Conversing with my Sweet Deifiúr this afternoon I found muse in me to, once more, regale the masses with words of wit and wisdom. This being the middle of the week, I am not accustomed to the luxury of losing myself to my thoughts and the page before you. I work most of the time, and it is good work, but it tends to dampen the mood for words. Once I arrive at that most sacred of places, the six or seven hundred square foot piece of the universe that I claim ownership over (well…okay…rent) it is about all I can do to just negotiate food and the evenings entertainment found within the electronic contrivance controlling the mysterious world of phantasmagoria made by Panasonic Corporation. To be inspired to write is a distinct gift this twentieth day of May.
I was speaking to my homegirl about something having to do with my financial condition, and how it might improve in the near future when she spouted “I want Lobster!” This term, being a standard gag between us, made me realize the absurdity of what was said. First illogicality, that I would soon be rich due to some reason I’ll remember as I write, and because she does not like to eat lobster.
Back in the ancient days of my secondary education there was this lassie who granted me the honor of her company at my Senior Prom. I do not remember her name, vaguely remember her face, and probably never will. The event was less then joyous for me, and I probably could have lived the rest of my life without recalling that infamous night, but for the hilarity of the situation. We went to the ball and did everything we were supposed to do; tangoed, fox-trotted, waltzed and rumbaed. We drank the spiked punch, smoked the appropriate amount of weed out back of the building, and went to a fancy restaurant afterwards. At the time, I had what had to of been the worst toothache and cold in history. I could not hold down the spiked punch, or the Pagan Pink Ripple Wine my buddy had in his back pocket. Had it not been for the cost incurred for the tuxedo and the wrist flower, I would have told the girl to stay home. I did not, and had a terrible time.
At the restaurant, an overpriced culinary mill with a South Sea motif my companion for the evening, not being the most cosmopolitan of ladies I had (or have) ever met, upon perusing the menu, asked me how much money I had brought with me. Thinking to impress her in the hopes of engaging in some rather physical extracurricular activity later in the evening, I proclaimed for all to know that I had “One Hundred Dollars!” Her swift reply came out as if from a bullhorn, “I WANT LOBSTER!!!
Now, the retelling of this incident at the family table that Sunday, elicited a cacophony of laughter, and a howling from my family pet that, quite honestly, I have never lived down. I long since have surrendered to the fact that it gives my Sweet Deifiúr joy to repeat this phrase, and that is more important then the irritation I feel when recollection of this event comes my way. I love my sibling with all my heart and soul, and I am more then happy to offer her some delight at the expense of letting me know that at the tender age of seventeen, I once made a poor choice in picking a dinner companion on what should have been a night to fondly remember.
The other point I make this evening is the “One Hundred Dollar!” thing. To the best of my aged and feeble mind, that Ben Franklin constituted my entire savings account, and delayed the purchase of a car which I desperately wanted more then the extracurricular activity I never got from that winsome lass with the mercenary appetite. As a matter of fact, it was several years later before I was able to purchase a vehicle that would allow me the Kerouacian delight of the open road. The idea of a hundred dollars has always been a pivotal amount of cash for me. An acquaintance of my once lamented the fact that we (himself and I) could not keep a “f___ng damn hundred dollars in our pocket. This turned out to be a universal truth in my life. I am, and do make many hundreds of dollars in the course of my business in the academic and literary discipline, but I spend most of my time without any more then twenty dollars to my name. “It’s Mommy’s fault.”
I have written of my acumen at shopping as learned at the skirt of my Dear Sainted Mother, and my affinity (addiction?) to the Bentonville, Arkansas based retail Goliath. I must go and spend money there. It is almost as if something calls to me in my sleep. I received payment for a piece of writing today, a massive sum of money…$38.53. My truck drove to Wal-Mart as if drawn by some cosmic magnet, and I proceeded to spend thirty three dollars of that money for items I already possessed but would have need eventually anyway. There were the toiletries that I needed, but had not run out of. There was a new book; well okay that is a necessity. And the gooey chocolate cake by that famous Food Channel chef with the big smile and the deep sexy southern accent who works with her two sons. (I have a cooking fork with her name on it that my sister probably paid too much for…spend more time in Wal-Mart, sweetheart, they cost half what they do in the mall, Mía) I did buy some groceries that I needed, but the gooey cake wasn’t one of them. Along the way, I noticed some comic books. They were/are EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS!!!!!!! On what strange planet did I land? When did superheroes start charging for their services?!?!?!? And here I sat with only five dollars left to my name!
I was left with only the true shopper’s mantra; I do not have a problem with shopping. I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want! It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life! So, now you know, and if you disagree, just remember…It’s Mommy’s Fault!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
It’s Mommy’s fault!
“I enter the perambulator of maroon tint that serves as my current chariot and search for egress from the mystical empire of the Sage from Bentonville. As I embark on the next segment in my journey to enlightenment, I flip open my communicator to converse with the orbiting starship in search of transport out of an uncertain reality. The voice eliciting from the ethereal queries me as to what the difficulty might be.”
Okay, perhaps a bit haughty, or the beginning of a science fiction tale, this first paragraph has quenched my thirst for the copious use of a thesaurus that I normally engage in. Here is the real skinny. I am leaving Wal-Mart and decide to call my sweet Deifiúr to complain about the events of the previous hour. I have given up the proverbial ghost and finally surrendered to the inevitable. I bought a day of the week pill dispenser. Final proof and absolute solidification of my senior citizenship, this episode produced a need to complain, once more, about my encroaching senility. The flip open communicator was my cell phone and the orbiting starship is the reality my Deifiúr and I live in…My Dear Sainted Mother.
I have this idea of composing a series of commentaries on the massive influence this woman has in my life. Perhaps a feminine version of the wildly popular Facebook phenomenon “Sh*t my Dad says.” Without, of course, any use of the “F” word. Not a totally original idea I realize, but my fingers aren’t doing anything else that is constructive at the moment. The memory of the conversation makes me smile, and, laugh out loud.
I dial the number (that ought to tell you how freaking old I am) and receive on the second ring the greeting my Deifiúr give all who call her place of business. I immediately inform her that I have finally and officially entered the realm of “senior-decrepitude-useless-senile-son-of-a-bitching-citizenship. She takes this in stride, as she has been listening to me complain on this issue for some time now, and replies, “What did you do…join AARP?” I inform her that my AARP membership occurred last month, and told her of the pill distributor for which she takes exception to my complaint in the face of her own use of said dispensing assistance.
In the course of the ensuing conversation we “speak of many things…”, as the Walrus says, and the subject of my romantic endeavors is broached. In the calendar year of 2009 I dated 15 different women. All of which I met at Wal-Mart. Being the champion of all things “T. Lloyd Reilly” she felt that this was a good thing. I remarked that it was not a good thing, and that it was, at best, a dismal failure. We spoke of several reasons why this might be before I informed her that it was my Dear Sainted Mother’s fault.
Growing up, my magnificent máthair had a talent that not many have. She consistently saw to our needs without the necessary financial backing. We lived good lives and did not want for anything we really needed. We were broke…not poor is what she taught us. Anyone who has seen the length and breadth of my girth can tell you that I never went to bed hungry. She was a master at the use of a grocery store. She could shop like no one I have ever met, and she taught this skill to her “Timmy.” Consequently, I also have conquered the mercantile realm and continue to live and eat well. Being of the advanced age that I am, and given the frugality of my upbringing, I search for deals on victuals. I use Wal-Mart because of its policy of matching any other advertised prices. I spend much time at said establishment. My Deifiúr spoke to me of her “quarterly” trip to said establishment and it makes me laugh. If I go three days without a trip to my MOC (“merchant of choice”) they feel a disturbance in the Force up in Bentonville. After four days I receive, by overnight I truly believe, a sale paper from a business that has no need of advertisement. Everyone knows that there are no better prices then Wal-Mart, so why advertise?
Well, in the course of my commerce, I have gotten into the habit of perusing the female patrons of my preferred commercial entity. I might be old, but I am not dead. The female form still has appeal, and the company of said forms is still of considerable interest to me. The shopping thing has been the avenue of admission into a number of interesting experiences outside of the business-related environs for this scribe. I lament the days of my misspent youth where there seemed a more noble method of charming the fairer sex. Who doesn’t miss the days of going to a bar to pick up a girl? It is in this chauvinistic mindset that my memory vengefully returns. I do not necessarily remember the romantic trysts as well as I retain information on the incalculable amount of times when I prayed at the porcelain God that if he helped me feel better…I would be a good boy for him. I never met Princess Grace in a bar, or if I did, she never went home with me. Why would I think that, almost forty years after my first attempt to elicit affection at the end of a Budweiser bottle, I would have any luck finding a lasting and meaningful relationship in the produce section of a behemoth grocery store I find myself assuredly as addicted to as any mind altering-mood changing substance? Do I need an intervention? Is there a twelve step group for people with my malady? Sex and Wal-Mart Lovers Anonymous?
I am already a staunch and passionate member of one twelve step fellowship and, as such, feel comfortable in this boorish humor. If I have offended any members of any twelve groups with this writing…call your freaking sponsor. I have a problem here and can only find relief in humor. Whose fault is this malady? Well, it is certainly not Wal-Mart’s. It would not do me any good to complain about the level of service I receive from the dating pool in their store. Not, that is, unless someone in Bentonville reads this and decides that a contract with Match.com would increase the bottom line, and starts placing dating kiosks in between the produce and the bakery.
Is it the women I meet? Well, I can’t lay any claim to being the catch of the century with my electric-cart-riding- senior citizen-acting, feeble attempts at being the Don Juan of the geriatric set. The best I can do is admitting to the obvious truth. I am an old Irish guy who is as full of shit as a Christmas turkey. That’s what my Dear Sainted Mother would and did say to me many times in my life. Being reasonably well read and having some acumen with the written word, I could attempt to cover it all up by claiming it is just a Bit O’ Blarney. Again, the honest truth is that I can not hide behind words, and my magnificent máthair wouldn’t want me to.
So where does that lead us at this juncture? I guess it is back to the place where I blame it all on my mother. If I were a normal bachelor, I could go to the grocery store and stock up on Banquet frozen dinners, microwaveable hot dogs, Oscar Meyer Lunchables, and Top Ramen noodles, , and of course, the occasional (look at the prices…even at Wal-Mart) t-bone or sirloin strip. While I eat all those foods, I do cook most of the time. If I cook, I must find deals because it is what my mother taught me. Any ancillary actions that occur as a result of this requirement to properly shop must be included in any blame I allocate to my dereliction and disillusionment. Assigning culpability for ones defects of character is central in the denial of personal responsibility.
Fortunately, I have surpassed that most particular of shortcomings. I blame my mother not for my inability to maintain a healthy relationship. I blame my mother for teaching me the kindness, respect, and loving manner that seems to attract women in grocery stores. Not a talent I really have anywhere else. I suppose it is better then going to the bar. I guess that it is better to then going to church to find a wife (OH MY GOD!!! DID I SAY WIFE!!!). One should seek God in holy places. I guess that the word blame is a misnomer of the worst kind. I really want to express the gratitude to my magnificent máthair for the gift of being able to be kind and loving. The blame lays with me for how little I seem to display those traits. Realistically I should look for girlfriends where everyone else seems to be finding them nowadays…Eharmony.com.
I love you Mommy. Peace
Okay, perhaps a bit haughty, or the beginning of a science fiction tale, this first paragraph has quenched my thirst for the copious use of a thesaurus that I normally engage in. Here is the real skinny. I am leaving Wal-Mart and decide to call my sweet Deifiúr to complain about the events of the previous hour. I have given up the proverbial ghost and finally surrendered to the inevitable. I bought a day of the week pill dispenser. Final proof and absolute solidification of my senior citizenship, this episode produced a need to complain, once more, about my encroaching senility. The flip open communicator was my cell phone and the orbiting starship is the reality my Deifiúr and I live in…My Dear Sainted Mother.
I have this idea of composing a series of commentaries on the massive influence this woman has in my life. Perhaps a feminine version of the wildly popular Facebook phenomenon “Sh*t my Dad says.” Without, of course, any use of the “F” word. Not a totally original idea I realize, but my fingers aren’t doing anything else that is constructive at the moment. The memory of the conversation makes me smile, and, laugh out loud.
I dial the number (that ought to tell you how freaking old I am) and receive on the second ring the greeting my Deifiúr give all who call her place of business. I immediately inform her that I have finally and officially entered the realm of “senior-decrepitude-useless-senile-son-of-a-bitching-citizenship. She takes this in stride, as she has been listening to me complain on this issue for some time now, and replies, “What did you do…join AARP?” I inform her that my AARP membership occurred last month, and told her of the pill distributor for which she takes exception to my complaint in the face of her own use of said dispensing assistance.
In the course of the ensuing conversation we “speak of many things…”, as the Walrus says, and the subject of my romantic endeavors is broached. In the calendar year of 2009 I dated 15 different women. All of which I met at Wal-Mart. Being the champion of all things “T. Lloyd Reilly” she felt that this was a good thing. I remarked that it was not a good thing, and that it was, at best, a dismal failure. We spoke of several reasons why this might be before I informed her that it was my Dear Sainted Mother’s fault.
Growing up, my magnificent máthair had a talent that not many have. She consistently saw to our needs without the necessary financial backing. We lived good lives and did not want for anything we really needed. We were broke…not poor is what she taught us. Anyone who has seen the length and breadth of my girth can tell you that I never went to bed hungry. She was a master at the use of a grocery store. She could shop like no one I have ever met, and she taught this skill to her “Timmy.” Consequently, I also have conquered the mercantile realm and continue to live and eat well. Being of the advanced age that I am, and given the frugality of my upbringing, I search for deals on victuals. I use Wal-Mart because of its policy of matching any other advertised prices. I spend much time at said establishment. My Deifiúr spoke to me of her “quarterly” trip to said establishment and it makes me laugh. If I go three days without a trip to my MOC (“merchant of choice”) they feel a disturbance in the Force up in Bentonville. After four days I receive, by overnight I truly believe, a sale paper from a business that has no need of advertisement. Everyone knows that there are no better prices then Wal-Mart, so why advertise?
Well, in the course of my commerce, I have gotten into the habit of perusing the female patrons of my preferred commercial entity. I might be old, but I am not dead. The female form still has appeal, and the company of said forms is still of considerable interest to me. The shopping thing has been the avenue of admission into a number of interesting experiences outside of the business-related environs for this scribe. I lament the days of my misspent youth where there seemed a more noble method of charming the fairer sex. Who doesn’t miss the days of going to a bar to pick up a girl? It is in this chauvinistic mindset that my memory vengefully returns. I do not necessarily remember the romantic trysts as well as I retain information on the incalculable amount of times when I prayed at the porcelain God that if he helped me feel better…I would be a good boy for him. I never met Princess Grace in a bar, or if I did, she never went home with me. Why would I think that, almost forty years after my first attempt to elicit affection at the end of a Budweiser bottle, I would have any luck finding a lasting and meaningful relationship in the produce section of a behemoth grocery store I find myself assuredly as addicted to as any mind altering-mood changing substance? Do I need an intervention? Is there a twelve step group for people with my malady? Sex and Wal-Mart Lovers Anonymous?
I am already a staunch and passionate member of one twelve step fellowship and, as such, feel comfortable in this boorish humor. If I have offended any members of any twelve groups with this writing…call your freaking sponsor. I have a problem here and can only find relief in humor. Whose fault is this malady? Well, it is certainly not Wal-Mart’s. It would not do me any good to complain about the level of service I receive from the dating pool in their store. Not, that is, unless someone in Bentonville reads this and decides that a contract with Match.com would increase the bottom line, and starts placing dating kiosks in between the produce and the bakery.
Is it the women I meet? Well, I can’t lay any claim to being the catch of the century with my electric-cart-riding- senior citizen-acting, feeble attempts at being the Don Juan of the geriatric set. The best I can do is admitting to the obvious truth. I am an old Irish guy who is as full of shit as a Christmas turkey. That’s what my Dear Sainted Mother would and did say to me many times in my life. Being reasonably well read and having some acumen with the written word, I could attempt to cover it all up by claiming it is just a Bit O’ Blarney. Again, the honest truth is that I can not hide behind words, and my magnificent máthair wouldn’t want me to.
So where does that lead us at this juncture? I guess it is back to the place where I blame it all on my mother. If I were a normal bachelor, I could go to the grocery store and stock up on Banquet frozen dinners, microwaveable hot dogs, Oscar Meyer Lunchables, and Top Ramen noodles, , and of course, the occasional (look at the prices…even at Wal-Mart) t-bone or sirloin strip. While I eat all those foods, I do cook most of the time. If I cook, I must find deals because it is what my mother taught me. Any ancillary actions that occur as a result of this requirement to properly shop must be included in any blame I allocate to my dereliction and disillusionment. Assigning culpability for ones defects of character is central in the denial of personal responsibility.
