The Snowbird Lesson

When I was a child in Mississippi, we had a book about birds of North America. For some reason, I know not what, I became fascinated by a certain bird that was pictured therein. It was the snowbird. Being a boy from the deep south, I had not seen much snow, which was a rarity where I come from.

Perhaps that rarity factor is the reason I was fascinated by the picture of the snowbirds in my little book.

Now I'm sixty-five, and living in the Blue Ridge mountains, which can be quite snowy this time of year.

Early this morning, December 30, we did discover the first snow of the season, and I have to tell ya-- along with the whitey flakes the snowbirds made their visit known to us.

Later in life, When I had become young man, I became fascinated with a song called "Snowbird" that was a hit on the radio at that time, 1960's. It was a tear-jerker tune, sung perfectly by a lady known as the Canadian songbird, Annie Murray.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pq9bHd58-LA



"Snowbird" is a sad song about unrequited love.

"When I was young, my heart was young then too. Anything that it would tell me--that's the thing that I would do.

But now I feel such emptiness within for the thing that I want most in life's the thing that I can't win. . .

and

"The breeze along the river seems to say, that she'll only break my heart again, should I decide to stay.

So little snowbird take me with you when you go to that land of gentle breezes where the peaceful waters flow."

. . . and yet, beneath the poem's cold mantle of forlornness there is a trace of hope, a mention of "flowers that will come again in spring.



As it turned out, in my life the flowers did "come again in spring." Those misadventures in love that later became a flood of heartache ultimately were buried in the fertile ground of life's demands. Not only were seeds of new love sewn providentially into my life, but those seeds have yielded new flowers and more seeds.



Yet still, "the snowbird sings the song he always sang, and, as it turns out, eats the seeds always needs.



The snowbirds visited our house this morning, and wow! did they have a feast!

Those little critters are much like the two humans--my wife and I--who find much joy in providing seed for them during this snowy season. There's Snowy on the ledge, and his wifey down in the tree:

Thanks to love and marriage, which go together, you know, like a horse and carriage, or like . . . snowbirds and snow, my life has turned out to be a love feast instead of the festival of the broken-hearted that might have been, had not a wonderful loving woman come in and changed all that lovesick blues to pure white marital love, 37 years of it.

I wouldn't trade marital love for anything in the world. It's so much better than the broken heart that might have been. Thank God for true love that is lasting and faithful.

Here's another version of the song, "Snowbird," as recorded by the songwriter, Hank Snow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBwqqH0LTyI

And here's a parting pic of little Snowy with his Finchy friend.

Glass half-Full

A Poem for Christmas

Every Christmas season that comes and goes brings an emphasis that is different from previous years. This year's discovery is something called a "Christmas market."

This term, which seems to indicate a market that is in some way unique to the Noel season, a market that is more joyously conducted, perhaps, than just any old assemblage of vendors selling stuff. I first pondered the phrase while reading sad reports of the murderous bus driver at the "Christmas market" in Berlin. A day or two later, while Pat and I were skyping with our daughter, who is in Europe, Katie mentioned that Christmas markets are "all over the place" over there.

This Christmas eve morn, I was sitting in the chair by the tree, listening to Handel's Messiah, and wondering about the Christmas market phenomenon, and how it might be different from just any old walmart or kreske store. In order to learn what it is, I thought I'd look it up. But suddenly, a star shone brightly in my brain and I decided to write a poem about it instead, without even knowing what a Christmas market really is!

Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free,

How lovely are your goods to see!

Though not in session when summer's here,

You're only in the Noel time of year!

Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free,

How lovely are your figs and pears to see!



Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free,

How festive Man hath profited from thee!

Thou biddest us to all buy faithfully,

Our trust in free enterprise, consumerly!

Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free

How enterprising Man hath been with thee!



Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free,

Thy giftings gleam so, so brightly!

Each purchase doth add its tiny part

To make our economy glow and spark!

Oh Christmas market, O Christmas market free,

Thy prosperity doth shine so, so brightly!



Oh Christmas time, O Christmas time so holy,

Thy nativity's obscured now almost wholly

by buying and selling of so many services and goods.

We would buy them all, if we could!

Oh Christmas child, O Christmas child,

Where art thou now in this world so wild?



But hey! What light through yonder darkness breaks?

Still through our dark markets shineth

The everlasting light.

The thoughts and gifts of all our years

are giv'n in Thee tonight!

Feliz Navidad, Jesus!



Glass half-Full

News of Mr. HoHoHo

With all the fake news that's been flying around lately, I wanted to make a contribution toward alleviating the problem of this malodorous development.

I read on the internet somewhere that fake news is similar to a disease in some ways. Fortuitously, it has been shown that nationwide outbreaks of fake news can be snuffed out with a vaccine, which is easily injected because of multitudinous media conglomeration points such as twitter, facebook and so on and so forth.

Now you know a vaccine is an actual sample of the dreaded malady, and if injected into the body politic, it can act in such a way as to provoke the body's generation of antibodies that will work against the dreaded disease.

Therefore, in the interests of the body politic of this malingered nation I hereby am shooting up (uploading) an appropriately innocuous minuscule amount of fake news for purposes of turning this damn epidemic around so that it will no longer plague us with its irrelevancies.

So I dug this story up on the internet, and I'm injecting it into your cyber-concsciousness.

Now you might feel a little pinch, but don't worry it's all for the good.

It has been reported that in the recent election, an illegal immigrant has voted. The alleged alien had slidden under the radar (it just happened to be in the state of Maryland) and was able to obtain a ballot and vote in the presidential election.

The votive offender has been identified as an illegal alien from Indochina. We have incredible sources who confirm that his identity as HoHoHo Claus Minh, although the counterintuitive ID which he used to enter the poll location has been proven to be fake; it was fabricated in 1982 by Venezualan hackers, who had learned their malodious craft in Russian sweat shops under the guise of cranking out unlicensed athletic shoes which the Chicago Cubs allegedly obtained for recently-disclosed purposes of gaining traction so they could teach the Cleveland sluggers a thing or two about our national sport. But this has not been corroborated.

Nevertheless, be on the lookout. At the present time Mr. HoHoHo is still at large, but we have been able to obtain an image of him, which was snapped by an alert journalist as the illegitimate vote-caster was illegally depositing his ballot into the box.

In an undercover interview conducted outside the polling booth Mr. HoHoHo intimated that he was very relieved to be able to vote again, as he had not voted since 1956 back in his home country of Indochina. His rationale for not voting since that time was, as he shared, that he was so upset that in his country a great election had been conducted in 1956 but the politicians down south refused to conduct the election in their precincts because, as Mr. HoHoHo said, "they were pretty damn sure they would lose the election!" And so they and their lackeys just didn't show up; they declined to participate in authentic democratic shenanigans. Now is that any way to run an election, or for that matter, a whole dam country!?

We think not, he reportedly said.

And so he has been mad about it since that time. Can you blame him? As Pulitzer prize-winning poet Bobby Dylan once said:

"I pity the poor immigrant, who wishes he should've stayed at home."

Although, to be fair, Mr. HoHoHo definitely does not wish he had stayed at home, because life in the America is, like, great!

Just glad to be here, he said. He disclosed that he lucked out--thought he'd have to climb over a big wall but as it was all he had to do was take a little swim to Key West.

The good news is he thereby got an opportunity to become a citizen and cast vote in great US of A. Accordingly, the reclusive Mr. HoHoHo has stepped forward out of the shadows to participate in the USA vote-gathering. This is quite an accomplishment when you consider that he is the only man in history to ever defeat all three, JFK, LBJ, and RMN, in an undeclared military theatre.

