April Fools' Eve

Q: If the winds of March build April showers, and April showers bring May flowers, then what do May flowers bring?

A: Pilgrims.

I grow tired of the characters for my next book that I have developed in this blog and wonder what I can do with them. From another writer, who also uses a blog to develop characters, I learned to leave this blog alone and start a new one with a different set of characters. Therefore, as of today, this blog will cease to exist as a means for plot and character development. Tomorrow, I will start a blog in another part of the virtual universe and let new characters make themselves believable.

A few more thoughts from the unnamed character who descended from a brave fighter in the American Revolutionary War... [I had planned to give him a Scottish name but never found a good one, except reusing Bruce or using Robert (an ode to many famous Scots with those names, of course)]

I ponder the difference between genius and madness. I have seen how the thought process works. I have met people whose brains are not helping their bodies participate on any normal scale in society. I have seen dysfunctional people succeed in business. I have seen normal people fail in social gatherings.

The question is not about looking at a two-sided coin. Genius and madness are just conditions, labels. We know that genetics plays a role in genius and if the parental units see the strong synaptic connections in their child at the earliest age, then coaxing the genius to fill the brain with more than pure randomness will point the genius to a path of social usefulness. Otherwise, the geniuses I have met who knew their capabilities but had no incentive or motivation to get a grip on their insanity would fill a large swimming pool in some generic suburban backyard. Intelligence is not the issue here. It's how a society values intelligence that I seek.

I have spent my life seeking genius and found it everywhere. Walking the halls of Sullivan Central High School in Blountville. Flipping burgers at McLendy's in Kingsport. Making pizza at Chicago Dough Company in Richton Park. Researching charcoal production on Montserrat. Designing first-rate software for a military aircraft test machine at GE in Huntsville. Installing sewer flow monitors for ADS Environmental Services in Erie. Cracking open lobsters in Portsmouth. Drinking beer in a pub in Ennis. Founding a tech startup in north Alabama.

I used to think there were differences between genius and madness. Now I know there is not one single difference. The whole world is insane, full of arbitrary conflicts, misinformed leaders urging followers over an obvious cliff, and for the most part, out of sync with reality.

What is a genius? A person who sees the world clearly and knows what to do with his/her place in it. No games. No rules. No fantasies. No wordplay. A person who carries a long conversation in her/his thoughts over that person's lifetime and thereby solves problems, whether for the sake of society or simply for that person's life. Insanity, as we know, is repeating something over and over and expecting different results.

I am not a genius. I live in this insane world with the rest of the uninformed, ignorant human population. I can solve no problems for myself or society. I can only pose questions and sometimes answer them.

I hear a squirrel sharpening its teeth on the wooden eaves again. The sound it makes mimics the human-operated Bobcat across the street, where someone is trying to smash up solid rock with a jackhammer. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Where is the genius in that? If I meditated on those rhythms long enough, I'm sure I'd find out.

Yesterday, while driving down the freeway, I thought about the broomstraw gal, a former coworker/friend of mine who I lost through my misunderstanding that she was a genius. She was often alone but not lonely, one of the signs of clarity in a genius. I wanted to know more about her thoughts but expressed my thoughts poorly in that regard - I don't think she liked being called a Muse. Even so, she hung out with people more famous than me, inspiring them to greater things, I'm sure. Long ago, she became a character in my stories and poems. I never figured out if she was/is a genius. I guess I'll never know. That does not stop me from wishing it so, wondering if genius can inspire those less-gifted to achieve genius-like levels of insight and creation.

I'll end this blog entry with a poem of mine published in Arete, the University of Alabama-Huntsville (UAH) literary magazine, in 2001:

= == === ==== === == =

And so it came to pass

And so it came to pass,
The time that had been spent with the One in silence.
Neither wind nor sun,
Seed nor house,
Could break the path that One had chosen
To teach the truth of life.
Some marveled at the silence
And chose wordless meditation.
Some saw that words had meaning
And gave power to the Word.
Some rejected all truths,
Seen and unseen,
And chose to veer off-course.
I chose to build a shelter of thoughts
That empowered me and ruled me at the same time
For time and place lost in the reality of mine/mind.
I rose in the morning like a wind
Passing through a forest,
Breaking limbs and pulling off leaves,
Seeming to cause death to peacefulness
But perpetuating life instead.
I woke in despair and disappointment
That another day of pain awaited me
Not knowing that pain does not exist,
Only life.
I stepped out of bed to turn off the alarm clock
Only to realize that the music was in the remnants
Of a dream and I was truly standing in a bar
Throwing popcorn at a woman
Who stared at me through space and time
With a look of unsatisfied control in her eyes.
I turned off the alarm clock and saw
I was running late and would once again
Arrive at my workplace in a state of fear and agitation.
I prepared myself through the cleansing routine
For presentation to those I chose
To spend the majority of my working hours with.
Preparation or not,
I knew the primary responses from those
Who would meet my existence that day.
And so it came to pass...
Time became a valid comparison
For all of us when we took time to notice.
Reproduction became a secondary function
To meeting meeting schedules.
Empathy became a state production
Complete with a dozen roses, dinner and a nice movie.
Heartbeats threatened our very existence
When we became aware
Of their Hitchcockian foreboding of mystery and death.
Another day of work passed
From morning to lunch to afternoon
And I faced the prospect of dinner,
Then evening and sleep once again.
Only this time I let alcohol numb the pain of monotony...
Before I gave in to my shelter of dreams,
Dreams where I can exist with any you I choose.

