A LIGHT THAT SHINES ON ME

At the end of anything I suppose, you reflect. Walking out of the theatre last week it was a cursory reflection. The movie was alright, I stayed awake and there was a sense of closure in the end. I didn’t reexamine the plot or take issue with the acting. I know what I like but I’m not a critic. It was a movie. We are about to drop the curtain on this calendar year, 2016. I remember years that were remarkable, years when the times seemed to be inching forward, toward a safer, saner place. It depends I suppose on where you were, how you slept, if payday came and you still had some money from the week before. But 2016 has been just another year. I know about the squeaky wheel still I’ll not complain. Considering the big number on my odometer, I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in.

Talk about good years; 1962 was a good year. I was in a good place, slept well, made $90 a week and it carried me through. 1970, graduate school; the joy of discovery. I was still young and I knew it. After that, the career years were full and rewarding but it was like falling down a long staircase. Sometimes you get right side up but it doesn't last. I was still young but it didn’t feel like it. In spite of wars, riots and civil unrest, of corruption and recession, I have never been put between a rock and the a place. But I see it all around me. I wake up thinking about human inhumanity and the contradiction there. If I could be indifferent to the sorrows of the world, the sorrows of those lees fortunate, I could bask in my own glow. But that would make me a Republican by default and that would be unbearable. Being a Democrat would be painful enough but therapy and drugs might ease that load.

I have great hope for 2017. I pursue hope rather than lean on faith. I prefer open ended possibility to any brand of absolute belief.  Emily Dickinson said, “Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” That’s how I would usher in the new year. Make it black eyed peas and cabbage for good luck and I’ll turn to music for a thin thread of peace. I saw the 2016 Kennedy Center Honors broadcast this week. Both James Taylor and Mavis Staples were among the honorees. In 2010 when Paul McCartney was tapped, they sang together in his honor, ‘Let It Be’. J.T. and Mavis Staples, “. . . when all the broken hearted people, living in the world agree; there will be an answer, let it be.”  Then, in a seamless riff, they slid into ‘HeyJude’. Everybody was singing, “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better.” I anticipated the fade out; “Nah, nah, nah, nah: nah-nah-nah-naaah.” I don’t know how long it lasted but it was over too soon.

I hope this time next year I can reflect with more enthusiasm, with a clear conscience. Corny and childish as it may sound, I hope for a culture shift toward reconciliation rather than getting even.  “Though the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me . . .”

SOMETHING TO SAY

If you are going to write, you really should have something to say. Otherwise, it’s just an exercise in grammar. Prewriting is what goes on before, priming the pump so to speak. Sometimes that means writing blind. Out my kitchen window the grass still has some green and birds often land there. They move around first one way, then another with no sense of purpose. Of course they are looking for food but it’s random, trial and error. If they knew where the goodies were they would go straight to it, sort of like writers, looking for a way into an idea or story. It’s not uncommon when you finish a written work that you delete the first paragraph or two. They were part of the process and the piece doesn’t need them at all. 

So I’m pressing on, wondering if my mission this morning is going to target metaphors like ‘Priming the pump’ or maybe how some spots in the lawn keep their green. Maybe I’m supposed to be creating a story about birds or trial and error, what we do when we don’t know what to do. I’m in that gap between Solstice and Xmas. Last night I sat on the patio with a wood fire crackling in the chiminea. I listened to music, sang along with Dylan on ‘Thunder On The Mountain’ and Billie Holiday on ‘God Bless The Child’. I talked on the telephone with a friend I haven’t seen in several years. He was driving, pulled off so we could talk. I thought I was calling out of my own need but as it were, he was the one who needed to talk. 

I won a chili cook-off last year and one of the prizes was a quart of cinnamon whiskey; it’s been in my cupboard for almost a year. Can’t remember the last time I drank whiskey but I nursed a couple of shots as I fed the fire, sang along and talked on the phone. I thought about Syrian refugees and about street people in Newport Beach and Salt Lake City with their belongings in trash bags and grocery carts chained to pillar posts under bridges where they slept. It occurred to me that I’m one of the most privileged people on the planet. I enjoy benefits, incredible benefits that are unearned. All I did was chose my parents wisely and land on my feet, in the right place, at the right time. 

I had time to just sit and breathe. I thought about my pagan ancestors, sitting around their fires, taking comfort in each other. That was their good fortune. My feet were close to the fire. My shoes could take it but the hot denim burned my legs and I had to shift myself around to get comfortable. So now I"m finished with the prewriting; my something to say is this: Life is good but it’s really fragile. Whether you sleep between sheets in your own room or in a cardboard box under a bridge, it’s what we’ve got. Xmas will come and go. But I’ll feel better about the fire and the whiskey than about the birthday party.

WHAT WAS HE SMOKING

This is an important day; of course every day is important. As today ticks away, tomorrow slides in without missing a beat and it's still today. But December 21 is likely the oldest observed holiday, ever. I remember it in my blog every year. True, the numbers of people who observe it as a special day are few but remember, people seldom move against the current. Winter Solstice: that day in Earth’s annual trek around ‘El Sol’ when daylight is short and darkness would have its way. You know the science. 

The longest night might not seem so special but it is in fact, the original resurrection story. God, whatever that means, the undeniable mystery, had turned its back on mankind but on this day it turned back around. Beginning the next day, shadows would begin to shorten, longer days, the promise of spring. Everybody knew what that meant. Abundant life would flourish again, there was reason to hope. Cold, dark winter was a time to hunker down and you needed something to help you through. If that ain’t the seed for religion, I don’t know how you get there. So those old pagans marked the shortest day as a new beginning, bolstered to face the harsh, barren season at hand. 

The more I learn about primitive people the better I like them. Solstice is just one way to make that connection. The earth, its rocks, air and water; it’s pretty much the same as it was a million years ago. Same sun. The elements; H, C, O, N, P, Fe, K, they get recycled through people, generation to generation. All of us are made of the same molecules that moved through our ancestors (the very same ones.) Old world Asian and African religions were centered on the elders, ancient ones, on the blood line. Those spirits are links between our own flesh and those who came before, they are key to the journey ahead.

Pagan peoples conceded to the forces of nature. Mother Earth, Father Sky; if you want to know the Creator’s will then pay particular attention to how Creation works. I like both models better than hypocritical, narcissistic constructs that have trickled down from Abraham. I’d like to know what he was smoking. 

The weather is warming. Come dark; 4:59 officially, I will use scrap wood to make a fire in the Chiminea on my patio. I’ll dress appropriately and take my laptop outside, sing along with Leonard Cohen and Billie Holiday, maybe some Dylan. I may even dance around in the dark, nobody will notice. Between my blood line and Mother Earth, I’ll send out a song that is soft but it’s clear. Can’t leave out James Taylor’s, Baby James. The great Solstice line there goes; “There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway; a song that they sing when they take to the sea; a song that they sing of their home in the sky; maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep. The singing works just fine for me.” 

