Chaca, When The Walls Fell

 Still no completed ghost story, but I found something you might like that I wrote February 4th, 2018, when I was trying to see myself as something more than a broken down old man. 

I'm still a broken old man, even more so, but I do have some focus of will left. With that thought came this bit from almost four years ago:

                        This Old Man (2018-02-04)

            I’m not sure how it happened.

            Usually I’m very aware of my surroundings when I’m out. Especially when I’m with my little girl. My ’little girl’ is in junior high, and nearly the height of her mother; not so little.

            Maybe that was it; she was not a ‘little’ girl at all, anymore.

             Minding our own business at a table in the park, eating a Mickey-Dee’s lunch, a group of - no a gang of boys came up and casually surrounded our table. The boys were not much older than my granddaughter.

            One of the bolder youths came closer, saying, “Hello, little chicky, leave this old man and come with me, I show you some fun!”

            “He’s not an old man! He’s my grandpa!” she shouted back.

            “Even better! You come with me and my boys will keep your old grandpa busy.”

            The gang had us circled. As casually as I could I move my legs over the bench so I was half-facing away from the table. One of the other boys came close to me and leaned in. I could smell the cigarette odor, and the smell of marijuana, on his breath. “Don’ get up, ole man, Rickie – he take goooood care of your girl for you.” He leered a half-focused grin at me.

            Someone behind me poked my shoulder, “An’ we gonna take gooood care of you, too. Don’ worry about nothin’.”

            The first boy reached his right hand out and placed it on my left shoulder, the shoulder nearest the table, “You jus’ sit right there, an’ ev’ry thing will be fine.”

            “Pa-paw?”

            One of the circling boys said, “Maybe we can take turns.” The rest of the boys chuckled, their laughter low in the throat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the first boy (“Ricky?”) take my girl’s arm to pull her away from the picnic table.

            The voice in my ear said: This is the moment.

            Leaning back against the hand behind me; the boy behind me, irritated, shoved me forward. Grabbing my cane from the table with my left hand, and leaning forward (unwittingly assisted by the boy behind me), I punched the boy in front of me’s solar plexus, putting as much of my weight behind the blow as I could. This boy’s leer disappeared as his eyes and his mouth went wide, gasping for a breath that would not come.       

            Standing and stepping away, and twisting to face the boy behind me, I got both hands on my cane, spaced wide, pushing it at the boy’s chest, stepping in to shove as hard as I could to knock him down. He couldn’t back-pedal fast enough to stay standing and went down.

            Stepping on his chest to the most direct path around the end of the table I saw Ricky dragging my little girl away from the table. Two more boys were between Ricky and me, the one on my left waved a knife. I think he meant to scare me.

            I stepped left, putting the other boy slightly behind the knife wielder. I swung my cane hard down on the wrist with the knife, and he screamed. He also dropped the knife.

            I brought the cane back up, and grabbing it with both hands as I had before, I shoved it into this boy’s chest and he went down. I stepped on him and went at the fourth boy. He came at me like a defensive line-man, ready to push me back. I met his charge, shoving him with the cane held as a bar in front of me, then twisting to the right, I stepped left, and let him slide past me. As he went by, I kicked him in his rear and he went down on his nose.

            That was four of the .. five? six? boys in the bunch. One of whom was standing to my left, holding on to my little girl … holding a knife to her throat.

            “Stay back!” he said. He spoke through clenched teeth, his own breathing as ragged as mine was; I was near the end of my effort.

            I have to wrap this up.

            “Baby Girl,” I said, using a name from her childhood, “Baby Girl, do you trust me?”

            Her eyes flickered to a long-ago memory, and she nodded.

            As the boy was saying ‘Shut UP, Old Man’, I said, “Ess-Dee-Are.”

            She blinked, widening her eyes. I gave a slight nod in reply.

            She became dead weight on the boy’s arm. The boy, not expecting it, let her fall. Finishing the ‘Stop-Drop-Roll’ she rolled as fast as she could away from the boy. The boy stood watching.

            As soon as she was clear, I stepped in and raised my cane, still gripped in both hands by its ends, knocking his knife hand up.

            “Run to the car, child! Call the police!”

