I CAN'T BELIEVE I SAID THAT

  Two days ago I emptied and closed down my bird feeders, dumped upside down the birdbath. Birds on my patio have been few and far between this spring and my suspicions are confirmed. When people understand there is a deadly virus on the loose we act accordingly, at least some of us do. But birds don’t have a clue. They score high among other animals on intelligence tests but when it comes to disease, they don’t have a clue. There is a strain of Avian Flu (Bird Flu) that is laying waste to bird populations across North America just as they are about to fledge a new generation. 
The NY Times just ran an article that recommends shutting down feeders and bird baths. Avian flu is highly contagious, nearly always fatal. So in their own best interests they need help keeping to themselves and less hanging out at the birdbath. Bird feeders and baths certainly do attract them with easy access to free food, all they can eat. Feeding the birds this time of year has never been about needy birds. They have been feeding themselves for Ages without any outside help. I am guilty like other bird lovers. I love their activity, the colors, the singing, just the proximity, want them to nest in my birdhouses and they can fly; OMG they can fly. But they get along very well without our sunflower and thistle seed. Spring is a season of plenty and they don’t need us now. In January & February it gets sparse but this is the end of April. 
When asked about ‘Life’ people default straight to civilized culture and ignore the process; metabolism, replication, etc. Life is not unique to human beings. If there is anything sacred about life it would be in the process, not the vehicle. Birds may not identify with the process but they process the process perfectly. Every breath should remind us that life is both precious and fragile. It is not the ‘Yellow Brick Road’, more like swinging from vine to vine to vine (breath to breath). I you can’t make it to the next one then Fate has its way. As far as we know, you only get one go’round and it can be cut short regardless of species. 
Birds have no idea where they come from or understand that mortality is their fate. A Fight-or-Flght stress response is their only failsafe. They feed & drink, mate, reproduce and if they’re lucky their DNA gets passed on to succeeding generations. Too bad there are many millions of unlucky birds this year. I am sorry for that and  will miss the ones that no longer show up, whatever the reason. 
I can’t help making the bird-human analogy. We know where we come from and even though we work diligently at shunning our fate, fate is more persistent than we are diligent. I really like this rational, self-aware experience, don’t want to be stuck with Fight-or-Flight as an only option. I like the imagination-story connection both coming and going. I like waking up knowing my DNA is at work in generations that supersede me. I like knowing why this moment is so precious, it’s all there is. Everything happens in the present, in the moment. One needn’t be a guru to figure it out; ‘Here & Now’ subordinates both past and future. Birds don’t think at all but what is more common that people overthinking yesterday or sometime soon. 
I could beat up on the human species but I’ve done that and it doesn’t change anything. I can be both happy and informed in the present. Happy and sad can share the same space. I have lots of options and the window of possibility stays open. Good luck birds. You are in harm’s way and nothing I can do to help except shut down my feeder. Avoid strangers. Social distancing will literally be, for the birds; I can’t believe I said that.

WITH ONLY TWO EYES

  Imagine approaching a house, stepping up three steps to the porch and going to the door. You rattle the door knocker to announce yourself. After a short wait the door opens and a lady looks at you through the screen. With a short exchange you make your purpose known and step back slightly as she pushes open the screen door, an implied invitation to come in. She holds her door back and you navigate the rise of the threshold, reaching back to ease the screen door’s closing. 
The lady apologizes for the messy house as she leads you from the foyer through a lived-in dining room and into the kitchen. A girl child in a high chair is busy with a too-small spoon and a bowl of jello. She tells you the man you are looking for is in the back yard planting tulip bulbs. Outside the window you can see him on all fours, working the soil between the sidewalk and the house. With a universal nod and tilt of the head, Ann, her mane is Ann, she motions you let yourself out through the kitchen door. You step around and down, approaching the gardener. Without looking up he says, “Come on down and get your hands dirty.” 