- 4 December 1992

= == === ==== === == =

What is genius? It's knowing that the freedom to think is the only thing that matters. All else is pretending that you spend every living moment in April Fools' Day. If you're not a genius, you're somebody's fool. And the choice is not necessarily yours to make. Have a great day, tomorrow!

A Study In Reformation

Does your sense of self change because you've discovered a change in your view of your genetic heritage?

During the sermon yesterday by the female lay pastor at the small church, I wondered about the legacy my and my wife's ancestors left in the formation of the Presbyterian religious sect. My wife and I have lived together solely because we met at a Presbyterian church-sponsored woodland camp (or rather, our friendship formed because we shared a week with other teenage campers; cohabitation and marriage were indirect results of our friendship).

After a lunchtime meeting with a colleague today, who taught me in our college days together to hold a legitimate job, no matter what else I may do to make a living, I picked up a Blu-Ray disc copy of "Bolt" for my wife at the local movie rental store, and sat down with a cat to read about the history of Scotland and Presbyterianism.

When I was very young, I recall my parents attending events tied to the celebration of Highland Scots in the mountains of western North Carolina, where we lived at the time. If they spoke of our genetic heritage during that period in my life, I don't remember. Only in my late teen years did my father and I tour parts of North Carolina and Virginia where our heirs established lives for themselves in the so-called wilderness.

My father often spoke (and speaks) of our famous male ancestor, Colonel John Sawyers, who I've mentioned fought in the American Revolutionary War:

John Sawyers was born in Virginia in 1745, shortly after his parents arrived from England, who early settled in Augusta County, Virginia. In 1761 young Sawyers was engaged on Colonel Byrd's abortive expedition, and in other frontier service against the Indians. In 1768, he with others explored the Holston Valley, early removed to that frontier, and served at Point Pleasant on Christian's Cherokee campaign, and on the Chickamauga expedition in 1779, and led a company at King's Mountain. Settling in what is now Knox County, Tennessee, he was made a Major, then a Colonel, and twice chosen a member of the Legislature. He died November twentieth, 1831, aged eighty six years.

King's Mountain and its heroes history of the Battle of King's Mountain, October 7th, 1780, and the events which led to it -- By Lyman Copeland Draper, Peter Gibson Thompson, Anthony Allaire, Isaac Shelby, 1881

We know almost nothing about the personal lives of our ancestor's ancestors, though many have tried. Through Internet research, I have traced some of them to England in the 1500s. Somewhere I have the chart I made of the lineage but right now I can't remember the areas of Great Britain, only my ancestors' [supposed, unverifiable] names. According to my reading today, parts of Scotland and England changed ownership, especially in the lowland areas of Scotland, generally near Hadrian's Wall. I gather that my ancestors in that area may well have emigrated to Ireland during the 1600s, settling temporarily until the promise of a better life lured them to North America. There's a mix of stories that they came either from England or Ireland, marking them as Scots-Irish. No matter, their religion of choice in America was Presbyterian.

Thus, yesterday, I joined a small group of people, led by a young female music leader from Oakwood College, in singing church hymns, both traditional and "modern".

Membership in Presbyterian Churches has plummeted in recent years. When my wife and I visited Philadelphia many years ago on vacation, we stopped at the Presbyterian Historical Society office and enjoyed the visit, learning about the history of Presbyterianism in the colonial days of this country. I've sinced learned that the Presbyterian sect in Korea is the largest in the world. The sect enjoys many members on the African continent as well. What amazes me even more is that the little church around the corner from us, with its 30 or 40 weekly attendees, was home to a Japanese-born Buddhist-turned-Christian minister named Washio Ishii, who tended his flock here from 1963 to 1989. We were fortunate to meet him on Sunday. We watched a young African-American woman lead our singing there, too.

In a world where human interaction depends on ever-fickle crowd intolerance, I am pleased to see that tolerance survived and flourished in the cove long before I called it home in 1987.

I have sat here in blogs past and asked myself what happiness is and who or where I want to be in the moments ahead of this one. I know my self image is one focused on finding peaceful moments in which to live, no matter whether its actual form is imperfect, pitted and aged like an apple left in a kitchen window, the skin shriveling but retaining something of its younger shape.

