Pagan religions is over.  Give Jesus some credit.  Most of the time, he did not yield.  Take one look at scripture and you’ll see how he laid into the Pharisees and Sadducees when they were wrong; but not at the end.  He yielded and it was heinous.  It was the most scandalous torture of an innocent man, not just on this planet, but in the Universe.  Will this planet ever live it down?

Maybe that’s why so many humans like to believe the cross is so beautiful and venerate it.  It’s a type of denial to try to cleanse it of what it REALLY was; abysmal.  It seems to me that by venerating it you also approve of the enacting of sacrifice.

Am I questioning Jesus decision to yield; no-of course not.  I do question the efficacy and intent of Christ to interpret it as a sacrifice.  He went knowingly and on purpose.  If it was a sacrifice, he was a martyr.  If he yielded, he was a Rabbi and a lover of humans, come to regain power over our planet and vanquish Lucifer.  He did accomplish that no matter how much Christians want to keep talking about him.  It’s finished!

I am grateful for every single speck of who he was, what he did, and what he said.  But I feel, as a follower, that his teaching should no longer be denigrated by organized religion with its pagan symbols and interpretations, much less sensationalized in books such as Dan Brown’s.  Power goes to the one who yields in love.  That is what Christ did.  Neither the Catholics, nor the Masons, nor the Protestants get it.  The hubris of the Masonic thinking has indeed crept into the Protestant church.  There is a huge misunderstanding here about what Christ actually taught.  And to boot, it’s not being taught by the Catholic or Protestant Church either.

Michelangelo portrays the mystery of this yielding in the astounding “Pieta”.  I’ve stared at that statue quite awhile to receive its deeper meaning.  I’ve thought about all I’ve read in Dan Brown’s books about religion, symbolism, the sacred feminine, antagonist/protagonist, and the real meaning of Christ’s death.

The message I received was the need for “balance”.  There needed to be balance brought to this planet between the male and the female.  As Christ’s body lay dead in the lap of Mary in the Michelangelos Sculpture, “Pieta”, I see him yielding to the sacred feminine, to Mother Spirit, to his Mother Mary in the hopes that with the release of his soul, she would come forth and help him bring balance to this troubled sphere.  Was that his core message?  So once again, the two shall become one.  He yielded his body to her, knowing that SHE was the author of his life, from which all life comes, in conjunction with The Father.  It is the great mystery yet to be unraveled, the great secret yet to be told on Planet Earth, the story that Dan Brown hasn’t told that underpins all spiritual institutions, all symbols, and all religions.  Maybe I’ll have to write a book then.

 

 

Prose; Publishing Joy

I feel like my baby is about to go off to college.

I’m about to publish my first book and it’s almost time to let it go,

No longer able to control where it goes in the ethers,

Out into the world, warts and all,

Fresh, innocent, never having smelled a book store (yeah right)

Never having gone through the digital or paper mill…

Does that hurt?

My memories, feelings, occurrences, family secrets, pictures,

losses, dates, intimacies, grandparents, babies lost, tears cried,

Oh my god!!!!  Why did I write this memoir????

Stop the presses!  I can’t do this!!!!

I can’t put all of the truths of my life out into the public for perusal and criticism!

Not that anyone will care…but my life has been interesting hasn’t it?

I wrote it so it sounded interesting….yes I did.

Why did I listen to my FRIEND????  She said, “Lisa, write a memoir”

after hearing me tell stories.

Well, what if no one ELSE is the least bit interested?

This is nail-biting territory if anyone reads it.

I seriously do have many mind-bender stories.

What if people think I’m nuts?

There’s no such thing as bad press.

I’m just…a little nervous I guess.

impublishingmymemoir

 

 

Prose; Between The Cracks

walking-on-a-piano

Between the cracks of the piano keys, where the quarter and eighth tones lie, invisible gems are to be found.

Whole tones (normal notes) have no business here…no one likes them… they just seem whole, they’re really broken; like a million notes in smudged ink all over the page.

I long for these sounds to break the cacophony around me.  Dissonance? They are consonant to me.  They fill my cup in a parched closet, old wood, dry and brittle, thirsting for moisture.  Dusty, unpopular, unseen, unheard by most human ears…

I love those places.  Ah…let me sleep there.

“Grand Opening Here”, I run the other way.  I’ll come in the middle of the night thank you-when no one is around but the ghost of my Grandpa, and maybe his friend with him.  I can write then. Dusty basements, hidden shops, in-between dimensions, cracks, and mortice hide the doorways.

