JD Daley

Kirk Nugent – “Pursue Your Passion”

Andra Day – Rise Up

Uber Chronicles: Field Notes from the Front Seat

Uber_Chronicles_Field_Notes_from_the_Front_Seat__by_Jessie_Newburn_Book_Cover_Art (1)

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drive for Uber? Have you ever been curious as to what kind of people use Uber? Where they are going? What do they talk about during the ride? How do they behave, or misbehave?

This is the book to read!

Get it on Amazon

Jessie Newburn’s “Uber Chronicles: Field Notes from the Front Seat,” the first in a series, answers those questions and more … in the form of storytelling.

Driving for Uber since early 2016, Jessie chronicles her experiences with each–and every–passenger, from the conversations with interesting people with fascinating stories, to the incredibly everyday, ho-hum-ness of people who just need a ride from one place to another.

But don’t let the ho-hum-ness of the ride fool you.

As Gabe Karpati, one of her earlier readers, says, “There is a relaxing magical quality to the way she writes these stories. A sweet quiet zen silence that is shining through every line. Jessie presents these encounters like a meditation, where the seer observes but doesn’t get entangled.”

Ten different days and nights out driving for Uber.
Fifty-six passengers.
Fifty-six stories.

So, come along for the ride. Join in. Listen in. And experience what Uber is like from the front seat of the car.

Join her Facebook fansite for more details on the book



Black Power by JD Daley

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. – Martin Luther King Jr.

What’s wrong with me

that I sit here,


of this life ever slipping beyond my reach

It started on drums

it started with songs

that echoed with the cries of things past

things survived

things tried

and things preached.

See I, sometimes put on cloths

flashy cars

with flashy goals

does it matter

I suppose

But as I smile and run my plans to be the visions Martin Luther penned

I get pulled back with claws that turns dreams into the things that pretenders reap.

we say its over

its no more

we say its gone

its out the door

and then we walk with our heads high

until we turn down streets filled with red

of black children laying there dead

and we remember things our mama said

that we were small

and we were weak

with chains stuck to our feet.

What price was paid…

how do I end the charade of proverbial truths spoken in white suits to claim our palpable freedom.

A call to action.

We brake invisible chains

we declare we are heirs

We stand tall and we stand strong

united as one

with our hands in the air


Black lives matter, we all care



Black Woman by JD Daley

Black Woman

Cry out black woman, cry out

for the pickney you bore

inna this life so feared

Cry out black woman, cry out

for they have spawned a web so steep

Cry out black woman, cry out

for the pain instilled in your life

for you feared death of shame

racism, sexism and pride

Cry out black woman. cry out

for the hungry children on the streets

for the shoes you never wore

for the shame and silence you carried

for the weakness you feel of this world of myths of men

for the agony and disgrace among the human race

that they, threw in your face

Cry out black woman, cry  out

when you feel overwhelmed with sorrow

for a beautiful day comes tomorrow

where the sun takes away the burdens of yester years

elevating yourself

freed with empowerment

where  your independence grow with your smile

and proudest esteems your life

So cry out black woman

there is no shame in it

Cry out for a better land


By JD Daley


Nightmare Child By Ian K Sylus

“It was breathtaking, revitalizing–It was deceptive above all else. It was as if somebody put tragedy in surround sound.”

Nightmare Child

Order Now


Stare down the physical representation of everything your terror calls home. Celeste St. Clare awakes beneath a tightrope, gazing upon the fragmented world around her. The only clairvoyance through a sea of beasts and psyche-shattering realizations is a man in a ruined suit, claiming to have control over the landscape before her. Nightmare Child delves deep into the uncharted mind, ripping through the emotions and enigma that we call ‘being human’.

Meet the Author

Ever since I was five-years-old, I have been in love with words and their structure. Nothing is more freeing than fleshing out the universes in my mind, the characters in my heart. Bringing an entire world to life and watching it engulf the psyche of my readers is the best adrenaline rush there could ever be. Sharing ideas, exploring possibilities, hearing theories and discussing the basic compounds of etymology and inspiration–that’s what makes me a writer. What makes me an author is the reader, it’s you. “You and I live these adventures. Let your imagination flow into mine.”