I sit here and watch the headlines come and go, announcing other humans' intention to shape history. I relish the relative anonymity that marks my life. The observations I make, the ensuing humor, and memories of moments I recall with gladness, they sit with me like old friends, comforting me with a pat on the back, a reassuring hug, a welcoming handshake or simple nod of recognition.

My ancestors lived in interesting times. We all do. We all have reformation choices to make, whether we know it or not. I descended from a line of anonymous humans whose choices I know practically nothing about. Yet, I sit here, living proof of their existence and their choices.

I owe no debt to anyone. Legally and mentally, I committed my body to my wife's keeping for the duration of our lives together. If nothing else, that is the gratitude I've shown my ancestors for their behavior. I continue to adapt to my surroundings, although I have many habits in my behavior that I will not change (like brushing my teeth nightly).

I wonder what reformation I am part of. Only History can tell. With no offspring to share my history, I'm sure History will keep my participation silent. It is enough that I was here. The miracle of my existence is all I ever needed to know. Perhaps my reformation is all that ever mattered, but something I will never know.

Animal House

I'm tired. But most of you have better reasons to be tired. I do not. My body I've mistreated lately, starving it one moment and feeding it wine or beer the next, soaked in Thai or Mexican food, depending on my mood. Tiredness equates to sloppy writing. Just so you know...

If I had my way, I'd fade out of this world, slowly letting other creatures take up residence with me in my abode until they either had the place to themselves or the place deteriorated and became part of the landscape (preferably both)*. One problem, though. Parasites. I share the attic with raccoons and squirrels. They keep relatively quiet and don't disturb my wife too much, so that for the most part I don't have to pretend to be upset the animals are playing around above our heads. When I do have to pretend, I open one of the attic hatches, climb up the folding stairs and stomp around until the animals have bolted or I've quieted them down.

[*Ode to Charles Dickens' "Great Expectations"]

Another problem I discovered during this routine. Ticks. It seems that the varmints have carried ticks into the attic. I found two of them crawling on the walls. Years ago the raccoons filled the house with fleas. And boy, was that fun! Fumigation time then and same again now. A couple of weeks ago I decided to expose my wife and me to dangerous chemicals, opening up some pressurized canisters of pesticides in the attic. We dealt with watery eyes for a couple of days but the ticks have not shown up again. I just wonder how I can keep the animals pest-free while I continue my practice of an open house for things that go bump in the night.

I'll tell you a little story and let you figure out which parts are true. A former work colleague of mine, Peggy, used to live down the road from me. All of us in this part of town commute to work from what was then considered countryside, well outside the city limits, driving about 20 miles to work one way (the city limits have since spread like a bad disease, dragging cancerous suburban growth with it). One morning on the way to work, I saw a familiar car pulling out of Peggy's driveway. The car belonged to another coworker, a good-looking fellow name of Junior, who hailed from Hawaii. Surfer dude all the way, including blond hair and bronzed chest. He claimed he got his name cause he and the two previous generations of men had the same name. Thus, grandpa was Junior, father was Junior, who begot Junior.

I thought Junior lived on the other side of town. I didn't plan to say anything about it but when Junior saw me on the road, he made sure he caught up with me in the company parking lot.

"Lee, man, how's it going?"

"Good."

"Cool. Hey, you'll never guess what. Peggy's car wouldn't work yesterday so I gave her a ride home. We chatted all night and next thing you know, I see it's daylight. So here I am, all disheveled, unshaven and unshowered. Think the boss'll care?"

"Probably not."

"Didn't think so. See you around."

The next morning, I left the house 15 minutes early and saw Junior's car in Peggy's driveway again. In fact, I saw it almost every day for several weeks but never let Junior or Peggy know what I saw. Maybe Peggy's car broke down every day. Hey, it happens, right?

A few months later, I heard through the grapevine that Peggy's out-of-town fiance dropped in on Peggy by surprise. Peggy returned the surprise by letting her fiance know she was pregnant. Trouble was that he and she had not pre-consummated their wedding. Fiance called off the wedding. Junior moved in and married Peggy to make the child legit.

A couple of years later, we had a bad snowstorm in north Alabama. I called Junior to see if he was driving in to work. He said yeah and offered to take me in his old convertible. It was only then that I noticed Junior still had his Hawaii license plate on the car, with the registration stickers pulled off. He told me that Alabama cops don't look at out-of-state tags unless there's just cause so Junior figured he'd save himself a little money. Also, he said, he planned to skip town as soon as he got the cash together. I caught the hint and gave him some money for gas.

Junior kept his word and disappeared. Fast forward 20 years. I run into Peggy and find out that her oldest is now 22 and her youngest 20. I know who the oldest should call Daddy but not the sibling. My wife was pleased I didn't ask about Junior. Let the past be.

Junior was a rambling man, not one to settle down permanently. He planted a seed in the outskirts of Huntsville and moved on. The animals in the attic would understand. Once you get the itch, you feel like dancing. Once you start dancing, you're already up and going so you might as well float on your feet. Peggy's happy about her kids and without asking I'm sure she's glad Junior's dropping ticks in somebody else's bed.