Mr. HoHoHo declined to divulge for whom he voted, although he did allow that their initials were not HRC; nor were the the DT.

All in all, the beleaguered alien seemed quite alive and well, and doing his part to make a positive difference in the good ole US of A!

(Please notify the CDC if this vaccine has successfully immunized your devices against the dreaded fake news epidemic.)

Glass Chimera

Ben Carson for HUD head?

Boy born in poverty grows up to be brain surgeon. Say what?

He kept his eyes on the prize, gave steady attention to what is important for his own personal development and advancement; Ben cultivated good habits, studied hard, pulled himself up by bootstraps, climbed the achievement ladder, learned a trade, surgery.

Brain surgery. Brain surgery?

No kidding. He became a brain surgeon, head of neurosurgery at Hopkins; among his many operations was the separation of congenitally conjoined twins. No easy task. The man's a problem-solver.

Later on in life, Ben trained his eyes on expanded horizons, became an advocate for productive self-sustaining endeavor. Disdaining a systemic predisposition toward .gov dependency, he became a classic example of the American self-made man, although he would tell you much credit should be given to his loving, resourceful mother. Furthermore, his dependency was not in .gov programs; rather, his sufficiency was found in God.

Ben moves along well in this life; his eyes are, as they say, on the prize.

So, by n' by, he runs for President. Why not? This is America.

Trump berates him on the campaign trail.

But later, after all the recounted ballots have hit the fan, Trump nominates Ben for head of a federal department, Housing and Urban Development.

Say what?

For a brain surgeon? Why not HHS? Why not Surgeon General?

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

But now what do we see? All kinds of protest from the welfare Establishment, elites of housing elevation inside the beltway don't like it one bit. Why?

No experience in the field. No experience in running housing programs.

No experience in federal .gov. No experience in any .gov whatsoever.

What about all the .gov programs he had to get around in order to be a brain surgeon running for Prez?

So here's America wondering, what needs to happen here? What is appropriate experience, resumé, and background for running/reforming a big .gov housing dep't.? Experienced proficiency in running a megalith .gov department?

Or something else, perhaps . . . intelligence, good sense, uncommon ability to apply one's self to daunting tasks, integrity, character, intimate familiarity with problems of poverty, incredibly unique educational accomplishment, persistence, determination, methodical approach to solving problems, an analytical mind, a skilled hand, a precise approach to cutting and mending, a winning smile. . .?

On the point of Ben having no .gov-departmental proficiency, the critics are legion. Their verdict: unqualified, ill-prepared, nothing in resumé to qualify him, he's anti-government, yes-man, uncle tom, blahblahblah.

Now why is this happening? Is there something wrong with Uncle Ben, or is there something wrong with big brutha HUD?

But I ask you this. Has HUD solved, since its inception in 1965, the problem of substandard housing in cities?

Has HUD solved the housing-related problems of poverty in the inner cities?

Uh, no, don't think so.

Could this HUDdish inability to solve the problems of affordable housing indicate, perhaps, the need for a new approach? a new diagnosis, new prognosis? The mood of the nation after this election would suggest: yes.

Ok. Let's take a look.

But an analytical look. Let's step back. Back to basics. Why do we even have a federal government? Why do we have, within that .gov, a Department of Housing and Urban Development?

To answer this question, we look to the Preamble of our Constitution:

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare . . ."

Welfare? Well golly, our 21st-century image of that bureaucracy-burdened idea is a fact of life in the real world. It is what it is.

But let's promote it--welfare--anyway, because our Constitution says so. Let us go then, amid the noise and haste, and promote our best interests, the welfare of Us the People. But let us do it in in a revisionary way, a way that will permit some necessarily corrective surgery on a bloated, debilitated .gov institution that promotes programs of incentive-destroying dependency.

Let us move forward progressively, proactively, with a plan for overcoming the systemic dependency of HUD. Let us, instead permit, by whatever means can be devised, personal and familial independence, as we find it so boldly declared in our Declaration of Independence:

. . .whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Therefore, I move we allow the man who worked his way out of substandard housing, and ultimately out of poverty, to take charge of a new effort to correctively administrate affordable housing.

Let Ben Carson administrate the Department of Housing and Urban Development.



Glass half-Full

Rigged Whirlwind

God bless the President of the United States.

God bless the President-elect of the United States.

Nevertheless, our President-elect hath brought down upon himself, and upon his budding administration, a whirlwind of contention about the legitimacy of the very election that puts him in charge of things.

Now Jill Stein, the Green Party's defeated nominee, is demanding recounts in some battleground states. Some Democrats are also rattling their cages with similar demands for recounting. Furthermore, some irate leftists are actively attempting to convince Electoral College delegates to violate the electoral mandate of their respective state delegations, by voting against the Republican Presidential nominee.

The overall effect is casting, in some quarters, a pall of doubt, and an implication of illegitimacy over our 2-centuries old Constitutionally-established electoral process.

Who is responsible for this dubious development?

Donald Trump.

He was the candidate who publicly proclaimed that our election system was "rigged."

His accusation, loudly stated months before the election, was a desperate attempt to capture the support of disgruntled voters in flyover country who have felt, for many years, deep down in their bones, distrust for our Democratic-Republican system of government. These so-called rust-belt-dwelling, middle-aged, middle-class, honky-white denizens of tea-party insurrection have felt, for the last eight years or more, that somehow the whole damn elite-controlled, media-manipulated, inside-the-beltway, special-interests-driven .gov-slouching Establishment is stacked against them.

But on Nov. 9, a funny thing happened on the way to the Electoral College. President Trump's strategy of sowing seeds of doubt--about the fairness of the System--it worked. Instead of getting him a recount, it got him a victory!

Who'd've thunk it? Probably the Donald himself. One thing's for sure. He's smarter than the average bear, and his timing must be damnear perfect. He played against the odds, like challenging the dealer in an Atlantic City casino. And guess what? He won.

Nevertheless, as the old Book--and sometimes the bookie--says, you sow to the wind, hey, you reap the whirlwind.

We Americans now fined ourselves feeling a whirlwind of discontent that ariseth from the other direction, like the hurricane after the eye has passed. This strange bellowing stirreth up electoral troubles anew, when we thought the whole damn thing had blown over.

Hence, post-election, leftist wolves now Occupy those Boston tea-party rumors of discontent; they howl beneath a full moon of coveted anarchy--contending that the system is rigged. It is rigged by our out-of-fashion Constitutional electoral process, and by election improprieties in several key states, and also by the fact that Sec. Clinton has reportedly gathered more popular votes.

"Rigged!" so they say. Who came up with that allegation?

President Trump.

You reap what you sow.

Glass half-Full

supremacist, really?

I got in the car to drive home from work. Radio was on. Juan Gonzalez was interviewing Jeremy Scahill on Democracy Now. Jeremy was speaking about a political thing that is reportedly happening in our country now, a movement of misguided zealots who are striving to impose on the rest of us some so-called "Christian supremacist agenda."

But this Christian says, I beg to differ; consider this:

Here is a picture of the man who established the Christian religion:

Does this person look like a "supremacist"?

This pic, taken from a very old painting, is an artist's rendering of the man who long ago said:

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.

This is the man who, when two of his disciples wanted to call down a firestorm of judgement on people who had rejected them, denied them permission to impose such a vengeful retaliation, and then explained, ". . . (I) did not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them."