            Letting go of one end of the cane, and reaching into my left front pocket I grabbed my keys and started tossing them to her. The boy took advantage of my distraction and slashed downward with his knife. It missed my face but cut open my shirt. I felt the slash like an electric jolt through my chest as the blade bit me.

            I dropped the keys as I focused on the face of the boy. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. I growled, like bear or a jungle cat, ready to pounce on my prey. This boy-predator didn't think he was so big any more without his friends. He was back-pedaling, as if he no longer wanted this fight. 

            I certainly didn’t want this fight, but I couldn’t let the matter rest and have him regain his courage when his friends recovered. I was sure boy #2 and boy #4 were already doing so. The cane was still in my right hand; I swung it at his knife hand, intent on breaking his wrist, breaking what was left of his spirit for this fight of his own making, my own vision tunneling.

            The fight would be over in a moment, one way or the other. The shock I was feeling from the cut was combining with my shortness of breath from my exertions. I felt like a puppet whose strings were being cut, one at a time.

            I saw the rubber tip of my cane hit his knife hand. It was the last thing I saw: my tunnel vision narrowed to nothing, the roaring in my ears became a roaring silence.

            Except, I seemed to be someplace. I was talking to someone. Or they were talking to me. It was dark, and largely noiseless, apart from the conversation. It was one of those ‘what-to-do-next’ conversations.

            I found myself saying, “For myself, I don’t care, but please make sure my wife and granddaughter are taken care of.”

            The reply: “Your family will be taken care of – you’ll take care of them.”

            I expressed my doubts in wordless thought, that none-the-less was answered, “You just need to rest a while. Then you will be strong enough to continue.”

            My wordless thought continued to the shortness of breath, the pain in my chest that had nothing to do with the cut, and the general feeling of exhaustion I felt. I mentally tried to raise my arms – and could not.

            The voice, if it was a voice, returned with the sentence, “My strength is made perfect in weakness – you know that.”

            And with that, the dream, or whatever it was, ended.

            Oddly enough, the next thing was noise, the roaring in my ears was back, and pains all over were telling me I was still interfaced with my body, and the world at large was starting to make its presence known: shrill sirens, accelerations and decelerations, not to mention the ‘come-over-darlings’ of sharp turns, and things rattling with each bump. Unfocused light was sneaking in under my eyelids, and on the next bump I heard a groan. My next thought was that person sounds like he’s hurting.

            The following thought: that groaning person was me!

            The pains, instead of just nebulous ideas, started coming in from my chest, my hands and wrists, and an ouchy spot on my left pectoral.

            As I wondered what this was all about, dribs and drabs of ‘the last things I remember’ slowly snuck into my mind.

            Then I thought, “Oh. Yeah.” 

            And decided to go back to sleep.

And there you go. Fiction is as fiction does, but if it ever comes down to cases, I hope I do as well as my dream self in this story, and end up finishing the fight before I run out of steam.

I don't have a lot of steam left. 

But I do what I can. 

Yes, I Can.

Yes, You CAN!

 

Mish-mash in the MixMaster

I originally came downstairs to my 'office' to work on the ghost story some more, and found a mouse in one of the mousetraps around my desk. It wasn't dead.

So, what do you do with a mouse so broken - and it was. Flushing it down the drain seems like adding insult to injury. But how to best put an end to it's misery? I might have summoned my house cat to take over, except we no longer have a house cat. So, squarely upon my shoulders the responsibility sits.

One of the hardest things in the world to do is to watch something die, even something as small and pestiferous as a mouse. When I hunted I always made sure the thing I killed died quickly. And I always felt that pain. I made sure that I never forgot that pain. I made a promise to myself that if I ever stopped feeling that pain I would stop hunting. I haven't stopped hunting, as much as I haven't been able to arrange for the trips. In other words, my not hunting is more circumstantial than intentional. Now you know a little bit more about me.

Also know that I've been fighting heart failure for the last few years; about a year ago I had a defibrillator/pacemaker implanted. Unlike Tony Stark, I did not come back as Iron Man. Life is. The long and short of it is: I have a personal understanding of how fragile life can be.

Add to this, how do I continue to work until I can finally take retirement? My plan to work for as long as I can has taken a different twist: as long as I can now means can I at least reach the full retirement age before dying? If that had been at the original 65-years-old, I'm there, and I can retire and pace myself a little better. Unfortunately, The Social Security goalposts have been moved: I now need to be at least 66 and four months old to retire with full benefits. 