MAKING A LIST

I got my guitar out last night and went through my song book. I’m out of practice; been a long time since I gave it any serious attention. There are so many songs there, I’ll never revisit most of them. So my task is to make a play list that I can work on. I am predisposed to playing with the music rather than working at it. Not a musician, I tend to tell my songs. Music is calibrated, with a rhythm; you should be in sync with it. I don’t do at that very well. I change tempo, pause for effect like a storyteller and I think it’s too late to change that. So I don’t play with other musicians. They get frustrated when I lose track of the meter. 

If I don’t set a limit the list will be too long and I’ll end up playing with all my toys rather than working on the ones I want to do in front of people. I’ll set an arbitrary number and the final cut will be plus or minus a song or two;15 sounds right. The first four or five will be easy. By the time I get to ten and eleven, it will be increasingly more difficult. I want two of my own songs, they would be ‘Angels’ and ‘Catch A Dream’. Then my fall-back standards: ‘Summertime’, ‘Saint James Infirmary’ and ‘Wonderful World’.  Each one now gets tougher because you start sensing songs you love that won’t make the cut. No.#6 has to be Don Mclean’s ‘And I Love You So’, probably the best love song ever. The lyrics are so tight and so profound they never get old. Tempo is just right and I can handle the guitar part. No-brainer. 

I’ll agonize over the rest. Holiday season we need to finish with a Christmas song. I like ‘Silver Bells’. Then I have to put my homework in a thin notebook and be faithful to it. If I got paid to play and sing, then I’d have to please an audience. This way I sing for myself. If it doesn’t sound great, it feels wonderful. Some songs, the lines are perfect, you can’t mess them up. “Light up your face with gladness. Hide every trace of sadness; although a tear . . . may be ever so near . . .” Natalie Cole. When she sings it you can find yourself not breathing. I’ll play with it until it feels right. It’s all I can do but it’s enough. 

I DO THAT

I don’t know if I should say “I belong to a group” or “I hang out with,” or just what but I usually spend a few hours on Wednesday with a long, table full of folks who refer to the gathering as, ‘Gnawing For Knowledge’ originally a philosophy study group, inevitably straying from formal philosophers to any number of heady subjects. That’s almost a run-on sentence. I do that. I seldom have opinions. My niche is the one to ask oblique questions. After I have my say, the discussion will veer off in a new direction or they will ignore me and go on as if I weren’t there. 

Yesterday we listened to a taped lecture about the evolution of economics in Western Europe and the USA, after WW2. Some of it seems like a no-brainer but if nobody paints the picture, you’ll likely never do it for yourself. In the fall of 1945, the USA was the only world power whose infrastructure and economy was not in shambles. Just the opposite; our manufacturing/banking community was running smoothly. Four years of a war economy had pulled us out of hard times. Our biggest problem was putting millions of returning soldiers back to work but we had the means to do it, just a bump in the road.

In Europe, unemployment was massive. They had to make a new road before they could experience a bump. In order to generate some action, England, France, etc. printed a lot of money and funded public works. Economic risk was taken on by the government. Socialized programs were necessary to get people back into the system. Health care, education, support for unions were the best cards in their deck. The unemployment rate was so high, the government funded long term unemployment benefits and time off. Pay was low, the economy was slow. One way or another, everybody shared the burden, everybody shared the reward. In the USA, things went just the opposite direction. A burgeoning economy motivated everyone. Europeans were struggling to keep heads above water and Americans were speed-scaling the economic ladder. High pay, high productivity allowed the risk be on individuals to fund their own health care and education while unions were viewed as inhibitors, few safety nets. This trend continued to play out over the next half century. What you get is what we got; in Europe, lower pay, lower productivity, social safety net. At home, we work longer, harder and reward success at the expense of the underclass. 

The advantages and drawbacks are obvious; sort of like, you can’t have your cake and eat it too. In our discussion, after only a few comments I realized I was on a different page. My cohorts lose me easily. My question was more of an observation that I hoped would guide the discussion. My nature is to question why we do as we do, more so than what it is that we do. I suggested that nations as entities don’t do much long range planning or even think about long term consequences; "The best laid plans of mice and men . . ." Even from the left, there is a presumption that our economy is the result of a clear-eyed understanding of what each step would lead to. Public perception is that we got here by choice. I think that’s like a rock taking credit for rolling down hill. During the Great Depression, before the war, we cast a big safety net with federally funded projects. Republicans still hate FDR for his treatment of banks and corporations. When they say, ‘Nobody is too big to fail.” they actually mean that failure is an integral part of the free market and should trickle up from the bottom. Stock holders should be the last to feel the pinch. 

I think my comments went over their heads like high flying birds, on their way south for the winter. We can lean forward but we are stuck in the moment. I drew an analogy about driving a car in reverse, seeing only where you have been; steering according to how yesterday’s road meandered rather than looking ahead. It seemed to resonate but the urge to humanize the math and put spin on economic fallout was too much to resist. The conversation fell back into a ‘Blame Game.’ 

Our group leader is a retired economics professor who lets us bumble along without too much intervention. I like to remind him of my story about economists. They study markets and money the same way fishermen troll their boats around the lake. When they ease up to the dock with a fish on their stringer they say with great confidence,”We sure churned up the lake today!” Oh, there’s another one. This one he likes. An economist was hired to assess a company’s business model. The economist collected tons of data and spent weeks preparing a report. When he presented the report to the board of directors it was too complicated for them to understand. “What does this mean,” asked the CEO. The economist answered, “What do you want it to mean?” He hasn’t slapped me yet. 

EXCEPT FOR GOD

When I was a child; can’t remember exactly when, but long before I noticed girl-curves, when my wits were being stretched by long division, I had my doubts. The question begged itself. I didn’t have the words, only feelings and vague awareness: Is this a grand conspiracy? Is everybody else in on it and I’m the fall guy? On one particular day, the voice inside my head spoke as clear as could be. I don’t think many admit to hearing the voice or muse if you will, but it comes uninvited and if you ignore it, it goes away. Then when you’d give anything for it to come back, for sake of sanity, it leaves you to fend for yourself. So I listen, every time. That time, I was puzzled by the way my world was unfolding. It, the voice, said, “Except for God, we are alone.” I heard the words. Now days, I take it on very good authority that the subconscious can and does communicate with the conscious, and sometimes it frames itself in language. I’ve never forgotten the moment. It was about being isolated, not about God. Moses thought God spoke to him through a burning bush but I think he was just doing what Joseph Campbell alluded to, attributing to God whatever it is that we don’t understand. 