When I sit down to write, whatever it is that I want to speak to, be it fiction or reality, instruction or persuasion it all falls into a category we call ‘Story’. It follows, by definition and by nature, that every story requires a Beginning, a Middle and an End. In the first two paragraphs I have put together a Beginning; creating a space in time with familiar imagery and plausible action. With each new bit of information the Beginning knits itself into an expanding backstory. Once enough puzzle pieces are in place the reader can grasp what is going on and follow the story track wherever it goes. The breach between the Beginning & the Middle is where the story takes off. Right here and now I am in that breach. 
When the story is straight forward with familiar elements, getting into the Middle (plot) is easy. But sometimes (often) my story moves on a tangent that is neither easy to follow nor well received in my 21st century culture. So a suitable Beginning might call for a boring lecture on the shortfalls of common sense and the folly of of faith in long held myths. I struggle with it. Sometimes I identify with Chicken Little, not with her story but with the response she gets from her peers.
Without merit certainly but I put myself in league with Astronomer & Astrophysicist Carl Sagan. In 1990 when NASA’s Voyager-1 sent back first photographs of the earth from nearly four billion miles in space he coined the phrase, “The Pale Blue Dot”. Until then the very best satellite image of earth was of a massive sphere, too great to appreciate with only two eyes. Sagan went on to describe Earth as “. . . a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” Not that I belong in the same category with Sagan but we share that same sense of fragile awe and of feeling insignificant. Paraphrasing Sagan; ‘We are the residue from long ago exploded stars; breathing, sensing, replicating arrays of stardust.’ 
If, in my sample Beginning, I had addressed the lady at the door by name, asking where her famous astronomer husband was, and she replied, “Carl is out back planting tulips.” the brach between Beginning and Middle would have narrowed. I feel the need to shortcut the gap and hope the reader comes with me. My story speaks to Human hubris and how much we are like Stone Age people. Any paleolithic newborn magically transported (beamed up) to the 21st century with good parents and opportunity would prosper as well as any other modern child; same brain, same intellect (able to learn). That means we are no different intellectually than prehistoric hunter-gatherers. I’m afraid the glory of intelligence has been overrated. Our shared, dominant ‘Flight/Fight’ instinct has not been updated or demoted since they first started beating copper nuggets into spearpoints. Whatever gives rise to the notion of superiority comes not by way of divine intervention or ongoing evolution but by virtue of technology, accumulated knowledge and dietary advances over the last ten thousand years. 
I don’t know why I am hung up on the ‘Righteous Human’ myth but I keep coming back to chew on it like a dog digging up a buried bone. People are compelled (we can’t help ourselves) to believe in some kind of a moral standard. Religion, Politics & Nationalism all meet that need pretty well. That must be it; I can’t help myself. Sagan among other heroes have known that and still find their safe fit in a human niche. When I roll out my story it rings of conspiracy theory and Chicken Little and I really don’t want to do that. I spend far too much time wrestling with ideas that only I care about. What I believe really doesn’t matter beyond me. Human hubris; Carl Sagan knew that riddle was probably insoluble but he took the high road; kindness, optimism and a gentle touch. If I make it a priority I could do that too. I don’t have to prove that I’m ‘right’. I don’t have to be ‘right’. Even if I am, what difference does it make! If I am remembered at all, by anybody, it won't be for a theory. Be kind, do what you can and trust things to work out, maybe not on the first try but keep trying, and gentle is not a weakness. Just the opposite.