I may not get there, or I might have to quit working sooner. My current job is not that hard, physically, but can be very stressful. And I have to juggle my medication regime around it. That caught up with me a couple of weeks ago, and I ended up in the hospital. One week of pay missing as a consequence, never mind the bills. At least the food was good.

What can I do?

I can find another job. That is a give-and-take: would I get as good insurance benefits as I do now? Could I even get the group insurance?

In a lot of ways I'm hostage to the corner of the envelope bracketed by age, bills, family needs, and a few other what-have-yous. These are my negatives. It's hard to see the positives.

Especially when I see a mouse pinned and broken in a mouse trap. It kind of became a metaphor for my life. 

I hate death. I am not afraid of death, or dying; got over that a while ago. I still hate death, though.

Dylan Thomas was right: "Go not gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Yes, you can

Ghost Story? Not Yet

Just a quick note - no ghost story, but still working on it. 

Keep on keeping on.

Yes, you can!

Each Day is a Gift

 None of us is promised tomorrow. Each day is a gift. 

These are trite, cliché phrases. One shouldn't write cliché phrases. 

The truth is, though, none of are promised tomorrow. or even the rest of today. None of us is promised another sunrise, tequila or otherwise.

'What brought this on, Mister Madman,' you ask? 

I'll tell you. I'm a cyborg, what with the stents and implanted defibrillator/pacemaker; an electrified heart. All sweetness and light, right?

Apparently not.

 I spent the last few days in the hospital, being overly concerned with the status of my vital pump. 

I had scheduled myself for five hours of Saturday overtime to pad the paycheck a bit. I got two and a half hours in, had to take my half-hour break a bit early, then could only do one more hour of answering phones before it became too hard to answer them with a smile on my face, even after four doses of nitroglycerin.

That's when I called out, called my wife downstairs for a second opinion, then got bundled up to the hospital emergency room.

Fun times.

But I'm back, and alive, and none the worse for wear, in spite of having only the hospital TV and my own thoughts to keep me company. My wife brought me my phone and a couple of books I'd checked out later on (MUCH appreciated, especially the books: Edison's Alley (book 2 of the Accelerati series, intended Young Adults), and A Higher Call - more on this one when I finish it). But no laptop to type on, or paper to write on, and I had phone but no charger - needed to husband its strength as well as my own. I could read but not write. Ah, well.

While there, they would only allow one visitor at a time, and NO minors. Thus only my wife got to visit, but no Bear Cub. Now I'm home and the Cub and I are together, and bug-tussling enough to make up for lost time. 

I love that kid.

I was told by sweet wife that having me home relaxed the girl enough that she got to sleep fairly quickly, and my wife is happier as well. 

I'm happier, too. But I have a host of sonic patterns to unlearn. 

My wife was sitting up, reading, and the chair squeaked. No big deal, except it sounded just like the door to my room opening. My hospital room. which usually meant someone was there to wake me up and take my vital signs, if not a bit of blood.

I was awake in an instant.

Then I realized I was at home. 

Ah, well.

One other thing that came to mind last night, regarding hospitalization and visitors, was: what if I was truly dying, and wanted to say good-bye to everyone I conveniently could. The Bear Cub would have been left out, and she would have been the one most in need of such communications.

Thus the germ of a ghost story was spawned. 

I'll wrap it for today, but look for the ghost story before the weekend is over.

Remember to build for a thousand years, but be ready to leave for your final destination at any time.

To the best of your ability, leave nothing unfinished or unsaid. Bequeath the rest into good hands.

Yes, You Can!

What Makes Your Eyes Shine?

"Classical Music is for EVERYONE!" - Benjamin Zander

Benjamin Zander has a viewpoint: Everyone loves Classical Music, they just don't know it yet. If you don't believe me, click the link above. 

I have to admit that I'm wandering a bit, freely associating with what pops into my mind and trying to get a handle on why I am not very focused at the tasks at hand. 

Along the way, I tripped over the Ted talk that kicked off this post, which reminded me of Tommy Shaw and the Contemporary Youth Orchestra as well. And that rounded me back to shining eyes.