Fortunately, I have surpassed that most particular of shortcomings. I blame my mother not for my inability to maintain a healthy relationship. I blame my mother for teaching me the kindness, respect, and loving manner that seems to attract women in grocery stores. Not a talent I really have anywhere else. I suppose it is better then going to the bar. I guess that it is better to then going to church to find a wife (OH MY GOD!!! DID I SAY WIFE!!!). One should seek God in holy places. I guess that the word blame is a misnomer of the worst kind. I really want to express the gratitude to my magnificent máthair for the gift of being able to be kind and loving. The blame lays with me for how little I seem to display those traits. Realistically I should look for girlfriends where everyone else seems to be finding them nowadays…Eharmony.com.
I love you Mommy. Peace
Sunday, May 9, 2010
A Little Something
Up and at ‘em on a Sunday morning. It is Mother’s day, and I have a melancholy about me. My Dear Sainted Mother is with Jesus, and I have nothing to do today. I dashed about town yesterday attempting to finish my bi-monthly business only to find myself in the gigantic domain of the Sage from Bentonville. My bank rents space there and, being Saturday, was packed to the rafters with legions in search of those infamous Rollback prices on those items both necessary or unnecessary for the both the prolonging and nourishment of life. Riding my electric steed towards the pharmacy, I run into the gentleman who provides me with the chariots I use to do battle with life. He is holding a bouquet of roses and perusing a shelf with vases. We greet and I realized, in my single minded pursuit of goods and items that today was the day we celebrate the wondrous women who have given us vivacity and verve.
I woke to this reality this morn, and felt the need to honor my magnificent máthair. This usually gives muse to those words I regale the world with on this blog. I sat and put finger to key only to find little to write. I spoke to a friend last night who told me about having breakfast with his mother yesterday, and it brought sadness to my soul. I, being the Irish Catholic that I am, wanted to retreat into the guilt and shame we are so famous for. That does not accurately reflect my feelings this morning. I miss her, and I want to hold her and tell her I love her, but that is just the natural desire for someone who has lost a person from there life. I think what I really want to do is tell everyone about her. I did this once before and believe a reprinting is in order. There are those of you that have not heard of Helen Pearsall and anyone who knew her would tell you that your life is incomplete. That is the power of my mother. The world is not complete without her. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you my mother:
All she ever wanted to be was somebody’s mother. Born in 1921 and raised during the Great Depression, she always just wanted to grow up and have kids. She waited while the world went insane and tried to destroy itself during WWII. She watched as her brothers and cousins and friends went off to fight and come home terribly damaged from the experience. She worked in a cigarette factory that supplied cigarettes to the troops and lost lose her job because they caught her throwing double handfuls of non-filter smokes to the hobos hanging around the railroad tracks outside the window where she worked. She married and had children, and married again and had some more children when the first marriage failed. She gave birth to two girls and two boys. Two died and two lived. The two that lived, were five years apart, and when her second husband left, the three of them grew up as a family. She taught the girl to care for her younger brother, and went to work at a hospital on the 11 to 7 shift so that she would be home when the kids came home from school. She met and formed a lifelong friendship with two small Italian women who embraced the Irish Catholic girl and her two fatherless children. All three women had a boy and a girl each, and the children thought of each other as brothers and sisters. When her two friends died, she fell easily into the mother position for the children of her friends.
She had two brothers and each had fought bravely and returned damaged from the war. She had two sisters-in-law that filled the role of sister for each other. When her oldest brother divorced, she kept his ex-wife in her heart as if the divorce had never happened. All three had been "Rosie the Riveters” in WWII, and all three worked hard to raised there children with love and understanding. That was probably the thing about this woman that anyone would remember the most…the love and understanding. Nobody came to her house and spent the night that they were not fed to the point of bursting, and received a hug and a kiss before they went to bed.
She never met a stranger. The family joke had always been that if she found herself stranded on a desert island, the monkeys would talk to her. She made friends just by walking in the door. Very few people ever responded to her by pulling away, and if someone did, that was usually a sign that that person probably was not anyone you wanted to know. She believed in her heart and soul that people were just people and everyone deserved to be loved. She taught her children this, much more by example than through instruction
She went to church on a regular basis and her third husband became a Knight of Columbus. She stayed active in church and adhered to the tenets of the religion. Dogma aside, she really just tried to live as her God taught. She was an Irish Roman Catholic from the day she was born, and never stopped. She said a rosary every day, and taught her children the same. Her daughter grew up to be just like her, and her son had a kindness to him that could only have come from her.
She had a knack for making friends. She would talk to people wherever she went and, make a friend. She always wanted to know about their family, and what they did for a living. She cared little for the external realities of life. You were a person to her. Long before it became politically correct to be open-minded and willing to accept people for who they were, she had friends that would never fit into society’s idea of social acceptability. The gay Janitor at the hospital she worked at in the 1950’s and 60’s became a fast friend. The nun who left the order to marry a neurotic ex-monk and have kids became life-long extended family members. Single mothers raising mentally challenged children always had a special place in her heart. The ex-wife of her second husbands adopted cousin, Joan, became her best friend when her friend Nancy died. The daughter of Nancy’s sister, Rae, became as a daughter to her, and her five children grandchildren.
She married a third time to a man that her children did not like, and stayed married to him for the rest of his life. He was not an easy man to live with, but everyone should have someone to love him or her. He was an extremely fortunate man in the person who loved him. He accepted her children as his, and the result was two decent, caring people.
She worked many different jobs in her life. Her two friends and she would assemble mechanical pencils at home. There were bags of parts and wooden boards to stack them in for the assembly all over the house. She and all the children of her and her friends were put to work helping. When school was not in session, there was always the trip to the pencil factory to deliver their weekly work. It became a field trip of sorts. On the return trip they would always stop at MacDonald’s for lunch. One time, sitting in the front seat, Aunt Nancy poured a soda on her lap when asked what time it was. She just looked at her watch and did not realize that the soda cup was in her hand, drenching herself in Coca Cola. They laughed the rest of the day. To this day, it is still a favorite story in the family.
If there was a single thing that held the family together it had to be the stories. How they would go out and get Chinese food when the men went to North Carolina every year on business. Aunt Nancy’s husband did not allow Chinese food or pizza in the house. They would have to hide the garbage when he got back. When her son came home one day and told them that he had asked the nun at the catholic school he attended if his name was an Irish name, they all laughed uproariously. He had spent so much time staying at, and eating at, Aunt Nancy and Rae’s house, that he thought he was Italian in spite of the fact that his regular name was the most common Irish surname in the world. That story stayed with them forever. He was asked that question every birthday for the rest of his life.
There was a soft-serve ice cream chain indigenous to where they lived that served the best ice cream around. Whenever they got near one, she would always tap her chest with her fist and proclaim, “got a little heartburn” before pulling into the parking lot. She would drive whoever walked in to get the treats, especially her second husband, crazy by asking them “find out what the special flavor is.”
Cooking and eating was her gig. She always related any situation to eating. She had been raised during the Great Depression, and would not allow her refrigerator, freezer, or pantry to get too low on food. Holiday meals were grand events. Thanksgiving always meant huge turkey’s with her dressing and so many vegetables that it was near impossible to move around the table for fear of spilling something. Not that anything went to waste. If something fell on the floor all you had to do was “Kiss it up to God” and pop it in your mouth before the germs took a hold. Lot’s of potatoes and cabbage to honor the fact that she, and her brood, were Irish. Italian pasta was served a couple of nights a week to give homage to her dear friends of Italian lineage. At every big meal with guests every one would be admonished for not having eaten enough in spite of being full to the point of bursting. In all situations, food was the answer. Comfort food had an entirely different meaning in her house. It meant eating to the point of discomfort. “Thank God for that little bite, that many a man would call a meal” was the mantra after every repast. It was a favorite memory of one of her Aunt’s.
She worked in the maternity ward of a Catholic hospital. She met and became fast friends with everyone. She would baptize the babies she cared for regardless of their nationality or family religion. “Their goes another good Catholic” she would say. It was not that she thought other religions were wrong, it was just her way of keeping the children safe and loved. God knew what he wanted from people, and she felt that it was her duty to help him. She made friends with the doctors and nurses and they became part of the family. She introduced one girl to Aunt Nancy’s son, and they married and stayed that way raising four kids and becoming grandparents. They brought the first grandchild to visit her, and she sat holding the baby singing the same songs she sang to her son and daughter when they were babies.
She faced adversity of some sort all her life. She kept it in its pace. She loved to move, and in some other life would have been a great explorer. She would have been perfect company for Marco Polo, or Lief Erickson, or Lewis and Clark. In truth, she probably would have made things a much easier for them in their journeys. The first thing she would do is make friends with the frightening natives they discovered, and put together a feast that would leave everyone too stuffed with food to argue or fight. In reality, if she were on those noble expeditions into the unknown, history would ultimately record them as Helen’s Expedition, and the principle players would take a back seat to the force of nature who always asked everyone she met if she could give them “a little something.”
When faced with life, good or bad, she beat it back with an apron, a stovetop full of pots, and an oven full of massive hunks of meat.
When she could not pay the bills because she made less than it cost her and the kids to live, she fed and clothed her kids before paying the rent, and somehow things got taken care of. When her daughter came to her to tell her she was getting a divorce the same month the wedding bill had finally been paid off, her reply was “don’t worry about it dear, it was a good party.” When she rode in the car with her son and someone raced passed them, her comment was, “go ahead, you son of a bitch, hell ain’t half full.”
She is everywhere in my life, in the grocery store buying Ragu spaghetti sauce, in a woman sitting in the park singing to her infant child, in the eyes of a woman at work that sits at lunch and says a rosary and in the Corning ware I use to cook meatloaf. I looked in my refrigerator the other day, and remembered the recipe for “Ann Mack Casserole.” All I need is some cheese and I can make it tonight. It will not be hers, but it can live on. I get this vision of her placing it on a table and answering the front door. Standing there is Jesus and His Mother. She gives them a big hug and says, “Come, have a little something.”
I woke to this reality this morn, and felt the need to honor my magnificent máthair. This usually gives muse to those words I regale the world with on this blog. I sat and put finger to key only to find little to write. I spoke to a friend last night who told me about having breakfast with his mother yesterday, and it brought sadness to my soul. I, being the Irish Catholic that I am, wanted to retreat into the guilt and shame we are so famous for. That does not accurately reflect my feelings this morning. I miss her, and I want to hold her and tell her I love her, but that is just the natural desire for someone who has lost a person from there life. I think what I really want to do is tell everyone about her. I did this once before and believe a reprinting is in order. There are those of you that have not heard of Helen Pearsall and anyone who knew her would tell you that your life is incomplete. That is the power of my mother. The world is not complete without her. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you my mother:
All she ever wanted to be was somebody’s mother. Born in 1921 and raised during the Great Depression, she always just wanted to grow up and have kids. She waited while the world went insane and tried to destroy itself during WWII. She watched as her brothers and cousins and friends went off to fight and come home terribly damaged from the experience. She worked in a cigarette factory that supplied cigarettes to the troops and lost lose her job because they caught her throwing double handfuls of non-filter smokes to the hobos hanging around the railroad tracks outside the window where she worked. She married and had children, and married again and had some more children when the first marriage failed. She gave birth to two girls and two boys. Two died and two lived. The two that lived, were five years apart, and when her second husband left, the three of them grew up as a family. She taught the girl to care for her younger brother, and went to work at a hospital on the 11 to 7 shift so that she would be home when the kids came home from school. She met and formed a lifelong friendship with two small Italian women who embraced the Irish Catholic girl and her two fatherless children. All three women had a boy and a girl each, and the children thought of each other as brothers and sisters. When her two friends died, she fell easily into the mother position for the children of her friends.
She had two brothers and each had fought bravely and returned damaged from the war. She had two sisters-in-law that filled the role of sister for each other. When her oldest brother divorced, she kept his ex-wife in her heart as if the divorce had never happened. All three had been "Rosie the Riveters” in WWII, and all three worked hard to raised there children with love and understanding. That was probably the thing about this woman that anyone would remember the most…the love and understanding. Nobody came to her house and spent the night that they were not fed to the point of bursting, and received a hug and a kiss before they went to bed.
She never met a stranger. The family joke had always been that if she found herself stranded on a desert island, the monkeys would talk to her. She made friends just by walking in the door. Very few people ever responded to her by pulling away, and if someone did, that was usually a sign that that person probably was not anyone you wanted to know. She believed in her heart and soul that people were just people and everyone deserved to be loved. She taught her children this, much more by example than through instruction
She went to church on a regular basis and her third husband became a Knight of Columbus. She stayed active in church and adhered to the tenets of the religion. Dogma aside, she really just tried to live as her God taught. She was an Irish Roman Catholic from the day she was born, and never stopped. She said a rosary every day, and taught her children the same. Her daughter grew up to be just like her, and her son had a kindness to him that could only have come from her.
She had a knack for making friends. She would talk to people wherever she went and, make a friend. She always wanted to know about their family, and what they did for a living. She cared little for the external realities of life. You were a person to her. Long before it became politically correct to be open-minded and willing to accept people for who they were, she had friends that would never fit into society’s idea of social acceptability. The gay Janitor at the hospital she worked at in the 1950’s and 60’s became a fast friend. The nun who left the order to marry a neurotic ex-monk and have kids became life-long extended family members. Single mothers raising mentally challenged children always had a special place in her heart. The ex-wife of her second husbands adopted cousin, Joan, became her best friend when her friend Nancy died. The daughter of Nancy’s sister, Rae, became as a daughter to her, and her five children grandchildren.
She married a third time to a man that her children did not like, and stayed married to him for the rest of his life. He was not an easy man to live with, but everyone should have someone to love him or her. He was an extremely fortunate man in the person who loved him. He accepted her children as his, and the result was two decent, caring people.
She worked many different jobs in her life. Her two friends and she would assemble mechanical pencils at home. There were bags of parts and wooden boards to stack them in for the assembly all over the house. She and all the children of her and her friends were put to work helping. When school was not in session, there was always the trip to the pencil factory to deliver their weekly work. It became a field trip of sorts. On the return trip they would always stop at MacDonald’s for lunch. One time, sitting in the front seat, Aunt Nancy poured a soda on her lap when asked what time it was. She just looked at her watch and did not realize that the soda cup was in her hand, drenching herself in Coca Cola. They laughed the rest of the day. To this day, it is still a favorite story in the family.
If there was a single thing that held the family together it had to be the stories. How they would go out and get Chinese food when the men went to North Carolina every year on business. Aunt Nancy’s husband did not allow Chinese food or pizza in the house. They would have to hide the garbage when he got back. When her son came home one day and told them that he had asked the nun at the catholic school he attended if his name was an Irish name, they all laughed uproariously. He had spent so much time staying at, and eating at, Aunt Nancy and Rae’s house, that he thought he was Italian in spite of the fact that his regular name was the most common Irish surname in the world. That story stayed with them forever. He was asked that question every birthday for the rest of his life.
There was a soft-serve ice cream chain indigenous to where they lived that served the best ice cream around. Whenever they got near one, she would always tap her chest with her fist and proclaim, “got a little heartburn” before pulling into the parking lot. She would drive whoever walked in to get the treats, especially her second husband, crazy by asking them “find out what the special flavor is.”
Cooking and eating was her gig. She always related any situation to eating. She had been raised during the Great Depression, and would not allow her refrigerator, freezer, or pantry to get too low on food. Holiday meals were grand events. Thanksgiving always meant huge turkey’s with her dressing and so many vegetables that it was near impossible to move around the table for fear of spilling something. Not that anything went to waste. If something fell on the floor all you had to do was “Kiss it up to God” and pop it in your mouth before the germs took a hold. Lot’s of potatoes and cabbage to honor the fact that she, and her brood, were Irish. Italian pasta was served a couple of nights a week to give homage to her dear friends of Italian lineage. At every big meal with guests every one would be admonished for not having eaten enough in spite of being full to the point of bursting. In all situations, food was the answer. Comfort food had an entirely different meaning in her house. It meant eating to the point of discomfort. “Thank God for that little bite, that many a man would call a meal” was the mantra after every repast. It was a favorite memory of one of her Aunt’s.
She worked in the maternity ward of a Catholic hospital. She met and became fast friends with everyone. She would baptize the babies she cared for regardless of their nationality or family religion. “Their goes another good Catholic” she would say. It was not that she thought other religions were wrong, it was just her way of keeping the children safe and loved. God knew what he wanted from people, and she felt that it was her duty to help him. She made friends with the doctors and nurses and they became part of the family. She introduced one girl to Aunt Nancy’s son, and they married and stayed that way raising four kids and becoming grandparents. They brought the first grandchild to visit her, and she sat holding the baby singing the same songs she sang to her son and daughter when they were babies.