This is the man who, on the night of his arrest, who would not allow his right-hand man to wield a sword to resist their arrest.

Does such a strategy sound like the beginning of a "supremacist" uprising?

I do believe Mr. Scahill has confused us Christians with some other group, a group whose identity is not rooted in the One who was willing to give his life for me and for all the rest of us.

Mr. Scahill is referring, I believe, to those honky whites who think they own the place. They need to read the gospels instead of whatever white supremacist webstuff they've gotten a hold of. And they need to quit emulating the jihadi supremacists who want to impose a caliphate on us dhimmi-witted Christians.

As for you, Juan and Jeremy, just keep on doing what you're doing, if that's what floats your boat. But please, try to get your nomenclature correct next time you go reporting on us who claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.

Glass half-Full

Alabama. How 'bout you?

Alabama.
Alabama sticks in my mind, going way back.
To get from Louisiana to Georgia, you have to drive through that Sweet Home state of Alabama, the state where folks drive around with a license plate that says: Stars fell on . . .
Alabama, whatever that means.
I'll tell you what it means. it means crucible.
It means the place where America's deepest hopes and deepest fears about building a great nation and living out the ideal of all men and women being created equal by Creator God, the place where all those deepest hopes and deepest fears clashed in the thoroughfares of history on a highway between Selma and Montgomery,
and on the steps of the state capitol when President Kennedy sent soldiers in to compel George Wallace to do his job and allow the black folks of Sweet Home to vote and to go to school and to University.
And then later, years later, George Wallace issued a public apology for his former racist bullshit way of doing things. And I remember this video I saw online just a year or two or three ago of Wallace sitting in a wheelchair, his daughter by his side, telling the blacks folk and all of us, all the people of America that he was sorry.
I mean I saw this, so to speak, with my own eyes, (online.) It all happened in my lifetime.
This George Wallace who was speaking in my hometown, back in the day, 1968, when he went to the Louisiana legislature and spoke there and he said if they'd send him to Washington he'd take all their suitcases from all them bureaucrats in Washington and throw them suitcases in the Potomac River, and when he said that all the Louisianans who filled that legislative chamber laughed.
But such hyperbole was not a rhetorical stunt unknown to the folks of the bayou state, many of whom in that room that day could still remember what Huey Long had said back in the day, 1930's.
'Course we all know it didn't amount to a hill of beans. Dick Nixon went to the white house that year instead the Alabama governor. Hubert Humphrey was the one who lost big time that year because Wallace peeled off a bunch of them riled-up southern Democrats.
I mean, Hubert got a raw deal in Chicago, but we can't be crying in our beer forever. He was a nice guy. God bless him, Hubert. May he rest in peace; and, for that matter, may Richard Nixon rest in peace.
We all have our faults.
All of this has happened in my lifetime, y'all, which wasn't so long ago and it's still happening today.
We have seen serious changes during these 65 years. I'm not making this up.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MhOZt5-Jl8
Maybe I'm just dreaming it, but if I am just dreaming it, well shut my mouth.
But as I was sayin'--I'm talking' 'bout Alabama now--the place where all of our darkest southern closets got blasted open to reveal them skeletons in them closets, them skeletons of racism that most Alabamans have now left in the dust of history but every now and then someone drags them old skeletons out of them closets.
Dogs sicced on freedom riders, four martyred girls in 16th Street Baptist church, Birmingham.
This blood was not shed in vain. The blood of the martyrs is the seeds of . . .
So these days, November 2016, y'all can rant in the streets all you want to, but I'm here to tell you that this new Attorney General appointee, Sen. Jeff Sessions, him about whom the Dems are so upset, while they be trying to affix the R-word to Senator Jeff's reputation just because he be from Alabama, and yet I see on Resurgent this morning these photos of Jeff Sessions holding hands with Rep. John Lewis
http://theresurgent.com/seriously-trump-the-pictures-of-jeff-sessions-they-dont-want-you-to-see/
as they were commemorating the stand taken back in the day, 1965, when Dr. King, Dr. Abernathy, young John Lewis and many others who, being with them all together of one accord and holding hands, marched across the Edmund Pettus bridge while trying to walked from Selma to Montgomery but then them Alabama troopers sent out by the old Wallace, not the later-repentent Wallace, stopped them civil rights marchers on the bridge and beat the hell out 'em.
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/selma-montgomery-march/videos/bloody-sunday
But this blood was not shed in vain. The blood of the martyrs is the seeds of . . .
But then, as the poet said, and still says, the times they are a-changin'.
And so they did, and they still are.
Hence, just a year ago as I was cleaning a laundry room at work and listening on the radio to John Lewis' account of that infamous Bloody Sunday event, as he was recalling it to Terri Gross or Diane Rehm or someone like that, and I remember what Rep. Lewis said about being beat up and it was some bad shit going down but they lived to tell about it and ultimately they prevailed all the way to the steps of the Alabama state capitol and Dr. King spoke and it really stuck with me.
So now in November 2016 I'm seeing this jpg of Sessions and Lewis holding hands on the Edmund Pettus bridge and
this has all happened in my lifetime, y'all.
Please don't tell me it was a dream. Let me have my dream. I have the dream, all God's children. . . don't you have a dream?
I mean, this all happened in my lifetime y'all.
Alabama, please ya'll don't forget this excruciated crucible of our great American dream, where the blood of saints and sinners was shed for the liberty of us all. If you ever go there, remember you'll be treading on holy ground, ground made holy by the shedding of the blood of the Lamb,
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/birmingham-church-bombing
but that was before the stars fell on Alabama. Now people there have seen the light, or at least I hope they have. I'm willing to give them a little grace, and a little space, to cross our next bridge.
How 'bout you?

Glass half-Full

Symbols that Unite or Divide

Here's a timely excerpt from Glass half-Full, the novel I wrote in 2007:

Marcus opened a can of turpentine. He tipped it slightly so that its upper contents would spill onto a rag that lay on the parking lot next to his car. With the rag partially soaked, he began rubbing on the driver’s-side door. Someone had painted a black swastika on it while he was working late. His cell phone rang.

He opened it, looked at the mini-screen, saw “Grille,” which stood for Jesse James Gang Grille. In the last few days, however, whenever he would see “Grille” displayed as the caller ID, it registered in his mind as “Girl,” meaning Bridget, because she would often call from there.

“Hi.”

“Marcus, have you heard about the explosion?”

“No, where?”

“At the Belmont Hotel, about 20 minutes ago.”

The Belmont was just two blocks from the restaurant.

“That’s where the FEF convention is. Aleph told me he would be going there tonight. Has anybody been down there to see what’s happening?”

“Kaneesha left here right after we heard it, but she hasn’t returned. I don’t think anybody’s getting in there for awhile. The police have got the whole block barricaded.”

“I want to find out if anything has happened to Aleph. Don’t you think he would have left there by now?

“The TV News says the police aren’t letting anyone in or out except rescue workers.”

“I’m headed over there in a few minutes, as soon as I get the car-door cleaned up. Someone painted a swastika on it."

Glass half-Full

Thanks to our Veterans

On this Veterans' Day 2016, I say to all men and women who have served our United States as soldiers and workers in our armed forces, Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard, National Guard. . .

Thank You.

All you men and women who are serving, or have served, in our armed forces, and then lived to tell about it, please know that we are glad you made it through your dutiful missions, still alive and kicking.