Shining eyes. 

Why were my eyes were shining? 

There are days that I cannot keep up with the simple job of troubleshooting the technology that allows our customers to access the website to do the things they wish to do. My eyes shine when I can help someone solve a problem that has troubled them for some time. My eyes also shine when I cannot.

And sometimes they shine when I cannot help the customer at all, and they take out their dissatisfaction on me. It's part of the job, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.

Sometimes my eyes shine when I think of someone who is no longer living. That list grows longer, sometimes on a monthly basis.

One of these days my name will be on that list. I'm guessing that my eyes will be closed, not shining,  so it will be something of a moot point. While I regret any sorrow I add to the world, I hope someone's eyes will shine when they think of me. 

Come to think of it, I hope people when think of me now, their eyes shine. Why wait until later?

I should get down to something a little less morbid and a little more encouraging. 

What say about this Covid stuff? I hope you are alive and moving around, as much as people will let you all things considered.

If you've caught the bug, and you are reading this, I happy that you are alive. If you haven't caught the bug, by all means get vaccinated to prevent catching the bug. Y'know, kinda like we do for flu, or measles or chicken-pox when we were young. 

But I have heard some strange stuff: vaccinated people can get the bug from unvaccinated people. That's flat wrong; the whole point of the vaccination is that you wouldn't get the disease that you have been vaccinated for. 

Otherwise, what is the point of the vaccine?

The point of the vaccine is NOT to beat people up (sometimes literally) about whether or not you've gotten the vaccination in the first place.

A lot of nonsense has, what, brewed? appeared? been carried on the breeze? I don't know. All I know is that people have been saying things like what I mentioned above ("Non-vaccinated people give vaccinated people Covid"). 

I wish people would get it straight. Families have been split up over such nonsense.

The purpose of ANY vaccine is to prevent the disease the vaccine was cultured for. In other words, the flu vaccine doesn't cover you for Covid. All vaccines need the occasional booster to bring back full effective immunity levels (apparently, Covid need a booster more often than most diseases). Unless you have had the disease, you should get the vaccine. This goes for measles, chicken-pox, Covid, what-have-you.

All this noise about you being this kind of [fill in your favorite epithet here], if you do/don't get the vaccine should just stop.

And before you ask, I didn't get mumps, small-pox, polio, lockjaw, and a few other unpleasant diseases BECAUSE I was vaccinated. Even though I had little say in the matter at the time; my parents made that choice for me, I am very happy they decided for, and not against the vaccine. Small-pox can kill you outright, infantile paralysis (polio) can kill or cripple you. Nuff said.

I believe in vaccines.

Covid is dangerous. Being vaccinated against it is good. Berating people about their choice of vaccine, or whether to be vaccinated, is polarizing, pushing us apart as a society, not bringing us together. There is enough of this pushing us apart as it is.

The one thing that can potentially get us all on the same page is learning/education. And by education I am NOT meaning propaganda by one faction or another. 

The WHO, the CDC, and other such institutions have ended up being suspect by the way they've allowed governments with axes to grind fund/pull funding, dictate to, allowing themselves to be influenced. Whether they can be trusted, many people do not trust these medical oversight bodies to speak the straight truth (not naming names).

Rather than depend on these official bodies, my wife and I have chosen to fall back on what I have learned in my youth, as well as her nurse's training The both of us have kept up with the literature, and I mean before all the stuff bandied about by the media after Covid struck.

I will not recommend a vaccine type, or even insist that you get vaccinated. As I say, however, I believe in the benefit of vaccines.

Enough of this. Back to what kicked off this post in the first place: Shining Eyes.

As Benjamin Zander, and I after him, everybody loves classical music. Most people just don't know it yet. If you don't believe me, then click this LINK.

You may not agree with me, and that is fine. Just give it a chance ...

... A chance to make your eyes shine. 

Then see about making someone else's eyes shine. You can do it.

Yes, You Can!

Revisiting Foster Care and Adoption

In its way, it's all about happy endings.

Not the end of  twenty-three minute long sitcom happy endings, but real happy endings. Real stories of survival. 

ReMoved is the beginning of one such story, and Remember My Story - ReMoved Part 2 is the continuation.  I say 'continuation', because no story truly ends. I'll let the videos speak for themselves. They pull no punches. That they are dramas does not take away from their speaking true things.

