Granddaughter's Life Lessons

My granddaughter did not put this text into her own blog, so I am taking the liberty of publishing it in mine. Though she is still a youngster, she is an old soul, and I find it is easy and comforting to relate to her words. She always writes quite a thought-provoking essay. Enjoy and be enriched and blessed!


"This e-mail originally started as an e-mail to the infamous Ms. Sarah Julian (aka Phoebe) who, time and time again, is always the inspiration for something more than I was planning. Phoebes: I have to give you complete and total credit for this one. I don't know how you do it, but you bring the best out of me. Thank you.

Secondly, it was just supposed to be a list to Ms. Phoebe about accomplishments of this year, but it evolved into the truth about what's going on with me and my personal growth.

This Accomplishment List must start literally the first day of 2010, January 1, at 12 o'clock a.m., in Des Moines, Iowa, the Greyhound Bus Station. My New Year's Eve was sadly spent at the bus station, though they were polite enough to have complimentary cots so we could convalesce in our distrustful paranoia. This was the beginning of my 2010 year. No party, no friends. Just alone. But what does it mean? I am often alone in many of my endeavors, but because this moment specifically is supposed to be spent with others, then and only then is the loneliness of one's life apparent or noticeable. It is the time I am most inherently American or personally concerned with the affairs of humans, when there is something national, something universal almost, to share and be with others on one specific day. I would be lying if I said that being alone on New Year's Eve didn't affect me. I can't even remember if I created a New Year's resolution. I think I was too paranoid to think about anything but my safety and personal possessions. I would look up every 3 minutes or so to make sure my craftily placed luggage was still undisturbed. So, REM isn't exactly the state I was reaching.

I did not get to indulge in the bubbly sweet taste of champagne. I didn't have to hear the din of the plastic China-made toys in full brouhaha. I didn't see any white spherical globes slowly making their descent to Father Time's door, metaphorically symbolizing an end and a beginning.

Though this night is not part of my accomplishment list, I feel it is important to know the ominous beginnings of my year, for it seems, thus far, this year has truly been about realizing how much I relish being in people's company and sharing my experiences. I am often one to be proud of my "hermithood" but subconsciously feel it was and is a mask of levity toward my loneliness, which many who know me would balk and say that I have all the love in the world from my friends and certainly my family. This is true, but I spend a considerable amount of time away from those I know. I am quite the traveler of late and enjoy the freedom of wings instead of roots. Though in the seasonal world there is great social potential, that potential tends to be measurably finite. The relationships one constructs or builds must eventually be left vacant. Their longevity is very fragile, and few are willing to put in the energy that keeps them kindling. This syndrome is inherently known to any seasonal employee. It literally seems to boil down to a 50/50, and never does the old phrase 'it takes two to tango' make more sense. I have friends that I have made and would have loved to stay in contact with, but they didn't stay in contact with me. I have done this to others as well. There is almost a play of destiny and fate in a relationship that was formed from a seasonal position. It is the luck of two people being genuine in their wanting to stay in touch and then the most crucial aspect: doing it. This is unspoken. It happens like magic. And I consider it magic.

I am fascinated and driven by the relationships that I have made through my seasonal excursions, and I love (LOVE!) when there is one that has potential to last past the initial construction. Those people (and let me tell you, there are literally few who have made it to that point) tend to be the ones who inspire me to do more, be more, and create more. Because they tell me! How could I know them and hence myself if they never conveyed their story? And not only do they get to feel the confluence in expelling their triumphs and struggles, they get to hear mine as well. We feed off each other. We found each other in a flighty state; hence we resound with connection when we communicate our ventures of flight. We truly inspire each other just by doing what was innate to us, but it brings those around us to that place: the place where not just because we are young but because we have WILL, we can do ANYTHING, and HERE is the proof! Listen to Our Story.

I thought this would be a simple list of personal accomplishments, but as I write and ponder, I feel something stronger and deeper that must be told. Yes, I have slightly mastered a chainsaw (oxymoron noted). I have pushed my physical limits, again. I have sweated literally buckets of myself. I have found the courage to be on my own. I have learned and evolved from my mistakes. I am starting to learn how to fix vehicles and be more mechanical in general. I am very comfortable on an UTV. I have improved my trailer skills even more. I have kept up my pull-up number (very important to me). I have found beauty in a shit hole. I taught myself how to crochet. I grew my first garden of nothing but basil. Yes, yes, every little thing I have accomplished I am proud of, certainly.

But there is one thing, one nagging accomplishment that wants all the attention and I feel rightly deserves it. For it explodes in exponential amazement and dulls every other success in my life. It is the center. It breathes life into all my creation, hence all my accomplishments to begin with. I have felt it all my life. It would come and go but would hardly be consistent. Somehow I have found the secret to my life. I have unknowingly unlocked the flood gates, and what flows out? Certainly by now, you must innately know. Something of a higher dimension. Something more than human description can afford.

I will try, but it is a roller coaster of blissful emotions. Even in moments of fear or sadness, there is immediate knowing, immediate counseling from the greater part of myself who eases me and brings me to a rational state. I think the repetition in belief of miracles and wonder and magic and bliss and impossibility has finally been practiced to the point where the unfathomable is seen all around me and knowingly accepted. I have never known such happiness for unambiguous reasons. Simply for being. Nothing else but the joy of knowing I know thunders a storm of blissful quakes through every cell of my being. I quake with self-love. Sometimes I can feel the charge of love permeating the essence of the void around me, almost sending a shock way through the dimension in which we conceive.

I am so thankful to be me, and I often tell myself thank you for being you. I often ask why? Why do I get to feel this joy and others not? How did I get to this point where everything's OK and makes sense, and I have nothing to fear? Even now, I feel pompous and snooty about the place I am at. Like I am rubbing my happiness in people's faces, but that is not the goal of this essay. The goal is to share. I hope you would feel my energy about my epiphanies and delight in the splendor of them with me. And, like the paragraph above states, inspire through story. To simply share and let you know I have come to this place in my life. I have accomplished something great this year. Far greater than any other thing I have ever accomplished. I get to relish in my own light of self-love, inspiration, and creation, that I know. You see it is those two words that come the closest. I know. I know! I KNOW. In them is my peace, my splendor, my contentedness, and my freedom.

I still have much to learn in this vast new world. I am simply taking one step toward Mt. Everest on this ancient and transcendental path we all, in one way or another, walk. Perhaps the metaphor to be taken is that I noticed the mountain and decided not to conquer it but be with it and learn from each step I take on it.

One thing I have noticed is that it is easy to be in the know when I am alone, but I seem to forget when around others. I hate to put it this way, but they bring me down by reminding me of this illusion in which I partake and influence. I forget this world when I'm in it. But it is hard to be in it when you're with others. People are great distractions. They bring out all the earthly emotions which you thought you had mastered. Let's just say I have mastered myself and my internal conflict. I don't strive to master anything outside of that. Simply because seeking only hides, while forgetting always surprises.

So perhaps with a little luck and belief you can feel the resonance of joy that I send you. The joy that we are here, and that I get to share with you lucky few my stories. And how lucky I am to hear yours as well. Though, I have often been told there is no such thing as luck. So praise to our own creation because we have will, and we can do anything."

You have a father?

There is an old joke about two boys sittin' around one Saturday afternoon trying to outdo one another in describing the deprivations and hardships of their respective lives. It goes something like this:

First boy: I have to get up at 4 o'clock in the morning just to be the last one in line for my breakfast.
Second boy: Well, I don't even get no breakfast until supper time.
First boy: My clothes are all hand-me-downs, and I never get nothin' new.
Second boy: All my clothes are hand-me-downs from my stupid sister.
First boy: My father lost his job, and we are gonna be homeless by next Tuesday.
Second boy: You have a father?

I'm just making an observation and not actually feeling sorry for myself.