Another time, much later, as an adult; I was sharing with a friend. Nothing serious or profound but in a moment of clarity I rattled off a story that came out of the blue. I told him that someday, I fully expected a space ship to materialize overhead and a rope to come down. There would be a voice telling me they left me here by mistake in 1939 and had come back for me. That story had never crossed my mind before; the words just came out. The segue came like a reflex arc: Except for God, we are alone, the muse and I. My friend and I laughed at the time. It was a clever thing to say but it wasn’t funny. What is it; why is it that I feel alienated from my own kind? Certainly something in my development pushed my personality in that direction. Was it the middle child syndrome, something else or several somethings? By now it really doesn’t matter what or why. But I think about it. 

Neuroplasticity is a 20th Century revelation that explains the way the brain/mind develops and then how it reorganizes itself throughout a lifetime. It was revealed when victims of brain injury were able to transfer a particular brain function to another part of the brain that was not originally tasked for that purpose. People who had suffered damage to the speech center of the brain were able to learn how to speak again, using areas of the brain that are normally associated with something else. Until that time, it was believed that the brain develops in stages until maturity. Then it would function in a predictable manner, hardwired as it were. 

It has also emerged that the brain/mind behaves through adulthood much like we do, as a work in progress. A good analogy would be the way we redecorate and upgrade our homes. From rearranging furniture to new paint, new carpet, new furniture and lighting; how many homes remain unchanged (hardwired)?  The brain is a light bulb; the mind is the light bulb turned on. The brain is stimulated, the mind interprets and frames meaning, then initiates some kind of response. When you change your mind or the way you feel about something, the brain circuits that hold that program change, rewired rather than hard wired. It may be voluntary or involuntary. The unconscious brain works 24-7. Trying to get your head around that idea is like thinking about what is going on someplace you’ve never been and know nothing about. Memory works at different levels and when we try to remember something, if the memory isn’t there or isn’t complete, that part of the brain can simply fabricate something for us to remember that feels appropriate. The brain fills in blank spaces with its best guess. Every researcher, every judge, every lawyer, every bailiff, every court clerk; they all know that eye witness testimony is the least reliable evidence of any and every type. But collectively, we refuse to believe it. We trust what people remember more so than finger prints, more than chemistry or physics, more than credible documentation - phone records, credit card transactions and such. 

The mind's orientation can and does change. Growing old may slow down the process or limit its range but it continues, even later in life. Certainly personality is more malleable during childhood but adults reversing position on important values and beliefs is not uncommon. It’s like having your GPS guide you to a destination one way yesterday and by a different route today. When the GPS does it you expect it after all; it’s technology. Like the GPS, sometimes the brain takes us places we didn't plan on. Like nature, the brain hates a vacuum and it can give us what it thinks we need. But the brain/mind is not supposed to change without your permission. At least that’s how most of us would have it. 

I like the Neuroplasticity dilemma more than dislike. It supports a premiss that I have leaned on heavily for decades. If I’m to really believe in anything I want it to be open ended; don't hold your breath, there may be more. It tells me; Sometimes you have a life and sometimes it has you. When I respond to the voice inside my head and the risky business of knowing anything, I concede. Yes, you and I. God is busy messing with Believers. It’s just the two of us. 

EITHER OR

Snow and cold are the other side of the coin. You can’t have ‘Heads’ if there is no ‘Tails’. When I think about primitive people living off the land I’m so thankful for a thousands years of technology. If I were facing a long, dark, cold winter like a rodent, burrowed up in a hole somewhere with seeds and roots stashed away to get me through, I’d probably starve or freeze. But then maybe that’s just what we do. Rodents have adapted to the perils of winter and they come out in the spring somewhat thinner than they went in but they do come out. Birds fly south for the winter, duh! Wherever it is that humming birds go, there will be flowers, food and a mild breeze all the way to April and May. 

I had considered going to Argentina for the North American winter. I have friends there and my Español is survivable. It would improve dramatically if I had no other options. But I let that window close and I’m left, simply looking at Arizona. A cultural phenomenon unfolds there every winter. People from all over go there with their motor homes, their vans and travel trailers; they park in the desert or national forests, on public lands where there are no facilities and no fees. They have the best technology with solar panels and generators to meet their needs. You can still poop in a hole and cover it up. If nothing else, you can always spend the night in a Wal*Mart parking lot. 

I have a Ford pickup truck and a small, pop up camper. My plan is to be in Arizona the 1st week of January. I make great plans for having a plan. But as that time bleeds away, I realize I’ll be planning ahead, one meal, one day at a time. I’ll learn about the solar panels when I get there and I have no pride at all; I’ll park in the corner of a Wal*Mart lot more than I care to admit. It still gets cold at night up in the desert and you still need a good sleeping bag. But it won’t be the rodent’s dilema. 

I’ll meet people and they never disappoint me. Some are cool, others not so much but then every bell curve has its tail. Maybe I’ll find someone who will coach me on my Spanish. Maybe I’ll meet a Republican who can explain ‘Trickle Down-Ayn Rand’ Bull Shit so it sounds plausible. When I pay attention I see wealth trickling up from below. Maybe I’ll meet a Liberal who has finally figured out that people only care about themselves. Maybe we should just get over it. Maybe I’ll cave in and book a ticket to Mendoza or Ushuaia after all. Patagones son dulces y me encantan. Mis compatriotas tienen la cabeza por su culo.  

THE MORE YOU WANT

I’m glad we are into the holiday season. If nothing else I will dwell on my good fortune, my good health the friendships I treasure. For nearly a month I have been trying  to rationalize what I think and what I feel about the recent, national election. It hasn’t been easy. I had prepared myself for the worst and wasn’t surprised when it transpired but the feeling was more empty than disappointment. I just feel empty. Trying to frame a metaphor or a description isn’t going anywhere. 

I have addressed in other posts, my objections to the man. No need here to plow that furrow again. I understand that most voters were voting against the other party more than for a candidate and I do identify with the unrest and resentment toward government. The irony of that is, I believe, that people are only angry with leaders and programs of the other party. They think the jerks in their own party are just fine. There is a fundamental riff between people who want their freedom to supersede someone else’s freedom, and then people who need a freedom that protects them from the former. Human nature hasn’t changed in a million years; the more you have, the more you want. 

I keep telling myself and it seems to be working, today is the only day I can put my hands on. Tuesday gives way to Wednesday and then Thursday but in the fleeting moment it’s always today. I’m too old to worry about dying young or being a failure. A  pilgrim on life’s journey asked the sage, “What will it be like after I die?” The old Master tilted his head, rolled his eyes and stroked his chin. “Well,” he said “it will be just about the same as before you were born.” I trust that wisdom more than populist bull shit and religious hyperbole. Solstice will be here soon; the longest celebrated holiday on the planet. I’ll improvise some kind of ceremony with fire, music and dancing. Maybe I’ll get someone to help me. After that I’ll be putting the Santa back in Xmas. 