As a remembrance of those who did not make it back alive, we reflect upon the cause--our freedom as a nation of free men and women--for which they fought, bled, and died. Toward that end, we recall the words of President Abraham Lincoln, which he spoke at Gettysburg battlefield in November, 1863.

". . . from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Glass half-Full

Where is our new Frontier?

We will need some kind of new frontier in order for significant growth to take hold.

In the early stages of our nation, that growth came from westward continental expansion.

In the 1920's, growth came from unprecedented expanding consumer markets.

In 1950's-60's postwar America, growth came from rebuilding our nation and the world after the Depression and WWII destruction.

In the 1980's-90's, growth came from the computerization, digitization and online expansion of American life.

If we are in for a new expansion, what industry or circumstance will be the basis for it?

If the next expansion is going to truly benefit the little people-- the losers in that theoretical "income inequality" gap--then our expansion must begin with them.

It's time for the bootslingers that tread upon American streets, sidewalks and soils to pull themselves up by our bootstraps, because such a thing as prosperity cannot happen as a result of .gov programs.

The advanced, post-industrial condition of our economy indicates, I believe, that the next wave of innovation/expansion can, and must, come only from the economic micro-units of our heartland.

That is to say, from the garage tinkerers, the workshop wonders, the flea-market marvels, the home front hopefuls, the lemonade-stand lovers of our land who are unwilling to waste away in social media mediocrity and cabled corruption.

Now is the time for grassroots level renewal.

Now is the time for all men and women to come to the aid of their families, their neighborhoods, their communities, our country.

Donald Trump, bless his heart, may be an amazing guy, off the charts and all that, but he cannot pull prosperity out of a half-empty glass economic base.

The glass half-Full mindset will be based, in our future, on learning how to do more with less. The milking of this planet's resources can only go so far without seriously strategic enterprising innovation. That principle will be the lesson and legacy of the Obama years.

I hope we have learned, or will learn, that lesson of resourcefulness, and I hope that President Trump will facilitate our building upon that great base of American innovation and enterprise.

Don't you Americans be looking for no handouts. That well has run dry. It's time to drill a new one, but it may have to be in your own back yard.

In this way we may perhaps make America great again.

Glass half-Full

America Bleeding

In the middle of my teenage years, back in the day, I was a high school student. On the other side of the city where I grew up, our state university provided education for thousands of students who had already matriculated to the college level of learning.

Here is a picture which I lifted, by iPhone helicoptering technology, from a book that I recently perused. The image depicts a campus walkway, circa 1965, where students are going into and out of the LSU student Union building. A few years after this photograph was snapped, I became one of those students, 1969 version, who traipsed from class to class on the campus of LSU.

The book from which this image is lifted is linked here:

https://www.amazon.com/Treasures-LSU-Laura-F-Lindsay/dp/0807136786

This morning, while viewing this photo as part of the research for the novel that I am now composing, I found something interesting about it. Take a look at the apparel that these students are wearing. Most of them are clothed in solid colors, which, in this photo, registers as either black or white. On almost every student whose garb depicts this black/white arrangement, the black is on the lower half of the body--the pants, or skirt part.

Considering the way Americans dress nowadays, this seems to be a boringly plain, regimented arrangement. It is, however, perhaps a little more dignified than what we might see at a typical 2016 visit to, say, Walmart, McDonald's, or any college or university.

Notice, however, that six of these students in the picture are wearing a clothes motif that stands apart from the black/white pattern. And in every one of these six individuals, the fashion statement is the same:

Plaid.

Six students are wearing plaid.

This was a new trend in youthful clothing during the mid-1960's. It was, however, the beginning of a virtual tsunami of color that would be be flaunted in the coming years, in the clothes and fashions of young people. By the end of the decade, this small bursting forth of crisscrossed chromaticism would metamorphose into a riot of self-expressive color displayed uninhibitedly on our young bodies. Thus would we baby boomers strive, in our own threadish way, to find and establish own generational identity.

My memory of this elaborative fashion development began in my eight-grade, 1964-65. The pattern retained in my mind from that time is a certain kind of plaid:

Madras.

The Madras plaid came from India, specifically a city there named Madras, which has since had its name changed to Chennai.

What was really groovy for us back in the day was that Madras plaids had an earthy, handwoven look. The fabric itself had curious little irregularities in it. . . little clumps in the thread, and variations in the weaving. The look and feel of it was a departure from the American stuff, which was obviously machine-made, bland and boring.

So we started wearing the Madras plaid in--I think it was--about 1965. This photograph seems to have captured the very inception of that style-shattering sea-change in our thread preferences.

A very attractive feature of the Madras was this: it bled.

When you washed your plaid shirt, or pants, the colors would "bleed."

With each washing, the threaded pigments would migrate slightly out into the white regions of the fabric.

This was way-cool.

It was groovy. All that color was leaping out of the grooves of regimented style, testing the compartmentalism of society, violating the tick-tacky of conformity, even setting the stage for a fading American resolve to retain our post-WWII position as policeman of the world.

But this fashionable Madras bleeding was but a small shriveling on the torso of the American corpus writ large.

At the same time, in the mid-1960's, America was bleeding real, red blood, and it wasn't cool.

It was hot blood, 98.6 degrees.

America was bleeding in Vietnam.

America was bleeding in the ghettoes of the cities.

America was bleeding in Selma.

America was bleeding in Watts, in Detroit.

America would bleed in Orangeburg, at Jackson State, at Kent State.

But that was nothing new.

America had bled at Lexington and Concord, at Yorktown.

America had long been shedding blood in the cotton fields, and at the trading blocks in New Orleans, in Charleston.

America had bled in Kansas, and at Harpers Ferry, Fort Sumter, Antietam.

America bled at Gettysburg and Appammatox.

America bled at Little Big Horn and at Wounded Knee.

America bled through the hands, the arms and backs and feet of thousands of immigrants who drove steel stakes into the railways that stretched all the way from Boston to San Francisco.

America bled at Haymarket, Chicago

America bled prolifically at Verdun, Amiens, Flanders

America hemorrhaged at Pearl Harbor, at Normandy, at the Bulge, at Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal and Okinawa.

And America continued its bloodletting in Korea, at Inchon.

America bled at Ia Drang, at Khe Sanh, at Saigon and Hué and Danang.

America wept bloody tears at My Lai.

America bled from Kuwait to Baghdad

America bled in Beirut and Mogadishu, and in Kosovo.

America bled at the Word Trade Center on 9/11.

America bled at Fallujah, and in Helmand, Qandahar and Kabul.

America weeps for the blood shed at Mosul and Aleppo.

America weeps, America bleeds in millions of D&C'd in uteri.

We have always been bleeding somewhere. It is the way of all flesh.

And America is still bleeding; she is bleeding now.

As to which way we will be bleeding tomorrow, that remains, until 11/9, to be seen.



Glass half-Full

Riggedy Rigged, Jiggedy Jig

Once upon an election dreary,

while I desponded, weak and weary

over many a banal and boring

email of Clintonian yore,

suddenly there came a tapping,

as of someone gently rapping,

rapping at our nation's door.



My mind was wobbly, cluelessly wobbling

when suddenly there came a goblin,

as some terrible beastie toppling

toppling down our Rule of Law!

Screamed the raven, Caw! Caw! Caw!

Screamed the maven, No more Law, No Election Law!

Then quoth the maven, Rigged, Rigged!

And quoth the raven, Jiggedy Jig!

And then I saw it, in media gone wild

with citizenry by hearsay now defiled

as Comey's call flew through the door,

Our Elective legitimacy cometh Nevermore!