I often wonder what it would have been like for me to grow up with a father and grandparents. I did have two sets of GINO (grandparents in name only), but I didn't know them, and they certainly didn't know me. My maternal grandfather, allegedly a musically talented and intelligent man, was victimized by a stroke at a fairly early age. I only knew him as a wheelchair-bound, aphasic male entity with a lopsided, paralyzed face, a weird eye that roamed and scared me as a child, and a breathing organism that did not communicate except to drool and mumble. As a child, I did not understand any of that. I just knew that when my parents and I visited, he was always seated in a large wooden wheelchair beside a kitchen window, and he was scary because he didn't "look right" to me. I don't think he knew who I was. If he did, he couldn't indicate that he cared. My grandmother, his wife, was so busy cooking, baking, cleaning, and taking care of her husband that she didn't have time to "see" me. She and grampa lived on their homesteaded farm along with her youngest son, his wife (my aunt and uncle), and their seemingly dozens of children. Those children were well known to my gramma, and she always seemed like a friendly, heavy-set, kindly gramma, but she never said my name or held me or acknowledged me as a child. I blended in with the wallpaper. I ate her food and played in her yard, but there was never any individual attention. It made me wish back then that I had grandparents, so it was a lonely thing to see my gramma but not to be able to interact with her.

My paternal grandparents lived in North Dakota and I in Minnesota. I only saw my paternal grandmother once, and I was very young, and it didn't mean anything to me. I saw my paternal grandfather twice, but he was a standoffish, stern, and somewhat mean-spirited man who came to check up on my father on our farm. I had the sense that my father was afraid of his father. As it turned out, it was for good reason. When I looked at pictures of my paternal grandparents, it was an emotionally vacant experience. I didn't know them. They didn't know me.

My father and mother lived on a 160-acre farm in central Minnesota that my paternal grandfather had homesteaded. They had 3 living children long before I was born and one infant son who apparently died of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome or "crib death" as it was known then) at one month of age. I came along almost 10 years after my nearest sister. I have no idea what my father was like when the 3 older siblings were at home. By the time I arrived, he was largely uncommunicative. I don't believe he and I exchanged more than 2,000 words in the 17 years I lived at home on the farm. He was there but not there. There was no positive interaction that I can remember. He took no interest in my school work or music activities other than to make me worry about how I would get to band practice in the summer when there was no school bus running. We lived 6 miles from the town where I went to school, and I often had to ask neighbors if I could catch a ride with them. My mother talked to my dad, but there wasn't much of a response. He kept things down to as few words as possible. Asking him for money or the car keys, which he always kept in his pocket, was torture because you never knew if it was going to be yes or no or an "I don't know" or "maybe" that could keep you in anxious suspense for hours and even days at a time. It was a feeling of utter powerlessness and a good deal of humiliation and embarrassment. My mother did the best she could by me, but her life was one of constant worry and anxiety for these and other reasons. Essentially, I was raised by a single parent, my mother, even though we were a "traditional" two-parent, church-going household.

There is much more to the story, but the point is that I now often wonder what it would have been like for me to grow up with a fully functioning set of parents and at least one set of supportive grandparents. I think I would have felt more loved, more confident, less fearful, less anxious, and less self-conscious. I know I have the chance now to re-parent myself, but I frankly don't know how, and it is a little late in the game. This isn't about self-pity. It's just a yearning to dream about what might have been.

A Friend's Rant

Below is a commentary submitted to me by a good friend. In my life, I have never seen a political atmosphere such as the one we are experiencing today. Never before have I seen intelligent people, trying to live an ordinary life, spend so much time and energy on being upset with our politicians and fellow citizens. This is just a sample of the frustration that exists in this political climate. It can't be good for our immune systems, but I also think these feelings need to be expressed. And I am happy to provide a forum for this expression.

"It is a sad thing and very disturbing on every level that there are so many people in this country who want to blame President Barack Obama for everything that goes wrong in the country and the world. There's plenty of blame to go around, but where was that rage when, from 2001 to 2008, government spending climbed higher than any other time in our country's history and not just due to funding two wars? What makes it even more difficult is that everything is so complex and interrelated. Even a professional researcher has difficulty exploring and documenting every bill, topic, senator, representative, judge, cabinet member, intern, legislator, state official, clerk, spokesperson, floor sweeper, and lobbyist to get the correct facts. Even if one would choose a single topic to research, such as healthcare, there are so many subcategories of subcategories (and on and on) to follow and document, it would be a 24/7 task for all eternity. No wonder some folks would just as soon take someone else's word for the facts and not bother to look anything up. What is even sadder is that things have gotten so out of control, there is no one individual, political party, or other group with the foggiest idea of the question, let alone the answer, because THERE IS NO ONE ANSWER! I tired myself out on this rant. Next, Obamacare!"

The Black-Robed Regiment

One of the truly frightening things would be the materialization of the The Black-Robed Regiment as described and espoused by Glenn Beck, the newly self-created televangelist. As I (probably) wasted part of my life listening to his speeches at his "divine rally" in Washington, DC, last Saturday, as captured by CSPAN, and as I watched him call forth similar lunatics who practice "religion" of all kinds (Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Protestant, etc.) and who stood arm in arm on the stage in the solidarity of an awe-inspiring shared delusion of grandeur, I was momentarily stunned by the prospect of his success as a megalomaniac wishing to impact politics (and, thus, all of life as we know it) in this country by constructing a right-wing, exclusionary theocracy.

From the wrong-headed fundamentalist belief that this constitutional democracy (republic) was founded as a Christian nation all the way to the unwavering desire to absolutely control women's reproductive freedom, the mission of these Beckheads has not only become one of disbanding government (except when it suits them) but instituting political mechanisms that deny the nonbeliever an equal stake in determining one's own life path. Only white, conservative, right-wing, exclusionary christianity is acceptable. All of the rest of us are infidels. And they talk about fearing totalitarianism derived from social justice and "socialism." The mind boggles.

Here is a quote from a Web site called "Truth in History-where the word of God is not bound," an evangelistic outreach of Kingdom Treasure Ministries.

"The black-robed regiment of the Revolutionary Period were men of God who spoke out concerning the issues of the day. The name was given to a name of pastors, especially in colonial America, that were very instrumental in America winning their independence. The reason why they were called Black-Robed regiment is because every Sunday they would mount their pulpits wearing their long black clerical robes; that’s how preachers would preach in that day. They would get in their pulpits wearing these long black robes, and they would preach the Word of God without fear or favor. These men of God would get in their pulpits and they would basically tell people what or who they should and should not vote for because they understood that in order to have a great government then you must have great citizens. The way that you have great citizens is by having great people that are rooted in the foundation of the Word of God. Week after week after week, they expounded upon the principles of the proper role of government, the proper role of individuals, all underneath the kingship of the Lord Jesus Christ."

Just the above paragraph should scare the bejeebers out of anyone with a functioning brain. Beck, a convert to Mormonism from Catholicism, is attempting to knit together the Tea Party, a "libertarian" bunch since they claim to want little or no government (to which I say "Move to Somalia...there is no government there."), the right-wing lunatic fringe, the conservative Republicans, and the evangelicals. He has about 2,000 so-called evangelical "leaders" in his corner right now. These "leaders" range from Jerry Falwell, Jr., to John Hagee. There are millions of sheep who follow Glenn Beck, Jerry Falwell, Jr., John Hagee, and every other nutjob evangelical.

Russell Moore, dean of the School of Theology at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, wrote on his blog the day after the Beck "Restoring Honor" rally: “It’s sad to see so many Christians confusing Mormon politics or American nationalism with the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

It's not only sad; it's freakin' scary.

What do they want? Duh. Most of the sheep can't even articulate what they want. They are loosely in agreement that they want low/no taxes, a big military (and thus a big expenditure), teeny-tiny government, all abortions made illegal (even when pregnancies result from rape and incest), anti-gay legislation, no socialism of any kind (except for their own Social Security and Medicare), no gun regulations, and a return to the yesterday of "honor" (slavery, no voting rights for women, no civil rights, plus the ability to secede from the union, etc.).

When do they want it? NOW! They are hysterical because their agenda and their "leaders" are currently out of power, and they can't stand it. This is a godless nation that needs SAVING and RESTORING. They want to "take our country back." Yes. Back to the Dark Ages.