MUCH OBLIGED

        I did all of my kitchen tricks early this morning, before the chef or his boss needed the counter tops and knives. I made cranberries. They are in the fridge. Then I put together an experimental (aren’t they all. . .) bread pudding. Everything I prepare (kitchen-wise) has a random, experimental element. It always starts out with a recipe but somewhere along the process I deviate and then it’s just, whatever feels good. It it ends up tasting good (it usually does) I act like I knew what I was doing all along. The secret is, using good food to begin with. My bread pudding began with cinnamon rolls instead of bread. I added an extra egg and substituted peach brandy where it called for rum. It’s in the oven now, over the prescribed time but the heat was shut down a few minutes after it dinged. If it fails it won’t be the first but I’m batting maybe, .800 so chances are it will succeed. 

I’m in San Antonio, Texas at my first-born’s. He’s a chemist with the same kind of attention to detail in the kitchen as in the lab. If you leave him alone and stay out of his way, things go better. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday in this, the Holiday Season. It’s so civilized; none of the consumer nonsense or religious hyperbole. Being thankful doesn’t require tradition or ceremony so I leave that to somebody else. My back-story is way-more happy than sad; I enjoy good health, enough money to pay the bills and family who love each other. I’m thankful. We will have turkey and dressing later in the day. I’m sure there will be football and I will fall asleep if I try to watch it. But a timely nap is appropriate. Someone will tell me who won. 

HOW DO YOU SAY NO?

My time in the army was back when people got drafted. A letter from the Draft Board informed you that you had a duty to serve your country and that two years of soldering sounded just about right. I joined on my own, having nothing better to do. If you were in college or had just begun a great job with a promising future, too bad. Guys with a future saw the draft as a disaster but I saw the army as an escape, maybe even an adventure. Anyway, I can attest to the military axiom, ‘Hurry up and wait.’ We hurried everywhere and then waited for someone to go find out what to do or where to go next. 

When soldiers waited in the 50’s and 60’s, they smoked; what else? I didn’t and I didn’t care much for the 2nd hand smoke so I found a place where I could close my eyes. By the time my enlistment ended in 1961, I could get a five minute nap on a seven minute wait. I could sleep standing up if there was something to lean on. A dozen or more wake ups per day was normal for me. There were no incoming bullets or bombs to worry about and war talk was just talk. It was a different kind of Military. Nobody wanted to go ‘Over There’ and defend freedom. Peace had broken out and it wasn’t bad. If you liked regimentation and the sense of job security, if the camaraderie put you at ease; you might consider a career. Halfway through my three year obligation I knew I’d never fit in. But I did learn how to squeeze zzzzzzz’s into a smoke break.

After all these years, family and a career; I can still nod off for a few minutes any time, any place. If you could remember the moment you drift off, you wouldn’t drift off. It sneaks up on you. Even if you dream, it’s a dream; you have to be asleep. The wake-up is a moment of clarity. You’ve emerged from that dream world so many times, taking it for granted is easy. But I still get an “. . . oooh!” feeling when I come conscious. When is it? Where am I? It’s not that I actually ask the question but I grab at the handle on short term memory and get myself back into the present. This morning was typical. All of a sudden I knew I was awake but nothing else. I was warm and comfortable but it wasn’t my bed. Like a knee jerk reflex I located, like the chime my computer makes when it boots up. Motel room, Paris, Texas. I open my eyes and it’s really dark. New day. Life is good. Two days ago I woke up the same way, to the sound of my granddaughter’s voice and I knew. I’d checked out for a few minutes in an easy chair. They are remodeling and I spent the day helping my son install new flooring. 

Tonight I’m in San Antonio, TX at another son’s house. Thanksgiving is a few days away. Food and football are traditional but it is people you love who you celebrate. I’m in a good place. It’s a good time to be grateful. I remember a Michigan Thanksgiving at the farm house on Nottawa Road. It was a gray, blustery day with wind out of the north. All of us were lethargic from too much food so I got the kids in their coats and took them outside. Child’s play has always modeled adults at work. They had seen their mother raking leaves in the front yard so they took the rake to the side yard and created their own leaf pile. It was huge. We took turns covering each other up. Then we played like we were searching for the missing kid, calling out their name, shouting things like, “Where can she be?” and “I can’t believe he’s disappeared.” The search went on for ever-so long, maybe 8 or 10 minutes, all over the yard, up trees and around the house. I had given them a special word; can’t remember exactly what it was but when the appointed person said that word, the kid in the leaf pile jumped up and yelled, “Here I am!” We all jumped on each other in a dog-pile in the leaves. Leaves got pushed into a new pile and it was someone else’s turn to disappear. A different kid would be the new, special word person and we did it again, and again, and again. I even got my turn; they left me covered up for a lot longer than I thought was necessary but the coming out was unforgettable. The gray afternoon turned dark. We were hungry again and there was more pie in the kitchen. The wood stove had the family room cozy and ‘I Love Lucy’ was on our 17” Black & White TV.  

This Thanksgiving will have its own flavor, its own special people, make its own memories and I’ll probably wake up several times before the football games end, before the last piece of pie is sacrificed. I don’t anticipate any dog-piles or special words this year but then I wouldn’t rule them out either. Just when you think you are ready for a a good nap, you wake up and it's over. Somebody wants to go outside for a walk or a tumble and how do you say no to that? 

NOT YOUR BABY

I joined a writer’s group in 1996, wow. . . 20 years ago. I’d been journaling most of my adult life but it was the first time I put my stuff out there, in harm’s way. If you pay attention and do the work you get better, you make good friends and you learn. You learn things about yourself that you wouldn’t otherwise. Getting it right, What It Is & What It Means, it has to conform to the discipline of language. The consistency and credibility of my own bias, whatever it may be, is always being scrutinized. There is a learning curve. At first you want others to like what you’ve written. Then you figure out it’s not about what you think or the clever way you turn a phrase. It’s about communicating efficiently, effectively. 

Somewhere up the curve, writers discover that writing in and of itself is a great way to process information. You want a clear eye and good recall on things that matter. So we take notes in class. For me it wasn’t so much storing information as it was the process. By paraphrasing you take ownership of an idea or sequence and you make it your own. When I went back to review I didn’t have to read the whole thing after all, it belonged to me. When the writer is also the intended audience, you can get away with all kinds of indiscretions. If you want it to be private it’s not journaling; it’s keeping a diary. The first thing I learned in group was, don’t write down anything that you don’t want others to read. The second thing was, it’s not your baby, not your flesh and blood. It doesn’t need protection but it will need revision. You don’t have to heed your critics but you should pay attention and appreciate the fact that they took the time. So I write for my own sake and I write for other eyes. I welcome critique but it’s not an issue. My views on music, sports, politics, religion, formal education, school of life, family and cuisine are all well documented somewhere. I write stories that entertain and stories that inform. Sometimes it’s therapeutic, sometimes it’s just scratching an itch. 