Free Thinking

This morning, I convinced my wife to join me in a visit to a local church, Big Cove Presbyterian, to observe the customs of our ancestors in a solemn social gathering every seven days. The church was founded by some of the white settlers of this valley or cove over 150 years ago. As happens in a small community, of the 30 or 40 folks attending the 11:00 a.m. traditional sanctuary service, we personally knew or were connected with a few.

During the service, we joined the attendees in reciting memorized incantations - creeds and prayers - that we members of the religious sect had learned sometime over the years (including the one with "debt...debtors," not "trespasses...trespass").

We met almost all of the church members either during the greeting portion of the service or walking out of the church after the service. From their smiles and general happy attitude, I gather they enjoy the small social circle they have. In all moments of my time with them, I felt comfortable they held the best intentions for our coming back and enjoying their social gatherings. "This is HOME," one member repeated to me, especially after she found out that she and her husband had belonged to the Presbyterian church to which my wife and I still belong.

I am a free thinker. I don't hold much in the way of faith in finding universal meaning in large social gatherings but I do enjoy attending Protestant churches every once in a while to sing four-part harmony and listen to noncommercial, nonelectronic music groups perform (including pianist(s), organist(s), choir, a capella groups and/or soloists). Today, I heard the sweet sounds of an all-female trio, including a former coworker of mine (we worked together at GE in 1987).

Will I return to the church any time soon? Maybe. But most likely not. The small size of the church tells me that every member is essential to their sense of social cohesiveness. I am a free thinker - any sign I see of social cohesiveness means keeping those who have the best of intentions from pulling me into their set of rules.

Late Friday evening, I gave in to the demands of my teaching gig and took some online e-courses that are supposed to indoctrinate me into the ITT Tech Way, showing me how the institute came into existence, its basic rules/policies, how it wants students to learn and how instructors should teach. By receipt of a set of certificates of completion, I am now officially prepared to instruct the students/customers.

After I coached the students/customers during the Saturday morning class, I dropped by Lowe Mill, an artists community, to buy a print from Rita Burkholder, who not only paints and draws but also performs as Helen Keller's Ukulele, a one-woman old-timey musician. I ended up getting three prints, a large 11"x14" set of diatomaceous globules and two business-card sized prints of three other magnified biological creations. Rita gladly shared with me the biology books she uses as inspiration for her artwork. I think the drawings in one of the books of biological specimens was penned by someone named Henckel, who, if I remember Rita's story correctly, had worked for a guy named Ehrenberg until Ehrenberg was overcome with guilt over the death of a student during an expedition. Did she say Ehrenberg discovered diatoms?

In any case, you can't imagine how happy I am. I have a print I have wanted for many months, after seeing it in Rita's studio windows on a previous visit to Lowe Mill. She and her art/music express free thinking in a way I cannot. I also have a CD of her musical persona as Helen Keller's Ukulele. People like Rita make my world go around. Of course, I paid her money for the art and music but wish there was something more meaningful I could have traded, instead. Something of my thought set that someone like her would treasure. However, what can a free thinker give another if he doesn't believe in pushing his thoughts on others?

I am an old man. I am a free thinker. I am set in my ways. These are the tenets of my life. My mantra, as you know, is "havekidstakecareofyourfamily."

Oh well, I will keep writing on this blog, which shows me that humans still allow free thought and expressions, even if they don't understand or don't want to understand discord. I have nothing particularly new to say and in matter of fact, many people like me are saying almost the exact same thing. Again, we humans are alike. We contain all the gene switches to turn on or off dominant or recessive traits. It's in what we do with those traits where individuality grows and prospers.

Statistically speaking, none of us are leaving this planet. The few hundred who have moved further out of Earth's gravitational pull are statistical aberrations. To the casual observer, we're still just a single species getting closer to population saturation on a planetary body in a solar system that happens to have enjoyed a few billion years of nondestructive encounters with cosmic debris. It truly doesn't matter what I do. If I could find a way to live out my days in relative peace and quiet, I would, free to think myself into oblivion. Plus, many parts of me are prone to procrastination and inaction. The future belongs to humans who see life on a more local scale.

In the meantime, I guess I'll keep showing those motivated to have their own kids and take care of them that free thinking does not often put food on the table so get a good set of skills with which they can bargain on the open market and put into play in social gatherings, no matter whether it's their favorite house of religion, house of blues, workhouse or bedroom community.

Teacher training: what's the best way? | csmonitor.com

Teacher training: what's the best way? | csmonitor.com

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Cul-de-Sac [For Guys Only]

I had fallen into the habit of saying I was teaching classes at ITT Tech but have decided I am not teaching. I am truly leading or coaching the students/ customers - only they can teach themselves. This morning's class, which is all about demonstrating to the students/ customers that they own their own destiny, proved to me once again I know that we are all winners. In my class, a variety of personality types and skill sets show themselves in the collaborative projects the students/customers work on. The students/ customers have learned from each other the primary tenet of social order - constantly adapt and transform through human interaction.