When you see (estimates vary) anywhere from 100,000 to 500,000 people (Michele Bachmann says it was over a million, and we know we can believe Michele about everything) gather in WDC on a hot day, you can also believe these people, and many more like them, will vote in the upcoming midterm election and in 2012. They are slobbering for a Beck-Palin ticket.

Michele Bachmann, Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Mark Levine, Michael Savage, Michael Steele, and "Fraud News" are filling up the vacuum caused in this country by Everyman's Ignorance. Glenn Beck is the self-promoting (oh, he is getting rich off this Elmer Gantry scheme, for sure) guru, the Savior, the huckster that makes it all seem possible now. The Republican Party is fractured. In order to win in the upcoming election and in 2012, they need Glenn and his Coalition of Sheep to make the change.

It's all about Power and Money. Theirs. Not yours. Never yours. Kiss your ass goodbye if these lunatics regain the Presidency and control of Congress. Your freedoms will disappear. If you thought Bush was craptacular, you ain't seen nothing until the "religious right" assume the throne.

I have always said, since I was a little kid, that I feared religion more than communism. I'm stickin' to that story. It doesn't take much reading of history to see how dangerous "religion" is. What would Jesus say to all this? I am waiting for the day when Jesus returns and tells all the "Christians" to Shut the Fuck Up.

Old People Get Paranoid

I swear that the older people get, the more paranoid they become. I'm not sure if this is simply a matter of brain chemistry gone bugfuck, medication overload, faulty nutrition, spiritual bankruptcy, fear of death, contrariness, just desserts, revenge, or some other factors that I am too unimaginative to categorize. A case in point is my elderly neighbor. She used to be very friendly and chatty, but for the past two months she has stopped talking to me and snubs me whenever we are both in the same outdoor space. This morning, she left a voicemail for me accusing me of putting my trash bag on her property. Of course, I had done no such thing, but she thought I did. Why she thought that I cannot fathom. It's paranoia, I think.

I have a friend whose mother is in her mid-90s, and the stories I hear also lead me to believe that this elderly woman is becoming more paranoid the longer she lives. I'm not saying there isn't enough to be paranoid about in this world. As the saying goes, just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me.

My dad was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and I think that was a misdiagnosis, but it's instructive all the same. His paranoid delusion that someone was going to sue him and take away his farm and all he had worked for because he was involved in an accident on the county road that ran past our homestead was the tipping point for him. He was on the road at dusk with two horses pulling a seeder, and a car going much too fast ran into the back of the seeder because my dad apparently didn't have a reflective triangle on the back of the machinery. That part was his fault, of course, but the driver of the car was also to blame for not having his automobile under control. After that accident, my dad went into a whirlwind of paranoia, and all he could think about or obsess about was the fact that this man was going to sue him and render him penniless and homeless. That never happened, of course, because no real damage was done in the accident, except to my father's sanity. He spent several years after that in a state-owned mental hospital, underwent 50 electroshock "treatments," and never recovered his equanimity.

As I said before, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. Whatever was out to get him, got him. I am only sorry that it was all inside the walls of his skull. If he could have just let go of the paranoid thought, he might have lived and been happy.

I hope my crazy neighbor can get help for her paranoia before it kills her too.

Time is a River

What's the difference between UTC (Coordinated Universal Time) and GMT (Greenwich Mean Time), you ask? Maybe you don't ask, but it's a story worth telling anyway. It never hurts to know these things, does it? Curiosity is good for the human soul. One of the criticisms leveled against George W. Bush is that he is incurious. I believe that incuriosity leads to ignorance. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I think the cat had a hot time poking into everything just the same. That's why cats are so, like, unable to be coerced into anything. They are too smart to be coerced and/or co-opted.

Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) is a term originally referring to mean solar time at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, London. Strictly speaking, UTC is an atomic time scale which only approximates GMT with a tolerance of 0.9 second. It is also used to refer to Universal Time (UT) which is a standard astronomical concept used in many technical fields and is referred to as Zulu time.

Why do we observe these precise time methodologies? Because without precise time, a whole bunch of stuff in this world (that we take for granted and never think about) would not work, and that would make us crazy. Or lost. Or dead. Or all three. Or worse.

UTC is the time system used for many Internet and World Wide Web standards. In particular, the Network Time Protocol is designed to synchronize the clocks of many computers over the Internet (usually to that of a known accurate atomic clock) and, thus, uses UTC.

Those who transmit on the amateur radio bands often log the time of their radio contacts in UTC, as transmissions can go worldwide on some frequencies. In the past, the FCC required all amateur radio operators in the United States to log their radio conversations. International broadcasters such as the BBC World Service also use UTC when publishing their schedules and announcing times during broadcasts.

UTC is also the time system used in aviation. Weather forecastings, flight plans, air-traffic control clearances, and maps all use UTC (colloquially referred to as "Zulu Time") to avoid confusion about time zones and daylight saving time.

If we didn't have precise time, how would we know when to turn on the next football game? Case closed.

World Clock

This clock shows UTC time (Coordinated Universal Time). The time in South Africa is UTC+2. Hence, add 2 hours to UTC (shown on this clock) to get the time in South Africa---in case you are watching the World Cup (which, if you're not, you otter bee).

Bambi lives

These little angels were seen on Seabrook Island, South Carolina, one evening in late June 2010.

Earth Dance - Care2 eCards, Free Online Animated Greeting Cards

Earth Dance - Care2 eCards, Free Online Animated Greeting Cards

The Boxer

Everyone has heard the original recording of the song "The Boxer" written in 1968 by Paul Simon and performed by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. It was an instant classic and remains an enduring classic. Last night on American Idol, contestant Lee DeWyze did his version of the song, and it gave me goosebumps for a couple of reasons: first, Lee changed up the melody somewhat and put some high notes in it that were not originally in the song; second, the song itself is enough to stir anyone with a beating heart and a soul that is full of "divine discontent and longing," as Kenneth Grahame penned in the first chapter of "The Wind in the Willows" in 1908. This book is definitely worth re-reading (or reading if you have never done so), and this song is definitely worth revisiting.

Click on the hot link below to hear Lee DeWyze do justice to this well-written lyric.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exbIO39VlZ8

The only other notable person to record "The Boxer" was Alison Krauss who sang it with her band in a Paul Simon tribute done in 2007. This is also classic Alison Krauss (with her unparalleled, magnificent band Union Station) before she went nuts going off the ranch with Robert Plant and singing all kinds of atonal modern stuff. I hope she comes back to herself and her bluegrass roots because she is an incomparable bluegrass writer and musician, and she knows how to put together one of the best string bands in the universe. I know God is proud of AKUS.

Click on the hot link below to get down and mellow with the AKUS version of "The Boxer." What a wonderful tribute to Paul Simon, and what a soulful gift to the rest of us. Thank you to Alison Krauss, her indomitable Union Station band, and to Lee DeWyze for reminding me of a song I've never forgotten but haven't heard for far too long.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4Lwx9F81Zs

Emmylou Harris also admirably sang "The Boxer" at a concert in Stuttgart in 1994. She is accompanied by the not-shabby Nash Ramblers in the video below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNMBI9dutlM&feature=related

And, finally, here are the lyrics for your meditation. Try not to cry. I dare you.

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance,
For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest.
Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.

When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy,
In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters,
Where the ragged people go.
Lookin' for the places, only they would know.

Lie-la-lie ...

Asking only workman's wages I come lookin' for a job,
But I get no offers,
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.
I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome,
I took some comfort there.
La, la, la, la, la, la, la.

(Instrumental break)

Lie-la-lie ...

And I’m laying out my winter clothes, and wishing I was gone, goin’ home
Where the New York City winters aren’t bleedin’ me, leadin’ me goin' home.

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.

Lie-la-lie ...

Social Justice

There is a stanza in Curtis Mayfield's song "People Get Ready" (see blog post below this one) as follows:

"There ain't no room for the hopeless sinner who would hurt all mankind just to save his own. Have pity on those whose chances grow thinner, for there's no hiding place against the Kingdom's throne."

This is just a different, lyrical way of saying that "The love of money is the root of all evil" (The Bible) or "Behind every great fortune is a great crime" (Balzac).