I long for these places to break up the routine of my day. 

Little antique stores, old forgotten thrift stores where mom & pop still sit in the chair from 1926, gems are to be found.  Patina so thick you can taste the smell of it, musky, soil, brackish dark. Cobwebs everywhere-but it’s all new to me.

I’m looking, for…my friend…a part of my soul that is tragically invisible to the surface dwellers, so odd, so unexpected that it thrashes my back.  So impossible, so inconvenient, so much…so very good!

It feels eternally old and yet new to me; New to me because it doesn’t “fit” in my brain; in my plan.  My well ordered, hip, sharp, cerebral, sassy, punkish, cavalier brain brutishly, insensitively mocked your old stories, your tradition, your nostalgia, your mischief.  I’m not really laughing.  I just really, really like the texture of it all-and you.

It has been said, “Your heart is a fickle leader!”  Then I am the crumbs in the bottom of the toaster-like the host crumbs in “the cup”.  Drink me.  I am altogether undone.  So be it…

Move to the old that is new!

Take a leap…what seems old is new, what seems new is old.  What’s up is down??

It just is.

It aches to feel like a foreigner in my own planet…Always seeking a creative space that is misunderstood, mysterious, and forgotten.

Gorge on my grief and run for cover then…

Nothing is lacking; ever…all of it.  The devil is in the details they say.  His ears shriek when he hears quarter tones and eighth tones between the cracks; and time is no more.  When the notes become whole, he is undone.

2/14/10

 

 

Re-Program; Deportations

My blood was boiling on a rampage today about Trump ordering the ICE to deport people in five states until…

I remembered they called Obama the King of Deportation after he called for 3 million people to be deported.

It’s amazing how easy it is to find fault in your enemy and forget that an ally did exactly the same thing.

Why was I so biased?  Why did I forget Obama did that?

Why are humans so biased for one side against the other when most of the time, they do the same things?

stop_deportations_poster

Prose; Shadow

 

beautiful tree

I obscure my darkness to walk through life content, shadow feelings under the bed.

Convoluted darkness just below my navel only, my prescient dreams adumbrate what my body holds in, refusing to release its undulating grasp like a cranky child crying, needing attention and touch.

Male progenitor, emotional vampire and…ironically, my ally as a bridge to freedom in the face of neglectful, unfeeling, autocratic child-bearer.

Tremulous adolescence, when the course succor so needed is vacuous at best,

Cynical vexation felt so keenly in their insensitivity to my easily affected, young, psychic heart. They didn’t even know what the fuck psychic was because it wasn’t in the bible.

What could I have been?

What happy life could I have had if their crispy, mucous eyes had been open a crack?

That shadow feeling could spiral me down so quickly if I focused on it, so I only do it here

for release…because it’s bullshit, and my life is not bullshit, so I’m not filling it with that.

What is more helical bullshit that parental ignorance with an innocent, lovely child born in light and returning to light?

How twisted and contorted can adults get following societies rules, books, beliefs, and materialistic hysteria when they have in front of them a free soul, their child, needing only love by degrees, free roam by yards, food by weight and expression without limit?

The shadow of light is a contrast as a lesson

I’m using it to soar to the heights,

To rip asunder familial right to the soul of a child.

No more,

Whether in love or delusion

each child belongs to themselves only.

Just as roots do not dictate how far, wide and what direction a tree will grow,

so too, shadow roots deep below the ground only hold it in place while the wind, sky, and sun call us ever higher to dance with all of life above ground, storm and calm, for as long as we wish to live.

I hail from you but I am not you.

Feb. 8, 2017, Yellow 13 Warrior

 

Prose; Skin

pick a tomato

The shell of a turtle, a carapace, guards your continuance of electric water, straight to your brain, pulls your vibration down in by degrees.

Your skin like a husk full of ridges on corn smells sweet,

hard to pull off at the bottom, tassles so soft on my face, the smell of earth.

Your arm was warm and pleasant as the first tomato of summer in my hungry hand.

Let me bite into that luscious fruit, so sweet and tangy

 or a mango stream of juice down my chin.

I’m distracted, clement smells from your back

Why are so sweet yet so smart and severe?

No end to touch makes my breathing peaceful.

I feel happy…oh god I’m doomed.

Indeed, it only lasted one day and you ripped your skin from me again.

At least you can’t take the memory from me.