On to a recent subject in my thoughts, the issue of an aging male body, that I've shared with my wife, who thinks I should get used to it.

Outside my window the redbud, shagbark hickory and deciduous holly hold fast in their dance with gravity, balanced against the turbulent downdraft winds of an early evening thunderstorm. A little while ago, I stood in the driveway looking up at my rooted friends, who truly have nowhere to go but up. One does not grow wise with years or trees would pull up stakes and run at the sight of us. I felt the first spits of rain on my face and knew the trees would show their resilience. I see blue skies now at 19:04, with pink-and-gray cloud puffs rolling by, dragging their feet across my wooden friends. Clouds do not exist but some humans would give more joy to see clouds than trees. How dare they! I cannot stop their nonsense. I can only tell my friends they're safe with me, more certain of death by termite, woodpecker or ants than bulldozer and chainsaw. We will share this space during my life with them. In return, they will provide me shade for no cost and entertain me with their seasonal changes, giving squirrels, skinks and vines a place to go.

While I watch the moving picture show out my window, I sit in a chair covered in dried and treated cowskin (a/k/a leather), which holds heat and warms my backside. Age met Gravity and decided to play tricks with my body. To be sure, my ears and nose sag a little. I can sometimes feel my earlobes touch my neck if I turn just right, a sensation new to my list of experiences, but I knew from books, movies and human interaction that such things happen to all of us. However, the heat buildup under my legs tells me of another new sensation I was unprepared to meet.

A sagging sac. You guys know what I mean. The old bag of marbles don't hold up like they used to.

Did I miss the social references in my youth? I have always kept an open eye when it comes to future expectations for my body. I remember when I was a kid seeing an actor/director named Richard Benjamin talking with another actor in a movie about a guy's urine stream losing its distance with time - you go from being able to write your name in a snowdrift 10 feet away to hoping you can stand over a urinal and aim your dribble into the ceramic bowl. I figure that's going to happen to me in my 50s or early 60s.

But the dependable scrotum? Must it swing in the wind like the pine seed pods and sweetgum balls I see in front of me, at the mercy of the elements?

I suppose so.

Now I sit here and feel my testicles heating up like a bag of tea in a microwave oven, forewarning me that my hairy load will itch like that unreachable place in the middle of my back, never completely satisfied by scratching or clawing. I want to cup the family jewels and hold them up in the air to cool and dry but typing would be hindered. Don't get me wrong. I don't have any sexual urges in a moment like this - I feel like the typical over-40 guy standing in the examining room while the doctor rolls my set of dice in his hand, hoping it doesn't come up snake eyes.

In class today, I stood at the podium for a moment while sorting through homework and lab assignment papers. In my head, I heard a gong and realized my hobo pack had decided to take a ride down out of my boxer briefs, apparently attempting to hitch a ride south to my ankles for a meet-and-greet. The thought of a gorilla scratching his crotch or a dog licking between his legs passed by. I wanted to reach down and adjust my manhood but didn't want to look like I was playing around in front of the students/ customers. I made an excuse and stepped out of the lab to rearrange my body to its liking.

I'm telling you all this so you women understand why we older guys walk with a gait. We're using the angular momentum of our swinging nuts to steady us on a sane forward track. This keeps our purpose for existence cool and happy, free of itching and out of range of zippers or elastic bands that look for loose-hanging curly hairs to grab and yank for yelping fun later on.

Some of the guys in my class like to tell a few jokes that the average preacher wouldn't repeat from the pulpit. I let them tell these bits of humor in the hallway or generally out of the way of those who might be sensitive to such balderdash. I wonder how many ministers have focused their sermons on a man's gravity-stricken body parts. Not many or not for long, I suppose.

What's in a book?

Stood outside on the deck today after scaring a squirrel off the roof of the house where it had been chewing on an eave. Watched a police car. Thought about the world of books.

What's in a book? These blog entries are chapters of a book so I guess they count as book contents.

What is the sign of a good book? When people believe the characters or the chapters are real.

I watched "Pan's Labyrinth" a few days ago. The main character is about the age my good friend was when she died. I cried at the end of the movie because it was so believable and reminded me of the loss of my friend when we were both in fifth grade. I could only wish that Reneé went on to her real kingdom in 1972.

Yesterday on the Independent Film Channel (IFC), I watched part of "Private Fears in Public Places," a French film, but didn't finish watching it because I had to prepare lesson plans for last night's class. However, I could believe that the characters in the movie were real. So, too, the film I watched today, "Mon oncle d'Amerique," gave the viewer a sense of reality.

That is what my books try to achieve, reality, the boredom and unresolved conflicts of life.