Mayor Bloomberg of New York City is all afluster that Congress is about to pass a financial reform bill (Senator Dodd - Democrat from Connecticut) that would seriously regulate Wall Street's ability to make up shit as they go along, create phantom derivatives and credit default swaps, and fundamentally take your money and mine and gamble with it at no risk to themselves, meanwhile raking in personal and corporate profits that would make even Croesus blush.

As you will remember, Croesus was the king of Lydia from 560 to 546 BC until his defeat by the Persians in about 547 BC. He was, of course, renowned for his wealth, and often you will hear people say that someone is "richer than Croesus" or, in extreme cases, "richer than God." How did Croesus get so wealthy? He derived his wealth from gold deposits in the river Pactolus, said to have been left there by the mythological King Midas. Croesus was also heavy into "trading and mining." Do you suppose he sent slaves into his mines? To quote Sarah Palin, "You betcha."

Croesus tragically misinterpreted the oracle that told him that if he crossed a certain river he would destroy a kingdom. He didn't realize the kingdom that would be destroyed would be his own.

While I understand Mayor Bloomberg's concern that leaning too hard on Wall Street may possibly cause these criminal bankers, investors, and hedge-fund managers to abandon New York City for a more lenient venue (Somalia, perhaps, where there is no government and, hence, no friggin' regulation), I do have a suspicion that Mayor Bloomberg is willing to participate in "hurting all mankind just to save his own."

I have concluded that those amoral, godless, spiritually bankrupt, incompassionate, self-absorbed, selfish, greedy jackasses who yell the loudest about government interference and "social justice" (like Glenn Beck, Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, just about everybody on FUCKS NOISE, the Grand Obstructionist Partygoers) are doing so because they are RICH, and they want to STAY RICH. Their kind of money is something you and I cannot even imagine, and rich people will do anything and everything to protect theirs. Screwing you and fucking with your mind in the process is a small spiritual price for them to pay to acquire, preserve, and grow their wealth. They love unfettered capitalism. They would like nothing more than to disband the governmental controls that purport to keep their unfettered and unmitigated greed in check (and we've done a pretty bad job of keeping capitalism under control, much to their glee).

The next time you hear a politician or somebody with a cable television show railing against healthcare reform, financial reform, "entitlement" governmental programs (like Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, and Unemployment Compensation), welfare, student loans, unions, and foreign aid, ask yourself if that ignorant mouthpiece has a lot more money than you have. If the answer is yes, then you can be assured that this shill is not concerned one whit about your well-being or security but is, rather, concerned with his or her personal wealth and power. The more money they have, the louder they scream about government regulation and any public policy that has anything at all to do with helping the "little people." Little people are only allowed to exist because we provide exploited labor and exploited services, and we pave the way for rich folks so they can live the American dream.

You can't earn a living wage because to do so would deprive the rich people of their due. Maybe you are earning a living wage, but if you are, you are part of a small minority. Good-paying jobs that are NOT in the financial sector are very hard to come by now, aren't they? Non-union jobs are generally not attached to high salaries, especially in the manufacturing, service, and industrial sectors.

World-wide, the outlook for average people is even worse than it is in the United States. One billion people in this world live in abject poverty. Over three billion people in the world live on less than $2.50 a day. And 80% of the world's population lives on less than $10 a day.

Women in the USA make 80 cents on the dollar compared to what men make in identical jobs. That's a drop of 1 cent since last year. Real wages are going down. Women's wages are going down. Down, down, down. Following this recession/depression in the United States, whatever jobs will be "created" now will have lower salaries attached to them. Count on it. Corporations love to downsize and love to have fewer employees doing more work for less money. They love it. It's one terrific way for them to maximize their profits so they look good to Wall Street and can keep their shareholders happy.

Will there be class warfare in this country? In the world? Those gun-totin' teabaggers who are so concerned with protecting their second-amendment "right to bear arms" should be more concerned with protecting their (and your) right to earn a decent living from the rich who would make us all slaves if they could. Working-class people are already de facto slaves.

The current meme is that 47% of people in this country pay no federal income tax. Why is that? Could it be because they don't earn enough freakin' money to qualify? You betcha. They pay plenty of other taxes (sales tax, FICA, gas tax, etc.), but I guess that doesn't count. How many of the really wealthy pay federal income tax? Most corporations pay no income tax. Most rich people avoid paying income tax because they can afford lawyers and accountants who know the legal loopholes that are built into the tax code. How did these legal loopholes get into the tax code? Rich people lobbied our representatives in the Congress to enact them into law. That's how. Rich people rule this world. And they want to keep you on a "subsistence existence" so you don't have the resources or energy to overthrow their privileged reign or foment a revolution. No social justice here, please. You can only be assured of healthcare, justice, or security if you are rich. The rest of us can go fornicate ourselves.

Thank the Lord for Crystal Bowersox

Last night on American Idol, Crystal Bowersox from Elliston, Ohio, sang Curtis Mayfield's song "People Get Ready." Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions were popular in the 1960s. For more information about them, go to

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curtis_Mayfield#Early_years_and_The_Impressions

People get ready, there's a train a comin'
You don't need no baggage, you just get on board
All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin'
Don't need no ticket, you just thank the Lord

People get ready for the train to Jordan
It's picking up passengers from coast to coast
Faith is the key, open the doors and board 'em
There's hope for all among those loved the most.

There ain't no room for the hopeless sinner
Who would hurt all mankind just to save his own
Have pity on those whose chances grow thinner
For there's no hiding place against the Kingdom's throne

So people get ready, there's a train a comin'
You don't need no baggage, you just get on board
All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin'
Don't need no ticket, you just thank the Lord

Click on the hot link below to see Crystal Bowersox's fabulous version of the song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8Ic90JkAQA

SADD

Shame.
Abandonment.
Depression.
Despair.

It is said that "shame is among the most unbearable of human feelings, regardless of our age or station in life."

Guilt reflects on what we do, but shame reflects on who we are. I think we first experience shame in the eyes of our primary attachment figure, such as a parent, and the unexpected disapproval, usually around the age of one or two, shatters our infantile illusion of power and importance. Without warning, we are ejected from paradise, and it can only be because we are bad. We feel bad; therefore, we are bad.

For too many little children, this experience is repeated over and over in the course of socialization, and it is so crushing that they never quite get over it and spend their lives feeling this "unbearable feeling of shame."

Recent research in neurobiology has shown that a child's developing brain is not yet ready to process the intense experience of shame and that the lack of an emotionally attuned parent at this crucial time can actually stunt, for life, the growth of the neural pathways for regulating such profoundly unpleasant emotions. What helps the infant's brain develop properly is for parents or caretakers to provide what the young brain is not yet able to, and that is the soothing or comforting of the very shame that has been inflicted.

"Shame on you!" "You should feel guilty." "You're bad." These messages are common, and, of course, they inflict sometimes life-long damage. If our parents, caretakers, siblings, authority figures, or significant others in our childhood lives wittingly or unwittingly give us these messages, society later does little or nothing to ameliorate them. It's baggage that stays with an individual to work out on her or his own, if ever.

Shame, along with abandonment for "being bad," is a recipe for psychological disaster. It doesn't take much imagination to see the linear relationship between these insalubrious mental states and depression/despair. For some, the only comfort lies in believing that "once you give up hope, everything is easy."

Is there healthiness (like truthiness) in shame and guilt? In some cases, the answer is yes. If one has done something wrong, the conscience (provided one has developed) is there to offer up guilt as a mechanism for changing behavior and "making things right." If one is truly a bad person at times, by normative standards, then shame is also useful. Sometimes we feel bad about who we are because we ARE bad. If that leads to corrective attitudes, an increase in empathy and compassion, and better and more sociable behavior, then shame is useful. But it should be "ad hoc" shame and "ad hoc" guilt. No one can live under the tremendous weight of free-floating or traumatically induced (by others) shame and guilt. Shame and guilt should have a strictly defined purpose. If they have no purpose and don't lead to a spiritual improvement in our lives, they should be abandoned as a psychological or emotional fugue unless we want to voluntarily embrace insanity, self-abandonment, dysfunctionality, depression, and despair.