That we need a child welfare system is an unfortunate fact. That the children in the system survive at all is a tribute to the strong men and women who make the choice to open their homes, to make a safe landing pad, a haven for these children, to have the patience and strength and bottomless hearts full of unconditional love to share with such children in need. They know, just like the song lyric 'The Only Way Out is Through.' 

All of them saying a version of the same thing: you need to put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving. Another link: The Best Way Out is Always Through. 

Many of us, not to say most of us, are fighting battles every day, battles of 'quite desperation'. Sometimes not so quiet. These children are in their own battles. And these battles are not of their making. What do you do when you are in a battle, and you are powerless?

Let us look at the children in their situations: abusive/neglectful home environment. Not necessarily the financially impoverished environments, but the ones of emotional violence, physical violence/abuse. Those environs where it is amazing that any child could survive, never mind thrive. Look at that, then, and remember: these children often have very little understanding that this is not the way things should be. They only know that this is the way things ARE. They may not like the way things are, but that's all they know.

When something happens to bring these children to the attention of the authorities, these children do not understand that they are being taken for their own good. No. All they know that their world is crashing down. They may have unstable moorings. But that is better than NO moorings. It's been said, 'better the devil you know than the one you don't know'. And that is EXACTLY where they find themselves. As bad as their lives may be to us, the outsiders, it is all they KNOW. And the unknown is always worse than what is known, even if WE know it is ultimately for the better.

Depending on the situation, some children may welcome the escape; they may have an understanding that life has to be better than what they are going through. Even so, in a life full of fear, the uncertain is better than the unknown.

And truly, some of the foster homes are as bad, or worse, than the homes they had been pulled from. The system is the system, and the broken parts need to be fixed.

So why are you going on about this, Mister Madman?

Good question. This is where you come in. You can be part of the solution. You can help a child put one foot in front of the other so they can get to the far side of 'Through'. 

You can help them to their 'Happy Continuation'.

You've heard me say, on this blog, that these kids need an opportunity to live a normal life, to have a loving, caring, protective (but not overprotective) family situation. I will continue to say it, and I will continue to encourage people to become part of that solution.

Remember: for these kids going back is seldom an option. Their only option is: Through. Through the broken hearts, through the tears, through the inexplicable acting out. Through the failure to bond, the often unvoiced view that it will be easier not to make friends with this new family ('I'll only be ripped from them, too'). 

By the time you become their next stepping stone to the future, that child or those children may have become emotional icebergs or raging volcanoes of anger. Or both. Generally not a lot in between. Hope is an unknown to many of them.

But, these children deserve a chance. You can be the one to give them that chance.

Because of these things, it will NOT be easy for you. And you WILL make mistakes. Some days you will think you are doing more harm than good. Do your best to do good, ANYWAY.

Remember how hard it was for your parents to raise you. Raising these kids will likely be ten times as hard. 

Remember, like that public service ad says, 'You don't have to be perfect to be a good foster parent. You just have to be there.' (If I misquote, my apologies).

Be there.

Be there. Be strong. Be loving. Be patient. Give grace. Give lots of grace. Keep loving. Keep giving. 

Keep going.

Yes, you can!

(To my own kids: I apologize for all the things I’ve done wrong. Some of these things I knew were wrong at the time, and that is the greatest wrong. I’m sorry. Words are not enough.)

 

Which versus What

I was caught by one of those YouTube offerings the other night. You know the stuff: comedy, history, music, odd videos that don't categorize well sometimes.

This was a humor video, stand-up comedy by a lady named Jeanne Robertson (JeanneRobertson.com - free plug, enjoy) I liked it because it was my favorite combination of attributes: Clean and Funny. It didn't hurt that she is about my age (sixty-something), and spoke, indirectly, to this common issue of opposites attracting. She is a free spirit, not to say a blithe (does anyone use that word anymore?) spirit; and her husband is nick-named 'Left-Brain', for his down-to-earth, matter-of-fact, analytical ... oh, well, heck, let's just say it: 'Left-Brain' is a stick-in-the-mud. His idea of adventure is going to a different burger joint than usual.

I may be running him down too much. If so, Mrs. Robertson is welcome to take me to task.