How this happened, I am not sure.

I only hope we're not beyond a cure.

But as the storm rolled o'er our news-tossed shore,

I heard again, the raven, Nevermore!



I mean, um, I woke up.

It seemed like the eye of the storm had passed. But then this past weekend we started to feel it-- those first ominous stirrings of a fierce backwind--phase two--the last rumblings of a frightfully destructive political maelstrom.

It was Hurricane Donilldary swirling up again from the dark depths of our dysfunction; so soon doth it roll again and again like bungling banshees o'er the coasts of our confusion, until the end, November 8th, the very end.

Highly unstable air--blown up between Donald's hot bluster and Hillary's cool cloud'cover-- now takes control of what used to be an orderly democratic-republican system for presidential selection.

Makes Watergate look like a walk in the park, McArthur's Park. Someone left the cake out in the rain.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWFHVBnR7G0

I don't think the Weatherman faction could have come up with a more destructive gunpowder plot for blowing up--or at least hopelessly confounding--our constitutionally-established electoral process.

I mean, it has been like this:

The Donald railed loudly that the thing was rigged, carelessly casting, like, acid rain on the wild winds of our discontent. But then, like the scary surprise ending of a Hitchcock movie, we open our jaded eyes to find, in the final (week) scene, that maybe it turns out to be the Hillary who, on the morning of 11/9, perches accusedly at the doorpost of our darkest fears, and there she calls out, caws out, repeatedly, frantically cawing,

Rigged! Rigged!

So While Comey's last-minute disclosures in the background then do fade, America's confidence in the rule of law then fades,

to charade, a giga-question mark tirade,

of fear and loathing from near and far

While squawks the Raven, Bizarre!, Bizarre!

And Anonymous hackers call Who's the next Star?

of this, our ghastly ghoulish game,

which no constitutional precedent can tame

and who's the next candidate for our feathering and tar?

Guy Fawkes couldn't have plotted it better.

We read it in a subpeona'ed email letter.

Quoth the Maven from afar,

so Bizarre, so Bizarre!



Glass Chimera

A Modest Declaration

When in the course of human political events,

it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with obsolete political parties, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all humans are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness--that to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among the people, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,

And furthermore, that whenever any system of quasi-governmental political parties becomes destructive of these ends, it becomes the Necessity of the people to alter or abolish those superfluous forms, and to institute new political associations, laying the revised foundations on such principles and organizing political powers in such forms, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Liberty.

When a long train of political party misuses and misappropriations enables the party powers to take undue advantage of the people beneath two overblown party hegemonies, it is the right of the people--yea, it is their duty--to throw off such contra-functional political structures, and to provide new avenues for their political expressions, and more importantly, for their national security.

Such has been the patient, obsequious sufferance of many a hapless Democrat and clueless Republican under irresponsible, exploitive party hacks; and such is now the necessity which constrains the exploited people to delete their formerly systematic, politically impotent political parties.

The history of those present political parties is a history of increasing irrelevance and institutional ineptitude, presently producing no useful thing, except insofar as it provokes a mounting urgency for reform amongst the American people. This discontent is soon to be directed against the ineffective Dhemmie and Repooblican lackeys, as the people realize their sincere desires and thus sharpen their dutiful efforts toward finding new governance, through the appointment of competent, dignified leadership. To effect such change as heretofore put forth, let us tell it like it is:

~~ Both political parties have produced presidential candidates who are incapable of upholding the dignity of the people whom they pretend to govern.

~~ Both presidential candidates have obsessively traded insults about each other's crimes, bankruptcies, emails, and many other superfluous offenses too numerous to list. These narcissistic jabs serve no constructive purpose; rather, they ignore, in effect, the noble heritage and the inherent dignity of the American people; furthermore, these Hillary/Donald excursions into ridiculous dog-chasing-his-tail quasi-rhetorical futility, do insidiously distract the formerly productive attentions of the American people, and thereby dumb-down the entire political landscape. Such gravely irresponsible misdirection of the public discourse is destructive; it absolutely fails to illuminate the serious issues and grave concerns by which our nation's security and prosperity is now imperiled. Thus Hillary and Donald have utterly failed, by their useless antics, to edify or instruct us about anything pertaining to the governance of this nation, not to mention the rest of the world, to which we were in days past, the original, exceptional (haha) example of republican democracy.

~~ As concerning the two dumb-downed parties who, by their negligence and self-serving corruption, have facilitated the seizure of our presidential selection process by these two charlatans, we the people hereby reject their collusive hegemony over our individual lives and over our collective security as a free people.

We, therefore, the citizens of the United States of America, in our domestic habitations, in our cyber identities, and in our collective and individual dignity as citizens of a free nation, do set forth this appeal to our fellow-Americans, that we might ditch the old, has-been Democrat and Republican wrecked irrelevancies, and embark upon a bold, revised political scenario, by which we can approach, adventurously, a new horizon wherein is the vigorous extension of our free expression and truly effective political organization, to whit:

Go ye out on election day and Vote. Feel free to Vote for any party that remotely reflects your principles, be it Green, or Libertarian, or whatever, but not the damn Nazis. Endorse whatsoever political association you shall, in your good conscience, with regard to responsible leadership, devise.

Therefore, so that We, the People of the United States of America, may embark upon a new expedition of responsive leadership and effective government, do hereby now forsake the old, sclerotic Democratic party and the decrepit, obsolete Republican party,

And forsooth, by this means, government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from the earth,

Because hey, if such a thing as this cannot be done in the United States of America, where on earth can it be done?

Glass half-Full

Tan Son Nhut 1970

When Johnny came marching home again it was in 1971, although really, there was no parade.

He wasn't actually marching, anyway, but rather flying commercial out of Vietnam on a PanAm from Cam Ranh Bay. The jet featured American stewardesses, and this was a very favorable detail that our exiting guys did not fail to notice as they soared off to Pacific destinations and ultimately all the way back over here to the good ole USA. It was a long flight from the war, and a long time to have to watch stewardesses traipsing up and down the carpeted aisles, serving food and drink; but our guys managed to get through it.

My old friend Johnny's departing flight from Vietnam was a reversal of his arrival there, a year earlier, on a commercial US aircraft.

But here's a curious fact that he confided to me. The "scaredest" he ever got while in Vietnam was on that first day, during the jet's approach into Cam Ranh, because the descending plane was drawing enemy fire!

Welcome to Vietnam! Haha!

Last week, during the first days of October 2016, my old neighborhood friend Johnny told me about his one year tour in Vietnam. He lives in Louisiana, where we both started life; now I live in North Carolina. We brought our wives and had a Florida panhandle reunion at the beach.

We were chums in high school, but after our graduation in 1969 he went his way and I went mine. I went to college; he went to Vietnam.

I was protesting the war; he was over there in the middle of it.

Before last week, I had not seen Johnny since about 1975.

Now I'm writing a novel about that period of time, and about some of the differences--and reconciliation-- between those two diverging groups--"them that went" and "them that didn't."

As it turned out, Johnny's year of duty at Tan Son Nhut Air Base, just north of Saigon, was, he admits, easier than the brutal combat some of our guys had to endure out in the jungles while they were on patrol being relentlessly pursued by the silently stalking Viet Cong.

During our time of defending the former Republic of Vietnam, tons and tons of weaponry, machinery, and supplies had to be delivered into the country to supply our people there. Tan Son Nhut was a busy location for transport and communications, and we needed a lot of guys on the ground to keep systems oiled, protected and combat-ready. My friend Johnny was one of those men.