The kind of shame and guilt I am describing as unhealthy, unproductive, and soul-wrecking is the shame and guilt heaped upon us by others' unfair judgments and pronoucements, where shame and guilt are gratuitously used to allow someone else to feel psychologically or emotionally superior or in control by degrading us. When we internalize that kind of shame and guilt, it goes on autopilot and self-reinforcement, and that leads to the inevitable dark night of the soul. There is no love and no redemption in that unjustified shame or guilt. It must be purged or we never discover who we truly are.

Class Reunion

In August 2010, the Belgrade High School (Minnesota) Class of 1960 will celebrate its 50th anniversary. I suppose that is an achievement of some sort. We started with 50 classmates, and very few of them have gone on to their alternative or heavenly reward. I wonder, though, how many have obtained their earthly reward.

Back in earlier days, class reunions were more about who made it and became "somebody" after high school graduation. These get-togethers had the distinct flavor of "my car is bigger than your car" (house, number of children, academic degrees, money in the bank, notoriety, etc.) and less about shared (common) experience in this chaotic world of wildly competing interests, psychic comfort, or spiritual awareness. Classmates who felt inferior to the faux-gold standard of achievement and didn't possess sufficient bragging rights often stayed away from these reunions.

Now that we're all nearly 70 years of age, I wonder how the "group ethic" will have changed (if it has changed). Instead of going on and on about children, grandchildren, careers, and illnesses, I wonder if we will instead converse about whether what we've done in our individual lives has given us meaning, fulfillment, comfort, or wisdom and, if not, how we could find those things in the years we have left in this plane of existence. That would be a conversation worth having. If it's just another iteration of who's who and who looks "good," I think I'll skip this reunion too.

Master of My Fate

Psychologists generally agree there are 412 (but who's counting?) emotions. Of these hundreds of emotions, there are 8 major "negative" emotions and 8 major "positive" emotions. All of this is debatable, of course, but the 8 major negative emotions are fear, anger, shame, blame, regret, resentment, apathy, and grief. The 8 major positive emotions are joy/love, interest, enthusiasm, empathy, curiosity, boredom, laughter, and action. Most people don't think of boredom, laughter, and action as emotions, but when one considers that e-motion is energy in motion, then boredom, laughter, and action are definitely on the list. It is also theorized that a thought precedes an emotion.

Statistics show that the average human being has between 50,000 and 75,000 thoughts a day and that 80% of these are "negative" thoughts. By the time we are 40 years old, we have created and experienced about 730,000,000 thoughts. If 80% of those are negative, that means our minds are "programmed" with and have experienced, in a real sense, about three-quarters of a billion negative thoughts by age 40 (people over 40 can do the math). If we say 5 affirmations (positive thoughts such as "I am beautiful, unique, and loved") a day, which most of us probably don't do, the bottom line is still at least 49,995 negative thoughts a day. Furthermore, most of these negative thoughts have to do with the past or the future. They are not usually about the present moment in which we live, which is the only moment we are guaranteed to have.

Recent studies have shown that suppressing negative emotions (denying or blunting what one feels internally) is not helpful for learning, adapting, interpersonal interactions, or a sense of happiness. Emotional suppression has more to do with feeling an emotion than with expressing an emotion. Many emotions, especially negative ones, while felt internally, are better left unexpressed, but nonexpression is not synonymous with suppression. On the other hand, similar research shows that faking positive emotions does have a salubrious effect on learning, adaptation, interpersonal interactions, and one's own subjective estimation of happiness. "Fake it 'til you make it" is not just an off-the-wall humorous comment on how to"be" in this life. There is a well-known experiment that can lend proof to the assertion. It is about smiling. It has repeatedly been shown that the act of smiling will improve a person's mood even if the person does not feel like smiling. At the very least, smiling frequently will cause other people to wonder what the smiler is up to or knows. The secretiveness of the "knowing smile" can elevate some people's moods all by itself. Faking positive emotion works.

Faking it may, indeed, work with a whole range of positive emotions, but it doesn't work with knowledge deficits. Affirmations and positive thinking don't eliminate knowledge deficits. Mastery does. Mastery is not achieved by magic or magical thinking (e.g., if we ignore our problems, they will go away). Realizing that our errors or mistakes hurt ourselves and others, self-mastery is the real challenge in our lives. Achieving important goals takes time and hard work.

Randy Gage, an author who writes motivational materials, says that "mastery comes from confidence, confidence comes from experience, experience comes from practice, practice comes from commitment, and commitment comes from vision." Success is reading this list backward and working effectively and tirelessly from the vision to the mastery.

There are four levels to the process of self-mastery. The first level is recognizing incompetencies or deficits in oneself. When a person does not recognize or acknowledge a knowledge deficit, that person does not care about improving his/her knowledge or skills. The second level is becoming aware that other people have desirable competencies or knowledge and that these are achievable. That is the first step toward learning. The third level is learning the basics and putting those into practice. Most people fall into this category because they limit their own knowledge and practice their skills selectively. This does not, however, constitute mastery. The fourth level is to assimilate more and more knowledge and skills and to practice using them effectively. Continual expansion of the fourth level leads to self-confidence, and that leads to self-mastery.

The test of self-mastery is to "reality check" knowledge and skills by exhibiting them to other practitioners with more experience in order to receive feedback on demonstrated competencies. Assimilating feedback and using it constructively will promote and enhance self-mastery.

The gold standard to measure the achievement of self-mastery is to ask the question, "Do I feel knowledgeable, skilled, and confident enough to teach this (whatever it is) effectively to someone else?"

There is an old Chinese proverb that says, "A moving hinge does not rust, and running water does not stagnate." When it comes to knowledge and skills and self-mastery, we have to keep moving or we will perish. More is better.

Unconsciousness

After Mother Nature saw to it that my surgery was cancelled on February 8, 2010, by virtue of dumping 4 feet of snow in our region, I was re-posted for Monday, March 1, 2010. Surely we would not have a repeat snow emergency as late as March 1st (we almost did).

My uberfriend and personal nurse, Ruth, flew here from Salt Lake City on the previous Saturday, and we spent Sunday shopping at Whole Foods for the vittles necessary to keep us in the gustatory style to which we have become accustomed for the past 45 years.

On Monday, I drove us to Good Samaritan Hospital on Loch Raven Boulevard in Baltimore. We had to park in a remote lot since all the good parking spaces were already in use by the early-morning shift. I was told to report to the admissions office by 10 a.m. There, the usual paperwork was done swiftly, and we were escorted into the surgical holding area of the hospital, where clothing was removed (Ruth got to keep her clothing), machines were hooked up, IV was started, and vital signs were taken every 5 seconds. Owing to numerous mis- or un-identification leading to the mistaken sawing off of limbs and the erroneous removal of organs, hospitals have finally learned (and it's now the law) to make double-damn sure that the patient is the right patient and the proposed surgery is being done on the right body part. I was asked no less than 10 times to state my name, spell my name, recite my birthdate, and narrate my procedure. By the time I actually went to surgery (where I was asked the above questions twice more), I was fairly confident they knew who I was and what I was there for.

My surgeon and I had previously discussed that this was an operative procedure that could be done using local anesthetic and intravenous sedation, which would allow me to be conscious during the operation. As it turned out and which was quite a shock to my sensibilities, the anesthesiologist in league with the surgeon decided it would be much better if I were placed in a prone (face-down) position instead of a lateral position, and that requires maintenance of an airway and a general anesthetic. I had a momentary fright as I contemplated "going under. " It wasn't what I expected. When that announcement was made by the anesthesiologist in the surgical holding area, I looked at Ruth and said, "Should we do this?" She gave me a quizzical glance for a nanosecond, and then I decided that if I ever had the chance of being pain-free, losing consciousness would have to be part of the process. I said, "OK." Off we went.

Ruth was escorted to the surgical waiting room, and I was rolled on a gurney into the operating room. There I was met by a bunch of masked but friendly OR personnel, including the anesthesiologist. He said, "I am going to give you some Versed now." I asked him if I had to count backward from 100, as is usually the case when a patient undergoes induction. He said, "I don't think that will be necessary." That was the last I knew.