My Words & Thoughts


David’s prayer in Psalm 19:14 is so perfect and such a lesson for us: My words and thoughts in every walk of life can express worship for God. Words of hope, love, optimism, encouragement, and truth are such an important aspect of my obedient worship to the God who is all worthy, that they literally have the power to transform my life and the lives of others. We shouldn’t be surprised. Worship changes everything.

Are you worshiping God with your words? Are you experiencing His transforming power? No one teaches on the power of words better than my dear friend Joyce Meyer. Listen to what she has to say:

‘I am sure you have heard someone say, “You are going to eat those words.” It may sound like a mere phrase to us, but in reality we do eat our words. What we say not only affects others, but it also affects us. Words are wonderful when used in a correct way. They can encourage, edify and give confidence to the hearer. A right word spoken at the right time can actually be life-changing…’

We can literally increase our own joy by speaking right words. We can also upset ourselves by talking unnecessarily about our problems, our insecurities or things that have hurt us in relationships.

The words that come out of our mouth go into our own ears as well as other people’s, and then they drop down into our soul, where they bring us life or death, peace or upset, depending on the types of words we have spoken. God desires that our spirit be light and free so it can function properly, not heavy and oppressed.

When we understand the power of words and realize that we can choose what we think and speak, our lives can be transformed… We can learn to choose our thoughts, to resist wrong ones and think on good, healthy, and right ones. I have often said, “Where the mind goes, the man follows.” And it could also be said that where the mind goes, the mouth follows!

Think about that last sentence carefully. Do you really believe that the words you say can change your life? I do. Because words of blessing and truth are one of the ways we worship our God and honor the others in our world.

My words tell others—and myself—what I believe about God. They tell others what I believe about my-self and my life. They reveal my attitude. I want my words to show true worship—exalting the Mighty One—whether I am in front of a thousand leading worship or talking softly to my kids at bedtime or on the phone with a customer service rep who is not understanding my request. I want my words to be aligned with God’s truth.

Take some time today to ask the Holy Spirit to reveal the ways you speak and think that are detrimental to yourself and others.. today is a new day.. a new beginning.
Philippians 4:8-9 (ESV) Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me – practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.

Social jury on Amber Heard

I wanted to share this article with you because too often we are quick to judge and disclaim a woman’s cry of abuse due to our own ignorance of the issue.


I stand with Amber Heard because no one believed me either

By Lauren Friel


When my ex-boyfriend killed himself last year, it was more than a tragedy — it was news. He was a well-known chef who taught children at a Harvard summer school and volunteered at local farms. He was an associate instructor driving research at a liberal arts college. He was known for his love of art, music and history, and he traveled widely throughout Europe and the Middle East researching traditional cooking techniques and bringing rare ingredients home with him to give to friends and colleagues. Roald Dahl’s daughter, for whom he was a personal chef, called him a Renaissance man. She wasn’t wrong.

Both Eater and The Boston Globepublished news of his death, and it was shared widely and with great sadness on social media channels around the world. Noma chef René Redzepi named a scholarship to the MAD global culinary symposium in his honor. A large memorial service was held at which his friend, the dean of Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, created and installed a photo wall. Dozens of members of the community spoke in his memory. I imagine they hugged one another, cried together and smiled as they remembered happy moments they shared with him.

I don’t know. I did not attend.

The morning he committed suicide, my ex gave me a choice: return to him, or he would kill himself. It was a minefield I had navigated with him before; in the two years we dated, he attempted suicide three times and threatened more than I could count. The threats began when I found out he was seeing someone else and tried to leave him. They continued when I caught him a second time. When he broke into my apartment and I called the police, he told me he would kill himself if I pressed charges. I didn’t.

He hit me for the first time in an Airbnb in Kathmandu. When we came home, he hit me again. And again. And again. He took control of my finances and drove me to and from work so he would always know where I was. He monitored my cell phone, email and Facebook accounts. Every time I tried to leave, he told me he would kill himself. I lived in constant fear of abuse, but the fear that choosing to live my life might mean ending his was greater.

One morning, we passed the elderly Haitian woman who lived above us in the hall. She asked me if I was OK — she knew I spoke French and he didn’t. I lied and said I was fine. I told him she was asking about the broken water heater. One week later, after dinner with friends, he beat and strangled me. I said I couldn’t breathe. He said he didn’t care. He said he could kill me if he wanted to. He weighed a full 100 pounds more than me and had a drawer full of sharpened chef’s knives within his reach. He wasn’t wrong.