During high school, Johnny had acquired some work experience in appliances and refrigeration. After our high school graduation he was not inclined, as I was, toward college. He worked for a while. Then he saw, you might say, "the handwriting on the wall" about how career choices were shaping up in 1969-70. So he volunteered for the Army. After boot camp at Fort Polk (Louisiana) and some duty-specific training at Fort Belvoir (Virginia), he shipped out, which is to say, he was put on a flight path that landed him at the Cam Ranh Air Base where they almost got shot down before setting foot in the infamous theater of Vietnam.

When my friend arrived at his post on the perimeter of Tan Son Nhut Air Base, he spent a year on guard duty, keeping watch over the rice paddies and distant jungles beyond the fence, and reporting whenever mortar fire or any other unfriendly thing was approaching the air base.

Inside the base, there were moments when our guys could take a little time off. Here's a pic that Johnny snapped; it depicts a recreational session of high-stakes card-sharking, with maybe a little bluffing and probably some bravado bullcrap thrown in to keep the game interesting.

Here's a pic of Johnny, taken when he had only been in Vietnam a few days.

Last week, after Johnny showed me a few hundred photos that had been stored away at his home, I thanked him for taking the time to meet me in Florida so we could talk about Vietnam.

Because I can't write a book about what was happ'nin' in the USA in 1969 without talking about Vietnam. I also thanked my friend for his service to our nation.

And I thanked God that he survived it. There were 58,000 of "them that went" who did not.

If you were a college kid like me in the 1960's-'70's, you will find it well worth your time to visit a few of the men and women who did not do college at that time, but who served--by choice or by draft--in the military. Right or wrong, won or lost, however you call it, they did what our country called them to do.

We may need many more like them before it's all over with.



King of Soul

Coast

Coast is clear

life is dear

without fear

now and here



World turns round

up turns down

some get lost, others found

life goes back to ground



Build the town

structures up, but they'll come down

lots of noise, then dearth of sound

still the world goes round and round



Another day, another turn

some will learn; some will burn

many earn and some discern

still the world doth turn and turn



Clouds rise up

life is tough

times get rough

lose some stuff



When all is said and done

we live and walk and speak and run

we feel pain but we find fun

until this present day is done.



What then?

Do it all again?

How about find a friend

in the one who died and rose again.

Glass half-Full

from Ridiculous to Sublime

A couple of nights ago, I briefly tuned into that greatly over-hyped debate. Donald was blathering about Hillary's emails and she was going on and on about his failure to release tax returns.

Nothing new here, just more of the same old same old blah blah.

So I ditched it, and went back to what I had been doing before, because, I thought, this is ridiculous.

Well then a day or two rolls by.

This afternoon, while listening to WDAV on the radio, my soul was stirred profoundly by the hearing of an amazing selection of music. And I found myself wondering, what is it about this music that moves me so much?

I don't know, but I can tell you one thing. This music it is sublime.

What is sublime? you may wonder. I cannot adequately explain to you what the word sublime means, but I can show you where the meaning is clearly demonstrated if you will listen to this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOofwWT3Edc

As the changing drama within the music builds up, pay particular attention to these minute-time points in the video: 2:58, 4:00, 5:55 and 8:32.

I recently read something about how or why this artistic dynamism moves us so much. In his book, A Secular Age, Charles Taylor says . .

". . . such art can serve to disclose very deep truths which in the nature of things can never be obvious . . ."

This music is, after all physical analysis is said and done, merely a pounding of wood and metal beneath the orchestrated hands of trained men. How can it be, then, that it moves me so?

To try to understand why or how, you might as well try to comprehend how or why, over two centuries ago, some men and women like you and me had a luxurious building constructed and then walked around on its mosaic floor like they owned the place and then later a bunch of other stuff happened and things changed and it got covered up for a long time and then one day some other people came along and dug it up and said . . .

". . .well, gollee, what do you know about that?"

"Gosh, Jeb, it's a mystery to me."

Glass Chimera

#WhateverTrump

So okay all you Republican floozies, if Trump is going to be the man with the plan then we need to get a few principles clarified upfront from the get-go.

#1. The man needs to be humbled and kept in his place, if he is going to be a truly effective leader. His ego is too big. This should be our strategy in dealing with the strong leader that he is.

#2. Other Republican leaders like Paul Ryan, Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Mitch McConnell, John McCain, Mitt Romney and both former Presidents Bush will need to ride him hard to keep the buckaroo in line with Republican principles.

#3. A very important principle of the GOP is the one spoken by our founder, Abraham Lincoln; he exhorted the folks at Gettysburg . . . "government of the people, for the people, and by the people shall not perish from the earth."

And government by the people means teamwork, not one guy calling all the shots.

#4. Evangelical leaders who are smitten with Trump's authoritative leadership style need a reality check. Remember the words of our Lord, the One who is faithful and true, who said,

"You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great men exercise authority over them. It is not this way among you, but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave"

#5. #WhateverTrump does not mean that whatever Trump wants should be done. It means whatever Trump wants must be harnessed by the Republican party, the party that put him where he is today, the party that will keep his initiatives in line with Republican principles, the party that will diligently and compulsively advise him in matters critical to the preservation and extension of this great American Republic and also the free world at large.

#6. #WhateverTrump does not mean that whatever Trump decides to do should be done. It means whatever Trump decides should be done must be legislatively advised and consented to by the Congress of the United States; and limited, if necessary, but the Supreme Court of the United States, so that we will remain a representative Republic, a government of the people, by the people and for the people.

#7. For my fellow-Christians, the most important principle of all: In God We Trust, not in the power of any one man, nor any .gov to fix everything. For those who do not choose to trust God, #good luck, and may the farce be with you.



Glass half-Full

Covered Women

I was a Catholic kid growing up in the 1950's. During that era, the Church schools were administered by nuns whose habits included keeping themselves covered by black and white cloth.

But during my lifetime, now extending into 65 years, all that nunnery garb has gone the way of the buffalo. You don't hardly see old-style nuns walking around in public any more.

On the other hand, there appears to be a worldwide movement by some religious people to keep their women covered. More about that in a moment.

Another thing that was going on back in the day, when I was a youngster, was the growth of viewership in playboy magazine, a publication that was eagerly snapped by pubescents like myself and many others, for the sake of looking at naked women.

Generally, us good Catholic boys preferred to train our eyes onto the girls in the magazine, instead of the nuns who were teaching us at school.

That infamous magazine was not the only one, as you probably know. There were many others, such as penthouse and hustler. As the years rolled by, those rags just got raunchier and raunchier. Then along came the X-rated movie houses, peep house, topless bars and ultimately the worldwide web on which any female genitalia and mammary-triggered acting out can be fantasized. At various times I sampled them all before God got a hold of me and got me straightened out on a few things.

Now I notice, ubiquitously, we inhabit an hyper-stimulating post-religious world where many women who court the public spotlight compete with each other for male gawks by flaunting outfits that take exposure, instead of fashion, to the max.

This is very titillating, and at times seems pleasant and quite alluring, but it doesn't solve any problems. In fact, as a certified old geezer now I am starting to think this whole hefneresque uncoverage trend has generated more trouble than its worth.

All these sexy women sauntering around in the world can actually make a man's life much harder--not easier--to bear.

My personal experience uncovers this truth: when you get right down to it, there is nothing better for a man in this world than a real, live woman who loves him, and there is nothing better for a woman than a real, live man who loves her.