She faced adversity of some sort all her life. She kept it in its pace. She loved to move, and in some other life would have been a great explorer. She would have been perfect company for Marco Polo, or Lief Erickson, or Lewis and Clark. In truth, she probably would have made things a much easier for them in their journeys. The first thing she would do is make friends with the frightening natives they discovered, and put together a feast that would leave everyone too stuffed with food to argue or fight. In reality, if she were on those noble expeditions into the unknown, history would ultimately record them as Helen’s Expedition, and the principle players would take a back seat to the force of nature who always asked everyone she met if she could give them “a little something.”
When faced with life, good or bad, she beat it back with an apron, a stovetop full of pots, and an oven full of massive hunks of meat.
When she could not pay the bills because she made less than it cost her and the kids to live, she fed and clothed her kids before paying the rent, and somehow things got taken care of. When her daughter came to her to tell her she was getting a divorce the same month the wedding bill had finally been paid off, her reply was “don’t worry about it dear, it was a good party.” When she rode in the car with her son and someone raced passed them, her comment was, “go ahead, you son of a bitch, hell ain’t half full.”
She is everywhere in my life, in the grocery store buying Ragu spaghetti sauce, in a woman sitting in the park singing to her infant child, in the eyes of a woman at work that sits at lunch and says a rosary and in the Corning ware I use to cook meatloaf. I looked in my refrigerator the other day, and remembered the recipe for “Ann Mack Casserole.” All I need is some cheese and I can make it tonight. It will not be hers, but it can live on. I get this vision of her placing it on a table and answering the front door. Standing there is Jesus and His Mother. She gives them a big hug and says, “Come, have a little something.”
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Noir
Searching the book rack at a nearby satellite location of the giant merchant chain founded by the Retail Sage from Bentonville I discovered a disturbing notion. The world has gone dark. Given my love for the written word, I never pass a collection of written material that I do not stop and peruse the offerings. This is what I term an “Artist Date.” I first began this pastime as a part of a writing curriculum I participate in that has been most beneficial in my pursuit of fame and fortune as an outlet of written insight or, depending on the given moment, gobbledygook.
It has taken me many places, this distraction, and I find much comfort in it. I will admit that I probably would do better if I chased literature at an actual book store, but I find myself miserly in the dispersal of funds as well as lazy. There are no electric carts available in Barnes and Noble to ride and I, in my advancing infirmity, do not stand or walk as well as in years gone by. Besides, it is spring and the advent of scantily clad members of the fairer sex abounds. I can chase more women at Wal-Mart with the least amount of rejection or effort. Not that there is hope in me of catching anything, I have been, woefully, outdistanced by the fairer sex for many years now.
Disgusting chauvinism aside, I noticed a trend in the literature available that disturbed me greatly. The cosmos has apparently been taken hostage by legions of vampires and zombies. There is also a multitude of diabolical schemes and conspiracies being perpetrated on the One True Church by secret societies and cabals wishing to enslave or enchain the true believers of Jesus Christ. Volume upon volume of demonic conspiracies, founded in ancient writings or eliciting from practices of all sorts of arcane organizations have engulfed the literary world as well as the cinematic arts. I peruse the DVD racks as well as the book shelves only to find gritty, gruesome, and gory tales that adulate the horrific, and idolize the shedding of blood.
The books my students revere all have dark tones to there narratives. We recently took a field trip to that bastion of literature with no electric conveyances for the purpose of increasing our school library. Books on the military arts and the treatises on the art of war (not Sun Tsu) now fill our shelves. During a recent absence of mine these young future captains of industry were shown an end-of-times film that is currently popular. It was apparently not possible for them to view the film in its entirety, and they wanted me to show them the remainder of the movie. I did not have it as it was a rental that had to be returned, and received much derision from the future members of Time magazines list of the top 100 most influential people. I fielded numerous questions on the authenticity of the prediction that gave foundation to the script of the teleplay. When I attempted to teach a lesson on historical predictors of the future (Nostradamus, et al) I received even more scorn for my efforts. I finally had to plead ignorance of said matters and move on to the much maligned scheduled lesson on Earth Day.
I can not fully scorn this trend, it is a fact that the well read instigator of this blog had his foundation in comic books. So much so that he suffered a broken wrist one time while attempting to practice the art of flying because his cousin had informed him that he would grow up to be Superman. I recognize the draw of fantasy, and revel in the imagination of the young. I do take umbrage with the content. In my time villains were much more intelligent. Lex Luthor (not the charlatan that is portrayed on “Smallvile”) had vast intelligence. Criminal masterminds actually had minds. I yearn for the diabolical ingenuity of Doctor Moriarty, or the alliterative capabilities of the Riddler.
I seek the mesmeric abilities of Count Dracula and not the pseudo intellectual claptrap that speaks of differing powers and abilities then that envisaged by that Irish dramatist of much import, Bram Stoker. Twilight be dammed! Give me Igor or Van Helsing any day. Body snatching and a good old fashioned stake in the heart in place of the walking dead going to algebra class is what the true nature of a horror story should be.
My preferences aside, it is a curiosity of where this proclivity for the Dark Side comes from. My kids are not of an age where they could appreciate the nuances of the dynamic between Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, or the universally HOT (particularly in the slave outfit) Princess Leia. Bela Legosi is just two strange words that no one knows the meaning to, and entrance into the Fortress of Solitude was impossible unless you could perambulate your way around the huge freaking key.
The lone venue I find in current fictional culture is those animated features that find their way to the Big Screen. Walt Disney is still alive, Pixar is amazing, and Shrek rules! Hope springs eternal! The salvation of mankind can be found in these gigantanormous cartoons.
This still does not give relief in my vexation with the publishing world. I find a great amount of women holding place on bestseller lists, and that is encouraging. The originators of bestseller lists seem to be open to narrowing the gender gap, or is it the content? I wonder if there are really that many police detectives, coroners, private investigators, F.B.I agents, C.I.A. operatives, or Navy S.E.A.L’s out there who are actually women. I wonder why the world has demonized the Muslim world in, well, both fiction and everywhere else. Maybe that is because believers of Allah have a tendency to be the guilty parties in many atrocities. What happened to demon bikers, where is La Cosa Nostra, and what of my beloved heritage…the IRA? Who is there to replaced the Knight in Slightly Tarnished Armor that John D. MacDonald detailed in his should-have-been-honored books. Where is the next generation of Steinbeck’s, Hemingway’s, or Pearl S. Buck’s? I wonder who laments the loss of Robert Heinlen? I wonder if there are answers for my questions, or if there is anyone reading who has the first idea of what I write?
Perhaps it is that yearning for things past feels nostalgic and comfortable, or a need to move my fingers across the keys, but I do believe that I can get past the umbrage I take with today’s genre noir. Or maybe it is the hope that some one will heed the message that I send today and want to publish that amazing fiction locked deep in the vault of my desktop computer. Hope does spring eternal, as does the alternative which is certainly just around the corner…in the cast they select for the next installment of the Twilight series.
Peace
It has taken me many places, this distraction, and I find much comfort in it. I will admit that I probably would do better if I chased literature at an actual book store, but I find myself miserly in the dispersal of funds as well as lazy. There are no electric carts available in Barnes and Noble to ride and I, in my advancing infirmity, do not stand or walk as well as in years gone by. Besides, it is spring and the advent of scantily clad members of the fairer sex abounds. I can chase more women at Wal-Mart with the least amount of rejection or effort. Not that there is hope in me of catching anything, I have been, woefully, outdistanced by the fairer sex for many years now.
Disgusting chauvinism aside, I noticed a trend in the literature available that disturbed me greatly. The cosmos has apparently been taken hostage by legions of vampires and zombies. There is also a multitude of diabolical schemes and conspiracies being perpetrated on the One True Church by secret societies and cabals wishing to enslave or enchain the true believers of Jesus Christ. Volume upon volume of demonic conspiracies, founded in ancient writings or eliciting from practices of all sorts of arcane organizations have engulfed the literary world as well as the cinematic arts. I peruse the DVD racks as well as the book shelves only to find gritty, gruesome, and gory tales that adulate the horrific, and idolize the shedding of blood.
The books my students revere all have dark tones to there narratives. We recently took a field trip to that bastion of literature with no electric conveyances for the purpose of increasing our school library. Books on the military arts and the treatises on the art of war (not Sun Tsu) now fill our shelves. During a recent absence of mine these young future captains of industry were shown an end-of-times film that is currently popular. It was apparently not possible for them to view the film in its entirety, and they wanted me to show them the remainder of the movie. I did not have it as it was a rental that had to be returned, and received much derision from the future members of Time magazines list of the top 100 most influential people. I fielded numerous questions on the authenticity of the prediction that gave foundation to the script of the teleplay. When I attempted to teach a lesson on historical predictors of the future (Nostradamus, et al) I received even more scorn for my efforts. I finally had to plead ignorance of said matters and move on to the much maligned scheduled lesson on Earth Day.
I can not fully scorn this trend, it is a fact that the well read instigator of this blog had his foundation in comic books. So much so that he suffered a broken wrist one time while attempting to practice the art of flying because his cousin had informed him that he would grow up to be Superman. I recognize the draw of fantasy, and revel in the imagination of the young. I do take umbrage with the content. In my time villains were much more intelligent. Lex Luthor (not the charlatan that is portrayed on “Smallvile”) had vast intelligence. Criminal masterminds actually had minds. I yearn for the diabolical ingenuity of Doctor Moriarty, or the alliterative capabilities of the Riddler.
I seek the mesmeric abilities of Count Dracula and not the pseudo intellectual claptrap that speaks of differing powers and abilities then that envisaged by that Irish dramatist of much import, Bram Stoker. Twilight be dammed! Give me Igor or Van Helsing any day. Body snatching and a good old fashioned stake in the heart in place of the walking dead going to algebra class is what the true nature of a horror story should be.
My preferences aside, it is a curiosity of where this proclivity for the Dark Side comes from. My kids are not of an age where they could appreciate the nuances of the dynamic between Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, or the universally HOT (particularly in the slave outfit) Princess Leia. Bela Legosi is just two strange words that no one knows the meaning to, and entrance into the Fortress of Solitude was impossible unless you could perambulate your way around the huge freaking key.
The lone venue I find in current fictional culture is those animated features that find their way to the Big Screen. Walt Disney is still alive, Pixar is amazing, and Shrek rules! Hope springs eternal! The salvation of mankind can be found in these gigantanormous cartoons.
This still does not give relief in my vexation with the publishing world. I find a great amount of women holding place on bestseller lists, and that is encouraging. The originators of bestseller lists seem to be open to narrowing the gender gap, or is it the content? I wonder if there are really that many police detectives, coroners, private investigators, F.B.I agents, C.I.A. operatives, or Navy S.E.A.L’s out there who are actually women. I wonder why the world has demonized the Muslim world in, well, both fiction and everywhere else. Maybe that is because believers of Allah have a tendency to be the guilty parties in many atrocities. What happened to demon bikers, where is La Cosa Nostra, and what of my beloved heritage…the IRA? Who is there to replaced the Knight in Slightly Tarnished Armor that John D. MacDonald detailed in his should-have-been-honored books. Where is the next generation of Steinbeck’s, Hemingway’s, or Pearl S. Buck’s? I wonder who laments the loss of Robert Heinlen? I wonder if there are answers for my questions, or if there is anyone reading who has the first idea of what I write?
Perhaps it is that yearning for things past feels nostalgic and comfortable, or a need to move my fingers across the keys, but I do believe that I can get past the umbrage I take with today’s genre noir. Or maybe it is the hope that some one will heed the message that I send today and want to publish that amazing fiction locked deep in the vault of my desktop computer. Hope does spring eternal, as does the alternative which is certainly just around the corner…in the cast they select for the next installment of the Twilight series.
Peace
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Ephemerality
I experienced a most somber moment this week. I arranged for my own funeral. I have no diagnoses requiring said action. There exists no expectation, or epistemological evidence, or even any factual elucidation informing me that I will be departing this mortal coil in the foreseeable future. I simply took some direction from God, and got about the business of dealing with the inevitable. I glanced into bathroom mirror and, after asking God what his desire for the handsome visage staring out from the mystical realm that exists within all said devices, discovered the requisite impetus to begin the process of dealing with both the inevitable march of time and the certainty that my time in this reality is… impermanent
This perhaps might have been provoked by a rendezvous with yet another purveyor of Hippocratic dogma. Presence at the headquarters of a variety of aficionado’s within the jurisdiction of the curative arts has become a paramount concern in the preparation of my daily, weekly, monthly, and annual schedule of events. Long gone are the days when I could look out either the fore or aft egress of that bastion of banality which is my domicile and choose direction of travel based on the foolishness of the free, or the desire of the dimwitted. Engaging the motorized stallion I have possession of (not, unfortunately, ownership given the balance on loan agreement) to begin the process of imbibing massive amounts of fossil fuel cocktails is not the joy it once was. I have to do battle with the healthcare industry much too often for this scribes liking. Hence, the sovereignty of the open road is devalued by the brief jaunts to this healer or that medicine show maven. This is a particularly wretched state of affairs for a free thinker such as me to find himself in.
Once more digression abounds. Onward we must go to find the justification for this encyclical. In the midst of this seemingly depressing duty there came a jewel and a gift. One I wish to share with those who find themselves enraptured and held hostage to the ramblings of this tired old pain in the ass.
I met with an insurance salesman at a local eatery to negotiate the disposition of my mortal remains. It had been my intention to sit in a local café to conduct said business, only to find the establishment closed. At 3:00 PM. I live in a state that has but one star, and where the drinking of coffee at a café was a God given right in days gone by. I learned this after relocating from a more frigid environ located in the northeastern section of this great land of ours. 3:00 PM was coffee time down at the café much as 4:00 PM is tea time for those citizens of the empire that never experiences nightfall. I found myself at a self service pizza joint with particularly agonizing wooden seating that aggravated my recent (about an hour prior to this morbid meeting of the minds) diagnosis of Bursitis.
The gentleman I met was of a sort that is in a rather distinct minority within the world of legalized gaming that is the insurance industry. He travels to his clients instead of working over the phone or within cyberspace. A memory arises from my misspent youth of a gentleman that would come to my Dear Sainted Mother’s kitchen and drink coffee with her and collect the weekly or monthly premium on some sort of insurance. At least I think that was what he was doing. My sweet Deifiúr might correct that inconsistency in my memory, but probably not. She is content to let her kid brother enjoy his senility. Much as this gentleman before me is content to travel to his clients.
We conducted our commerce and, after many signatures and writing of checks, I was assured that my passing onto the Great Reward would not be a burden to my friends and family. We were concluding our trade and engaging in the small talk that people do when he asked me what I do for a living. This began a conversation on the merits of being employed in a profession that gives aid and comfort to our fellow man, and the great rewards we each have received. He then looked at me and asked if he could ask me a personal question. Here it comes I thought. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”
Fortunately he did not, given the color of my hair and the obvious display of orthopedic distress, call me “son.” He looked at me as a coiled rattlesnake peers at a threat. I answered in the appropriate manner. I do believe Jesus to be the originator and focus of my metaphysical well being. Probably not in an equivalent scope as the fine Christian gentleman before me does, but to the extent that it is His face I wish to encounter once St. Peter bestows upon me access to the wonders contained behind the Pearly Gates.
My beliefs exist in a different realm from the average, run-of-the-mill Christian. I am Roman Catholic due to the impossibility of ever escaping the One True Religion (I am, after all, as Irish as Patty’s pig). The state of that church and the monumental scandal it is now experiencing has created a situation that prevents me, mentally, spiritually, and moralistically from participation. I have studied the precepts of many religions, and spiritualities in a search for the One to believe in, and found Jesus Christ to be that One. I incorporate other rituals in my daily quest for enlightenment, and feel quite comfortable with my personal brand of theology. Part of this theological dogma I practice is the acceptance of the beliefs of others. This might be the influence of the Twelve Step program I am a passionate member of, or it is the lessons at my Dear Sainted Mother’s knee having to do with the equality of all beings. Wherever it comes from, I listen to others thoughts on God. Mother Dear always taught me to be a gentleman.
My compatriot in the business of my demise tells me of a part of the Old Testament that has helped him greatly. He gives me the reference and simply tells me that he repeats the prayer several times daily, and it gives him great peace. End of story. He did not invite me to dinner, or Sunday and Wednesday services at the church he attends. He simply gave me the prayer and sent me on my way. I will do the same for you, my faithful readers. 1 Chronicles 4:10.
Peace
This perhaps might have been provoked by a rendezvous with yet another purveyor of Hippocratic dogma. Presence at the headquarters of a variety of aficionado’s within the jurisdiction of the curative arts has become a paramount concern in the preparation of my daily, weekly, monthly, and annual schedule of events. Long gone are the days when I could look out either the fore or aft egress of that bastion of banality which is my domicile and choose direction of travel based on the foolishness of the free, or the desire of the dimwitted. Engaging the motorized stallion I have possession of (not, unfortunately, ownership given the balance on loan agreement) to begin the process of imbibing massive amounts of fossil fuel cocktails is not the joy it once was. I have to do battle with the healthcare industry much too often for this scribes liking. Hence, the sovereignty of the open road is devalued by the brief jaunts to this healer or that medicine show maven. This is a particularly wretched state of affairs for a free thinker such as me to find himself in.