Words can never erase actions like skin can never cover feelings.

 

Re-Program; Does Resistance Work?

frog

I might be digging into the oracles foundation for 10,000 years.

No, wait, 20,000 years…or

How old are the human species?

6 million years, our ancestors-approximate. 200,000 years, modern humans

Well, the earth is…4.5 billion years old and we have the DNA from every living thing in our cells that ALLOWED itself to evolve on the Earth before we did.

Every living thing, every plant, worm, insect, animal, and cell that came before us flowed with the soil, the water, the mud, the detritus, the sludge, the fire, and ice…it just….was.

and it allowed itself to be on the earth, working synergistically together, no wrangling or fists, it allowed itself to be what it was because it didn’t have a mirror…to EXAMINE….and think…”What…do….I….think?”

We are a moaning, creaking tower of human thinking.  Towering human intellects decide that resistance is the most constructive course and I’m on the wrong side of the pond or the field if I see it differently.

Maybe human thinking is overrated if it cannot LET the living thing NEXT TO IT JUST BE WHAT IT IS.  These Red people are just confused.  They don’t understand.  Wow, how unacceptable and new for a human being to not understand.  They are evil because they are scared and don’t understand?  You’ve never been scared and not understood something? You’re a THINKER and you always understand everything!

Not everybody thinks all the time.  Some people feel, sense, and intuit all the time. People do different things.

Can I please, just be a blade of grass, or a quiescent pool diving deep because I now have gills?

I’ve decided it makes more sense to devolve so I can stop thinking.

When I think, then I decide to resist…breathing, seeing, feeling, intuiting, knowing-everything that ALLOWED NATURE and it’s cooperation to harmonize before I existed, my thinking is just better.  Not.

Because human beings think so much they’ve stopped feeling so much and knowing so much so that now they are this thing call civilized and think they’ll do civil disobedience to procrastinate jumping into the crystal water and having fun, knowing what they want…

they want their gills back.

My oracle said, “Human resistance works!  Look at this example”  And when I go back millions of years to the beginning of evolution, I was able to take a nap in peace next to a frog.

(The frog is an ancient species, far older than humans, as are many animals and plants.)

 

Prose; Gray Day

gray day.jpg

The sky is much grayer lack of light and still prayer.

Tree bark darker wet mud dragged upstairs.

No grayer will be in that Michigan sky, mournful woes sad goodbyes.

Sad goodbyes to the bright sun that shocks eyes in May,

It appears a huge orb high in the sky.

We say “What’s that big orange disc by day?”

Who hides behind clouds that we hate.

Oh please dear sun, we beg for your warmth,

We can’t take one more grate of this fate.

My son says, “I don’t know what is better, gray sky or the snow?”,

His smug face looks at me with a smirk.

He’s eighteen and he’s jibbing his mother so low

But he’s serious, he prefers this to hurt,

The hurt of the sun burning down on his face shining wonderful light in his eyes

He was born in a snowbank at the end of this month

Eighteen short years as I rank.

I’ll forgive him this time as there won’t be much more

Of his smart-alec ways to imbibe

He’s going away, out my front door

And that’s when my heart may just die.

Jan. 30, 2017

 

 

Prose; My Only Child Turns Eighteen Today

He went from twenty inches long to 70 inches long.  Something or someone pulled him into this big, strapping, broad-shouldered, sweet, brilliant man.

Well, legally he’s a man, but now he needs to launch out into this crazy mess of humans bumping around, unaware of how their thoughts and feelings create their life.  He is a calm, kind soul so he won’t be skinning anyone alive, but he does tend to be honest in a very charitable manner so most people won’t get off scot-free from his observations.

ALEX

The day of your birth, a crisp, cold, crystal day

In my memory, eighteen years ago holds sway

Who do I value most of all?

It’s you my son so big and tall

May your life have adventures that take your breath

May you jump in feet first, unafraid of death

I know that’s odd for a mother to say

But my son has seen death like it’s yesterday

His father is gone, a year ago now

He loved our son dearly at his final bow

I’ve held the ship level as best I can

Mostly alone with some helping hand

The men do die, often you know

The woman on her own in the ice and snow

Remember that sometimes people need help

A hand or two is all when they yelp

Just as we have done in these last two years

Keep your friends close as you move through the tears

But there’s fun to be had, plenty of that

As you move around life from the last place you sat

Run the race strong, keep your head up son

And be a good friend ’til your Earth life is done.

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