 from one of the worried families, the “normal” families, and he yanked me from the garage and tossed me in my bedroom. I must have I spent half my childhood locked in that bedroom. I started to like it after while and became a loner in the relative safety of my room, living in comic books and my drawings.
 But seeing what a drooling mess he’d made of his handsome son his heart was not in it. No, Dad was sober and he could see his rough handling had torn open the bandages on my back. I was bleeding again.
He spun to leave my bedroom in disgust and I dove and grabbed hold of his leg, “I’m sorry, Dad. I had got what I deserved. Bruce is little I should never have hit him like that. I’m sorry,” I whimpered like one of the many dogs my Dad had taken his rage out on in my childhood. Dad softened with his sober shame and left me in my bedroom without another word.
Grandma snuck in a little later as it was getting dark with some balm for my re-opened back wounds. “We need to get this boy to hospital!” she shouted, tears running down her chubby Irish cheeks. No reply from Mom or Dad.
Grandlma hugged me to her ample bosom and cooed in her soft Irish accent, “You poor, poor thing.  No! Your Pa was wrong to beat you like that. Wrong!” My icy heart thawed and I wept in Grandma’s arms. Wept for the first time since the beating had started.
My father had been listening at the door. The birthday from hell ended with him evicting my grandmother for her kind words to me. I looked down from my second floor window as he literally tossed her into the street.
By Monday for school I was mostly coherent but still deep in shock, barley able to speak. In gym class the teacher noticed blood soaking through my white T-shirt. I was sent to the Principal’s office.
“Take off your shirt, please,” the bald-headed gentleman, who did not fit into our blue-collar neighborhood, but who was nonetheless our principal asked. I tried but the blood was stuck to the shirt and I could not get it off. 
“Dear, God.” They both said in unison looking at my scabbed and oozing back covered in welts.
I quickly made up a story that bullies in gym class had toweled me. “Bastards! Who? Which students?” the Principal demanded. And I knew he’d bought it. A great liar was born. Heck, I almost believed the tale myself. When asked for names of the students who did this to me I refused. I was no rat.
It shows the power of the fear of the unknown. I’d chosen at that moment the knowing of my crazy family life over being put in a foster home.
All these memories of 40 some years ago shot through my mind as Dad’s spirit applied the magic healing gel to my back in LA some 45 years later here in 2011, the gateway to 2012. The angelic blue balm I thought must have come from the blue ET angels I met in Italy as soaked deep into my psychic after-wounds.
Gaps in my energetic field began to close as my father kept working in the heavenly healing lotion. I seldom saw my father cry in life except when he was drunk. But I could tell even though my father was invisible to me for this work, from the tremble I felt through his coarse welder’s fingertips, that he was silently crying. Crying out of shame for how deep the wounds he gave me were over all the pain he had caused for all of us with his drinking binges and rages.
My father’s spirit, now calm gentle and wise, here in my humble LA bedroom I rent with social media work, was personally healing these terrible old back wounds. This is my greatest gift so far for the work of DreamShield. And my father’s greatest gift for the bad karma he has undone for his next life or his ticket to be in heaven, reunited with Grandma.
DreamShield planetary meditation work is not easy, folks. This spiritual work is new and uncertain for me and at times makes me feel like I am going insane. It’s taken me from my filmmaking career and social media company BuzzBroz. But I do it all gladly because I somehow know this is vital work for humankind and we will get it done with your help and millions upon millions more amazing people like you reading this painful blog post, the most painful I will ever write.
One by one we can heal and manifest a gentle 2012. After this healing miracle of my back, this cynic is slowly becoming a believer.
<issue_start><issue_comment>Title: New option called ToStandardError
username_0: In the right branch this time.

I needed an option to direct logs to cerr in order to finish replacing boost logging. If this is a feature that you want to include in the project I can update the readme also (and maybe enable it by default).
<issue_comment>username_1: too many changes in one pull request. + build failures
<issue_comment>username_0: Are you interested in pull requests? I would like to contribute back to the project, so I put in extra effort to clean up the code and keep merging/rebasing the changes you were making. But this pull request has been ignored for 9 months.

In addition, github also doesn't let you split up pull requests. I have to build my application from my fork instead of the master version of easylogging++, so I can't contribute other features I've added since this either, like #262.

If you're interested in pull requests I can try again, but I don't want to put in the effort if you're not interested.

Thanks for your time."I must continue to write for the same reason I am always compelled to write, in sickness and in health: for otherwise I die deadly, but this way, by this work, I may die forward into the intensified agon of living."
The British social theorist Gillian Rose wrote this, in Love's Work [2] (1995), a meditation on life, illness, and death (she had been diagnosed with cancer). She wrote it in response to some of her friends and family having, in the wake of her diagnosis, urged her to embrace what she regarded as soothing - mentally palliative - new age thoughts and practices.
Rose rejects what she calls "the deadly blandishments of the exoteric language of cosmic love." She writes:
The injunction, which pervades the literature of alternative healing to become 'exceptional' (Bernie Siegal), or 'edgeless' (Stephen Levine), to assume unconditional love, is poor psychology, worse theology and no notion of justice at all. While presenting itself as a post-Judaic, New Age Buddhism, this spirituality re-insinuates the most remorseless protestantism. It burdens the individual soul with an inner predestination: you have eternal life only if you dissolve the difficulty of living, of love, of self and other, of the other in the self, if you are translucid, without inner or outer boundaries.... This is the counsel of despair which would keep the mind out of hell.... [It is far kinder to understand] that to live, to love, is to be failed, to forgive, to have failed to be forgiven, for ever and ever. Keep your mind in hell, and despair not.
An intense humanist, a Blakean in ceaseless mental fight, Rose detested any philosophy or theology that assumed you had a desire to be lifted above the soil of love's work, above the sublunary business of cultivating a lucid self; of being in dynamic erotic and intellectual relation with other selves; and of seeking, through thought, speech, and action, to love the world in such a way as to make it more just, to make people less cruel, to make states less despotic.
"Exceptional, edgeless love effaces the risk of relation: that mix of exposure and reserve, of revelation and reticence," she writes, remembering with delight her edgy sexual and intellectual adventures.
The poet Mark Doty, recalling, in Heaven's Coast [3], his grief at the death of his lover, says something similar. The spiritual therapies various friends prescribed "allow the suspension of painful and confusing ambiguities, and offer us a chance to give up the difficult, frustrating work of living on that dizzying, live edge between affirmation and despair."
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As Christopher Hitchens deals with his recent cancer diagnosis, expect to see his own Blakean commitment to mental fight intensify.
"Hitchens claims to believe in Einstein's injunction to'remember your humanity and forget the rest,'" writes a skeptical columnist in the Guardian. [4] Her skepticism has to do with the fact that Hitchens can be - at least when arguing - strikingly inhumane.
Yet it's as true of Hitchens as it was of Gillian Rose that their humanism is so deep that they lend that emptiest of words -- humanism -- a substance it assumes in few other places. Humanism's meaning has been smoothed out to the point where it mainly conveys being nice to people, liking people. Up with people! [5]
But humanism seems to me to have more to do with a full-bodied, well-considered commitment to us as we are, to the world as it is. Loving