Once more digression abounds. Onward we must go to find the justification for this encyclical. In the midst of this seemingly depressing duty there came a jewel and a gift. One I wish to share with those who find themselves enraptured and held hostage to the ramblings of this tired old pain in the ass.
I met with an insurance salesman at a local eatery to negotiate the disposition of my mortal remains. It had been my intention to sit in a local café to conduct said business, only to find the establishment closed. At 3:00 PM. I live in a state that has but one star, and where the drinking of coffee at a café was a God given right in days gone by. I learned this after relocating from a more frigid environ located in the northeastern section of this great land of ours. 3:00 PM was coffee time down at the café much as 4:00 PM is tea time for those citizens of the empire that never experiences nightfall. I found myself at a self service pizza joint with particularly agonizing wooden seating that aggravated my recent (about an hour prior to this morbid meeting of the minds) diagnosis of Bursitis.
The gentleman I met was of a sort that is in a rather distinct minority within the world of legalized gaming that is the insurance industry. He travels to his clients instead of working over the phone or within cyberspace. A memory arises from my misspent youth of a gentleman that would come to my Dear Sainted Mother’s kitchen and drink coffee with her and collect the weekly or monthly premium on some sort of insurance. At least I think that was what he was doing. My sweet Deifiúr might correct that inconsistency in my memory, but probably not. She is content to let her kid brother enjoy his senility. Much as this gentleman before me is content to travel to his clients.
We conducted our commerce and, after many signatures and writing of checks, I was assured that my passing onto the Great Reward would not be a burden to my friends and family. We were concluding our trade and engaging in the small talk that people do when he asked me what I do for a living. This began a conversation on the merits of being employed in a profession that gives aid and comfort to our fellow man, and the great rewards we each have received. He then looked at me and asked if he could ask me a personal question. Here it comes I thought. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”
Fortunately he did not, given the color of my hair and the obvious display of orthopedic distress, call me “son.” He looked at me as a coiled rattlesnake peers at a threat. I answered in the appropriate manner. I do believe Jesus to be the originator and focus of my metaphysical well being. Probably not in an equivalent scope as the fine Christian gentleman before me does, but to the extent that it is His face I wish to encounter once St. Peter bestows upon me access to the wonders contained behind the Pearly Gates.
My beliefs exist in a different realm from the average, run-of-the-mill Christian. I am Roman Catholic due to the impossibility of ever escaping the One True Religion (I am, after all, as Irish as Patty’s pig). The state of that church and the monumental scandal it is now experiencing has created a situation that prevents me, mentally, spiritually, and moralistically from participation. I have studied the precepts of many religions, and spiritualities in a search for the One to believe in, and found Jesus Christ to be that One. I incorporate other rituals in my daily quest for enlightenment, and feel quite comfortable with my personal brand of theology. Part of this theological dogma I practice is the acceptance of the beliefs of others. This might be the influence of the Twelve Step program I am a passionate member of, or it is the lessons at my Dear Sainted Mother’s knee having to do with the equality of all beings. Wherever it comes from, I listen to others thoughts on God. Mother Dear always taught me to be a gentleman.
My compatriot in the business of my demise tells me of a part of the Old Testament that has helped him greatly. He gives me the reference and simply tells me that he repeats the prayer several times daily, and it gives him great peace. End of story. He did not invite me to dinner, or Sunday and Wednesday services at the church he attends. He simply gave me the prayer and sent me on my way. I will do the same for you, my faithful readers. 1 Chronicles 4:10.
Peace
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Back in Black
Once upon a time there was this famous scribe who regaled the cosmos with wonderful words of wit, persuasive and pervasive prose, unparalleled political punditry, wisdom for the ages, and healthy doses of good old fashioned Irish Blarney. This scrivener of all that is noble and honorable has once again appeared out of this otherworldly domain to divert the attention of the masses. This originator of essays, this ink slinger of note, this purveyor of the seemingly mundane unpoetical, and rhymeless elucidation, enucleation, enunciation, exegesis, explication, and exposé returns to the page. Or, for lack of any more big words to use, this lazy assed little and known (but hopeful) dupe is back at the keyboard.
I have been absent before you since prior to the celebration of the birth of Our Lord. I have had time, but little muse. I have spent time in many pursuits of note. Gainful employment, research into the mysteries of the cyber world, waiting with baited breath to see if they were finally going to let Clark Kent fly this season, and attending to the realities of my disintegrating health.
I have delved into the possibility of becoming an amanuensisist in order to supplement my income. I have tried to locate some being with the proficiency and competence to take my words and translate them into numbers that can thus increase the “available balance” section of my bank account. My aptitude in the world of sales and marketing lacks the vim and vigor necessary to accomplish this task. In reality, I could not sell a thirsty man a drink of water if he possessed a pocketful of Benjamin’s. I also do not possess the patience to listen to those of a motivational demeanor who would tell me that it is within me to be everything I wish to be. Anthony Robbins, and Norman Vincent Peale have never been my heroes. My heroes have always taught me that I was sufficient in and of myself. They have also counseled me to know my limitations, like the one where I can’t sell shit.
I have asked those who I know that do, in fact, hold proficiency in convincing people to procure goods and services that might be of an intangible disposition. Like my propensity to use big words that might better be communicated with simpler language. They have declined almost to the man. My Sweet Deifiúr has offered to investigate this situation, and I have faith in my champion.
Alliteration aside, I wish to commune in all that is simple. The path to this gallant pursuit calls for me to continue exercising my fingers and my wit. It cries for me to do battle with the dragon that is my sloth and indifference. I have posted several pieces in the last few days and am just now finding the audacity to report as such. So, my faithful followers, and those who stumble upon it in Etherspace, enjoy.
I have been absent before you since prior to the celebration of the birth of Our Lord. I have had time, but little muse. I have spent time in many pursuits of note. Gainful employment, research into the mysteries of the cyber world, waiting with baited breath to see if they were finally going to let Clark Kent fly this season, and attending to the realities of my disintegrating health.
I have delved into the possibility of becoming an amanuensisist in order to supplement my income. I have tried to locate some being with the proficiency and competence to take my words and translate them into numbers that can thus increase the “available balance” section of my bank account. My aptitude in the world of sales and marketing lacks the vim and vigor necessary to accomplish this task. In reality, I could not sell a thirsty man a drink of water if he possessed a pocketful of Benjamin’s. I also do not possess the patience to listen to those of a motivational demeanor who would tell me that it is within me to be everything I wish to be. Anthony Robbins, and Norman Vincent Peale have never been my heroes. My heroes have always taught me that I was sufficient in and of myself. They have also counseled me to know my limitations, like the one where I can’t sell shit.
I have asked those who I know that do, in fact, hold proficiency in convincing people to procure goods and services that might be of an intangible disposition. Like my propensity to use big words that might better be communicated with simpler language. They have declined almost to the man. My Sweet Deifiúr has offered to investigate this situation, and I have faith in my champion.
Alliteration aside, I wish to commune in all that is simple. The path to this gallant pursuit calls for me to continue exercising my fingers and my wit. It cries for me to do battle with the dragon that is my sloth and indifference. I have posted several pieces in the last few days and am just now finding the audacity to report as such. So, my faithful followers, and those who stumble upon it in Etherspace, enjoy.
Cookies and Milk
I was listening to an inspirational speaker recently that spoke a great deal of the realm of spiritual principles. Spiritual being those ideals or beliefs that connect one to that which is holy, sacred, or divine to a person or group of persons. Principles being those matters in life that are important, central, essential or valuable to that same individual or faction of individuals. At least, this is the way I have come to understand the words making up the term "spiritual principle."
Any number of things can become important in life. Certainly the avenue one travels to earn a living to sustain life is a matter of great import. After that, much is left to the idiosyncratic in us all. This man I listened to felt strongly that a most important ideal was the spiritual principle of being nice. Not an easy feat to accomplish. The world today offers many opportunities for numerous levels of action and interaction. I see that all of it can be done with kindness.
What does it cost to practice this "matter of importance?" Nothing but a simple choice, and a hard choice at that...if the evidence before us is to be accepted. We spend every day in a world bereft of examples sufficient enough to allow the good feeling of kindness. It is a learned behavior. As children we are taught to be polite and nice. We then move out into the world and encounter that which is negative. Since my entrance into society, some fifty-plus years, I have seen atrocity, crime, murder, violence, and cruelty near everyday I maintain, or attempt to maintain vim and vigor. I have grown jaded and disappointed with the world. I want things to be the way they were when I attended kindergarten. Back then, life seemed easy. You said "yes sir", and held doors for ladies, and if you did these and a few other simple practices they gave you milk and cookies and let you take a nap in the afternoon. Life should be like milk and cookies. I know few people who do not like milk and cookies. Those who don't need to be given whatever it is they like. As long, that is, as it is not harmful to them or others.
It comes to me that kindness is the most simple of practices. I wish I did it more. It takes no inspiration and not much effort if your heart is in the right place. I left work yesterday and passed a young man walking down a highway with a gas can in his hand. I believe in the power of random acts of kindness and, as such, stopped and brought him to a gas station. Upon arrival back at his vehicle it would not start. The man had thanked me when he got in my car, telling me that both a police county constable and a state trooper had passed him without stopping. Now that he had no working vehicle, the constable showed up. As I sat waiting to see if the car would start the constable questioned me extensively. Only after explain that I was a school teacher and thus a "Decent" citizen did he leave me alone. He warned me of the danger of picking up strangers on the side of the road. I wondered when things got this way. I simply tried to be nice, and now I had come under suspicion for being kind. I waited until the constable warned the kid of leaving the car on the side of the road, and being a burden to the public. I then took the kid's mother down the road to get some help from her husband. She thanked me for going out of my way, and tried to pay me. I thought of the constable who actually was getting paid to help people and declined the remuneration.
I worried over the incident all the way back to town. I decided that the best thing I could do, if it happened again, was say "Yes sir" to whatever cop who thought threatening a downed motorist was the best way to help, and hold the door for the lady that actually needed the help. Then go home and give myself some cookies and milk...
Any number of things can become important in life. Certainly the avenue one travels to earn a living to sustain life is a matter of great import. After that, much is left to the idiosyncratic in us all. This man I listened to felt strongly that a most important ideal was the spiritual principle of being nice. Not an easy feat to accomplish. The world today offers many opportunities for numerous levels of action and interaction. I see that all of it can be done with kindness.
What does it cost to practice this "matter of importance?" Nothing but a simple choice, and a hard choice at that...if the evidence before us is to be accepted. We spend every day in a world bereft of examples sufficient enough to allow the good feeling of kindness. It is a learned behavior. As children we are taught to be polite and nice. We then move out into the world and encounter that which is negative. Since my entrance into society, some fifty-plus years, I have seen atrocity, crime, murder, violence, and cruelty near everyday I maintain, or attempt to maintain vim and vigor. I have grown jaded and disappointed with the world. I want things to be the way they were when I attended kindergarten. Back then, life seemed easy. You said "yes sir", and held doors for ladies, and if you did these and a few other simple practices they gave you milk and cookies and let you take a nap in the afternoon. Life should be like milk and cookies. I know few people who do not like milk and cookies. Those who don't need to be given whatever it is they like. As long, that is, as it is not harmful to them or others.
It comes to me that kindness is the most simple of practices. I wish I did it more. It takes no inspiration and not much effort if your heart is in the right place. I left work yesterday and passed a young man walking down a highway with a gas can in his hand. I believe in the power of random acts of kindness and, as such, stopped and brought him to a gas station. Upon arrival back at his vehicle it would not start. The man had thanked me when he got in my car, telling me that both a police county constable and a state trooper had passed him without stopping. Now that he had no working vehicle, the constable showed up. As I sat waiting to see if the car would start the constable questioned me extensively. Only after explain that I was a school teacher and thus a "Decent" citizen did he leave me alone. He warned me of the danger of picking up strangers on the side of the road. I wondered when things got this way. I simply tried to be nice, and now I had come under suspicion for being kind. I waited until the constable warned the kid of leaving the car on the side of the road, and being a burden to the public. I then took the kid's mother down the road to get some help from her husband. She thanked me for going out of my way, and tried to pay me. I thought of the constable who actually was getting paid to help people and declined the remuneration.
I worried over the incident all the way back to town. I decided that the best thing I could do, if it happened again, was say "Yes sir" to whatever cop who thought threatening a downed motorist was the best way to help, and hold the door for the lady that actually needed the help. Then go home and give myself some cookies and milk...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Drubbing
“Every government that exists — or ever existed, or ever will exist — is a kleptocracy…” L. Neil Smith
Okay I am pretty pissed. I am under the impression that I live in a compassionate, caring, and kind nation that genuinely care about mankind in its whole. Certainly there is ample evidence in the relief effort launched in the wake of the staggeringly horrific situation in Haiti. People and resources pouring into the country as fast as possible, celebrities writing songs, donating money, hosting concerts, and the 82nd Airborne on the ground with no intention to leave anytime soon. All of this is exactly what I knew in my soul would happen in the aftermath of the catastrophe. We are Americans. When there is trouble anywhere in the world, our citizens step up and make things better without regard to consequences.
My ire comes from an indignation over the fact that we are woefully and ignorantly incapable of providing the same for our own citizens in time of need.
To wit. Health care reform. To wit. Conducting the business of government. To wit. The unadulterated treason being perpetrated by the Republican faction within our government!
Once more they have shown themselves to be the bribe taking, deceitful, mendacious, duplicitous, double-dealing, fallacious, erroneous criminals that they are! I have much stronger language in my voluminous vocabulary but will refrain in the face of convention, and the fact that I have difficulty spelling some of my ancillary yet most applicable invectives.
Now I am not talking about those misguided (IMHO) citizens of this nation I still consider to be the panacea for the ills of the world who, in their ill-advised bliss, vote Republican. We have the right to be wrong at any given time, or the right to accuse other folks of being irrational. That is the beauty of this country. We have the equal ability to succeed or fail without the loss of our guaranteed rights and privileges…as do the policymakers of this most noble homeland.
I am speaking of those medicine show mavens who have sold their snake oil to the public and couched their sales pitch with a fabricated testimony on the glory of this wonderful nation. The ideals set forth by our Founding Fathers. Said iconoclasts that were instrumental in the development of this country had to originate it within the confines of what they knew to be true. In the 1700’s AIDS, Multiple Sclerosis, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, psychosis, neurosis, influenza, hepatitis, obsessive compulsive disorder, Ebola, ALS, Hodgkin’s, and irritable bowel syndrome did not exist as we know it. Well, these maladies and the other 111,000,000 referenced by Google probably did exist, but the treatment was significantly different. Back then healthcare was simple. If you were not able to fight an illness off at home, you called a doctor. If after using the state of the art technology at the time (leeches, bleeding) you did not get better, then you died. It was the same for the rich and the poor. You get sick beyond the skills and abilities of whatever healthcare provider comes available and what you received was (hopefully) a eulogy, and a faceful of dirt.
Today panaceas abound. We have cures for many disease, remedy for mental difficulties, surgery to completely restructure your inner and outer appearance, medication to ease the symptoms of everything from cancer to the most annoying disorder in the world…erectile dysfunction. What was once a simple truth, you get sick and either you get better or die, has now become a quagmire of HMO’s, PPO’s, experimental procedures, and cosmetic enhancement. Unfortunately in amongst of all this liposuction and medicinal therapy there are real illnesses that can be treated, if, that is, you can afford it. The Congress and Senate do not have to worry about this. Once elected, they receive the best of care, on the American people’s nickel. They have healthcare professionals on staff at the Capital building. They don’t even have to take a sick day if they don’t want it. All they have to do is walk down the hall and see a doctor. Right then, when they want it. When they are at home they can walk into any federal or military hospitable and show them their “I’m a congressman\Senator” badge, and a nurse instantly asks them if they would like a cup of coffee or a pillow while they wait. (Okay that might be an exaggeration…the coffee thing, that is)They also receive a salary that places new hires in the 33% tax bracket. Pretty good work if you can get it.
Criminal? Treason? He must be out of his ever-loving mind. Well in the first place, my mind is most definitely not of an ever loving disposition. To my detriment, I have not learned to love all men as my God instructs. I do not love people who hurt others intentionally. I do not love bigots. I do not love hypocrites, I do not love snake oil salesman that play with the wellbeing of people not fortunate enough to live a life as sheltered and nurturing as the congress and senate. I did not capitalize these last two words. This is not a simple grammatical error, it is intentional due to the fact that, given their actions, these organizations do not deserve special recognition. They deserve to be fired, and possibly imprisoned.