When your career has been pinched off and they change the locks you either reinvent yourself or devolve into a toddler again. Most of the leaves are down and I see two, new squirrel nests in the top of the Box Elder tree over my driveway. Now, they have careers. They still have important work to do before food sources dry up and the freeze shuts things down. I’m no better off than the squirrel; at least he has a job. I just live longer and think about things like what happens when we actually do balance the federal budget and someone really does invent the perpetual motion machine? Thinking is risky business. Most of us don’t really think. What we do is remember what we already know and reinforce what we already believe. Humor is another way of entertaining an idle mind. I write. You never know where the muse will take you.

SLEEP BETTER

 

I understand; I really do. We have one brain but it has two different operating systems, one that is available, it thinks, understands and remembers. It takes bad news objectively. The thinking brain informs us when feeling bad is not as bad as it may seem. Then there’s the deeper brain, the one that evolved with the reptiles, the subconscious dwells there. It is unavailable. It’s all about fight or flight and how we feel, emotions, and it doesn’t care about the thinking one. It has a single purpose, to feel good/safe/satisfied. When they move to the same rhythm and the same tune, life is a happy zone. But when they collide, you have trouble sleeping. Although it has served us well the brain-brain has not kept up with civilization in its evolution. When what we know conflicts with how we feel, push comes to shove and it’s the emotional subconscious that has the last word. We want to believe we made a decision but truth is, it just made us. 

I don’t know, why me; but I have a strong, emotional-feel that feels almost as good about rational, verifiable knowledge as it does about safe/satisfied, feeling good itself. I question/challenge everything, even the stuff that makes me feel good. (What is wrong with you Frank?) I don’t know; what is wrong with me? I need to dig in that hole for a while. I need to go where it’s scary and learn from people who are different than me. I learn something important every time, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I’d rather know the disappointment than take comfort in Feel-good, Bullshit wisdom. For someone who identifies as a Humanist, I have a low opinion of people. The ancient Greeks understood human nature - Seek Pleasure/Avoid Pain. As a culture, we are really into that. Morality is a complex social construct that people act on without much thought. It draws the lines between what is proper and what is taboo. The consequence for behaving in an immoral fashion can be devastating. Morality changes from time to time and from place to place. In that light, it follows that there is no universal, “Right” morality. Carl Jung said, "There is neither right nor wrong. There is only what makes sense and what does not." But popular belief would say everybody should be on the same page, what we agree on here and now is absolutely “Right” (good). In the greater scope of human endeavor, Feel-good Bullshit is preferable to doing the painful math. 

So that brings me to the moment. I feel bad. I can’t speak for anyone else but my sense says, go dig in the hole; learn something. I’m hoping it will help restore a sense of purpose and defuse some anxiety. My countrymen just elected a narrow, mercenary egotist to the highest office in the land, a demagogue who (my opinion) has just pulled off the greatest scam in modern history. It was never about making America great again; it’s all about stroking his ego. History is full of despots who wanted to be God and this one is a classic example. His followers will not connect the dots, neither will they pay attention when someone else does it for them. They believe he is the instrument of their deliverance when in fact they are the evidence of his glory. That illumination would be too uncomfortable to bear (avoid pain); there’s no upside to being used. “I’m a winner,” sayeth the Lord; “do my bidding and you’ll be a winner too.” He’s no different in that regard than tyrants in 3rd world countries. His warriors are lawyers, their weapons are legal maneuvers. His money is deadly as bullets and I’m afraid he will turn to real bullets should his appetite not be satisfied. All he wants is to be God. It leaves me feeling bad.

Venting my feelings doesn’t make me feel any better but I think it’s part of the digging in that hole. I have to visualize an upside for his “Winner” brand of leadership. That includes challenging my own sense of morality. But my old world, reptilian brain still gets the last word and those feelings move to reason as much as to feelings of fear. Some things change, some don't; I don’t lean as hard to the left as I once did but my Morality still hinges on equity/fairness at least as much, (at least as much) as authority/control. Seek Pleasure/Avoid Pain is how instinct works. We are rational apes with tools to help us rise above predator/prey animalism. But if the “Right” use of intelligence is to simply be better predators, then I’ve missed something along the way.     

I am not even a blip. I understand that my feelings are irrelevant and what I know to be true can change. The world’s not flat, evolution is real and Pluto’s not a planet anymore: the evidence is both objective and compelling. My job is to live the best life I can - with the caveat of serving the greater good. By his rule, that makes me a loser. The idea of a greater good is for losers. Winning is all there is; so sayeth Saint Vince, of Lombardi and his disciple, Roy Cohn. Winning means converting $$$ to power. Then, what is power good for if you don't crush your enemies and expand your base. I'm beginning to get it. 
        Bullies pay lip service to noble ideals but it always pans out the same; the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I’m ashamed of my people but they don’t care. But I'm resigned to a much smaller world and I need to take care of me. Reconciliation is about letting go, not about getting even. The angst I feel is like a hot rock in my hand, it burns. I need to let it go. I can’t change the scam or its outcome. It’s a wake up call; things could be worse. What if human activity really is accelerating the rate of global warming, like 95% of all climatologists concur? We really are in this together, we need each other. I’m just one, and I can only do what I can do. But I am, and I can do that. I’ll reconcile this. I’ll let it go soon. I’ll sleep better. 

LANGUAGE

English, the language, has more words than any other modern language. So we should be able to find some good ones without laboring a thought or confusing the audience. Communication seems so simple but it’s not. It’s full of traps and dead ends. Having a good (big) vocabulary helps but then you have more choices and you have to think, a task in itself. Simple reflections and regurgitations flow without thinking, the mind puts the right words in your mouth and out they come,”Can I borrow a dollar?” or “I like your shoes.” But if you are making an argument for or against something or explaining a process where A leads to B, and B to C; then you have to think a little bit about the words and how they come out. I don’t think I'm obsessed with language, that’s too strong a word (there you go. . .) but I think about my words before I open my mouth. I’m notorious for stopping mid sentence, an untimely pause and people try to help, finishing my thought with words I have already rejected. I trust the mind to come up with good words but sometimes they just aren’t there and I wait for them. 

So I write better than I talk. No such thing as a clumsy pause when writing and even then you can edit before you throw it out for consumption. I would make a terrible lawyer; I’d need a recess after every sworn statement. Language is always an issue. Even when we agree on what words mean, we often get a spin-factor intended to influence someone’s behavior. When Donald Trump says with great conviction, he has the highest regard for women and then you read his history, you know something has been convoluted. In the end, people tend to believe what they want to believe and the argument is simply protocol, lipstick on the pig. 