Some of the best relationships can come from such pairings.

Another person who has acknowledged these different pairings, and has had much to say about them is Dave Ramsey (www.ramseysolutions.com/financial/peace/ - another free plug), with his comparisons between the Nerd versus the Free-Spirit. His famous call: "Nerds and Free-Spirits Unite!" is part of his desire to get these pairings on the same page so they can have a successful life and not wake up poor.

And then there is us, my wife and me. On the face of it I am the 'Nerd' while she is the 'Free-Spirit'. And I can be very much the stick-in-the-mud, and very devoted to science, math, and other 'hard' studies. Whereas my wife is very creative, is a story-teller, creates wonderful costumes (the bear-cub has been just about everything for one Halloween or another, except a 'bear-cub'), can take the five forgotten things in the fridge and turn them into a wonderful meal.

So, it's obvious. I'm the nerd and she's the free-spirit.

Except we're not. Close observers will see that SHE is the one who keeps the books, or ought to, and LIKES it, and I am the one who daydreams. What we are, and always have been, are square pegs trying to fit into round holes. 

What is nifty, though, is that while we are oddities, we are also wonderfully matched. We have common interests, as well as complementary interests and skill sets. In other words, we have enough in common that we can 'pull together' in the same direction (most of the time, at least), and enough differences that we can cover each other's lacks, (most of the time). 

If I were the one to plan things, it's often done at the last minute, and jury-rigged. I need to have my dear, sweet, wonderful wife be the person to do the planning if it is to be accomplished, and accomplished well. 

Well, that's not quite true. I have been known to plan. I plan getaway times so that I KNOW I will not be late someplace. And I've heard the comments of fellow travelers (those riding with me), and fielded their questions/statements "we could've left later if you'd go faster."

And that was true. However, as sure as you are reading this if I had touched the accelerator and gone above the posted limit by even just a few miles per hour, the local constabulary, or county mounty, or Highway Patrol would be pulling us (me) over. And he would not be impressed that we were in a hurry to get to a sales meeting that we would now definitely be late to.

He or she would write the ticket listing the moving violation, as well as any other bonus issues that the officer's sharp eye would bring to light, smile, hand me the ticket, and tell me to drive carefully. And would my fellow sales-people help pay the fine? Maybe, but likely not. And the points go on MY license, not theirs.

So I plan for the time of the trip and don't speed.

I also planned for my career at the Big Red 'R', making sure I had all the bases covered and crossed every 'i' and dotted every 't', eventually becoming a manager of a store. 

I did well, but at the same time, it was too much for me.

Subject change: Jeanne Robertson (remember her) has a running theme in her talks: Always find the humor no matter the situation. If life hands you peanuts, make peanut butter. Or something like that.

I was fired from the 'Shack. I'll get into the reasons some other time. Maybe. But don't hold your breath.

I was fired, and it was not my first experience of being fired. I'm not sure you can easily come up with a humorous view of such events. I really never have. 

At the same time it can give you an opportunity to look at your strengths and choose a new direction. It kind of forces you to do this, actually.

So my longer-range goal of becoming a store manager, and my plans to get there, came to fruition. and I forgot the next step: consolidate the achievement and determine how to run the store honorably and successfully. Then make a new goal and create a new plan. 

I worked at doing the one and hadn't gotten to doing the other. I had also forgotten to find a way to relax. In time I might have come to grips with what I needed to do to keep my employees happy, my customers happy, and ultimately keeping me happy and healthy. With a smile on my face I think I might have taken that store to being a million dollar store. 

But that's water under the bridge.

I should mention at this point that my mom would cross up two metaphors: 'water under the bridge' with 'water over the dam', often coming up with 'water over the bridge', or sometimes 'water under the dam'.

Which brings us back to 'Which versus What'.

What is your focus? What are your strengths? Can you do it all yourself? Do you have the time to do it all yourself? If you had someone you could trust to do the things that person or those persons are best at how would that help you do what you are best at?

Which path is the better path to get you where you want to go? How does it help the people helping you to get there? Are they willing to follow you there? 

Why?

I watched/heard a TED talk some time back that illustrated these ideas. It is very much worth the watch.  (https://www.ted.com/talks/simon_sinek_how_great_leaders_inspire_action/  Yet another free plug. You're welcome.)