But how is that valid you might say. Well here it is. Every person chosen to serve in the congress or senate must take an oath. Here are the words to that oath;
“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”
These ignoble purveyors of spurious and blasphemous rhetoric swear these oaths, purportedly in the name of principled governance. Not to assert, insist, confirm, avow, announce, establish, verify, pronounce, acknowledge, uphold, encourage, or sustain anything, but to augment personal agenda’s that are long on speechifying and short on warrant. They have taken these undertaking with specific mental reservation and most certainly for the purpose of evasion. They exempt themselves from laws and regulations the American public must comply with. There is no true faith and allegiance to this country while they aggressively pursuing an obstructionist course of action for a serving President’s diagram for effective governance.
I went looking for the duties of the congress and found many words on what they are supposed to do, but little on what they are required to do. The Constitution give them powers to do much, all of which is administered by the Executive Branch except, that is, those things the congress decides to butt their noses in. The chief instruction given them in Article 1 Section 8 of the constitution is; “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts and excises, to pay the debts and provide for the common defense and general welfare of the United States; but all duties, imposts and excises shall be uniform throughout the United States…”
I ask you, how well are they looking after the general welfare of the millions of people without health care? People who work and pay taxes but cannot afford insurance. And how exactly are they providing for the general welfare when they take money from insurance companies in the guise of Lobbyists and actively work against healthcare reform. How loyal are they to their oath when most of their time in the House of Representatives is spent getting themselves re-elected with PAC and lobby funds? How is that not treason?
Criminal? I tried to find substantive evidence for the criminal actions of congress, but could not find any. Hmmm…
Perhaps a RICO investigation might be in order. The Mafia came tumbling down under this statute once there was evidence provided my informants, who were criminals who guilty and made deals to avoid prosecution. Where are the rats in congress? They are enjoying the largesse of those who elected them, and the protection of their positions. Crime is defined as: “an action or an instance of negligence that is deemed injurious to the public welfare or morals or to the interests of the state and that is legally prohibited.” Except that there is no legal prohibition for what they are doing. That might be because when the legislative branch and the executive branch create laws that hold restrictions to personal action of any sort add caveats to those selfsame laws that exclude them from compliance.
The logjam that is Washington cannot be in the best interest of or even associated with the public welfare. We have elected a group of individuals that, upon taking residence in the nation’s capital, seemingly forget that they were elected by the people, most of whom cannot afford healthcare. The absolute refusal of the Republican members of congress to work for the good of the people is criminal. Allowing people to suffer and possibly die for lack of proper health care is negligent and injurious to those members of the population without the resources to obtain said care. This is a violation of the law. Article 1Section 8 of the Constitution, which they swore to uphold, calls for the providing of the common defense and general welfare of the United States which is populated by many people whose welfare and defense from sickness is not being furnished.
So, they are acting in both a treasonous and criminal manner under the same part of the law, and we refuse to do anything about it. This is not just a Republican crime, it is a Democratic crime. First in that the Democrats have allowed it to happen. Next is the general cowardice of the same Democrats to stand up for what they are sworn to do. So we can add cowardice to the list of transgressions.
Except, that is, for the President. He is charging into the face of the enemy and refuses to back down. If JFK were writing “Profiles in Courage” today Obama would have a chapter. I will say that I am not pleased that he has had to surrender to some of the realities of Washington. I do applaud his determination in the face of adversity. He walked into the Oval Office and after the first photograph of him shaking some Republicans hand had to go to war on yet another front. Washington.
It has come to this. I have been writing this piece for about three months, and I am weary of the process. I keep charging off to research my points and watching the news for ammunition in my literary skirmish, and have grown somnolent and disenchanted. I will leave this battle to the noble warriors and reprehensible fiends we engage in battle. It is lunch time and I must take some medicine. Medicine paid for (mostly) by the prescription drug benefit of my healthcare insurance provider.
I will leave you with two quotes I garnered from the research for this paper;
“…The average age of the world’s greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:
From Bondage to spiritual faith;
From spiritual faith to great courage;
From courage to liberty;
From liberty to abundance;
From abundance to complacency
From complacency to apathy;
From apathy to dependence;
From dependence back into bondage”
Alexander Tyler
I do not know, given my fatigue and lowering blood sugar, if bondage is inevitable, or that the bond holder might be Republican or Democrat. I do know that our greatest President (IMHO) had an answer for those who would pervert our country with treasonous, criminal, and cowardly actions;
“If you love wealth more than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, depart from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you. May your chains rest lightly upon you and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”
Samuel Adams, (1722-1803)
Okay I am pretty pissed. I am under the impression that I live in a compassionate, caring, and kind nation that genuinely care about mankind in its whole. Certainly there is ample evidence in the relief effort launched in the wake of the staggeringly horrific situation in Haiti. People and resources pouring into the country as fast as possible, celebrities writing songs, donating money, hosting concerts, and the 82nd Airborne on the ground with no intention to leave anytime soon. All of this is exactly what I knew in my soul would happen in the aftermath of the catastrophe. We are Americans. When there is trouble anywhere in the world, our citizens step up and make things better without regard to consequences.
My ire comes from an indignation over the fact that we are woefully and ignorantly incapable of providing the same for our own citizens in time of need.
To wit. Health care reform. To wit. Conducting the business of government. To wit. The unadulterated treason being perpetrated by the Republican faction within our government!
Once more they have shown themselves to be the bribe taking, deceitful, mendacious, duplicitous, double-dealing, fallacious, erroneous criminals that they are! I have much stronger language in my voluminous vocabulary but will refrain in the face of convention, and the fact that I have difficulty spelling some of my ancillary yet most applicable invectives.
Now I am not talking about those misguided (IMHO) citizens of this nation I still consider to be the panacea for the ills of the world who, in their ill-advised bliss, vote Republican. We have the right to be wrong at any given time, or the right to accuse other folks of being irrational. That is the beauty of this country. We have the equal ability to succeed or fail without the loss of our guaranteed rights and privileges…as do the policymakers of this most noble homeland.
I am speaking of those medicine show mavens who have sold their snake oil to the public and couched their sales pitch with a fabricated testimony on the glory of this wonderful nation. The ideals set forth by our Founding Fathers. Said iconoclasts that were instrumental in the development of this country had to originate it within the confines of what they knew to be true. In the 1700’s AIDS, Multiple Sclerosis, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, psychosis, neurosis, influenza, hepatitis, obsessive compulsive disorder, Ebola, ALS, Hodgkin’s, and irritable bowel syndrome did not exist as we know it. Well, these maladies and the other 111,000,000 referenced by Google probably did exist, but the treatment was significantly different. Back then healthcare was simple. If you were not able to fight an illness off at home, you called a doctor. If after using the state of the art technology at the time (leeches, bleeding) you did not get better, then you died. It was the same for the rich and the poor. You get sick beyond the skills and abilities of whatever healthcare provider comes available and what you received was (hopefully) a eulogy, and a faceful of dirt.
Today panaceas abound. We have cures for many disease, remedy for mental difficulties, surgery to completely restructure your inner and outer appearance, medication to ease the symptoms of everything from cancer to the most annoying disorder in the world…erectile dysfunction. What was once a simple truth, you get sick and either you get better or die, has now become a quagmire of HMO’s, PPO’s, experimental procedures, and cosmetic enhancement. Unfortunately in amongst of all this liposuction and medicinal therapy there are real illnesses that can be treated, if, that is, you can afford it. The Congress and Senate do not have to worry about this. Once elected, they receive the best of care, on the American people’s nickel. They have healthcare professionals on staff at the Capital building. They don’t even have to take a sick day if they don’t want it. All they have to do is walk down the hall and see a doctor. Right then, when they want it. When they are at home they can walk into any federal or military hospitable and show them their “I’m a congressman\Senator” badge, and a nurse instantly asks them if they would like a cup of coffee or a pillow while they wait. (Okay that might be an exaggeration…the coffee thing, that is)They also receive a salary that places new hires in the 33% tax bracket. Pretty good work if you can get it.
Criminal? Treason? He must be out of his ever-loving mind. Well in the first place, my mind is most definitely not of an ever loving disposition. To my detriment, I have not learned to love all men as my God instructs. I do not love people who hurt others intentionally. I do not love bigots. I do not love hypocrites, I do not love snake oil salesman that play with the wellbeing of people not fortunate enough to live a life as sheltered and nurturing as the congress and senate. I did not capitalize these last two words. This is not a simple grammatical error, it is intentional due to the fact that, given their actions, these organizations do not deserve special recognition. They deserve to be fired, and possibly imprisoned.
But how is that valid you might say. Well here it is. Every person chosen to serve in the congress or senate must take an oath. Here are the words to that oath;
“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”
These ignoble purveyors of spurious and blasphemous rhetoric swear these oaths, purportedly in the name of principled governance. Not to assert, insist, confirm, avow, announce, establish, verify, pronounce, acknowledge, uphold, encourage, or sustain anything, but to augment personal agenda’s that are long on speechifying and short on warrant. They have taken these undertaking with specific mental reservation and most certainly for the purpose of evasion. They exempt themselves from laws and regulations the American public must comply with. There is no true faith and allegiance to this country while they aggressively pursuing an obstructionist course of action for a serving President’s diagram for effective governance.
I went looking for the duties of the congress and found many words on what they are supposed to do, but little on what they are required to do. The Constitution give them powers to do much, all of which is administered by the Executive Branch except, that is, those things the congress decides to butt their noses in. The chief instruction given them in Article 1 Section 8 of the constitution is; “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts and excises, to pay the debts and provide for the common defense and general welfare of the United States; but all duties, imposts and excises shall be uniform throughout the United States…”
I ask you, how well are they looking after the general welfare of the millions of people without health care? People who work and pay taxes but cannot afford insurance. And how exactly are they providing for the general welfare when they take money from insurance companies in the guise of Lobbyists and actively work against healthcare reform. How loyal are they to their oath when most of their time in the House of Representatives is spent getting themselves re-elected with PAC and lobby funds? How is that not treason?
Criminal? I tried to find substantive evidence for the criminal actions of congress, but could not find any. Hmmm…
Perhaps a RICO investigation might be in order. The Mafia came tumbling down under this statute once there was evidence provided my informants, who were criminals who guilty and made deals to avoid prosecution. Where are the rats in congress? They are enjoying the largesse of those who elected them, and the protection of their positions. Crime is defined as: “an action or an instance of negligence that is deemed injurious to the public welfare or morals or to the interests of the state and that is legally prohibited.” Except that there is no legal prohibition for what they are doing. That might be because when the legislative branch and the executive branch create laws that hold restrictions to personal action of any sort add caveats to those selfsame laws that exclude them from compliance.
The logjam that is Washington cannot be in the best interest of or even associated with the public welfare. We have elected a group of individuals that, upon taking residence in the nation’s capital, seemingly forget that they were elected by the people, most of whom cannot afford healthcare. The absolute refusal of the Republican members of congress to work for the good of the people is criminal. Allowing people to suffer and possibly die for lack of proper health care is negligent and injurious to those members of the population without the resources to obtain said care. This is a violation of the law. Article 1Section 8 of the Constitution, which they swore to uphold, calls for the providing of the common defense and general welfare of the United States which is populated by many people whose welfare and defense from sickness is not being furnished.
So, they are acting in both a treasonous and criminal manner under the same part of the law, and we refuse to do anything about it. This is not just a Republican crime, it is a Democratic crime. First in that the Democrats have allowed it to happen. Next is the general cowardice of the same Democrats to stand up for what they are sworn to do. So we can add cowardice to the list of transgressions.
Except, that is, for the President. He is charging into the face of the enemy and refuses to back down. If JFK were writing “Profiles in Courage” today Obama would have a chapter. I will say that I am not pleased that he has had to surrender to some of the realities of Washington. I do applaud his determination in the face of adversity. He walked into the Oval Office and after the first photograph of him shaking some Republicans hand had to go to war on yet another front. Washington.
It has come to this. I have been writing this piece for about three months, and I am weary of the process. I keep charging off to research my points and watching the news for ammunition in my literary skirmish, and have grown somnolent and disenchanted. I will leave this battle to the noble warriors and reprehensible fiends we engage in battle. It is lunch time and I must take some medicine. Medicine paid for (mostly) by the prescription drug benefit of my healthcare insurance provider.
I will leave you with two quotes I garnered from the research for this paper;
“…The average age of the world’s greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:
From Bondage to spiritual faith;
From spiritual faith to great courage;
From courage to liberty;
From liberty to abundance;
From abundance to complacency
From complacency to apathy;
From apathy to dependence;
From dependence back into bondage”
Alexander Tyler
I do not know, given my fatigue and lowering blood sugar, if bondage is inevitable, or that the bond holder might be Republican or Democrat. I do know that our greatest President (IMHO) had an answer for those who would pervert our country with treasonous, criminal, and cowardly actions;
“If you love wealth more than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, depart from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you. May your chains rest lightly upon you and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”
Samuel Adams, (1722-1803)
Deciding to Love or Hate: Which Will You Choose?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Well, at least that is how Shakespeare put it. I do not really know what there is to love and whether it is feasible to find something to love in this world. I do know that as a feeling, love is the most disturbing of emotions. It has no rhyme or reason to exist in humankind, yet it does. I read book upon book on the subject and stay in a quandary over what exactly this unsettling pursuit is supposed to be in my life.
I find it much simpler to hate. For some raison d’être there is much more of this most negative manifestation in all we do in this world. There is war, and crime, and abuse, and prejudice, and intolerance, and disdain for all that is kind and true. How can one see the need for tenderness in the face of callous disregard for the very humanness we all share? The answer is fully plain. We live in a society programmed to do instead of feel. As an emotion, hate always drives some manner of action, and deeds resulting are more interesting than those emerging out of benevolence and concern. Hate grows out of anger and anger grows out of indignation.
As imperfect organisms, we tend to embrace ideals familiar to us. In modern society our ideals are driven by external influence. We read a newspaper, or a magazine. We watch television. We watch television. We listen, read, perceive, and misinterpret, pretty much on a universal basis, that which is put before us. We have cable and satellite TV. We have hundred of channels to watch on numerous issues specifically designed to capture the attention of the viewing public. There are several levels of viewing possibilities. Local stations offer toned down language in programming to ensure a wholesome environment for our children, but only until nine or ten o'clock. Then the cable giants take over. There are horror movies, and martial arts movies, soft-core pornography, stand up comedy focusing on the vulgar and frighteningly graphic documentaries on the ills of society.
We teach our children with these mediums of expression. We have MTV and reality shows displaying abrasive, abusive, pornographic, and intensely misanthropic content. There are sound bites and imagery flashed at us in millisecond blasts negating the ability for anyone to make rational decisions as to there veracity. All we see is brought to us at the speed of light and we have little chance to discern true value, consequence, implication, or merit.
We glorify the negative in the guise of rugged and determined individuality. We have series that glorify the life of organized criminals, we have contests where people submit to disgusting and revolting behavior in order to achieve monetary or professional gain. We teach procreation to our children by allowing pornographic content to instruct our teenagers this vital and necessary process. We glorify the deviancy of society while negating the positive.
Where is the Love Channel? Where is the Values Channel? Where is the show that teaches us that it is okay to display affection for one another? Not anywhere readily found. What we do have are afternoon talk shows parading solutions to societal ills hosted by would be, wannabe mavens of collective reform whose real intention, in my opinion, is hawking their latest help-yourself-by-buying-my-book-or-attending-a-seminar-that-costs-more-than-most-of-you-can-afford.
I could keep this tirade going if it were not for the weariness I have over the negative side of human existence. I marvel at the propensity for self-destruction we have, and question my own motives in putting these words on paper. I do so because I live in a country that, at least idyllically, allows me to speak that which bothers me, and that which enriches me. I started to investigate love, and I regressed into the easier side of the issue. I seek the feeling by searching for the action. I do not know that love is necessarily a definable action. I know with hate, there is a manifestation for the feeling, and we flaunt it regularly. I do not know if we illustrate love as well as we should. I think that we believe that we must do something with our hate, and little time in contemplation of what we will do with our love. I think the difference might be that hate, in our practice, demands engagement while love just requires sensation.
Sensation occurs in humankind and does not have to be directly attributable to an outside influence. By this reasoning, the sensation of love needs no focal point and can be quite comforting. One can just love without reason and it can occur with little or no action. Hate requires a commitment to action in response to the sensory input of some perceived hostility or animosity toward something or someone. It entails work, and work is definitely an action. Love gives of itself, without much effort and is generous in what it gives. Hate takes all it can get its hands on, and is miserly in what it gives back. This, ostensibly, asks the question: do we seek generosity or parsimony? Generosity gets my vote.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Once more into the Breach, dear friends…
Whoa! Two days in a row I find enticement sufficient in me and a craving for the written word as I understand it. The Lord’s Day has been site and muse for much of the inanity that comes your way once I send the “Updated Blog” email. I suppose it might be a sort of opportunity to glorify my Maker, and steer clear of the banality that has become my primary means of entertainment. The shows I watch with fidelity are all on hiatus in anticipation of the birth of Our Lord, and my new DVR has not yet discovered the ambiance necessary to grasp my attentiveness in a manner consistent with my mental infirmity.