How do I incorporate the boredom of a police officer sitting in a patrol car, waiting on speeders to drive by? My wife and I watched a female police officer sitting in her patrol car at the end of our street, smacking her gum in her mouth and waiting on speeders to go by on the five-lane road. What does an officer think about while waiting? I do not know. Perhaps I should walk down the street and ask the officer, "Hey, que pasa? Mind if I interview you while you watch your radar gun?" Perhaps not. Best leave the policing to the professionals. Let a retired cop write that storyline.

Meanwhile, I've got to figure out what to do with my latest character. I have two, actually. The one from my previous novel and this new one, two twists on the same theme - philosophical nihilists in a post-nihilist society. Oh well, I've got to work on my next lesson plan. C'est la vie!

Good Use of White Space

[More personal observations - no insights to provide today]

I am standing in the middle of the cool, wet woods and I am lost. I don't remember where I came from and don't care where I'm going. My face is flushed. My sneakers are soaking wet and covered with mud. Trickles of water flow down the hill from this morning's rain. My thoughts are waterlogged. Yet, I am in my element. Alone but not lonely. Wishing for what I haven't got. Thinking FHMS thoughts.

Read the online news. Headline from independent.ie: "'Blue-eyed whites' to blame for global crash". Here it comes. The world is flush with anger. Needs someone to blame. I smell the fear and anger on the air. Are the barbarians ready to rush the gates? Can I keep hiding in the woods?

I am a dying breed, knew it from birth, almost. Saw the trends in the news when I was a toddler looking through the bars of my crib. Stark reality. No stork deliveries for me. Cue up Lula da Silva of Brasil: "This was a crisis fostered and boosted by the irrational behaviour of people who were white and blue-eyed, who before the crisis they looked like they knew everything about economics, but now have demonstrated they know nothing about economics. The part of humanity that is responsible should be the part that pays for the crisis." I knew the day would come when Europeans no longer mattered. The Japanese and Chinese would exert their millennia of wisdom-borne influence eventually. Patience is a virtue that cannot be seen in quarterly reports. Quiet diplomacy has stronger roots than missile-laden threats that disappear into the stratosphere.

I have no vested interest in the future. Others must sort through the piles of historic documents to figure out which old solutions apply to "new" but rehashed problems.

My days are clearly numbered. 15,015 left on the countdown clock in front of me. I have nothing left to offer. Served up on a whiteboard (the modern equivalent of the sage's slate) what little wisdom I had to give my students/ customers - they must figure out for themselves what to do with the words they heard from me, which I only heard from others myself and did not bring forth purely out of my imagination. Socratic, Platonic and Confucian ideas will overrule anything I have to say, now and evermore*.

[*Ode to Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven"]

If someone must pay for the future, it won't be me. I have no children to sacrifice on the altars of world debt. I have no hope of grandchildren to pay off government loans. The world belongs to me no more.

Like Max Von Sydow's character in the movie, "Flash Gordon," I am bored and want a planet to play with. Alas, my world is not the size of a planetary body. Instead, I have a couple of cats to play with, a female human companion with whom I ward off complete boredom, and unpaved woods in which to walk off my societal fat.

I miss freedom. Or at least that one brief moment that flashed in front of my eyes when I was younger and gave me the idea that the universe was mine to conquer. The world does not belong to me. I have no burning desire. I am not the gladiator in the arena fighting to the death for his freedom. My spirit burns like the candle beside me, flickering this way and that, never fully aware that its life is at the whim of a puff of air from another. A car wreck. A suicide bomber in a tourist district. A tornado. Happenchance or on purpose, it doesn't matter. I am not free. I am a human being and will not escape from that reality. My life is not mine. It belongs to this planet.

I was not a child prodigy. I am not the child of prodigies. I am the product of families that value years of formal education as a measure of success on the climb up the career ladder of citizenship. Conform to the norm. Participate in the community. Sine qua non.

I wish I had more to offer but my cornucopia is empty. I have given it all away. You can ask to take more if you like but the milk cow has run dry. Feel free to take the cow. I can chew on tree bark. The trappings of society are stacked up around me but if the society they reflect does not reflect who I want to be, then you can take these, too - the sports memorabilia, old schoolbooks, unopened plastic model kits, outdated world globe, stuffed toys, nonworking computers and unpublished papers. Even you body part pre-grave robbers will want my flesh and bones when I'm officially dead and gone. No matter. As I said, I don't belong to me. Never have been free.

There's wisdom in these words. I can almost see it. If only my thoughts weren't so petty. For instance, an email friend of mine told me that the only thing she could say about my writing is that it's a good use of white space. So I turned her into a character in my last book, Belle, a juvenile delinquent who grew up to be a grifter. A girl broke up with me when she was 15 and I was 16. So I waited 30 years to break up with her via email and turned our emails into part of my last book. In both cases, I succumbed to writer's revenge. So much for high ideals. But then again, my inner being is a person who likes to have fun, even at the cost of friendship. I have written about that too many times to want to remember. I have warned people away from me many a time only to have them fly too close into the flames and get burned in these words. My ego may be marred but it is my ego and I'll protect it at any cost, even if its genetic heritage goes to the grave while my body parts go to the open market.