I got away somehow, and he went to jail. But he was a college graduate and an upstanding member of society (see above). His felony assault charges were dropped. His mother violated the no contact order and called me, sobbing. He promised to leave me alone, she said. He promised he understood that what he’d done was wrong.

He didn’t. Despite weekly court-ordered therapy and domestic violence counseling, the stalking, threats and violence recurred. I moved for a third time and changed jobs, but he found me. “Everyone thinks you’re crazy,” he said. “Our friends, the doctors, the media, everyone. I made sure of it.” Then, he gave me the choice. It was his life or mine. I still don’t know why, but for the first time, I chose me.

If I had the choice again, I wouldn’t do anything different.

I thought about writing about all of this in response to the doubts surrounding Amber Heard’s abuse at the hands of the beloved Johnny Depp. Every time there are public instances of domestic violence, I relive my trauma and wish I could tell my story, but I worry that I’ll be criticized or blamed for my abuse. I think that maybe I’ll be ready to write about it the next time it happens. There are two things wrong with that. The first is that I’m worried that I’ll be blamed. The second is that I know therewill be a next time. I can count on it. We all can.

There will be a next time because we don’t believe Amber Heard. There will be a next time because Johnny Depp, like my ex, will not be held accountable for his actions. There will be a next time because he’s just one of millions of men and women who will get away with intimate partner violence this year because his partner wasn’t abused “enough.” She wasn’t beat up “enough.” She wasn’t traumatized “enough” to risk potentially disrupting her partner’s life — famous or not — and she will be demonized for calling into question the character of a man loved by so many.

At best, he’ll just find another woman to abuse. At worst, he’ll kill her. Maybe he’ll kill her children too. Maybe he’ll beat her into a coma. Maybe he’ll just leave her bruised, homeless, jobless, financially ruined and with severe PTSD. At some point, we decided it’s up to the victims to protect themselves. Victims, by virtue of their victimhood, are not in a position to do that. So, we’ll watch the news, and we’ll cluck and say shame, shame on him, shame on her. But we won’t say shame on us. And it will happen again. And that’s what the f*** is wrong.

Abuse doesn’t happen in a vacuum. As a society, we establish circumstances that make abusers think it’s OK to abuse, and the abused think they’re at fault for the beatings and humiliation. We tell abusers that their behavior is OK by asking questions of the victims. We tell abusers their behavior is OK when we bring victims’ sexuality, race, income, employment, education and mental health into the conversation. We look for reasons the victims’ accounts of our beloved’s bad behavior might be faulty, and we tell their abusers that it’s OK to humiliate, beat up and murder those who are “other.” It doesn’t take much to establish “otherness” in a human being. It could be as big as religion and as small as taste in ice cream. Abusers don’t care. We should.

We tell victims they’re to blame by diminishing their experiences and ignoring their cries for help. My abuser violated his restraining orders three times. He was only arrested once. The time he broke into my apartment and locked me out? He was told to go home. A stranger who did the same thing would have been arrested. But because it was a domestic situation, my ex got to walk away and continue to terrorize me. I was called crazy instead.

At one point, after his parole officer, mother and friends refused to help, I called his ex-wife. Much like Depp’s ex, she told me it didn’t sound like him. She asked me to leave her alone. I did. I saved the photos of my bruises and all of his threatening messages. I look at them sometimes to reassure myself that I wasn’t crazy. I shouldn’t have to do that.

There isn’t much I’m sure of anymore. I’m sure that I never feel safe. I’m sure that I’ve lost my sense of what’s OK and what isn’t, so I don’t know who to trust. I’m sure that I wish I could un-know what I know, un-see what I’ve seen, and un-feel what I feel. I’m sure that I can’t.

I’m sure that we tell abusers it’s OK every time we doubt a victim. So I’m sure there will be another Amber Heard, another Rihanna, another Janay Rice, another me. There will be a next time.

To help understand, identify and work to change the cycle of domestic violence, watch this documentary: If you have ever experienced any form of violence from your intimate partner — whether it is physical, sexual or psychological — please reach out for help.


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A Shadow of A Doubt

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