I can't swear to it because I have no conscious memory of it, but apparently the OR personnel managed to get all 292 pounds of me, unconscious, on the operating table, face-down, without dropping me or damaging me in any discernible way. The next thing I was aware of was waking up in the recovery room, trying to talk, pulling the oxygen mask off my face, and saying, "I've been cut." I looked at the clock in the recovery room, and it was 6:20 p.m. My surgery had been delayed because of a heavy OR schedule, and I didn't get into the OR until after 3 p.m. My throat was sore, and my vocal cords were quite irritated from the endotracheal tube that was in there to maintain my airway during surgery. That's the part of a general anesthetic I like the least. It takes a few hours to get your normal voice back, and it takes me that long to stop coughing from the throat irritation. The incision itself is a nothingburger compared to the throat and voice inconvenience. I wanted ice chips, and they were forthcoming immediately.

It wasn't too many minutes later that some kind soul went to the surgical waiting room to fetch Ruth, and she was allowed to stay with me in the recovery room for the two hours they kept me there. My vital signs were excellent at each check. The nurse in charge of me in the recovery room was Julie, and she had a great sense of humor and gave me very good care.

At 8:45 p.m., I was finally taken up to my private room on the orthopedic surgical ward. The first thing I did was get off the gurney under my own steam and go to the bathroom. There is only so much a bladder can hold. Then I got into my bed, and the rituals began. I was hooked up to a PCA pump (patient-controlled analgesia; in my case, IV Dilaudid) and an IV of normal saline. Venodynes were placed on my lower legs (to prevent blood clots while sedentary). I was carefully instructed by the floor nurse how to activate the PCA pump, but I told her I didn't need it and wouldn't use it. She was doubtful about that, but I never did take even one hit off the Dilaudid. I am not a fan of narcotics. I would rather suffer some pain than feel the fuzzy-headed effects of narcotics. Later, the nurse wanted to give me oral OxyContin, but I refused that too. I told her I would take some Motrin if I needed pain relief. They were all surprised, including the surgeon when he learned the next morning that I hadn't had any pain killers after surgery.

Because the PCA pump was hooked up to my IV, the nurses had to come every 2 hours throughout the night to check my vital signs. This is the protocol when a patient has access to a PCA pump, regardless of whether or not the PCA is used. Ruth stayed overnight with me, trying to get a little sleep in the recliner chair in my room. Every time we would doze off, they would come in and turn on the bright overhead lights (interrogation-style lights) and wake us up. One thing that's hard to come by in a hospital is uninterrupted sleep. You have to go home for that.

At 6 a.m., another surgical resident came to make rounds on me. That also woke us up, of course. He didn't contribute much to the process except to look at my incision and to test my motor and sensory parameters. Both were fine. Mercifully, my surgeon rounded early and was there by 8:30 a.m. I was sitting up in bed, and he came into the room and said, "Look at you!" I don't know what he was expecting, but he was surprised to learn that I hadn't had any IV or oral pain medication at all. I told him that I was ready to rock and roll, and he very happily discharged me to home right then and there. In a few minutes, the nurse came in and discontinued my IV, pulled the line out of my arm, and I dressed in my street clothes, Ruth brought the car around, and we were home (with a sigh of relief) by 10 a.m. on Tuesday, March 2, exactly 24 hours after I presented for admission. Nothing could have been better. They gave us a week's worth of surgical dressings so Ruth could change the dressings every day.

And now the food: I had to fast for 16 hours before surgery. On the day of surgery, I was put on a clear-liquid diet after the operation was over. That's the norm. In the recovery room after surgery, I had diet ginger ale and cranberry juice (juice drink, full of sugar and hardly a cranberry). This elevated my blood sugar to 153, so the protocol kicked in where a patient has to get insulin if the blood sugar is over 150. I am glad my floor nurse decided to belay that, and I never got the insulin. A few hours later, my blood sugar was back to 101. On the morning after surgery, I was advanced to a liquid diet, so they brought me chicken broth, Jell-O, Lipton tea, and apple juice. Since I'm a vegetarian, I wasn't going to drink the chicken broth or eat the Jell-O. I don't do caffeine, so the Lipton tea was a nonstarter. I knew the apple juice would elevate my blood sugar, so I didn't drink that either, fearing that would start another discussion about giving me insulin. Sigh. My day nurse decided I should eat something, however, so she advanced my diet to soft. Right before we left the hospital, the dietitian brought me sauted apple slices, apple juice, and two white-flour fake-blueberry muffins. Ruth and I just looked at each other and decided we would eat when we got home. It's a wonder that hospitals still think this stuff passes for nutrition, but short of bringing your own food, which they wouldn't let you eat anyway, they will never 'get it.' Proper nutrition is mandatory for proper healing, but dietitians don't seem to understand that connection.

When we got home on Tuesday morning, we had organic eggs and toasted Ezekiel bread (organic, sprouted, whole-grain bread bought at Whole Foods---good stuff) and real brewed decaf coffee. It was the best meal of my life.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Everything healed up wonderfully. The incision remained clean, dry, and intact. I was walking around the house without a cane. We went to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D. It was marvelous. Ruth did all the driving since I was told not to drive until my skin clips were removed (26 of them in an incision about 8 inches long). Of course, I cheated and drove 3 days before my followup appointment with the surgeon. Nothing bad happened. I drove Ruth to the airport on Thursday morning, March 11, and I drove myself to the doctor appointment on Friday, the next morning. The skin clips were removed, and I was told I could now drive. I smiled. I was asked to come back for a final followup appointment on April 6. No bending, twisting, or lifting in the meantime. I think they mean I should not be throwing 100-pound alfalfa bales around the barn, which is what I did when I was a kid on the farm and which probably contributed to the lumbar spinal stenosis and herniated disks from which I sought some relief with this very operation. Instead of having spinal fusion and laminectomy, I opted for a titanium device called X-STOP. You can watch a video to learn more about X-STOP. It is now covered by Medicare, for which I am grateful. Instead of recuperating for 6 months after spinal fusion, X-STOP recovery is about 6 weeks (or less). It's a great invention. I only hope it works long-term.

That's all for now. I've got to go sling some hay bales and get ready for a dance at Spring Hill.

Click on the hot link below for more information about X-STOP.

http://www.spine-health.com/video/x-stop-interactive-video

Minton plates

http://www.thepotteries.org/potters/minton.htm

Click on the hot link above for a more complete history of Minton plates.

In the 18th century, many of the English potters had a hard time trying to find high-quality materials to make porcelain plates. It was not until the 1740s that they began to use calcined animal bone ash to help give the antique dinnerware both strength and translucency, using various experimental formulas. After much debate and failed experiments, the potters concluded that the best bones to use were those from an ox. The only problem was that until 1796, bone china was illegal. There had been problems brewing between the trading that was done with the people in the Far East, and because of this they found that they were running low on the porcelain that was used to make English antique plates, and they desperately sought a solution to the problem.

A potter from Staffordshire by the name of Joseph Poulson was one of the first to produce new china pottery after the patent for the bone China was disapproved by Parliament. By 1796, he struck up a partnership with Thomas Minton who owned and operated an earthenware pottery factory.

Though they each owned their own businesses, they worked together to create dinnerware for the English people. Poulson made the pottery while Minton, a trained engraver, decorated each piece. Minton had a mind for business, which he learned from his brother, Arthur, and was able to make it successful.

Together both Paulson and Minton created antique plates that were considered to be elegant when compared to most pieces of its day. There are no marked plates and other dinnerware from Minton’s very early works. However, a few of the dessert plates have survived and are recognized by their blue-and-white earthenware pattern for which Minton is known.

Minton used various patterns and techniques, making his pieces diverse and unique. The majority of the early patterns were decorated with an overglaze of polychrome enamels that covered the entire piece. He used skilled artists to paint landscapes and other scenes with exquisite details.

Besides using landscapes, Minton also created some pieces with floral patterns. Some had only one flower while others had groups of them. Other of these types of pieces were designed with exotic birds next to plants that were rich in color and beauty. On the bottom were Chinese decorations and pseudo-Chinese characters.