I woke this morn, for the second day in a row without the requisite level of throbbing discomfort issuing from my hip. I have had this wretchedness as a constant companion for about two years. The result of an indiscretion of my misspent youth, it has been announcing itself with regularity, here of late, in a vociferous pronouncement that in order for me to find relief, I must heed to a rather persistent and imagined call for replacement. My former practitioner of the Hippocratic arts shared that, given my girth, this drastic remedy is inevitable.
I have spent time in my life devoid of the ability to walk upright and on two legs. These periods of misery were the absolute characterization of hopelessness, despondency, and outright torture. I have an unreasonable fear of not being able to walk. It is the thing of nightmares, and I most probably aggravated my present condition by denying the need for treatment. The only concessions I have accepted is a handicap license plate, and the need to ride the electric carts provided at the retail marketplaces I trade at.
Of late, the weather has decided it would act as if it were bipolar and not taking any medication. The result is that I missed two days of work this week, and I spent most of those days, when I wasn’t simply hurting, screwing up the courage to go to the doctor. This session of distress forced the use of a cane (a recent surrendering on my part) and the realization that it would be quite possible for me to be a cripple in the near future. (I told you it was an unreasonable fear)
I ignored my hindrance and went to work. I was not exactly at the top of my game. I placed the cane in a place where all could see, in the hopes that it might prevent some sort of irritating comments. I did the best I could and cried at lunchtime due to the pain. I waited for all to be gone from the building before doing this.
My secretary/aide/daily savior and I had a discussion on an alternate form of treatment that might not be covered by insurance, and I went ahead and made an appointment. It was with a chiropractor. Eighteen years ago I engaged in this activity with disastrous result. It is particularly difficult to x-ray a person of my size, and the doctor attempted to treat me without actually knowing what damage I had done myself. The incident put me in the hospital, unable to walk, for four days. I had fallen out of bed, and could not get up. I did not have a telephone and was forced to crawl to the balcony of my apartment at the time and bellow for help. I rode to the hospital in an ambulance laying on a stiff piece of wood that aggravated my condition. I did not have insurance at the time, and the hospital wanted to turn me loose. It was only after threatening litigation that I was admitted.
I have nightmares about that episode, especially when I encounter serious bouts of agony. I do not take narcotic medication, which is the only effective pain relief, due to a dedication to preventing me from sinking back into the horror that is my life without the gift of Twelve Step recovery. This all sound rather dramatic, or so some would say, but it is real. Anyone who disputes it needs only to walk a mile in my shoes, or rather, the forty or fifty feet that I am currently restricted to without pain or assistance. No. Let the bastards try to walk a mile in my shoes and see if they don’t weep and wail. Whoa, time to turn a corner. I need not fall victim to my anger or depression this fine morning. Apologies.
Friday is a half day for my school, and my appointment loomed in front of me. I went to the cafeteria to eat lunch with my kids, and ventured off to the frightening rendezvous with destiny
Upon arrival, I remember thinking that it would be better if the man doctor saw me instead of the woman. It was a woman doctor who threatened my existence with surgical inevitability, and my dread began to grow when told I would be seen by “Dr. Shirley.” By the grace of the God of my understanding I found my large chauvinist derriere pleasantly rebuked. The nice lady who took my information graciously took hold of my hand and told me that it would be okay. I don’t know if she could sense my fear or not, all I know is that she treated me with a kindness I am not used to.
The doctor entered with a smile and earnestness which I found surprising. In person I am, due to my size and an almost constant frown attributed to my pain level, an intimidating person. She examined me and told me exactly what it was that hurt on my body. She assured me that it would be okay. I needed to be x-rayed and return Monday. I clarified my concerns and she quietly soothed my trepidation with reassuring words.
Her aide was also the Radiology tech who worked particularly hard to get the x-rays needed. It, as I expected, proved mostly useless. She, however, did not give up, even when I began to ask question that might be construed as doubting her abilities. I have had problems with x-ray techs not listening to me and producing unusable films. I desperately did not want to be argumentative with this sweet lady. I began to cry in the x-ray room. I tried to conceal this, and probably failed. I found myself despondent and despairing of any relief. I have been in this condition before and found it completely demoralizing. The tech softened her voice and placed her hand on my cheek, “don’t worry, we are going to help you today. You’ll feel like a million bucks when you leave here.”
The doctor came in and she, once more, comported herself with kindness and reassurance. She told me that I would have to be x-rayed on Monday by another tech that had vastly more experience and might possibly get a better view. The film already taken did reveal that she would be able to help me. They gave me a treatment of vibration and sent me on my way.
Standing up from the treatment, I found that the cane was no longer necessary.
I do not impress easily, and this stunned me. I left the office and drove away in a semi-stupor. I drove without destination. I found myself in a wholesale club riding the electric cart with no reason to even be there. I found some things to buy, and I looked at some things that I will never be able to afford (a sixty inch high def television to hook up and watch banal television shows that cost a sum equal to what I pay for rent for an entire year.) I paid for my purchases and rode by the concession stand only to discover that they served Nathan’s Hot Dogs. These are famous in my state of origin, New York, as being the best in the world. I categorically agree. I sat there consuming said ambrosia and wondered at the pleasantry this world can offer one. I went into the belly of the beast, and came out relieved and reassured. I found life to be better.
Leaving the place of banal dreams I noticed a kid I know. He is the eldest son of some dear friends of mine. He is a gentle, loving soul who is not bound by convention where it comes to his emotions. I called his name, “Jason!” He turned and looked at me, and immediately stopped what he was doing (helping a customer) and gave me a hug. I remember sitting in a hospital room where his father laid in distress and this kid informing me that “Real Men Hug!” It would not be an exaggeration to say that this child gave me exactly what I wanted for Christmas. As did the wonderful ladies I sought relief from. Certainly it helps that my pain has nearly abated, but to find ones true desire is a great and vast gift. I can feel sorry for myself in this world, and people will still treat me with love and dignity, regardless of my manner. I can still believe in the things I write of. But most of all, I find that even if my dread would come true, I will find the same as I did in my distress and relief this day. Love and dignity from my fellow man or woman.
Peace
I woke this morn, for the second day in a row without the requisite level of throbbing discomfort issuing from my hip. I have had this wretchedness as a constant companion for about two years. The result of an indiscretion of my misspent youth, it has been announcing itself with regularity, here of late, in a vociferous pronouncement that in order for me to find relief, I must heed to a rather persistent and imagined call for replacement. My former practitioner of the Hippocratic arts shared that, given my girth, this drastic remedy is inevitable.
I have spent time in my life devoid of the ability to walk upright and on two legs. These periods of misery were the absolute characterization of hopelessness, despondency, and outright torture. I have an unreasonable fear of not being able to walk. It is the thing of nightmares, and I most probably aggravated my present condition by denying the need for treatment. The only concessions I have accepted is a handicap license plate, and the need to ride the electric carts provided at the retail marketplaces I trade at.
Of late, the weather has decided it would act as if it were bipolar and not taking any medication. The result is that I missed two days of work this week, and I spent most of those days, when I wasn’t simply hurting, screwing up the courage to go to the doctor. This session of distress forced the use of a cane (a recent surrendering on my part) and the realization that it would be quite possible for me to be a cripple in the near future. (I told you it was an unreasonable fear)
I ignored my hindrance and went to work. I was not exactly at the top of my game. I placed the cane in a place where all could see, in the hopes that it might prevent some sort of irritating comments. I did the best I could and cried at lunchtime due to the pain. I waited for all to be gone from the building before doing this.
My secretary/aide/daily savior and I had a discussion on an alternate form of treatment that might not be covered by insurance, and I went ahead and made an appointment. It was with a chiropractor. Eighteen years ago I engaged in this activity with disastrous result. It is particularly difficult to x-ray a person of my size, and the doctor attempted to treat me without actually knowing what damage I had done myself. The incident put me in the hospital, unable to walk, for four days. I had fallen out of bed, and could not get up. I did not have a telephone and was forced to crawl to the balcony of my apartment at the time and bellow for help. I rode to the hospital in an ambulance laying on a stiff piece of wood that aggravated my condition. I did not have insurance at the time, and the hospital wanted to turn me loose. It was only after threatening litigation that I was admitted.
I have nightmares about that episode, especially when I encounter serious bouts of agony. I do not take narcotic medication, which is the only effective pain relief, due to a dedication to preventing me from sinking back into the horror that is my life without the gift of Twelve Step recovery. This all sound rather dramatic, or so some would say, but it is real. Anyone who disputes it needs only to walk a mile in my shoes, or rather, the forty or fifty feet that I am currently restricted to without pain or assistance. No. Let the bastards try to walk a mile in my shoes and see if they don’t weep and wail. Whoa, time to turn a corner. I need not fall victim to my anger or depression this fine morning. Apologies.
Friday is a half day for my school, and my appointment loomed in front of me. I went to the cafeteria to eat lunch with my kids, and ventured off to the frightening rendezvous with destiny
Upon arrival, I remember thinking that it would be better if the man doctor saw me instead of the woman. It was a woman doctor who threatened my existence with surgical inevitability, and my dread began to grow when told I would be seen by “Dr. Shirley.” By the grace of the God of my understanding I found my large chauvinist derriere pleasantly rebuked. The nice lady who took my information graciously took hold of my hand and told me that it would be okay. I don’t know if she could sense my fear or not, all I know is that she treated me with a kindness I am not used to.
The doctor entered with a smile and earnestness which I found surprising. In person I am, due to my size and an almost constant frown attributed to my pain level, an intimidating person. She examined me and told me exactly what it was that hurt on my body. She assured me that it would be okay. I needed to be x-rayed and return Monday. I clarified my concerns and she quietly soothed my trepidation with reassuring words.
Her aide was also the Radiology tech who worked particularly hard to get the x-rays needed. It, as I expected, proved mostly useless. She, however, did not give up, even when I began to ask question that might be construed as doubting her abilities. I have had problems with x-ray techs not listening to me and producing unusable films. I desperately did not want to be argumentative with this sweet lady. I began to cry in the x-ray room. I tried to conceal this, and probably failed. I found myself despondent and despairing of any relief. I have been in this condition before and found it completely demoralizing. The tech softened her voice and placed her hand on my cheek, “don’t worry, we are going to help you today. You’ll feel like a million bucks when you leave here.”
The doctor came in and she, once more, comported herself with kindness and reassurance. She told me that I would have to be x-rayed on Monday by another tech that had vastly more experience and might possibly get a better view. The film already taken did reveal that she would be able to help me. They gave me a treatment of vibration and sent me on my way.
Standing up from the treatment, I found that the cane was no longer necessary.
I do not impress easily, and this stunned me. I left the office and drove away in a semi-stupor. I drove without destination. I found myself in a wholesale club riding the electric cart with no reason to even be there. I found some things to buy, and I looked at some things that I will never be able to afford (a sixty inch high def television to hook up and watch banal television shows that cost a sum equal to what I pay for rent for an entire year.) I paid for my purchases and rode by the concession stand only to discover that they served Nathan’s Hot Dogs. These are famous in my state of origin, New York, as being the best in the world. I categorically agree. I sat there consuming said ambrosia and wondered at the pleasantry this world can offer one. I went into the belly of the beast, and came out relieved and reassured. I found life to be better.
Leaving the place of banal dreams I noticed a kid I know. He is the eldest son of some dear friends of mine. He is a gentle, loving soul who is not bound by convention where it comes to his emotions. I called his name, “Jason!” He turned and looked at me, and immediately stopped what he was doing (helping a customer) and gave me a hug. I remember sitting in a hospital room where his father laid in distress and this kid informing me that “Real Men Hug!” It would not be an exaggeration to say that this child gave me exactly what I wanted for Christmas. As did the wonderful ladies I sought relief from. Certainly it helps that my pain has nearly abated, but to find ones true desire is a great and vast gift. I can feel sorry for myself in this world, and people will still treat me with love and dignity, regardless of my manner. I can still believe in the things I write of. But most of all, I find that even if my dread would come true, I will find the same as I did in my distress and relief this day. Love and dignity from my fellow man or woman.
Peace
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Icon Et Al
I sat today and wondered what it was that seemed to be missing in my life. I thought to write about an experience at a health care facility. Then I came up with a freaking really cool idea for a book. I needed to do some research about St. Joseph (purely out of literary curiosity). I wanted to avoid the television but found it irritatingly difficult to leave the remote alone. It was time for the imbibing of medication which must be ingested in concert with victual stimulation, and as anyone who knows me can attest to, said activity is a two handed operation for this rotund reporter of the written word.
In consideration of the sacred journey I have embarked on in the last synodic temporal length, I elected to view a program where famous comedian speculated (for 2 hours and 15 minutes) on the existence, or nonexistence of God.
This did nothing to stimulate the artistic salivating gland that resides within me. What it did was piss me off. I tried to launch into a diatribe on the mathematical and scientific proof of the being I find comfort and guidance from. Words escaped me. Frustrated and betrayed by my capacity to inscribe the page, and World Wide Web with both wit and wisdom, I fewlt a sentiment similar to Déjà vu. I wrote on this, I thought. I racked my brain, and went to one of the other locations I inhabit in Cyberspace. There it was! Exactly the emotion I wanted to articulate. Why reinvent the proverbial wheel? So…here is what I have to say about that…
... If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." [Voltaire] I look at this quote and remember the first time I read it. In a philosophy class where the topic du jour happened to be the reality, or nihility of a Supernatural being who is responsible for the conception, design, and fabrication of that which we call life. A pretty good course taught by a Harley riding professor who wore cowboy boots and in all probability imbibed at least one, if not several, products in the extended family of mind-altering, mood-changing substances known to mankind. Not, in and of itself, a pertinent piece of information…after all, it seems to be a required skill-set those who teach philosophy. I mean, how else can one talk in circles and not be high?
Anyhoo, (Yes I meant to spell it that way) we were engaged in what turned out to be a rather heated debate on one particular theorist’s method for achieving the ambiguity all who liken themselves as knowledgeable in such matters strive to accomplish. This speculative sage is a Roman Catholic Saint by the proper name of Anselm. He held the rather lofty position of Archbishop of Canterbury prior to Henry VIII declaring that divorce was not only permissible, but required if one were to birth a male heir. Being a conscientious high ranking cleric, he felt it germane to defend his faith in a book entitled “Proslogion.” At the time (circa 1077) there were still some poor deluded souls who worshipped the earth and maintained a commanding and compelling mystic embrace on the common folk. Hence…the call to duty.
His book was required reading in my class, and everyone read the thing and came out of it with two distinct feelings. First, we wondered, “What the hell is he talking about?” Secondly, and perhaps the more profound item, most of the class stopped believing in God.
The class demographics consisted of mostly psychology majors with some future Captains of Industry seeking to become CPA’s…and me, the “Voc Ed dude.” (An ironic designation given that I am now a teacher of children. Back then all I wanted was a million bucks for my first novel.) The discourse centered on a particular section of the insightful tome. The Five Proof’s:
1. One can imagine a being than which none greater can be conceived.
2. We know that existence in reality is greater than existence in the mind alone.
3. If the being we imagine exists only in our mind, then it is not a "being than which none greater can be conceived".
4. A being than which none greater can be conceived must also exist in reality. Failure to exist in reality would be failure to be a being than which none greater can be conceived.
5. Thus a being than which none greater can be conceived must exist, and we call this being God.
Now, the verbiage does not exactly lend itself to uncomplicated comprehension. I mean this whole “being of which there can be none greater” begins the process of perplexity, and the existing in reality stuff makes one think, no, doubt readily preconceived notions on the state of humanity. (Help! I’m falling in!) The discussion proved reasonably heated and quite amusing. I sat in silence (an unnatural state for me) while the class proceeded to quarrel about how the proof’s actually disproved the existence of a “being of which there can be none greater.” The amusement came from a room full of card carrying, dyed-in-the-wool Baptist’s. There I sat watching people who would condemn me if they knew my read on God, demanding that I not believe in “being of which there can be none greater”
I took the class in the first place because I had a choice between Philosophy and Psychology and didn’t like the Professor in the psychology course that fit my schedule. He began the “Voc-ED” junk when he told me that I probably could not grasp the complexity of the subject being, you know, just a “shop” teacher. I asked him what happened to him when he was a kid to make him the way he was today. After narrowly escaping his office when he erupted like Mount St. Helens, I fled to my Harley riding-dope smoking-Philosophy Dude. None the worse for wear.