But now we have millions of horny men walking around in the post-modern, post-religion, post-playboy, post-marriage, post-internet world being constantly tormented by all these uncovered women.

And so along cometh the Muslims imams, raising their hajibual judgements against our licentious western ways.

As a Christian, I cannot deny they have a point.

They want to keep the women covered. Western women see this as oppression. Maybe it is, but there are some western men who discreetly understand why it is that the Muslims want to cover their women with hijab and niqab. My born-again assessment of this conundrum is that Law (of covering women, or anything else) is no salvation--and no solution--for delivering us over-stimulated males from our sexual obsessions. We each have our own frustrations to deal with, and that is an issue between each man and his God. And his woman, if he is fortunate enough to have one.

In other news, it has been reported that some great historian said somewhere that what goes around comes around.

I could say that, in my lifetime, the notion of women being modestly dressed has incrementally disappeared; maybe it went around the dark side of the moon or somewhere to be disposed of forever. Religious people are criticized for being old-fashioned, puritanical, repressed, blahblahblah, for their antiquated ideas about keeping women covered.

Now the idea of modesty comes back around, but this time from a different source--a different religion--not the old Catholic one, not the old Puritan one, not the old Calvinist one, but the new/old Muslim one that comes slouching from the east.

And this old guy wonders if now we really get what's coming to us. Nebuchadnezzer is not just mouthing empty fatwahs.

Maybe it's time to take cover.


Glass half-Full

The Bang at Trang Crossroads

Here's ann excerpt from chapter 11 of the new novel, King of Soul, now being written; the scene is Vietnam, about 45 years ago. . .

(Warning: viewer discretion is advised. This passage could affect your feeling of well-being in the world as it presently exists, and as it existed then. . .)

Ahnika was terrified; she was so scared to turn around and then see that plane coming at them, but she turned her head anyway. The pounding of her bare feet against the road made everything in her terrified vision seem to bounce up and down with insanely out-of-place energized chaos and this only compounded her terror. The planes that usually zoomed above their village had never come this close before. Why was it flying so low, so fast, so directly toward them. And why, since it was bearing down so close, so fast--why were bombs coming out of it, tumbling projectiles? This was not right. There was something wrong. Then came the explosions. It was no bad dream. These bombs were exploding; the smoke was billowing faster than the villagers could run; it was covering the whole world. Her brothers were just ahead, running faster than she could. But Auntie was behind; that's why Ahnika was looking behind, because Auntie was back there, with little brother in her arms. There was a part of herself--a part of her family--a part of her Vietnamese life still behind her, trying to run, stumbling, falling. Falling?! Auntie had fallen. No No No No!, but no, Auntie had not fallen, but little brother had fallen from her arms; little brother was down on the road. Ahnika saw the look of confused desperation on Auntie's face, and just as Ahnika was about to try to do something, maybe stop, maybe try to get little brother, a soldier grabbed him and then little brother was in the soldier's arms but he was still wailing while the soldier was up and running again. Go! go! he yelled at Ahnika. Just ahead, other villagers were coming fast out of a the hut by the side of the road. Yellow and purple smoke was swirling as they ran through it; now there was bomb smoke behind and yellow and purple smoke ahead where the men had set off the smoke markers that were supposed to mark the temple grounds so their pilots would know where to not drop, but something was wrong and these explosions meant for the Viet Cong were hitting us instead something was wrong. After the first marker plume had fanned out but failed to prevent the pilot from hitting the wrong spots and so after he had dropped his loads off course something was wrong and while the ARVN commander was trying to stop the next drop, Auntie buckled at her knees, reached back behind herself to find out what was wrong with her leg and her pain was registered on her face she was clutching at the back of her leg and now her fingers were stuck together with the sticky napalm and so Auntie did not see it when the soldier who had got little brother took a direct hit of the stuff he was incinerated. But then the white-shrouded Caodai man who had earlier been in the temple with them picked up little brother he was not crying anymore and the whole scene was darkened with smoke and roaring noise and pain so bad you couldn't even tell where it was coming from but then Ahnika was struck with such a force from behind that she was down on the ground gravel in her mouth in her face and the worst pain ever felt by woman or child behind her, or in her behind in her shoulders, her arms but then she was up again desperate energized by the fear and running, running, pulling at the neck of her clothes because they were too hot, too hot but when she pulled at them then suddenly their entire cloth just fell away and she was up again running, running, wailing naked, crying with the pain, past any understanding of what was happening to them all or why or why or how this burning world could have turned out this way and she had her arms flung out to the sides , like a cross while she wailed and cried, like a cross she appeared and she felt like the pain of the whole world had fell on her shoulders but it was not her shoulders it was somebody's else's in the nightmare, somebody else's writhing, stretched out in pain and taking on the shape of a cross. It wasn't her any more it was somebody else in that cross, in that Trang crossroads as they ran, ran, toward Cu Chi, but she couldn't remember who it was taking the brunt of so much pain could it have been her or somebody else as everything in the world is going wrong and the weight of the whole damned world falls on those shoulders stretched out like a damn cross.

King of Soul

In Capitolletes' Orchard

A scene from from the new play, now being composed, Barromeo and JulioCare,

from Act II. Scene II.

The scene: before dawn, in Capitolettes' orchard

Enter Barromeo.

Barromeo. But whattheheck? what entitlement through yonder Congress breaks?

It is the east, and JulioCare is the sun!

Arise fair sun, and burn off the fatted corporates,

who are already plump with capitalism's excess.

Oh, How shall I fund thee, JulioCare?

Let me count the ways.

One, two, three, what are we pushin' for?

Ask me again and I'll tell you the same--

next phase gottta be an affordable game.

But hey! what Act through yonder Congress creeps,

shepherded by my Dhemmi peeps

It is my plan; O! it is my .gov!

Ob! that (s)he knew he/she were.

She/he speaks, yet spouts legal-speak, what of that?

Her/his eye discourses; I will pander to it.

See how he/she leans his/her cheek upon her/his hand;

oh that I were an MJ glove upon that hand,

that I might touch them little cheeks.

JulioCare (on hill portico above): Pshaw! woe is me.

Barromeo (aside): (S)he speaks: O! speak again bright angels in America,

for thou art as amorphous to this night

as some winged messenger of left-equality

unto the white-winged Right.

JulioCare: O Barromeo, Barromeo, wherefore art thou Barromeo?

Deny thy privilege, and ante up their game;

Or, if thou wilt not, be butt torn my love,

and I'll no longer be a Capitolette.

Barromeo: (aside) Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JulioCare: ' Tis but thy game that is my enemy;

thou art, thyself, not a politician bought-and-sold-for.

What's a politician? it is not Dhemmi, nor Prublican,

nor ding, nor dong, nor any other part

belonging to a man. Ob! be ye some other name:

What's in a frickin' name anyway? that which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet;

So Barromeo would, were he not El Prezzo called,

retain that dear election by which he shows

his coolness.

Barromeo: Listen up, girl! By a name,

I know not how to tell thee who I am, except

I am, you know, El Prezzidente, and tell your

Capitolette Prublican patriarchs don't you forget it!

JulioCare: My funds have not yet drunk! a thousand pages of thy remedy,

yet I'll tell my maid Nancy to have them read the damn thing

after it is passed by yonder congressional hacks

so its passage will be sure before yonder sun arises

to cast dread light upon our desperate plan

for the candyman can the candy man can.

At least that's what Uncle Sammy said back in the day.