Each Minton antique teapot, plate, and dish came in various patterns as well as shapes. Some were basic while others had a very unique shape that defined it and matched the period it was made in. Today, Minton plates are still exquisite and can cost anywhere between $200 to $12,000.

For more information on Willow ware, another Minton plate style, click on the hot link below (Wikipedia):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willow_pattern

Granddaughter's HB Wish for her Friend

Hey, Miss Sarah J. I guess by your time it's your birthday. I didn't send you anything; I can't call you. Well, I guess I can, but you get my drift. I didn't do a darn thing for you.

But I did ask Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, some random Fairies, the Three Billy Goats Gruff, a Troll, Medusa, Zeus, and Michael Beauchamp, of course, for some favors.

First, I told Santa that I know 100% that you haven't done anything naughty. I left out the illegal camping in the Shenandoah. Anyway, it looks like next Christmas you're set.

Second, the Easter Bunny. I asked him to give you a sunny day when you needed one. So, if it ever seems like the clouds won't clear, just ask the Bunny man to hook you up because he owes me. He almost had a public disaster of drunken misconduct, and I testified that it was a false accusation (which it was not). Anyway, he was having a rough week, so I figured one white lie for the poor guy wouldn't end the world, and millions of kids could keep on getting massive amounts of candy.

Third, the Fairy clan, which has nothing to do with a gay bar. I asked them to give you some of their fairy dust---to fly with, of course. They said no. But they did say they would give you a miracle. And then they told me that there is a mathmatical probability that you have one about once a month anyway, so I guess that means it's no skin off their backs. They're kind of condescending. Anyway, you got a miracle coming your way.

Fourth---oh yes, the Three Billy Goats Gruff. You have safe passage over any bridge for a full year. Then I bullied them into giving you safe passage over bridges for the rest of your life. Pretty good deal. In trade though, I have to give them all my recyclables for the rest of my life (to eat, I believe).

The Troll is an old friend of mine. I met him in the woods of Michigan. Quite a shy fellow, but very dear and sweet. He doesn't look very appealing, but behind his skin is a glowing light of golden geniune goodness. Anyway, he didn't have anything to give, nor would I ask to take from him. It just doesn't seem right. But he does have this special ability where he can travel within the blink of an eye. The thing is, though---you can't see him once he's traveled. He's there, but you wouldn't know it. Anyway, I asked him to check up on you and if you were ever doing something alone that he would join you. So, when you think you're alone, he's there. Talk to him. He's a great listener.

Fifth, I asked Medusa, with my eyes closed, that if you were ever having a bad-hair day, the next day you would have the best-hair day. You see, since her hair can be quite untameable, as you may have noticed, she is very sympathetic to people when they're having bad-hair days. But normally she wouldn't do anything about it. Then I showed her my rat's nest of a hairdo. She felt so sorry for me, and she said she would give me anything I wanted. I told her I got's me a friend in Korea---hook her up.

Sixth, never talk to Zeus. What a skeeve! When I asked him to give you a great and grand birthday present, he wanted to knock you up........ to which I told him that perhaps his gift should be the gift of not impregnating you. He said he could control himself. I don't know, Phoebes---I think he's got his eye out for you. You might be the next Mary Magdalene. But thank god Hera was there. She said she'd keep an eye out that no skeeves would come near you. Any skeeves, Zeus or not. She also said Apollo was single right now, but he is such a player, Phoebes. Just because he's beautiful, it doesn't mean he's not vapid. Anyway, she might try and set you up. Sorry, but that really turned into a mess.

Then there's the best of all. I couldn't get ahold of Michael himself, but I did ask him telepathically to write a new song that would be your song. I don't know if he got the message. But we'll see if his new albumn doesn't have something that rings true just for you.

So, there's nothing material, nothing concrete, but hopefully my gift is one of introverted delight. You might be wondering why I never told you I knew such movie stars and how to get in touch with them. Well, I'm kind of sworn to secrecy. But since I have never spilled the beans and have been a loyal trustee, they lifted my oath for the day, and I was allowed to tell one person.

Ultimately, I hope this brightens your day from so far away. You've got more eyes looking out for you than you'll ever know. But don't get paranoid; it's not like that. They are only there when you want them there.

I love you. Happy Birthday, and Happy Valentine's day. Hey, would you be my Valentine? I've never had one. And I think it's damn time! And there's no one else I would want to be my Valentine. Guys are douches anyway.
Love, E.

Uncle Duane

No one dies who lives in the heart and mind of another. We grieve for your passing, and we will surely miss you. But we understand, Uncle Duane. With love from Ruthie and Diane.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold,
Her early leaf's a flower,
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) was a Baltimore housewife and florist who wrote this:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

My Granddaughter Visits Bok Tower in Florida

On Friday, I decided to go visit this place, or sanctuary, called Bok Tower. They call it the singing tower, and it is aptly named. You are not allowed into this phallic cathedral, but I decided that, compared to the outside, the inside is probably quite prosaic. It is a glory of architecture, Phoebes. The stone walls are milky pink/peach swirl. At the top are stone creatures with bodies of men but heads of some sort of bird. They have a few balconies that freckle the tower, which one can only dream of getting to stand on. One balcony has an inconspicuous red door that just begs to be touched, analyzed, and opened. It stands high above, mocking my desires. Do I feel a metaphor coming on?

The windows are not glass; they are more like glazed pottery, with cutouts of monkeys, palm trees, Adam and Eve, and any other random biblical/tropical idea you can think of put together.

The ultimate, though, and the reason I stared at the damn thing for a half an hour, is the gold-plated brass door located at the bottom of the tower. The door is in the shape of an arch. And it looks like they placed a gold quilt on it. There are picturesque scenes in each square, which I could not identify. But I was beyond mesmerized. I felt like I had just stepped into Narnia and that door led to Aslan. The door knob was of a bird’s head, and it held a heavy golden ring in its mouth. I so desperately wanted to touch it, to almost caress it, to know it, as if, behind its strong purpose, sat all the answers. I feel I shall forever be haunted by that door. I feel I will see it my dreams, and its magic and mystery will forever pulse through my veins.

To top it all off, I was not only feeling mystical, but I was hearing haughty music vibrating from the tower, which it is designed to do, but the music only added to putting me into a cathartic peace.

It was a cloudy, warm day, and the wind blew and whispered at me. For the two hours, I was there, in this plant sanctuary that is exposed daily to the vibrating meditations and the mesmerizing power of the tower when I, too, realized I had become hypnotized. I felt the peace echoing through every inch of the place and saying, “The peace is within you; I am not the peace…it is in you.”

I continued to wander around the gardens in my omnipotent state. I let the divinity within blossom in the sunlight of the tower, and I soaked up the musical vibrations like water to the soul. I was the plants, I was the peace, and I was the omniscient knowledge that would not cease. I am not apt to say that a place has power over one’s emotions or a place defines your state, but, through experience, one cannot deny that some places evoke poignant feelings. Perhaps it is a little of both, the state I am in and the state the place is in, that combine to create this melody of moods. Never knowing where it started or where it ends. Never knowing if I am my own placebo and that, by being in a place that I subconsciously know should make me feel that way, this creates the feeling. Then, is the peace within subconsciously projected and hence outwardly re-projected back onto myself? This might be a good time for one of my favorite sayings: "The world is a reflection of yourself." Now this seems to be more relevant than ever. It almost seems like a game, to be aware of the places that move you to a higher state and wonder why you would ever leave them for the places that evoke subconscious feelings of disgust. But I cannot believe that. There is beauty everywhere. Everywhere! Perhaps it is the belief that stems from me that a place is not beautiful. I choose not to be in a state of peace all the time because I choose to perceive my world not in a state of peace. But therein lies the truth, for the world is always at peace. It is only I who can create a state of disdain. Only I can create.