Writing is such sweet sorrow - revenge is a dish best served cold and with relish. Like I've said, my buddies in the underworld know me better than myself. Their nickname for me, if I haven't told you already, is "The Elephant" 'cause I've got a memory I can't forget. The pen is mightier than the sword only when you use it like acupuncture and hit the right spots. Cultures have long memories, too, but that doesn't concern me, only you. Beware the words of world leaders - they speak volumes and sway world opinion like willows in the wind. After all, it's not global warming you have to worry about - it's who has the power to warm the world - like sitting in a pot slowly coming to a boil, you don't know it's too hot until it's too late. Someone's going to get burned. Hope you know how to take care of your own. Don't say you haven't been warned.

I'm going to keep sitting here in my meditative position and laugh while you keep running errands in your SUVs and trading high-sulfur coal for oil. What's that saying? He who laughs last knew when to take the deepest breath.

Needle in a Haystack

Wow! What a set of responses from my readers! I almost don't know what to say. When I put out a call for a woman, I wasn't actually expecting overwhelming offers from people who know me by electronic scribbles only (and to those guys who prefer the transsexual lifestyle, I appreciate you wanting to teach me what you think a "REAL" woman is but I'm not interested at this time - should my future selves move in that direction, I'll keep your contact information, but don't sit around waiting for my call; and please, don't take it personally - I'm not rejecting you - it's just that I don't want you to miss your ideal companions who are out there waiting for you).

I'm still flabbergasted. But more importantly, I think I've finally proven to the Russian, Indian and Chinese programmers I have on retainer that the brainwave scanner they built me actually works. I'm not an expert out standing in the field, but from what I understand this scanner constantly measures my alpha, mu, beta, delta, and other brainwave activity, which my team used to slowly construct a simulated model of my thoughts in a virtual bank of computer servers that "mirror" my existence in several secure locations around the globe (they call them RAID servers but the term RAID reminds me of pesticide ads from my youth; I wish they'd develop another acronym). In addition, they added a mux (a multiplexer, this little box that takes all the separate brainwave signals and combines them into an encrypted high-frequency signal that can be sent to any wireless network, but the favorite one they like to use sends part of the signal through the Internet (which they told me they further split across the 802.11 and UWB frequencies, whatever that means) and part of the signal through satellite communications).

I told the programmers (and also some inexpensive, out-of-work scientists (there are plenty of those available right now, if you're interested in pursuing pure scientific research)) that if we were able to replicate one human's thoughts, and figure out when the thoughts trigger body signals, we could flood the world with hormones, brainwaves and such, getting a group of people to react to low-level body signals that they themselves don't "consciously" know are there. That way, we bypass the global media outlets altogether when we need to push a product, service or idea.

I apologize for inadvertently alerting so many people to my desires. I forget myself that I have this brain scanner on sometimes and wore it yesterday while typing. I guess I should tell the programmers to turn off the pheromone replicators until we're specifically running tests.

In any case, I've enjoyed reading a lot of your proposals. The only reason I like this planet is that the array of human experiences is always more vast than I can imagine. Just when I get bored with what I see and feel, along comes someone with an idea that moves my paradigm model into paradise. Some of you others wanted to share and share alike. I have to admit I'm only one person, and with a middle-aged body at that, so sharing will have to be limited.

To that one person, who I agreed to call out in this blog (yes, that means you, MB), I'll take your proposal first. What can I say? Hiking in the woods all day until we're too exhausted to take another step, setting down a blanket in a clearing, opening a bottle of wine, getting punch-drunk while staring up at the stars and getting bitten by mosquitoes at the same time is about as wonderful a moment as I can think of right now. You understood more than anyone else what I was looking for. I'm not looking for wild sex (although I'll take it when it's the right kind of wild). I'm looking for behaviours outside the walls of civilization.

I'm not a city boy. I grew up in the suburbs, where the woods were always literally a few steps away. I'm not interested in taking a group of young people in scouting/military uniform mode to march through the underbrush, looking for trees and animals to correctly identify or trash to pick up.

Just two days ago I saw a deflated latex balloon with a small strip of ribbon sitting on the ground in the middle of a trail. I didn't pick it up. Oh, to be sure, I heard the voices of my youth crying out, "Just look at that, will you?! Why, a turtle could swallow that and die. We need to organize a group to protest balloons." Organizing and protesting? Hey, if that's your thing, go for it. I'm in the positive promotion business, myself. I say figure out the alternative and offer it, instead of being such a downer. People like balloons so give them biodegradable balloons that look nice and hold their inflation well. You might make some money at it, too, and in the process put your hated latex producers out of business.