CASH 2 NELSON

  Johnny Cash wrote the song, Ragged Old Flag in 1974, a testament to his faith in the Country and the goodness of the American People. The year was marked with scandal (Watergate) and civic unrest (Viet Nam). There wasn’t much to feel good about, not unlike 2020. Cash portrayed the country in a heroic context, that of a tattered, battle weary American flag with its 200 year legacy of (justifiable) violence and (noble) war. Cash’s poetry waxes pious affection with the lines; “. . . and she’s getting threadbare and wearing thin, but she’s in good shape for the shape she’s in.” 
I am reminded of the song today probably because I saw my doctor yesterday for our annual wellness checkup. She spent a lot of time with me probing and taking notes. In the same way Cash progressed from battle to battle and war to war, she moved from system to system. It seems the wear & tear on my eyes and ears cannot be restored but I have the means to cope and so get by. Broken bones have healed but all bones lose their density and mass with time. I need exercise and a good diet just to minimize that loss. Blood work all falls within desired ranges but I am not more powerful than a locomotive or able to leap tall buildings with a single bound; Superman doesn’t live here anymore.  
I offered up the Johnny Cash line; I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in. She agreed, “Yes you are!” The difference here is that Cash’s flag is a metaphor and I am flesh and blood. The (Flag) metaphor is to justify if not exalt American hubris, all under the cloak of righteous self indulgence. That is a human failing with otherwise good people. What good is being #1 if you can’t indulge in some self worship and don’t exercise your power over #2 & #3? It’s not about one person or another, but about group dynamics. I aspire only to embrace the change I cannot avoid. Still I struggle with a self inflicted separation that comes with being uncomfortably, disrespectfully different. I think I understand why people, all people, why we dwell in the myth (mirror, mirror on the wall. . .) rather than upset status quo. 
I like Johnny Cash even now, almost 20 years after his passing. His music is compelling, voice like thunder and courage to take on controversy. On his best day he was every common man’s champion, speaking ‘Truth to Power’. Still on other days he could be unforgiving, cruel and selfish. But he is still a national hero and we don’t insult our heroes with the truth. 
There have been times, not so long ago, that I would speak to issues that begged for a voice. The terms, Right & Wrong carried a moral consequence that Correct & Incorrect did not. A mistake can be corrected but being ‘Wrong’ is a moral failure. Johnny Cash and other like him believed profoundly in the Rights & Wrongs of this life. I think it a hold-over illusion from the Middle Ages, serving only the powers that be. I didn’t make the rules but I can say, “I don’t thing so”; I can say, “Hell No.” 
Epictetus (Greek philosopher) an early Stoic wrote, “There is neither good nor evil except in the thinking.” In other words, the truth is whatever we agree on, whatever we say it is. Without human consensus there is neither good nor bad. Stoicism’s popularity and following have ebbed and flowed over time. It gets serious pushback from Christian religion as it negates universal truths. With no obligation to Christian dogma I find the Stoic’s focus on logic, reason and random chance more digestible than updated mythology. 
If required to employ a current philosopher-song writer to pick up where Cash left off, demonstrating how times and ideas change, I would default to Willie Nelson. He circumvents battle flags and a prideful culture writing, “Regret is just a memory, written on my brow; I’ve forgiven everything that forgiveness will allow, and there’s nothing I can do ab out it now.” 

TRUE LORDS & LADIES

  After wakeup and half an hour of predictable, patterned behavior my morning usually kicks off with random acts that can surprise even me. I know well enough when it’s time to reset my kahooten gear and grease a Van Allen belt. I do that by conducting the morning’s first bird census. I consider it a good omen when, out the kitchen window with my first cup of coffee, I see birds on my patio feeder. House Finches and Chickadees lend grace to the moment and Titmice even more. Gold Finches bump it up a notch and promise (Happy) for the rest of the day. But a woodpecker’s arrival is akin to God’s approval. Appearance can be deceiving. The Red-belly is big and gorgeous while the Flicker is big, more mottled with bright yellow shafts on the underside of their flight feathers. They are awesome. Even at that, the true Lords & Ladies of the woodpecker world are the smaller Hairy and Downies who slip in without fanfare. They seal the deal. 
Haven’t seen a Nuthatch since before the last big snow. Don’t know what that’s all about; they rank equal or above Titmice. Next one I see I’ll consult the local shaman or voodo wizard for an interpretation. The Kahooten thing is family (my kids) jargon, a nonsense word. At first it dealt with things that go vroom but expanded to mean anything with parts. It applies when you want to sound smart but fall short with the vocabulary; or, to trick an ignorant onlooker (someone who simply doesn’t know) into thinking you know something they don’t, or it passes as a subtle, secret code-word that doesn’t mean anything, just word play.
With my 2nd cup of coffee I must choose between continuing what I have begun (writing) or move on to something new. Right now, moving on sounds better than recalibrating a discombobulated kahooten. Housework isn’t very appealing but it is necessary and I feel it sneaking up on me.