Why do I do what I do?

I have to be honest, I have never seen myself as a leader. This has gotten in the way of my being the head of my household, much to my wife's frustration, as well as the frustration of my children. I react instead of leading. Very little planning is done besides just day-to-day stuff. I have no idea where I want to be in a year or five, or even much further than the next five days.

In my position, what would you suggest that I do? How can I find my why? And where do I find the humor to sustain me and those around me? 

As always, though, whatever your plans are, whatever your trials are, whatever your strengths are, you can make it one more day, at least.

Yes, You Can!

Zamizdat, Dance, and White Nights

About a month ago I hunted up a DVD at my local library. They didn't have it, but they were able to borrow it from another branch.

I love libraries, by the way.

Anyway, the the movie was 'White Nights', and I had checked it out because of the dancing. The Bear Cub is a dancer, and had not seen it. I take the opportunities I find to introduce her to dance that she may not have seen. Her preference is Hip Hop, but she enjoys all forms. For myself, I believe the statement that 70's song 'Teach the Children Well' is a good guideline: feed [the Bear Cub] on my dreams and see what she picks.

My many dreams include acting, singing, movement (I tend more to Mime than dance), and the sciences.

An odd mix, I'll admit.

The Bear Cub early on showed herself to be a dancer. Always on her toes, seldom did her heels touch the floor when she was a young child. She enjoyed singing and always being the drama queen. But her first love is dance.

Which brings me to 'White Nights'. The dancing is outstanding, and all too brief. 

The Bear Cub was impressed.

Then there was the story. Without giving anything away (I try to avoid spoilers) the story is about a Russian ballet dancer who defected, was on his way from one dance engagement to the next when the aircraft had an in-flight emergency and had to make a landing in an 'any port in a storm' fashion. That landing was in the Soviet Union, and at a Soviet military airfield. 

Defector reclaimed.

The rest of the movie revolves around him trying to find a way back out of the Soviet Union. See the movie.

Mikhail Baryshnikov plays the role of the dancer, and since he is indeed a Soviet defector and a ballet dancer, this could be considered type-casting. His foil in this story is an American defector, a tap dancer, played by the late Gregory Hines (outstanding in the role).

In accordance to the Law of  Unintended Consequences, what started as showing the Bear Cub some dance ended up reminding me of just how much freedom we have in this country, and how this is being curtailed in the name of security and safety. Even the notion of Free Speech is being infringed in inconceivable ways, making any notion counter to the notion espoused by the mainstream media has to take to alternate methods, almost to the point of becoming American Zamizdat. 

Zamizdat was underground news, opinions, and music, and all things unapproved by the Politburo, passed along by underground means. This goes without saying that it was fought against, by fair means or foul, by the State. 

Is that what we are coming to? I would say: YES!

The Internet, once the great equalizer has become a force of censorship. But it is NOT the government doing the censoring. In the name of 'Political Correctness', posts are being taken down from social media pages, lest they offend someone's sensibilities. Blogs are taken down for the same reason. News is becoming one-sided and editorials pretend to be news stories. And people (those 'wrong-headed'ones) are being banned and muzzled, including a former President. 

To these Arbiters of Thought, it is not enough to simply disagree with these people of differing opinions, These People Must Be SILENCED! They must be silenced for the good of all 'right-thinking' people, the ones who feel unsafe the moment a conflicting thought is seen or heard, the ones who are afraid to think for themselves. And if the counter-culturalists won't be silenced, then they must be destroyed! The force of identity politics is brought to bear.

If an idea cannot stand up to a conflicting thought, then that idea is poorly thought out. If you must resort to such unfair methods to silence your opposition, you are a tyrant.

Don't be a tyrant.

Instead, we must follow Voltaire's example: 

"I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it!"

The solution to so-called bad speech is more speech. Put one thought up against the other in the marketplace of ideas and let the ideas duke it out. Fight fair, and may the best idea win!

If you must resort to censorship to protect your idea, then that idea is a poor idea. And don't pull out that chestnut: 'It's not the government so it can't be censorship' line. It doesn't matter who gags you to prevent your ideas from being expressed, it is censorship. If you are coerced into self-censorship, afraid what your peers may think and say, that is censorship. If a government prevents the free assembly of your group to petition our government for redress of grievances, calling that group 'Insurrectionists', that is censorship, . 