Barromeo: Hey, fair maideno, we got it covered. Not to worry. We can slide it past your Prublicans duds quicker than you can say Taxonomy, according to Chief Justy Roberto. You just go back in there and get some rest

and I'll take care of the rest, cuz I'm the best

thing since sliced bread

to come outa Chicago since Dick Daley was the head. . .

JulioCare: Wait! (looking down at her cell) Pshaw! Pshit! My maid just texted--she said beware the ides of March and the

Big Banquos and the

Risk Corridors and whatever obfuscations my esteemed Prublicans bury in there before the whole damned spot gets out of the House of the Capitolettes.

Barromeo: Not to worry, babe. By yonder bleepin' moon I swear--

JulioCare: Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, which is, bi- and by, darkened by its dark side and--pshaw! pshit!--there's the lark, the herald of the morn, with harsh chirps and unpleasant sharps--'tis no nightingale that now soothes the forest of this night. Bi hence, be gone away! before reconciliation faileth to befuffuddle my forebears.

Barromeo: But hey, babe, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JulioCare: What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

Barromeo: the exchange of, um, thy love's faithful vow for mine.

JulioCare: That's a great idea; tell 'em to go the Exchange. No big deal.

Barromeo: You got it, babe, but hey, parting is such sweet sorrow, 'till we meet again. . .

JulioCare: Oh, 'tis twenty years 'til then!

Barromeo: Whoa, whoa, don't get bent out of shape. We needeth not such hyperbole.

JulioCare: Oh! when will we meet again! 'til then will I be but shapeshifting and forlorn.

Borromeo: In your dreams, baby; in your dreams. 'Til then, this thing will come together when Prublican wood doth move against Dhemmo games.

Maid (from within): JulioCare, get yo' assets back in here before the light of day changes everything!

JulioCare: Oh! pshaw! pshit! gotta go, Barromeo, but 'til we meet again in better circumstances . . . ; -)

Borromeo: Farewell, fair maideno, until we meet again! stay thee away from the risk corridors, lest they fall upon thee with unbearable rate-hikes. 'Tis a dangerous game. So fair and foul a game I have not seen, nor have most other folks. Hey, What's in the game, anyway? a dollar by any other special drawing rights-- 'tis nuttin' butt a tweet. I'll see ya when I see ya. I'll see your beloved currency and raise you an SDR. Fare thee well; my love for thee runs as deep as the Fed.

Exit Barromeo.

Glass Chimera

A Boomer Looks Back

Now that I've been growing up for 65 years, I am at last approaching some semblance of adulthood.

During the course of my baby'boomer lifetime, I have seen some changes; some of them I am actually starting to comprehend.

Now I look back on it all and find myself wondering about some things, but quite sure about some other things.

Several years ago, my wife and I spent some vacation time on the island of Maui, in the great state of Hawaii. While driving one afternoon down the western slope of Hale'akala volcano, we happened upon a memorial to a great man named Sun Yat-sen.

In his lifetime, during the early 20th century--1911, Sun lead many of his countrymen in a revolution that deposed the old monarchy of their country--the Chinese Qing dynasty. But before that happened, he had spent some time in Hawaii; that's why there's as statue of him there.

At the base of Sun Yat-sen's memorial a quote from him is carved in the stone, and this is what is said:

LOOK INTO THE NATURE OF THINGS

Ever since I saw that, I have been working that pearl of wisdom into my way of living as much as I can. And this principle of living and learning has been not only a motivation for me toward acquiring useful knowledge, but also a source of great joy and satisfaction.

This principle is expanded in the Proverbs of the Bible: Understanding is a fountain of life to one who has it. Proverbs 16:22.

Now this may seem like a philosophical idea, but it is really very productive in the living of real life. Here's a nuts n' bolts example:

In 1992, when I was still a young man of 41, working as a carpenter to provide for our three children, and for my wife who had not yet become a nurse, and for our household, I took a job with a construction company remodeling (a refurb job) an old K-Mart. My job was to tear old stuff out from around the inside perimeter of the store and replace it with a newer style of retail display.

I had been visiting K-Marts ever since I was a teenager in the 1960's. So I had been seeing those retail structures for most of my life. But to look behind the facade, into the structure, and then to reconstruct the structure based on newer, more modern components--this work experience held a strange satisfaction for me, as well as a source of income for a season of our life.

Working on that K-Mart was more than a paycheck; it was a joy to behold as the various phases of reconstruction unfolded beneath my hands and before my eyes.

Look into the nature (or structure) of things!

Many years have passed; now I'm looking back on it all. Part of the outcome from this reflection will be a novel that I am now researching and writing. It is a story that takes place during the time of my youth; it has become a cathartic process for reconciling the difference between what I thought I knew then and what I now know about that turbulent period of my g-generation's growing up.

Ours was the generation whose maturing was said to be delayed because Dr. Spock wrote a book about child care that--as some have judged it--convinced our mothers to spoil us.

While there may be an element of truth to that judgement, I have noticed in my conversations with some people lately that there is category of folks in our boomer generation who were definitely not spoiled:

Those guys and gals who fulfilled their duty to our country by going to fight the war in Vietnam--they found themselves in a situation where they had to grow up in one hell of a hurry.

What I am seeing now is, in my g-generation, there was a great divide between: Them that went, and them that didn't.

While I was college freshman in 1969, trying to figure out what life was all about, and marching against the war, those guys who who went to 'Nam were required--and yeah I say unto thee--forced to figure out how to keep life pumping through their bodies and the bodies of their buddies who fought with them.

Those soldiers who went over there had to grow up a lot quicker than I did.

I did not go to Vietnam. My lottery number in 1970 was 349, so I literally "lucked out" of it.

During that time, a time when I was stepping lightly through ivory-tower lala land, our soldiers on the other side of the world were trudging through jungles, heavy-laden with weapons and survival gear. While I was privileged to be extending my literacy skills, they were committed to learning how to kill the enemy before he kills "us."

Now it turns out my research about the '60's is swirling around two undeniable maelstroms of socio-political showdown: civil rights and the Vietnam war.

So, in my project of looking into the nature of things in the 1960's, I am learning about that war and how it came to be a major American (undeclared) war instead of just a civil war between Vietnamese.

One thing I have found is that Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara undertook a similar project in 1965. When he was in the thick of it all--as one of the best and brightest industrial leaders of that age, having been recruited as an insider in the White House, then calling the shots on major events, wielding incredible military power on the other side of the planet, in the heat of the moment and in the fog of war, he found himself wanting to know. . .

how the hell did this happen? how the hell did we get here?

McNamara's question lead to a .gov-commissioned research project, paid for on our taxpayer dime, and ultimately made public by the primary researcher of that undertaking, a former Marine Lt. Col. named Daniel Ellsberg.

Look deep into it. In Ellsberg's case he looked deep into 7000 pages of military documentation, starting in the 1940's and going all the way through Tonkin Gulf in 1964.

Look into the nature of things.

I'll let you know in another year or two--when the book is done-- what my search dredges up from the streets and battlefields of our g-generation's search to find meaning and fulfillment, and maybe even a little justice and mercy thrown in.

But one thing I want to say, now, to THEM THAT WENT:

Although things did not turn out the way we had intended, there isn't much in this life that actually does end up like we thought it would.

You went and did what the USA asked, or compelled you, to do, while many of us were trying to pull you back to stateside.

Thank you for your service. We'll need many more of your stripe before its all over with.

Glass half-Full

Listen: Boomer's Choice