I’ve chewed on this idea for two paragraphs and I want to get to the point, if there is one. Think about your words and listen to what you say. Be an active listener. Question what you hear. Someone is trying to sell you something, asking more than it’s worth. Challenge your own ideas and beliefs. If you don’t understand your own weakness, you can’t defend yourself. Things change, people change. If you don’t have the clarity and the courage to change, you become an artifact. Lawyers, and we’re all wanna-be lawyers, appeal to the part of your mind where the decision is born, before you can give it a name. Usually, when people argue, nobody listens. The exchange is simply rehearsing a scripted message while the other person organizes their own rebuttal. If you don’t listen, if you’re preoccupied with reloading, how can you learn anything? P.T. Barnum said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” I don’t want to be the one to prove him right. 

WHAT IT IS. . .

This is for my friends in Canada, in New Zealand, in Mexico, Chile and Argentina; you have all asked me in your own way, What is it with America? You didn’t have to elaborate, I understood. A comprehensive response would require a very big book or a 4 hour, Ken Burns documentary. My challenge is to reduce it, as I see it, to 4 or 5 paragraphs. I think most of my countrymen, certainly the vocal element, they would not agree with me. 

Defining ‘American’ with a singular stereotype is too much to ask. Anyone tasked with telling their own story is faced with a dilemma. There is a human need to be accepted, to be included. The element of identity is incorporated in that inclusion. Once embraced, we all want to be perceived as ‘Good Guys’. But none of us are ‘Good Guys’ all the time. Sometimes we do ugly, terrible things (yes, we do) and even though we take what we can from those indiscretions, we don’t want them to be the core of our story. There is an American singer who is beautiful, talented, rich and famous. At photo shoots she only lets photographers work from one angle, her right side. That image is the only one she wants made public. The more proud we are, the more we protect that pride. If they can’t see our warts then we must be unblemished - ‘Denial’. 

National pride is a throwback to tribal society; anybody you didn’t know was your enemy. You were loyal to your own people, even the jerks and the A-holes. As much as we want to believe otherwise, we still do that.  At this point it’s right to discriminate between Patriotism and Nationalism, two similar but also very different Isms. The one is about love of country and willingness to sacrifice. The other is about the best interests of a nation and what we are willing to do to advance those best interests. Note; one is about love and sacrifice while the other is about wealth and power. They are not the same. What has happened in our story is - we have become increasingly Nationalistic, whatever the consequence, at whomever’s expense. At the same time, like the singer who only photographs her right side, we want only to show our best side. So we call our loyalty, Patriotism, awash in all of the warm, fuzzy feelings we associate with it. 

Stephen Decatur was a naval hero of the early 1800’s. His famous quote still carries weight. “Our country, may she always be right. But right or wrong, our Country!” From the military perspective, you don’t question the source of your orders, you follow them. But Decatur’s quote leaps the gap between the two Isms. Decatur’s words were a fitting precursor to Manifest Destiny. It would seem that God himself had chosen this nation to expand, coast to coast, by any means necessary, it was our destiny. From that exercise of conquest, ego and self righteous greed, an economy fueled by slave labor and predicated on the principle that enough is never enough, is still driving this rich, powerful Nation. 

Americans as a whole are a diverse lot, too much so to be lumped into one category. But we all want to believe we are ‘Good Guys’. Most of us take the Nationalist bait like hungry fish. We exaggerate our goodness and either deny or defend our crimes. Most of that justification comes through the employment of a righteous, angry, jealous God; the one that helps those who help themselves, a God that loves a good war. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave after all. We do a lot of good, both at home and afar but we spread evil as well. Collateral damage may not be intentional but it is certainly evil. The systematized, school-to-prison pipeline for black boys may be legal but it is certainly evil. The dichotomy is deadly. That’s who we are. It’s what it is. Our experiment with democracy is still in progress. History has no coherent plan, there is no predetermined course. Civilization is adrift as it has always been, like water moving down hill, following the path of least resistance. We are passengers, believing we are in control. Do we make history or does it make us? Chew on that for a while.

With a loving, forgiving indulgence I see my countrymen as well meaning at best and remorseless at worst. I like to steal lyrics from songs to frame ideas. Kris Kristofferson’s, ‘The Pilgrim’ has a great line that captures my sense of American national identity. It goes; “He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction; taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home.” I’m sure I’d feel better, even just for a while, if I believed in a God that loves a good war. So Alex and Martin, Liana and Gill; I’m sorry we’re not better neighbors. You said it so well Alex, “It’s like living next door to the Simpsons.” 

IT JUST WORKS

Finding Your Roots, is a television program hosted by Prof. Henry Louis Gates. His guests are usually famous or celebrity and he helps them track down their ancestry through genealogical research and DNA matching. I watched the other night as retired Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter discovered his great-great grandfather was a southern slave owner his GG grandmother was a teenage slave. The origin of his family name, on the African American side came from a rich white man. Master Jeter knew the baby was his and after the Civil War, he favored him with privileges and benefits that were unavailable to other former slaves. The patient, relentless research and running down loose ends was better than a movie mystery. 

Gates’ next guest was Rebecca Lobo, former All American basketball player and WNBA star who is now a sportscaster. Her roots went to Spain but she had no idea of any details. Gates found a photo of her great-great grand parents, taken in Morocco in the late 1800’s. They had to flee Spain after a failed revolt, then had to flee Morocco. They booked passage on a ship for Argentina but they arrived late and missed it. Another ship was leaving the next day and they were able to get on board. Not until days later, they discovered the ship was not bound for Argentina but for New York. As Gates and Lobo shared the information there came a point where her body language and expression registered a revelation. If her great-great grandparents had arrived on time, she, Rebecca Lobo would have never been born. Their descendants would have been Argentines, not Americans. Her father would have never found her mother as he would not have been born either. 