NOT THE SAME

  This blog was born nearly ten years ago. By my definition, “Adventure” would be any activity where something hangs in the balance, either good or bad, gain or loss and it could go either way: Adventure. In 2012 I had several (adventures) going and my house had a stranger living in it so I could stay out on the road. It was a really good time in my life. My stories were either from the road or decompressing at home after a road trip or organizing to get back under way again. Blog post #1 came from Nova Scotia, from a light house where I sat on a great granite boulder with waves crashing below my feet. The sun came up on me there and off to the southeast where the horizon met the sky I imagined, if I could see far enough, the nearest shoreline would be the coast of Morocco. Marrakesh and the Atlas Mountains were on my bucket list even then.
Nearly a decade before that I emailed my kids and amigos with stories and my coordinates. Every small town in Patagonia had an internet cafe and 400 Chilean pesos (about 50 cents) would get me half an hour on line. A hostel bed and breakfast cost about 3,200 pesos and often that included a slow, weak internet connection. From Santiago, Chile to Ushuaia, Argentina I walked or rode a bus everywhere I went.
A friend who retired a year before me advised: If you want to have a great adventure or do something on a grand scale, do it right away. It was a caution, there are no guarantees. I felt obligated to all of my amigos who ‘adventured’ vicariously, not given to wanderlust. The destination took a while to decide. It began by creating a long list, then by process of elimination. Español had to be the native language and not much Ingles. Then it had to be affordable (to walk-about) and a safe place for Americans. The list shrank down to two, Chile and Argentina and I could do both.
I discovered how the world opens up when you leave what you know behind and start again with another culture and another language. I confirmed what I already believed, how the world caters to tourists but embraces pilgrims. I’ve spent time in other countries since Patagonia in ’05 and granted, one cannot help but notice the pleasant absence of American hubris. I have loved my own country with cautionary reservation since my days in the army. That was when it occurred to me; I didn’t choose my country, it chose me. When someone asks (and they always ask) "Where are you from?"  I often answer, “I try not to be.” Where you come from is a tribal remnant that we should have been able to shed. I prefer a global (human) identity. Sharing that revelation with people still immersed in, (God Bless America & We’re #1) can make them uncomfortable or worse.
I didn’t set out today to be critical of my country. Maybe if I reframe the idea, that I am more lucky to be a citizen here than I am proud it won’t discredit me. After all, I think Proud and Pride are perfect subjects for the metaphor, “Lipstick on the pig”. But that’s another story. I am remembering that rooms full of young people used to get up early just to listen to me, but time flies and things change. If I can stir up an adventure, even a little one I can share, it feels like I have work to do. A few folks still come here to check out my story. It’s not the same but it’s not bad. 

. . . OR REALLY STUPID

Some movies are good enough that you buy the DVD and watch it again, maybe even again. I have a big stack of those. Some surprise you as they don’t lose any of their appeal. I know some of them nearly by heart and even after many reruns they still please. One of those is, Enemy Of The State, a 1998 action flick about government surveillance with Gene Hackman and Will Smith. Hackman has a great line he delivers to Smith, “You are either really smart or really stupid.” Then he gets to say it again near the end of the movie. Their situation and the timing make it both entertaining and hard to forget. 
I have written and then rejected several pieces intended to fill this space. For one reason or another, during the final edit they all fell short of anything I wanted my name on. Not changing the subject, just taking another tack: I remember when my kids had shoe boxes full of matchbox cars. They had their favorites but they  kept them all busy in the mix, all at the same time. Lying prone on the floor or propped up on one elbow they motored miniature cars, trucks and busses around a masking tape grid I had put down on the floor. It didn’t take much imagination with wood building blocks and books for buildings to create a small town. Most of their motoring amounted to moving vehicles from one parking place to another. The crucial, critical element was vocal sound effects. Without the vroom-vroom engine sounds, horns beeping and tires screeching, who would want to have any of it?. 
I don’t play with matchbox cars on the floor anymore but I do play with words, trying to fashion believable, interesting stories. Like my kids, I have favorite subjects or ideas that I fall back on instinctively, the same way they made their tires squeal. They never got tired of their repetition but I tire of mine. Finding a different or better way to make the same observation or to uncomplicate a particularly knotty puzzle, I feel stuck in a rut, like wasted time. Still I come back to dig in the same hole just like my boys went back to their vroom-vrooming. 
Like a big Bluegill guarding its nest, I have taken the bait, swallowed the hook. Human behavior is the bait I cannot resist. It is not so simple as Monkey-see Monkey-do. To even approach that mystery one need know how the brain works and that is more complicated, more challenging than most people care to take on. But I am one of those people who take it on. Common sense (Monkey-see Monkey-do) and the naked eye have been sufficient to perceive a wannabe-wise, world view. But common sense perception can be both insufficient and misinformed and in the case of human behavior, it certainly is. 
Sailors knew for a very long time that the world was not flat but civilization just wasn’t ready for it. Its time would come but it had to wait. Likewise the human behavior paradox is on hold, apparently until the time is right. Still, what is very well understood currently and exploited as well is that; if you have enough data, the right algorithm and a powerful enough computer, you can correctly predict any one person’s behavior (decisions) on anything with about 95% accuracy. What does that say about free will and decision making? In most cases you, me, everyone’s decisions have been framed before you even consider the issue. With such a high percentage of probability, there is nothing to debate. Most decisions come preassembled and quality controlled with noting left to do but make believe you did it all by yourself and take credit for being so astute.
That is the bait I have swallowed, the hole I keep digging in and I can’t seem to leave it alone. It doesn’t seem to matter what idea I start writing about, it defaults back to brain based science and human behavior (decision making). I would appreciate some sympathy but that has been short coming, as if I deserve my fate. At the end of the day I am about to drift off to sleep, thinking about a 25 year-old experiment with vampire bats. One mother is deprived of food and cannot feed her baby. Another unrelated mother bat (that is important) she notices and helps, she feeds the unfed baby. Then the tables are turned and the first mother feeds the unfed baby of the mother who had filled in for her. The pattern is repeated. Then one of the mothers is captured before she can feed, the pouches where she carries blood back to the roost are inflated with air so it looks like she has food but she has nothing to share. The hungry baby goes hungry. After that, the mother of the most recent hungry baby refused to continue the collaboration, (if you don’t help me I’m not going to help you). Sisters may cooperate regardless from a familial bond. But when it happens between unrelated individuals we humans call that, ‘Tit for Tat’ a uniquely human behavior, or so common sense would suggest. 
So there I am about to fall asleep, thinking about a vampire bat experiment and someone sneaks up to whisper in my ear. It sounds like Gene Hackman telling me, “You are either really smart or really stupid.” 
 