If a person or group in charge of providing connectivity and voices to those who have something to say (such as you), decide that some things may not be said, ESPECIALLY on the basis of what that speech is, they are guilty of censorship, just as surely as if they broke into your newspaper's office and destroyed your presses.

Whatever is done to 'unlevel' the playing field, that is censorship, no matter how blatant or subtle.

The movie White Nights wasn't about Dance. It was about the one place in the world that a person could pursue their own path, to be free to choose that path, win or lose, to succeed or fail. Nothing guaranteed, except to have their own expression presented in the arena of ideas. Dance or Diatribe, Song or Polemic, to be able to bring an idea to life, whether it is a building or a statue, or a machine to help complete a task (think bulldozers, welders, even autonomous robots, all helping to build), or to create a new way of healing. Or anything else.

Think of ideas that enable governments, our government in particular, to protect these freedoms. Think of a government that gets out of the way of people 'taking care of business'. Think of the productivity of these people. Think of the freedom to be yourself.

It all comes down to Freedom. Freedom to speak. Freedom to act. Freedom to live unencumbered by unnecessary rules. 

Is the United States of America perfect? No. But nothing is.

Does this country come closest to the ideal of freedom for all? YES. Are we perfectly there yet? No.

 Are we as a nation collectively moving in that direction? I believe we are. But there are some pushing in the opposite direction, disingenuously waving the flag of 'freedom'.

I'm reminded of ants on an anthill: two ants may find something that needs to be moved and they each attach themselves to it. They may head the same direction. Or they may have a tug of war trying to move that item. They each have what they think is the best idea on what to do. And in the end that pebble or morsel of food arrives at its (in the ants' opinion) proper destination. Sometimes it is the wrong destination. Somehow the ants get it sorted out.

We are more than ants. We should not, we CANNOT muzzle one another lest we miss the best ideas. We must not let some ideas become only available as Zamizdat. ALL ideas should be heard, and heard openly. 

That is how we find the best thoughts, the best ideas, by hearing them, letting them be tested in the crucible of true public opinion, not the stuff the talking heads give us.

We must all fight for freedom, beginning with the freedom of voice, the freedom of not being muzzled.

Yes, You Can!

Yes, We MUST!

E Pluribus Unum!

Let's see if THIS blog stays up!

The Devil is in the Details

Most of us want to do ‘better’, to be ‘better’, to be our ‘best’ at something. But ‘better’ is a vague notion. Most of us will not get better without help, without discipline, without a will and a drive to improve. Some of us, all we need is a direction to go, and we will march forever. Others need a schedule and a calendar, not to mention a map. Yet others need a drill instructor, driving us onward. And all of us need one more thing:

A yardstick.

In the wild, individual members of a species have a biological imperative to succeed; they have a goal hard-wired into their biology and structure that they cannot escape, and a method they can only adjust, not defeat. This programming may be ‘sufficient unto the day’ as the individual carries through its life, or it may not be. If it is, then it may pass along its successful programming to the next generation. Such is called Natural Selection.

If the species is Man, what is Nature selecting for now?

That may be a bit unfair, as we are causing changes to our world perhaps faster than we can keep up.
On the other hand, ours is a unique species, in that our biologic imperative to succeed is somewhat subject to that knob of gray matter in our skull. For good or ill, our major powers are subject to the decisions created in our frontal cortex. That, which can be programmed to direct our energies in particular directions or no useful directions at all, can make us. Or break us.

When I started writing Yes, you can!, I wrote with the idea of reprogramming that knob of matter. It is hard, harder than I thought. Patterns, once entrenched, do not easily admit change. The very act of writing the book, a story a week, became much stretched. I am one of those that needs regimentation, and I have trouble enforcing on myself. Perhaps, you, too.

I have yet a far way to go, the need to ignore distractions, and the desire to find that passion that would drive me onward of its accord. That last may never happen. Until it does, or until my story ends, I will fight onward to find the ‘it’ I’m supposed to do. Meanwhile, among other things, I will continue to write.

It ain’t necessarily a living. But it is a life. I am going to do my best to live it.

So can you.

Yes, you can!