If you apply that principle back in time, generation after generation, the fact that our parents found each other at all is mind boggling; their parents before them and theirs before them. That given, you and I, all of us had to be conceived at one particular point in time. On my mother’s side, the egg cell I came from was only available during that particular menstrual cycler. Any other month, a different egg and it wouldn’t be me; the offspring would have been somebody else. The genetic makeup of a particular egg cell comes from the same source as every other egg cell from that woman but none of them will share the same fingerprint. Gene combinations occur in random fashion; remember Mendel’s Punnet Square from biology class? If you have four beans in your pocket, each a different color and you pull out two beans, how many different color combinations are possible - (6). In an egg and a sperm there are thousands of different gene possibilities; that’s why we’re all so different. Every month it’s a similar set but never the same. If that’s not enough, consider the sperm source. Think of it as a horse race with millions of horses, over a course that takes hours to complete. The first sperm to penetrate the egg triggers a reaction that rejects all other sperm. Only one sperm expresses its gene combinations with the egg and they both follow the same random method of selection. It gets even more twisted. Not all sperm have an equal, even chance of being the chosen one. They are produced by the millions in a constant flow, with a shelf life. At any given time, minute to minute, there are only a few thousand sperm that actually have a chance and they are moving along like millions of children playing musical chairs with only one chair. When the music stops, only a few are standing next of the empty chair and they are the few who actually compete for the prize. Maturity and place in line are critical. All the others run out of energy and drop out of the race or arrive too soon or too late. The fact that it takes two DNA packages to make a human is complicated by two different windows of opportunity; one that spans a few hours every 28 days while the other opens and closes, minute to minute, non stop, all the time. All this high drama and they just thought they were having fun. 

So not only couldn’t you have been born to anybody else, but you had to be conceived within a narrow window, of minutes or maybe an hour for you to be you, the you-you see in the mirror and not a different child by the same parents. Gibran said that children are simply life’s longing for itself. Nature does’t have a plan, it just works. That’s what Rebecca Lobo realized with Louis Gates. I know the feeling, had that Ah-Ha experience in grad school and I’ve never gotten over it. The odds against me being born were astronomical but that was before my ancestors found each other, before my parents found each other, before the right egg and sperm cells found each other and against the odds, I was born. Try to imagine all the children who were never conceived. I think about that kind of stuff. 

DEADMAN'S CURVE

Bicycles and swimming; where would I be, what would have become of me without bicycles and swimming? I got to go on swimming forays with the Cub Scouts before I was old enough to join. Then there was the farm pond over the hill, the one we weren’t supposed to swim in. I learned to swim: ‘Monkey-See Monkey-do’. The same year, between 1st and 2nd grade, I got a bicycle. My brother Dave had a bike with skinny tires, not good for riding double. My dad got a good deal on a second-hand, balloon tire bike. It was too big for me but I would grow. In the meantime, I could ride on the bar and Dave could pedal us the two miles to and from school. I bragged on my new bike but nobody believed me. It was too big and my brother did all the riding. I made up a story, that I could ride it, just could’t get up on it to get started. My classmates wanted to see this so they steadied it for me to climb up on the seat. My legs were too short for a full circle on the pedals but I grabbed the handle bars and nodded my intent, down the school driveway. They gave me a shove and I was launched. I could neither pedal nor brake but I steered it straight down the drive, into the wire fence of the house across the street. I remember untangling myself from under the bike as my friends came running down the hill. I was embarrassed. Everybody knew; my big talk was all talk, I couldn’t ride the bike. Then I saw blood. A bare wire in the fence had gouged me under the jaw. By the time a teacher arrived I was a bloody mess. They bandaged me up, called the Superintendent of Schools who drove down from Hickman Mills and took me home. The next day I showed off my stitches; I still have the scar. 

I grew to fit my bike, riding it everywhere. The summer between 7th and 8th grade, a friend and I were headed to Fairyland Park to go swimming. Fairyland was an amusement park with a midway, rides and a great swimming pool, a five mile ride into Kansas City. Our route took us west across 87th street, a stretch marked by a hilly section and a steep, downhill, S-Curve famously known as Deadman’s Curve. We both knew we would race down the Deadman, nobody wants to be last to the bottom of the hill. Halfway down we were going faster than we could pedal. On the bottom half of the ’S’, water had carved out a narrow rut in the gravel between the pavement and the guard rail. With gravity accelerating and centrifugal force pulling us out toward the shoulder, the front wheel began to wobble. I tried the brakes but when the front tire dropped off the concrete into the rut, I bailed out. No broken bones but I lost a lot of skin. My legs and back were raw. The bike had some broken spokes but was still ridable and we rode on. 

When we got to the pool I showered, patted dry and got in the water. Abrasions look awful but mine didn't really bleed. The chlorine was probably good for it; it was 1952 after all and nobody seemed to notice. In the movie, “Sand Lot”, the boys take a break from their baseball game to go swimming and ogle the girls. They show off, do cannonballs, splash the girls who were sunning themselves for the benefit of high school boys. The pool scene always makes me think of Fairyland Park, teenage girls, cannonballs and an ill fated race down Deadman’s curve. 

Bicycles and swimming; they do go together. I still swim and ride. Swimming pools haven’t changed much but I have. Can’t remember my last cannonball and I keep it between the lane markers; they have another pool for playing in the water. Bicycles are a lot better now, more expensive but then you can scroll through the gears until you get the right one and speed wobbles are a thing of the past. How does that saying go; You separate men from boys by the price of their toys? I haven’t crashed in over a decade, think I’m onto something. Maybe discretion really is the greater part of valor. 

PERILOUS TIMES

Perilous times: we live in perilous times. Growing old, if you’ve been paying attention, nobody has to tell you the world is a dangerous place. Young people can figure it out easy enough but they tend to be preoccupied, trying to spend their youth without losing it. Nobody wants to be old but you certainly don’t want to die young either. So, I have arrived, happy to have made it, thankful for good health, good friends, some cool toys and a livable income. Obviously I must have done something right and I’ve avoided some perilous pit falls. Perilous times: every day, every moment is full of peril. You can go there by choice or fall prey to it simply by; the wrong time, the wrong place. 

Looking back on a life filled with calculated risk and unwitting gambles, I cannot discount the role of random, good fortune. I am simply lucky to be so old, with such a good life. When I was a kid the dangers were different but they were there. No seat belts, no air bags and we drove crazy; nothing could stop us. Still, some of us died in car crashes; bad luck or bad choice, who knows? We had our perverts and kids were abused but again, wrong place, wrong time. Most of us slid through without a scratch. I grew up during the heyday of White/Male/Christian privilege. I didn’t chose those demographics; I was born to it. Right place, right time. Born white, male and christian in Mogadishu or Riyadh today would offer none of the privilege I enjoyed. 

I think ‘Perilous Times’ is a catch phrase for people who feel a need to validate feelings about past or present. On the one end, the ‘Good Old Days’ is simply a nostalgic reflection on the blind exuberance of youth. It has noting to do with other times. On the other end, if you look for gloom and doom that’s what you will find. Now-times are dangerous. Times, disease and technology change but danger doesn’t. Danger exists in time and space, on when and where you are. It still takes both good judgement and a lot of luck to prevail. Study after study, year after year; schools are deemed the safest place a child can be. Yet there is wide spread fear of mass killings in schools. If you think these are the worst of times then it’s about you, not the times. 