That experience, the “shop teacher” rubbish, and the vehemence of a group of devoted Southern Baptist’s demanding that God did not exist has elicited much thought in the intervening years. Exactly what or who is God. I had reason to rethink this recently when one of my kids’s asked me if I were a Christian. “Yes” I proclaimed and thought I had sounded quite convincing. That is, until he asked me what church I went to. The quandary this Loving Child of the same God I believe in presented me with is that, in his world, my pseudo-psycho-socially appropriately intelligent philosophy towards organized religion, mattered little. You claim to be a Christian…you go to church. I escaped the predicament by reclaiming my Roman Catholic roots. Not exactly a lie. When I do go to church I tend to favor the church of my childhood. Maybe it’s the whole guilt/confession thing. But I digress.
What the experience did for me was to reassert that I do, in fact, believe in God and most certainly reject the notion that there is any “proof” necessary. The motivation behind this piece came from a conversation with my last girlfriend (who has since fled the embrace/wisdom of the “Voc-ED dude”) and the ideal that God does need to be proven if not but to bring his glory to those poor demented dupe’s who negate His/Her existence. I believe I won that debate, evidence being the absence of said girlfriend from my embrace/wisdom. Being somewhat unsettled at the disillusion of the ninth relationship this year, I sat to investigate what could be done to reengage some interest in the reestablishment of the embrace/wisdom activities caused by my supercilious ridiculousness. (She kind of likes it when I use big words)
My first effort in rectifying my predicament sent me in search of a simpler way to explain the words of St. Anselm. Here they are:
1. God is that entity than which nothing can be greater.
2. The concept of God exists in human understanding.
3. God exists in one's mind but not in reality.
4. The concept of God's existence is understood in one's mind.
5. If God existed in reality, it would be a greater thing than God's existence in the mind.
6. The final step to God's existence is that God in reality must exist.
All this did was add a step to the process of enlightenment. I mean…what the hell is it with reality and existence anyway? I remember an old 1960/1970’s movie called “Freakout” where Jack Nicholson plays a hippie about to die and his last words being “Reality is a crashing bore!” Profundity at it’s best.
I searched for more in that wondrous universe that is Google and found www.godlessgeeks.com and a page entitled “Hundreds of Proofs of God’s Existence.” From hence came the removal of confusion, and yet another step on the road to enlightenment. I read many of the differing proof’s and have chosen three if, in my opinion, followed will undeniably prove the existence of “a being than which none greater.” The first is a mathematical perspective;
“ARGUMENT FROM NUMBERS
(1) Millions and millions of people believe in God.
(2) They can't all be wrong, can they?
(3) Therefore, God exists.”
Next came from a phone call reassuring me that not only am I not going to reinvigorate the embrace/wisdom activities I started this piece over;
“ARGUMENT FROM SMUGNESS
(1) God exists.
(2) I don't give a crap whether you believe it or not; I have better things to do than to try to convince you morons.
(3) Therefore, God exists.”
The next falls under the “Out of the mouth’s of babes” lexicon;
“ARGUMENT FROM YOUTH GROUP MINISTER
(1) God is awesome!
(2) Like, totally, dude!
(3) Therefore, God, like, exists and stuff.”
An my personal favorite;
“ARGUMENT FROM BECAUSE
(1) Because.
(2) Therefore, God exists.”
I will report that my path to the God of my understanding comes from the simplicity of the Twelve Step program I am a fervently devoted member of. When I entered into communion (“interchange or sharing of thoughts or emotions; intimate communication” - Dictionary.com) with the saving grace in my life, my belief in the possibility of a being than which none greater existing had been severely put to the test in the quagmire of getting and staying clean. The simple direction from members of my cabal has given me many gifts which, I have come to believe derive from a being than which none greater exists. I have people to love. I have a rewarding job which I love. I have something to do with my ailing spirit…when it is ailing. More importantly I have the ability to share my feelings with others, some of my kind and some who are not. Well perhaps I needed to write this in order to realize that the being than which none greater exists wanted me to, if only to rediscover the beauty, splendor, magnificence, and irony that is life. I love you God!
Peace
In consideration of the sacred journey I have embarked on in the last synodic temporal length, I elected to view a program where famous comedian speculated (for 2 hours and 15 minutes) on the existence, or nonexistence of God.
This did nothing to stimulate the artistic salivating gland that resides within me. What it did was piss me off. I tried to launch into a diatribe on the mathematical and scientific proof of the being I find comfort and guidance from. Words escaped me. Frustrated and betrayed by my capacity to inscribe the page, and World Wide Web with both wit and wisdom, I fewlt a sentiment similar to Déjà vu. I wrote on this, I thought. I racked my brain, and went to one of the other locations I inhabit in Cyberspace. There it was! Exactly the emotion I wanted to articulate. Why reinvent the proverbial wheel? So…here is what I have to say about that…
... If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." [Voltaire] I look at this quote and remember the first time I read it. In a philosophy class where the topic du jour happened to be the reality, or nihility of a Supernatural being who is responsible for the conception, design, and fabrication of that which we call life. A pretty good course taught by a Harley riding professor who wore cowboy boots and in all probability imbibed at least one, if not several, products in the extended family of mind-altering, mood-changing substances known to mankind. Not, in and of itself, a pertinent piece of information…after all, it seems to be a required skill-set those who teach philosophy. I mean, how else can one talk in circles and not be high?
Anyhoo, (Yes I meant to spell it that way) we were engaged in what turned out to be a rather heated debate on one particular theorist’s method for achieving the ambiguity all who liken themselves as knowledgeable in such matters strive to accomplish. This speculative sage is a Roman Catholic Saint by the proper name of Anselm. He held the rather lofty position of Archbishop of Canterbury prior to Henry VIII declaring that divorce was not only permissible, but required if one were to birth a male heir. Being a conscientious high ranking cleric, he felt it germane to defend his faith in a book entitled “Proslogion.” At the time (circa 1077) there were still some poor deluded souls who worshipped the earth and maintained a commanding and compelling mystic embrace on the common folk. Hence…the call to duty.
His book was required reading in my class, and everyone read the thing and came out of it with two distinct feelings. First, we wondered, “What the hell is he talking about?” Secondly, and perhaps the more profound item, most of the class stopped believing in God.
The class demographics consisted of mostly psychology majors with some future Captains of Industry seeking to become CPA’s…and me, the “Voc Ed dude.” (An ironic designation given that I am now a teacher of children. Back then all I wanted was a million bucks for my first novel.) The discourse centered on a particular section of the insightful tome. The Five Proof’s:
1. One can imagine a being than which none greater can be conceived.
2. We know that existence in reality is greater than existence in the mind alone.
3. If the being we imagine exists only in our mind, then it is not a "being than which none greater can be conceived".
4. A being than which none greater can be conceived must also exist in reality. Failure to exist in reality would be failure to be a being than which none greater can be conceived.
5. Thus a being than which none greater can be conceived must exist, and we call this being God.
Now, the verbiage does not exactly lend itself to uncomplicated comprehension. I mean this whole “being of which there can be none greater” begins the process of perplexity, and the existing in reality stuff makes one think, no, doubt readily preconceived notions on the state of humanity. (Help! I’m falling in!) The discussion proved reasonably heated and quite amusing. I sat in silence (an unnatural state for me) while the class proceeded to quarrel about how the proof’s actually disproved the existence of a “being of which there can be none greater.” The amusement came from a room full of card carrying, dyed-in-the-wool Baptist’s. There I sat watching people who would condemn me if they knew my read on God, demanding that I not believe in “being of which there can be none greater”
I took the class in the first place because I had a choice between Philosophy and Psychology and didn’t like the Professor in the psychology course that fit my schedule. He began the “Voc-ED” junk when he told me that I probably could not grasp the complexity of the subject being, you know, just a “shop” teacher. I asked him what happened to him when he was a kid to make him the way he was today. After narrowly escaping his office when he erupted like Mount St. Helens, I fled to my Harley riding-dope smoking-Philosophy Dude. None the worse for wear.
That experience, the “shop teacher” rubbish, and the vehemence of a group of devoted Southern Baptist’s demanding that God did not exist has elicited much thought in the intervening years. Exactly what or who is God. I had reason to rethink this recently when one of my kids’s asked me if I were a Christian. “Yes” I proclaimed and thought I had sounded quite convincing. That is, until he asked me what church I went to. The quandary this Loving Child of the same God I believe in presented me with is that, in his world, my pseudo-psycho-socially appropriately intelligent philosophy towards organized religion, mattered little. You claim to be a Christian…you go to church. I escaped the predicament by reclaiming my Roman Catholic roots. Not exactly a lie. When I do go to church I tend to favor the church of my childhood. Maybe it’s the whole guilt/confession thing. But I digress.
What the experience did for me was to reassert that I do, in fact, believe in God and most certainly reject the notion that there is any “proof” necessary. The motivation behind this piece came from a conversation with my last girlfriend (who has since fled the embrace/wisdom of the “Voc-ED dude”) and the ideal that God does need to be proven if not but to bring his glory to those poor demented dupe’s who negate His/Her existence. I believe I won that debate, evidence being the absence of said girlfriend from my embrace/wisdom. Being somewhat unsettled at the disillusion of the ninth relationship this year, I sat to investigate what could be done to reengage some interest in the reestablishment of the embrace/wisdom activities caused by my supercilious ridiculousness. (She kind of likes it when I use big words)
My first effort in rectifying my predicament sent me in search of a simpler way to explain the words of St. Anselm. Here they are:
1. God is that entity than which nothing can be greater.
2. The concept of God exists in human understanding.
3. God exists in one's mind but not in reality.
4. The concept of God's existence is understood in one's mind.
5. If God existed in reality, it would be a greater thing than God's existence in the mind.
6. The final step to God's existence is that God in reality must exist.
All this did was add a step to the process of enlightenment. I mean…what the hell is it with reality and existence anyway? I remember an old 1960/1970’s movie called “Freakout” where Jack Nicholson plays a hippie about to die and his last words being “Reality is a crashing bore!” Profundity at it’s best.
I searched for more in that wondrous universe that is Google and found www.godlessgeeks.com and a page entitled “Hundreds of Proofs of God’s Existence.” From hence came the removal of confusion, and yet another step on the road to enlightenment. I read many of the differing proof’s and have chosen three if, in my opinion, followed will undeniably prove the existence of “a being than which none greater.” The first is a mathematical perspective;
“ARGUMENT FROM NUMBERS
(1) Millions and millions of people believe in God.
(2) They can't all be wrong, can they?
(3) Therefore, God exists.”
Next came from a phone call reassuring me that not only am I not going to reinvigorate the embrace/wisdom activities I started this piece over;
“ARGUMENT FROM SMUGNESS
(1) God exists.
(2) I don't give a crap whether you believe it or not; I have better things to do than to try to convince you morons.
(3) Therefore, God exists.”
The next falls under the “Out of the mouth’s of babes” lexicon;
“ARGUMENT FROM YOUTH GROUP MINISTER
(1) God is awesome!
(2) Like, totally, dude!
(3) Therefore, God, like, exists and stuff.”
An my personal favorite;
“ARGUMENT FROM BECAUSE
(1) Because.
(2) Therefore, God exists.”
I will report that my path to the God of my understanding comes from the simplicity of the Twelve Step program I am a fervently devoted member of. When I entered into communion (“interchange or sharing of thoughts or emotions; intimate communication” - Dictionary.com) with the saving grace in my life, my belief in the possibility of a being than which none greater existing had been severely put to the test in the quagmire of getting and staying clean. The simple direction from members of my cabal has given me many gifts which, I have come to believe derive from a being than which none greater exists. I have people to love. I have a rewarding job which I love. I have something to do with my ailing spirit…when it is ailing. More importantly I have the ability to share my feelings with others, some of my kind and some who are not. Well perhaps I needed to write this in order to realize that the being than which none greater exists wanted me to, if only to rediscover the beauty, splendor, magnificence, and irony that is life. I love you God!
Peace
Friday, November 27, 2009
Today is a Good Day to…
Lock myself in my apartment and exclude my very existence from the rest of the creatures that people this wonderful orb that is the proprietor of our tenancy. Being the day after that hallowed time where my fellow Americans display an equal amount of gratitude and gluttony, I find myself not so appreciative. I awoke to the sound of a rock band I do not particularly favor, and the telephone growling. I had lined up some extra labor and the ogre on the other end of the line informed me that he could not pay my agreed wage, and that I should keep my substantial derriere at the house. Remuneration I felt necessary if I am to enjoy the birth of the God of my understanding.
I shut down the cacophonatious contrivance entreating me to proclaim myself a purveyor of copious amounts of sex, drugs, and Rock n’ Roll. It is a poor state I find myself where it comes to issuing edicts associated with the music I so favor. Sex is a burdensome endeavor given my advancing age. The drugs are mostly those for which I ingest to perform the first part of this triad of bliss, and my CD player ate my favorite sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll collection last night on my way back from the Great Day of Thanks. Said confluence of events and vexations has left me quite irritated this beautiful morn.
One week ago today I exchanged my chief method of perambulation for a new-fangled device in which to pass through this cluttered journey we call life. It is a means of transportation that I had been salivating over for the better part of a passing moon. My previous coupe had begun to make signs of wishing retirement and the purveyor of automobiles where I trade offered to let me obtain my neophyte means of transportation with not much bother. Here I am now, driving my almost dream medium in the search of distance and utility. Almost in that it is of a pre-owned demeanor. My dream is for one of original-in-the-same-year-I-am-living manufacture.
I began this quest by taking steps toward this goal once I realized the gift of being initiated into the world of academia as a reader of letters to the wonderful waifs at my institution of erudition. I noticed that everyone was driving new cars and, not wanting to be left out, grew a desire for the same. The first step was to procure a conduit for conveyance that had been created-in-the-same-decade-that-I-was-living. I accomplished that with my recently retired quadrupedal device containing rubber tires in the place of feet.
The current chariot is a step closer to my goal, and it is a respectable step. However, there are always issues when one procures a pre-owned delivery device. I have spent the last week dealing with these minor annoyances, and today is one more stage in that quest for perfection. I had to take it to the dealer for a lighting problem and to rescue my CD from the jaws of a demonic device that will cost me to replace due to it not being worthy repair. I have been given a “loaner” which I believe existed in a former life as a Matchbox car, and devoid of liquid required by the engine to be in motion.
Right now I must discontinue my musings to watch Jeopardy. I don’t think I’ve used enough big words today and need to recharge…
Well, Jeopardy failed to appear this morning, and in its stead was a football game where two college teams lay siege to each other as a part of the crusade that is the BCS National Championship. I am not a viewer of sports of this type (or any other with the exception of the current World Champion Major League Baseball team) but did not find umbrage with this. I live in Texas and feel no need to comment or receive the vilification I would if I were to disparage the purveyance of the pigskin.
It is several hours later and, after lunch, two rerun episodes of “Criminal Minds, a nap, a time spent reading of St. John the Apostle, and a hot shower, return to this diatribe. My Steed is still in the care of the practitioner of automotive audio and visual wonderment mentioned earlier. I am still irritated over this, and I am further aggravated at the failure of this piece to elicit any relief from the unknown malady I am enduring. My purpose today was to wash away the exasperation I felt over the vehicular realities of the day by writing about my boyfriend-in-law, Captain Domesticado. He is probably not aware of it, but he performed a massive service to me on the occasion of giving thanks for eating too much turkey and dressing. No, it is not that he purchased the food I thoroughly found irresistible enough to drive eight hours to imbibe. He tended my soul. I am grateful. But that is for another piece that will not founded in irritation and abhorrence.
Peace.
I shut down the cacophonatious contrivance entreating me to proclaim myself a purveyor of copious amounts of sex, drugs, and Rock n’ Roll. It is a poor state I find myself where it comes to issuing edicts associated with the music I so favor. Sex is a burdensome endeavor given my advancing age. The drugs are mostly those for which I ingest to perform the first part of this triad of bliss, and my CD player ate my favorite sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll collection last night on my way back from the Great Day of Thanks. Said confluence of events and vexations has left me quite irritated this beautiful morn.
One week ago today I exchanged my chief method of perambulation for a new-fangled device in which to pass through this cluttered journey we call life. It is a means of transportation that I had been salivating over for the better part of a passing moon. My previous coupe had begun to make signs of wishing retirement and the purveyor of automobiles where I trade offered to let me obtain my neophyte means of transportation with not much bother. Here I am now, driving my almost dream medium in the search of distance and utility. Almost in that it is of a pre-owned demeanor. My dream is for one of original-in-the-same-year-I-am-living manufacture.
I began this quest by taking steps toward this goal once I realized the gift of being initiated into the world of academia as a reader of letters to the wonderful waifs at my institution of erudition. I noticed that everyone was driving new cars and, not wanting to be left out, grew a desire for the same. The first step was to procure a conduit for conveyance that had been created-in-the-same-decade-that-I-was-living. I accomplished that with my recently retired quadrupedal device containing rubber tires in the place of feet.
The current chariot is a step closer to my goal, and it is a respectable step. However, there are always issues when one procures a pre-owned delivery device. I have spent the last week dealing with these minor annoyances, and today is one more stage in that quest for perfection. I had to take it to the dealer for a lighting problem and to rescue my CD from the jaws of a demonic device that will cost me to replace due to it not being worthy repair. I have been given a “loaner” which I believe existed in a former life as a Matchbox car, and devoid of liquid required by the engine to be in motion.