A SLEEPY CONSCIENCE

  Life is a highly contagious, sexually transmitted, incurable, always fatal disease. Whoever coined this clever quote seems to be flaunting the biology as much as lamenting mortality. King Solomon addressed it at length in his book, Ecclesiastes. Peel away the humor and you are left with, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” In any case the underlying message comes through, “Life is short, eat dessert first.” On the other hand there are so many inspirational (Life) quotes from popular heroes and wise old-souls that you can’t disregard their bias either. I think it safe to say, “Life is good. . . except for when it isn’t.” 
It is no secret that I use favorite quotes to bridge gaps in This Life’s unraveling the same way Christians fall back on scripture verses. You don’t need persuasion; it works like a booster shot, a second coat of paint. Mark Twain said the ideal life would be comprised of “. . . good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience.” Translated, I take that to mean, “Keep good company, forgive your own foolishness and move on.” More quotes might be fun to roll around but I think I’ve made the point. I rely on many 2nd coats of Twain-paint (quotes). God must have been modeling Mark Twain when he created himself. 
It is no secret either that I gravitate to questions and observations about the human condition. Using old age as an excuse I return to dig in the same old holes I have been crawling back out of for the past forty years. As much as I would enjoy the comforts of tradition and popular culture, it would be no better than teasing a hungry lumberjack with the scent of fresh bread. I keep asking the insoluble question: Why are we here? Ask any mainstream person and I would expect to hear reference to supernatural power or human resilience, to the power of love or evolution, maybe even the pursuit of happiness. The only story I trust enough to sleep with is this: Life doesn’t need a reason. Life is its own reason, it longs for itself, begets new life. We (people) are the conveyance (mechanism) the path it takes. That is our purpose, why we are here. We are one of many means to an end but not the end itself. That is a bitter pill to swallow if you’ve been weaned on religious hyperbole or human rhetoric. But I would rather be disappointed with the truth and make the best of it. Dwelling on Glory-bound expectations in Life’s autumn season would be dreadful if Glory be the myth and the fact be wet, moldy leaves composting in a heap. 
Helen Keller said, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” She saw better without eyes than most sighted people. Eat dessert first, life is short. Kurt Vonnegut said, “I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” Talk is cheap; who goes to the edge and ‘Self defeating’ in the pursuit of ‘Daring’? I may lack the courage and the perceptive acuity that my heroes display but they left foot prints and stacked stones to show me the way. I can’t really say why I am here but moving my feet in the dark seems preferable to fermenting at the bottom of a familiar hole.