There is a story about a man walking on a beach after a storm. Hundreds of star fish have washed up on the berm, too high for the tide to take them back out. Their fate is to die there. Then he sees a boy walking toward him, picking up star fish and throwing them back out into the surf. He tells the boy there are plenty of star fish in the sea and the ones that die will be eaten by crabs and birds. They are part of the food web and their fate just doesn’t matter. The boy keeps picking up star fish, throwing them back into the sea and says, “It matters to that one . . . and that one . . .” The story can be about the man and the boy or it can be about star fish. I think it’s about star fish. They live in perilous times but this time is a right time, and this beach is a right place. 

NOTHING WRONG

Mary Frances Harmon was a year behind me in school but we were in the same Sunday School class. Her parents were sponsors for our church youth group. Kids know without being told, where they rank in the peer pecking order. Mary Frances was near the top and I was somewhere down the line. She used two names where the rest of us only needed one, her hand was the first to go up and her parents knew she would deliver exactly what they wanted to hear. Mr Harmon was tall and manly but Mrs Harmon did all the talking. She was short and thin with wire rim glasses, hair pulled back and a smile that was less than convincing. 

One evening we had to go outside for an activity. On either side of the double doors that opened to the sidewalk were two Redbud trees that arched over the doorway. I was first out the door and it was both easy and natural to swing up into the branches. My feet would be dangling from the over-hang when the rest of the class came out. But Mrs Harmon stopped them inside to organize and she missed me. “Where is LeRoy?” Nobody knew. When they came out, they couldn’t miss my feet. Ten year-olds will giggle at anything and that was all I wanted, approval, a simple affirmation. “What is wrong with you?” Her voice went up an octave with an angry edge, equal to her displeasure with me. She was serious. I was on the ugly end of her evil eye after that and she never let me forget, said she was going to tell my mother but she never did. Mr. Harmon couldn’t have cared less.

It was normal for men to light up their cigarettes as soon as church let out. On Sunday afternoon the sidewalk outside the chapel doors would be strewn with crushed cigarette butts. But women who smoked waited until they were in their cars. My mother didn’t smoke but said it was proper to wait. Mrs Harmon smoked outside before they reached their car but I didn’t care. I didn’t have any reason to not like her but neither was there anything to like. Why so angry - What is wrong with you! It wasn’t a question.  

My son and his family were over for a Sunday cookout recently. I told his girls that nobody had ever climbed my Sycamore tree. It was big enough, someone needed to do that. They have a Maple in their back yard that answers their climbing needs so I didn’t have to say more. They came back again just the other day. The younger one asked, “Does the Sycamore need more climbing?” I raised eyebrows and gave her a nod. By the time I caught up, she was laddering up through the middle branches. It occurred to me, in my wisdom, ‘There is nothing wrong with her.’ Her dad asked if it brought back any memories and I mumbled something. It made me think of Mrs. Harmon: what a narrow life she must have lived. It made me think of him, hanging by his knees, 20 feet up another Sycamore, another life-time. Next thing I know he was up there with his girls, limb to limb, peeling bark and testing hand holds. No, nothing wrong here. 

IGNOBLE

Humanity is predisposed to dismiss its deficiencies and to exaggerate its virtues to the end, human life is not only superior but also sacred. Most religion would have it that way and the psyche goes there without any inducement. At the other end of the spectrum, misanthropy is a view that the human condition is both corrupted and unworthy. Plato attributed it to thwarted expectations or being extremely naive. In either case, it would seem that the vast majority lean hard to the superior/sacred version. Naturally, I tend to swim against the current. It is fair to say that when it comes to humanity, my expectations have been seriously let down and naiveté comes easily. I make this disclaimer in self defense, taking no comfort thus, it just is what it is. 

We have a multi-billionaire, real estate tycoon running for President. Yesterday it was revealed that he paid no (none) income tax for 18 years, legally. By manipulating loopholes and privileges afforded the immensely rich, he didn’t have to pay. If it was within the law, (experts say it was) then what’s the hang-up? It will be - it is natural for working, tax paying citizens who shop for the best deal on a television set or a car, because money is hard to come by, to recognize the inequity there and find fault with those who exploit it. In his defense, rich and powerful supporters laud him for his astute business savvy. “He has a fiduciary responsibility to pay the least tax that he is required to pay;” is their response. They praise his “Smart” behavior, dismissing a moral obligation to the principle and the spirit of citizenship. In other words, your obligation to maximize your own wealth is greater than any obligation to insure the national infrastructure or the system that provides such opportunity. Beating the system would then be a nobel act. The logic unfolds; those who can’t beat the system should idolize and sponsor those who can. 

I want to know how you justify that shuffle-dance between God & Country patriotism that touts the Bible, flaunts the flag and principles of fairness, asking “What would Jesus do?”  with what we actually do. Our culture is a broad fabric with many threads but all together, it sends a public message, “We are a righteous people who seek and defend justice.” But the unspoken principle usurps the message. It says, “God helps those who help themselves so don’t let concern for others dampen your avarice.” 

The duplicity of this self ascribed righteousness is appalling. It’s bad enough that we have a wretch like D-Trump in position to become our President. But the real insult is the broad support he receives from ordinary people. Yesterday, I listened to a discussion between news media experts. A conservative news paper editor was asked why he had so greatly underestimated DT’s appeal at the beginning of his campaign. He attributed it to two, unexpected causes. First was the reemergence of a deeply held, deeply felt racism, across the culture. Supreme Court Justice John Roberts, explaining the striking down of sections of the Voting Rights Act alluded to how we have changed as a nation; that we no longer need to protect voting rights of minorities. After all, we have an African American President. I would suggest that the racist pushback against minorities in this election cycle is evidence to the contrary. 

The second cause, according to the news editor, was “Poor Education.” DT appeals to the ‘Poorly Educated’ in his speeches to the poor and the working class. But the editor explained it where DT doesn’t. It’s not about what was or wasn’t learned in school. It cuts right on up through college graduates. He cited an inability to discern between fact and fiction, a cultural phenomenon, A short but good discussion followed that touched on the internet, a “Reality TV” mentality and ‘Talk Show” propaganda. People have neither the ability to confirm their sources nor the desire to do so. As a people, we believe the voice that tells us what we want to believe. ’Google’ has become the new, graduate school. Together, DT has assembled a consortium of privileged malcontents, racist bigots and predatory business interests that has a good chance of winning the Presidency. 

So I have trouble with a self righteous, noble, human model. Epicurus, (300 BC) reduced human nature to seeking pleasure and avoiding pain, both physical and emotional. It is a function of the primitive brain and when it conflicts with what we believe to be Righteous and Just, the Righteous and the Just take a back seat. We have weighed thousands of philosophers since 300 BC but Epicurus’ observation still holds water. I’m sorry we’re not better than we are but then maybe I should see the glass as half full.