Right now I must discontinue my musings to watch Jeopardy. I don’t think I’ve used enough big words today and need to recharge…
Well, Jeopardy failed to appear this morning, and in its stead was a football game where two college teams lay siege to each other as a part of the crusade that is the BCS National Championship. I am not a viewer of sports of this type (or any other with the exception of the current World Champion Major League Baseball team) but did not find umbrage with this. I live in Texas and feel no need to comment or receive the vilification I would if I were to disparage the purveyance of the pigskin.
It is several hours later and, after lunch, two rerun episodes of “Criminal Minds, a nap, a time spent reading of St. John the Apostle, and a hot shower, return to this diatribe. My Steed is still in the care of the practitioner of automotive audio and visual wonderment mentioned earlier. I am still irritated over this, and I am further aggravated at the failure of this piece to elicit any relief from the unknown malady I am enduring. My purpose today was to wash away the exasperation I felt over the vehicular realities of the day by writing about my boyfriend-in-law, Captain Domesticado. He is probably not aware of it, but he performed a massive service to me on the occasion of giving thanks for eating too much turkey and dressing. No, it is not that he purchased the food I thoroughly found irresistible enough to drive eight hours to imbibe. He tended my soul. I am grateful. But that is for another piece that will not founded in irritation and abhorrence.
Peace.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
GBA!
I walked into my classroom this morning and get about the business of the day. Health issues have kept me home for two days, and I am in a quandary to remember what I am doing. I look around and see what kind of mess has been made of my diminutive dominion. Normally, papers are scattered about, my chair is sitting on the other side of the room, and the trash can has been positioned latitudinally and longitudinally absent of scope, and utilitarian function. Not being disappointed in my expectation, I also discover the secretary’s chair is sitting under my desk. This accommodating piece of office furniture is significantly inferior and less substantial than the seat of authority (HA!) I normally position my egotistically asinine distinctiveness. In other words, my big ‘ol butt won’t fit in it.
I sail it out to the area in front of my faithful aide’s (and really sweet and smart lady) desk. I roll my throne back to its rightful place and gently seat myself. I sit gently due to the broken wheel that first came into disrepair as a result of abuse from, sadly, my big ‘ol butt.
I set about the morning ritual. Turn on the computer, get out the banana I usually eat for breakfast, and wait for one of my colleagues to enter my realm and share some wisdom with me about her students, or ask me for assistance with the online grade book we use. This morning she simply smiled at me, handed me a gathering of papers that I hoped was not her resignation, and walked away. I am particularly grateful for this lady. She teaches the elementary kids, and I do not know if I am capable of teaching those grades. The man I work for seems to think I can teach anything and has displayed this conviction by transferring me wherever he needs someone to teach without complaint. I have never told him about this blog, and do not intend to. Some things are better left to ignorance. Additionally, he really does not need to know the extent to which I am capable of whining and foot stomping.
I drop it on my keyboard, peeled my banana, and set about perusing the papers, only to discover that the first page had a decidedly nonacademic deportment to it. It was a certificate for “Outstand Achievement in Community Service.” Underneath lay a coloring book that she had her class put together. The theme of this book was the extolling of the fact that, during a portion of my misspent youth…I had the great honor and privilege to serve my country as a soldier in the United States Army. On the last page was the signature of all the students and staff of my campus. All I could do was weep. As I write, all I can do is weep. In the thirty four years, seven months, and ten days since I was released from duty no one has ever thanked me for being a soldier.
Yesterday, I received an e-mail from President Barack Obama thanking me for my service. In that same thirty four years, seven months, and ten days no politician has ever made me feel grateful for the opportunity to serve the United States of America…until yesterday.
Think what you may. Feel what you want. Say what you please. This is the greatest country in all of time. God Bless America
Peace
I sail it out to the area in front of my faithful aide’s (and really sweet and smart lady) desk. I roll my throne back to its rightful place and gently seat myself. I sit gently due to the broken wheel that first came into disrepair as a result of abuse from, sadly, my big ‘ol butt.
I set about the morning ritual. Turn on the computer, get out the banana I usually eat for breakfast, and wait for one of my colleagues to enter my realm and share some wisdom with me about her students, or ask me for assistance with the online grade book we use. This morning she simply smiled at me, handed me a gathering of papers that I hoped was not her resignation, and walked away. I am particularly grateful for this lady. She teaches the elementary kids, and I do not know if I am capable of teaching those grades. The man I work for seems to think I can teach anything and has displayed this conviction by transferring me wherever he needs someone to teach without complaint. I have never told him about this blog, and do not intend to. Some things are better left to ignorance. Additionally, he really does not need to know the extent to which I am capable of whining and foot stomping.
I drop it on my keyboard, peeled my banana, and set about perusing the papers, only to discover that the first page had a decidedly nonacademic deportment to it. It was a certificate for “Outstand Achievement in Community Service.” Underneath lay a coloring book that she had her class put together. The theme of this book was the extolling of the fact that, during a portion of my misspent youth…I had the great honor and privilege to serve my country as a soldier in the United States Army. On the last page was the signature of all the students and staff of my campus. All I could do was weep. As I write, all I can do is weep. In the thirty four years, seven months, and ten days since I was released from duty no one has ever thanked me for being a soldier.
Yesterday, I received an e-mail from President Barack Obama thanking me for my service. In that same thirty four years, seven months, and ten days no politician has ever made me feel grateful for the opportunity to serve the United States of America…until yesterday.
Think what you may. Feel what you want. Say what you please. This is the greatest country in all of time. God Bless America
Peace
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Do Not Go Gentle????
Dylan Thomas be damned, I feel like crap. I am home from work today feeling unwell due to my blood sugar coming to a decision that it would act in an unmanageable fashion. I have written of my issue with the advancement of age, and the irritating assortment of ailments that has near bested the quietude I pursue and fervently desire to realize in the fullness of time which is my life. I do not like getting old.
As chronicled previously, I sought advice from the realm of Hippocrates a few years ago with disquieting result. The healer at the time informed me of a variety of afflictions that have power in my life. One being diabetes mellitus which holds innumerable ways and means with which to curtail, impede, and otherwise piss me off as I circumnavigate that which we call life. I treat this malady with medication that, for the most part, is sufficient to beat back the beast. As a disease it is most insidious in that it can and will control your life. I have to transport two types of medication wherever I go in contemplation of eating meals. Given my girth, and acute sense of taste, I eat out socially quite often, and must maintain my health.
The problematic part of carrying medication comes in the amount and variety of pills that I must take. I would offer this forewarning to those reaching the age equal to one half century that if you go to the doctor, said oath taker (Hippocrates, remember?) will most definitely send you packing with a prescription for some sort of remedy guaranteed to bring back the ecstasy and angst of earlier time. I have seven such panacea’s in my catholiconian war chest.
A few mornings ago, I found it necessary to restock the portable container I keep with me at all times, and replenished it with the wrong pills. I went about my business of educating the poor waif’s of society and thought all to be splendid and pleasing. As I went about the business of plying my trade, I noticed that something seemed…well…off. Helping students with grammar exercise proved futile in that I had apparently forgotten the difference between a noun, proper or common and a pronoun. The distinction concerning simple predicates and complex predicates proved a mystery. It proved frustrating with the result, in the end, of searching for the end of the period, and lunch/conference period.
Waking this morn with a ravaging hoard of Visigoths in my cranium, I discovered that my blood sugar was three times what it should be, and that I must see to this predicament.
I lay in bed until it proved tortuous, I wandered about the house aimlessly (well not very much wandering given the size of my apartment), I sough relief in Jeopardy to no avail (teen tournament and I lost miserably), a call to my sweet Deifiúr, and finally to the keyboard. If I could find no respite from my own idiocy (filling the bottle with the wrong pills) I could at least not have to endure this malevolence unaccompanied, hence the email reminding you that I have once more made an entry into your life through this blog.
I, ostensibly, have found words again as useful tools in the healing of the soul. I have shared my wonder with humankind, and my blood sugar has reduced to a manageable level. I feel competency returning, and a reinvigoration over the next hill in this journey. Then again, it’s only 2:30 PM and there is a pork chop and gravy banquet looming in the next few hours. Hopefully, with the proper medication, and a little more effective attention to what I take prior to this feast, I will return to the fiefdom of academia upon the rising of the Sun.
Peace.
P.S. Now I do not need, nor will accept portentous dialogue informing of the fact that I may be killing myself so, please refrain from issuing redundancies which I have already suffered from the Realm of Hippocrates. I love you too.
As chronicled previously, I sought advice from the realm of Hippocrates a few years ago with disquieting result. The healer at the time informed me of a variety of afflictions that have power in my life. One being diabetes mellitus which holds innumerable ways and means with which to curtail, impede, and otherwise piss me off as I circumnavigate that which we call life. I treat this malady with medication that, for the most part, is sufficient to beat back the beast. As a disease it is most insidious in that it can and will control your life. I have to transport two types of medication wherever I go in contemplation of eating meals. Given my girth, and acute sense of taste, I eat out socially quite often, and must maintain my health.
The problematic part of carrying medication comes in the amount and variety of pills that I must take. I would offer this forewarning to those reaching the age equal to one half century that if you go to the doctor, said oath taker (Hippocrates, remember?) will most definitely send you packing with a prescription for some sort of remedy guaranteed to bring back the ecstasy and angst of earlier time. I have seven such panacea’s in my catholiconian war chest.
A few mornings ago, I found it necessary to restock the portable container I keep with me at all times, and replenished it with the wrong pills. I went about my business of educating the poor waif’s of society and thought all to be splendid and pleasing. As I went about the business of plying my trade, I noticed that something seemed…well…off. Helping students with grammar exercise proved futile in that I had apparently forgotten the difference between a noun, proper or common and a pronoun. The distinction concerning simple predicates and complex predicates proved a mystery. It proved frustrating with the result, in the end, of searching for the end of the period, and lunch/conference period.
Waking this morn with a ravaging hoard of Visigoths in my cranium, I discovered that my blood sugar was three times what it should be, and that I must see to this predicament.
I lay in bed until it proved tortuous, I wandered about the house aimlessly (well not very much wandering given the size of my apartment), I sough relief in Jeopardy to no avail (teen tournament and I lost miserably), a call to my sweet Deifiúr, and finally to the keyboard. If I could find no respite from my own idiocy (filling the bottle with the wrong pills) I could at least not have to endure this malevolence unaccompanied, hence the email reminding you that I have once more made an entry into your life through this blog.
I, ostensibly, have found words again as useful tools in the healing of the soul. I have shared my wonder with humankind, and my blood sugar has reduced to a manageable level. I feel competency returning, and a reinvigoration over the next hill in this journey. Then again, it’s only 2:30 PM and there is a pork chop and gravy banquet looming in the next few hours. Hopefully, with the proper medication, and a little more effective attention to what I take prior to this feast, I will return to the fiefdom of academia upon the rising of the Sun.
Peace.
P.S. Now I do not need, nor will accept portentous dialogue informing of the fact that I may be killing myself so, please refrain from issuing redundancies which I have already suffered from the Realm of Hippocrates. I love you too.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Remonstration and Protestation
I woke this morning with the intention of reproducing a piece I began Thursday about the NY Yankees winning, again, the World Series. I worked on it during my lunch period and felt relatively virtuous in the words I chose to regale the world with my fanaticism over this sports franchise. The first obstacle came when I attempted to carry it over into my conference period. I am required to work on class material during this time slot, but taking into consideration that I had accomplished everything I could in this academic area of interest, I thought to spend the time enthralling the community on the World Wide Web with my proficiency at the written word. It did not work as a student came in and wanted to know why he was failing my stupid class.
I then saved the essay to a flash drive and thought to spend my Saturday morning finishing this piece of written wit. Once more the cosmos prevented this from happening due to a computer glitch. By glitch, I mean that my home computer did not allow me to open the file and saw fit to only allow me to cruise Facebook, and write on the current novel I am sure will gain me the fame and fortune I deserve (?) or think I deserve.
My next attempt occurred about an hour ago when I hit the proverbial third strike. I received yet another e-mail commanding me to view pictures of our troops in the Middle East, and pass them on. This particular set of images were of a positive demeanor showing the kindness and affection U.S. Service people have towards the children in the land where they are fighting. I thought to simply view them and go on about my day. Until, that is, the last image. This picture portrayed a soldier hugging an injured or dead child to his chest. This hero stood in obvious emotional distress. The last thing I wished to do this glorious morning was weep for any reason, let alone the devastation of the war plaguing my serenity on a beautiful morning.
I did not get irate or disconcerted. I did not curse the screen or the person that sent it to me. I just cried. After the tears subsided to a manageable level, I decided to take action. This piece is certainly the culmination of that action, but not all. The overwhelming message in the images glaringly spoke of the men and women fighting for our rights and privileges as citizens of the United States. I am not exactly sure how their actions are connected to my rights given the nonsense that is, in general, all wars. I have not had to defend my apartment from invaders…ever. I have not personally experienced violence directed at me by a foreign adversary from the Middle East. The sum of my knowledge comes from the handshakes I receive when I thank a soldier for his service to our country. I have a colleague at work that fought over there. He never speaks of his experience and often plays down his role as minor when engaged in conversation. He sometimes wears one of his fatigue jackets to work, and the patches on that jacket speak to a much deeper involvement then this gentleman will admit to. He is most definitely a hero, and I am blessed to know him.
The quietness of my colleague and his peers who allow me the honor of shaking their hands tells me that my rights are well protected…even the right to protest this war. There are a group of men in my home town who I have written of in a prior post. They stand on the courthouse square and wave banners protesting for peace and requesting travelers to honk to bring home the troops. I honk, and have stood for a time on that corner. Nobody has ever complained about my feeling about this war. Nobody has tried to stop those brave men out on the corner from exercising their right to free speech. And nobody will as long as I ingest oxygen without a loud reply to any such nonsense.
I took action this morning by writing this piece. However, before I did set to the composition you read here, I e-mailed the President to ask for the return of the troops. I sent the link to this site, not to promote my own hopeful agenda, but so that if by some miracle he gets to read this, he will know that our troops are in fact protecting my rights and privileges as a United States citizen. God Bless America!
Peace.
I then saved the essay to a flash drive and thought to spend my Saturday morning finishing this piece of written wit. Once more the cosmos prevented this from happening due to a computer glitch. By glitch, I mean that my home computer did not allow me to open the file and saw fit to only allow me to cruise Facebook, and write on the current novel I am sure will gain me the fame and fortune I deserve (?) or think I deserve.
My next attempt occurred about an hour ago when I hit the proverbial third strike. I received yet another e-mail commanding me to view pictures of our troops in the Middle East, and pass them on. This particular set of images were of a positive demeanor showing the kindness and affection U.S. Service people have towards the children in the land where they are fighting. I thought to simply view them and go on about my day. Until, that is, the last image. This picture portrayed a soldier hugging an injured or dead child to his chest. This hero stood in obvious emotional distress. The last thing I wished to do this glorious morning was weep for any reason, let alone the devastation of the war plaguing my serenity on a beautiful morning.
I did not get irate or disconcerted. I did not curse the screen or the person that sent it to me. I just cried. After the tears subsided to a manageable level, I decided to take action. This piece is certainly the culmination of that action, but not all. The overwhelming message in the images glaringly spoke of the men and women fighting for our rights and privileges as citizens of the United States. I am not exactly sure how their actions are connected to my rights given the nonsense that is, in general, all wars. I have not had to defend my apartment from invaders…ever. I have not personally experienced violence directed at me by a foreign adversary from the Middle East. The sum of my knowledge comes from the handshakes I receive when I thank a soldier for his service to our country. I have a colleague at work that fought over there. He never speaks of his experience and often plays down his role as minor when engaged in conversation. He sometimes wears one of his fatigue jackets to work, and the patches on that jacket speak to a much deeper involvement then this gentleman will admit to. He is most definitely a hero, and I am blessed to know him.
The quietness of my colleague and his peers who allow me the honor of shaking their hands tells me that my rights are well protected…even the right to protest this war. There are a group of men in my home town who I have written of in a prior post. They stand on the courthouse square and wave banners protesting for peace and requesting travelers to honk to bring home the troops. I honk, and have stood for a time on that corner. Nobody has ever complained about my feeling about this war. Nobody has tried to stop those brave men out on the corner from exercising their right to free speech. And nobody will as long as I ingest oxygen without a loud reply to any such nonsense.
I took action this morning by writing this piece. However, before I did set to the composition you read here, I e-mailed the President to ask for the return of the troops. I sent the link to this site, not to promote my own hopeful agenda, but so that if by some miracle he gets to read this, he will know that our troops are in fact protecting my rights and privileges as a United States citizen. God Bless America!
Peace.
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