Would one want to create beauty all the time? Or is there a balance in believing in ugliness and beauty? Would I become jaded and soon beauty itself would become ugly? It seems I ask questions to which the answers are irrelevant. Why even worry about it? Perhaps I am making it more complicated than it needs to be. You like some places, and you don't like others. Some days you feel good, and some days you feel bad. Put the two together and you have a state of being. The rest is a circle of thought, about which there is no point to seek the end, for there isn't one. It's a circle, you dumbass!

Ramble, ramble, ramble…I hope I have confused you as much I have confused myself.

Yesterday.....oh, yesterday was perfect. I snuggled up to the TV, because, yes, it does get cold in florida, and I zoned out to “The Client,” a drama about a young, independent, and boisterous boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but thankfully a divorce lawyer, played by Susan Sarandon, was there to save the day and help solve the mystery, after which I decided perhaps I should be productive.

I wandered out to our little 10 x 5’ garden and decided to weed out the half that hadn't been weeded and stake my claim. I am endeavoring to try my black thumb at gardening in the hopes that anything green will come out. The soil is so sandy, though, that I don't know what would be willing to survive in it. Research......

Then, I promptly decided that was enough work for one day, and I slugged back over to the couch and nestled in again. To my surprise, the last Matrix movie was on, equivalent to trash, but there is a small amount of food for thought in it…enough to warrant not getting up to change the channel because we have no remote, so whenever something’s on that I don't necessarily like, I pretty much make myself find a way to like it.

I planned my weekend this way. When asked what I was going to do this weekend, my reply was, “Hopefully nothing.” I wanted a weekend to re-collect myself and prepare for fire.

OK, I will admit I did start a sourdough starter, so I did do at least two productive things, though there is an ad here to "Create an avatar worthy of your features. Play sorority life and show off with how beautiful you are!" Oh, excuse me from my novel. I think I just found my calling! You guys sure are lucky I found something to stop my mind (hence, my fingers) from continuing these endless rambles. Lucky this time; perhaps not so lucky the next.

Sorry, Phoebes, that this turned into one of those letters that originally started out to you, which is why it is written as it is, since I write a certain way when I write you. But since I love what you inspire to come out of me, it then turned into a letter that should be shared with all. So, to all who read this know, it doesn't necessarily stream from me; there is a hidden magic from one of the dearest people to walk the earth. And, don't worry---she knows it’s true. Because I said it, therefore it must be true! We tend to gush on each other. It's a good circle---one I am happy to be in.

OK, so I love you, Phoebes, and I hope you don't mind the sharing of your inspiration, and I love everybody else who drains all their mitochondrial waste just in order to read my epics.
Love,
E or B

Editor's Note: For incredibly detailed pictures of Bok Tower, please visit the following Web site:

http://www.blacksmithing.org/events/Bok2009/Bok2009.htm

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Cut Down But Not Into

Snowmageddon. Snowpocalypse. The Perfect Storm. That's what Baltimore had this past Friday and Saturday, February 5 and 6, 2010. This part of the country gets snow, but it's hardly ever this much at one time. This is not snowmobile city, believe me. It will be days before any city snow plow comes down my street (if ever). The snow is so deep that it's not snow plowing we need; it's snow removal. There is no place to put this much snow in a city environment. After two days of blizzard-like conditions with 30+ inches of snowfall and 5-foot-high drifts, today the sky is blue and the sun mocks us. Nobody is moving. Cars are buried. The only thing visible on my car in the driveway is the radio antenna which is mounted on the roof in the back. It would take 4 days of 50-degree temperatures (which won't be happening) to melt the snow off my car.

Only one enterprising neighbor boy was out with a shovel this morning, and he charged me $60 (cash; no checks) to shovel the sidewalk and a narrow path on the porch so I could open my front door. Anyone who is disabled or unwilling to risk a heart attack to shovel her own walk is held hostage to these prices. Take it or leave it.

My back surgery was scheduled for tomorrow (Monday). The only way to get to the hospital in the morning would be with the assistance of the National Guard and a Humvee. Obviously, since this surgery is elective, that's not going to happen. Thus, the surgery is postponed for perhaps another month. Mother Nature is a force about which we can do nothing. I am simply grateful that today is Super Bowl Sunday and that I don't have to go anywhere but downstairs to the refrigerator for beer, chips, and guacamole. Bugger the diet. Above is a picture of my car. No, not the one in the street. It's the big white blob right next to the black porch railing. That's it! I hope to be able to see it and drive it again sometime in the next month. Sigh.

Bad Romance

Remembering that Madonna was generally regarded as a musical genius, we now have a new generation of bad-ass girls who are also musical geniuses, and probably the best example of that is Lady Gaga. She is daring, cutting-edge, irreverent, symbolic, and open to sober or drunk interpretation. In addition, she has revived disco. God invented disco, and She makes sure, through Divine Inspiration, that it reappears in our culture from time to time, lest we forget where we came from.

Copy and paste the URL below into your browser for a review of Nemiroff LEX vodka, a product of Ukraine, as featured in this Lady Gaga video.

http://www.thedrinkshop.com/products/nlpdetail.php?prodid=1981

Copy and paste the URL below into your browser to view and listen to the best video of "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga and company. The lyrics, deserving of post-graduate study, are below for erudition's sake. She is a genius. Say what you will.

Speaking of listening, a person truly needs good speakers to listen. Altec Lansing computer desk speakers with an under-desk powered subwoofer are available for only $49. That's cheap for what you get out of them. Music was invented so that our souls would not be interminably lonely. It's good to turn up the volume and let the music take you over.

Copy and paste the URL below into your browser to see the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrO4YZeyl0I

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

I want your ugly
I want your disease
I want your everything
As long as it’s free
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love

I want your drama
The touch of your hand
I want you leather-studded kiss in the sand
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad
Your bad romance

I want your loving
And I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!)
I want your loving
All your love is revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

I want your horror
I want your design
‘Cause you’re a criminal
As long as your mine
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love, uhh

I want your psycho
Your vertigo stick
Want you in my room
When your baby is sick
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
(‘Cause I’m a freak bitch baby!)
I want it bad
Your bad romance

I want your loving
And I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!)
I want your loving
All your love is revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Work-work fashion baby
Work it
move that bitch crazy
Work-work fashion baby
Work it
move that bitch crazy
Work-work fashion baby
Work it
move that bitch crazy
Work-work fashion baby
Work it
I’m a freak bitch baby

I want your love
And I want your revenge
I want your love
I don’t wanna be friends

J'veux ton amour
Et je veux ton revenge
J'veux ton amour
I don't wanna be friends

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
(I don't wanna be friends)
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

(I don't wanna be friends)
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
(Want your bad romance)
Caught in a bad romance
(Want your bad romance)

I want your loving
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!)
I want your loving
All your love is revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
(Want your bad romance)
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
(Want your bad romance)
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
(Want your bad romance)
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Whenever You Need to Cry

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_PIadFsvDk&feature=channel

Click on the hot link above to see this YouTube video. Leonard Cohen is a crazy-genius poet.

"Dance Me To The End Of Love" by Leonard Cohen

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Lift Every Voice

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uv1xDg-zngg&feature=fvw

Click on the above hot link to view a YouTube video of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" performed by the Boston Pops Orchestra and Choir. The lyrics are below.

Historic African Americans featured in the video are (in order of appearance): Crispus Attucks, Dred Scott, Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, John Brown, Frederick Douglass, Abraham Lincoln, Madam CJ Walker, W.E.B. Dubois, Booker T Washington, Marcus Garvey, Jack Johnson, Jackie Robinson, Dr. Charles Drew, Rosa Park, Malcolm X, Marian Anderson, Martin Luther King Jr, Muhammad Ali, Shirley Chisholm, and Mae Jemison

"Lift Every Voice and Sing" (also known as "The Negro National Anthem") written by James Weldon Johnson

Lift every voice and sing
'Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies;
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
facing the rising sun of our new day begun, let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
bitter the chastening rod,
felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
yet with a steady beat,
have not our weary feet
come to the place
for which our fathers died?

We have come over a way that with tears have been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
out from the gloomy past,
till now we stand at last
where the white gleam
of our bright star is cast.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee;
lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee,
shadowed beneath thy hand,
may we forever stand,
true to our God,
true to our native land.