It's like I tell my buddies who worry that their gambling businesses are going to close. What's there to worry about?

People like to gamble. Politicians like to take calculated risks. Always work those two angles to your advantage by promoting the positive aspects of risk-taking. If it were up to me, I'd do away with the word "casino." "Amusement park" sounds too childlike but use something like that, instead. The Las Vegas folks are almost on the right track by offering kid-friendly venues. It's the dang ching-ching-ching that I hate.

That's why I'm much more profitable in online gambling. That's where the future is. Just gotta figure out how to convince the gamblers to wear my new line of brain scanners. Give it a just a little while longer for my marketing and packaging teams to sort out all the details. I told them that there are plenty of people who wear those silly Bluetooth headsets like some sort of badge of honor. Work that angle. Make the brain scanners something people just gotta wear, not geeky like the one they made for me. I ain't trying to form no Borg collective. I just want people's money for myself and my family. Any volunteers out there who'll wear a scanner for free? I'll give you a few thousand credits on your favorite gambling site and might even name a new game after you. I just need a few of your brain scans over some months to see what else we gotta do to tune the scent modules in the new line of netbooks we're developing. If you don't mind looking like a cyborg, I'll send you one right now.

Hey, what can I say? I'm a true religious adherent. I eat and breath "havekidstakecareofyourfamily." Only thing is, you ain't gonna find out where my real kids and family is. That's one secret I take to my grave. While the rest of you worry about global warming, I'm preparing for it, hoping that it'll happen. For those of you in the real estate business, Canada and Siberia are the next great thing. Don't miss out on the deals while they're still cheap. You can own an island and be your own king. You can tap your own oil keg and have natural gas for breakfast. No fresh water? Forget about it. You got enough free fuel to process seawater for generations and that's only after your personal melting glacier runs out.

Drip, dripped, dripping

Streaks of light reflected on falling water drops pass by my window on this rainy day, the broken and rusted gutter beating rhythms on my eyes. I remember when...

The Ignorance In Knowledge

The wonders of the universe are mine,
And yet, I wonder what I want with these --
Without my thoughts, your love is true divine,
His Love, your warmth, does not ease life nor please
The seascapes, patterns, that eradicate
Or even place our love up with the gods.
I open eyes at daily double’s fate
To see the watchdogs eat the blinded clods;
The rituals, life-supportive (so they claim),
Bring hunters and the hunted to the fight --
The educated aid the hopeless lame
And both shall watch the forceful lose their might.
We lost the sight with schoolbooks held in hand,
The sight that sees the hungry feed the land.
-- February 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Good Mack Café

The banana peel.
A metaphor for falling,
Not watching our step.
I hold the banana peel in my hand,
The freshly eaten, soft interior
Losing its identity in my stomach.
A limp thing, yellow and green and brown
Nutritious protection for future worlds,
A jungle or tropical garden,
The veins no longer flow with fluidy substances,
The seeds are lost in rotting dumpsters
Filling sewers, freshly flowing,
Floating jetsam, flotsam pressing
Forward toward my nose,
The smell offending softly spoken,
Perfumed bodies like myself.
My fingers loosen, the peel drops (Plop!).
Rising from my chair, I step to
Reach down to the floor, taking hold of
My future, discarding it as I leave the room.
-- March 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Words, Only Words

Beneath the surface of your face,
Beyond the limits your brain implies,
The love I want remains in place
Becomes the spark that lights your eyes;
Yet love, one word, does not explain
The love we share and cannot hide.
Vocabulary words bring pain
To those of us who’ve searched, we’ve tried
In vain, regardless of the thought
The other hopeless folks may say,
"All lives are meant for sale, then bought,"
Their voices listless, dull, blasé --
The timeless "love" they call a word,
The love we feel cannot be heard.
-- March 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Perhaps my burning ears are signs of fever. Spring fever. The last recovery from cabin fever. "Hey, you" fever. Regardless, rhythms. Rhythms, regardless. Regard less rhythms. Rhythmless regard. Rhythms less regard. Guard less rerhythms. Beats. Drips. Eye tunes. Water breaking free of surface tension, due to gravity. Freedom to be but not to be free. Tied to this planet like cars to drivetrains. Life. Two hydrogen atoms for every oxygen atom, even if hydrogen and oxygen don't know their names or their electrochemical attraction. Quantum physics. String theory. George Carlin ripping on stage. Grandmaster Flash back in style. Meditation on words. Wordlessly. About the only thing this keyboard and I have in common. Detached from tonal qualities. Detuned from musically trained brains. Drip, drip drip, drip, dripdripdrip, dripdripdripdripdrip, drip, ...dripdrip dripdripdrip, drip, drip, dripdripdrip drip.

Drip.

bipbipbip.

Crip drop.

PLOP.

Drip drip.

Drip drop.

drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip ...

Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.

PLOP.


Can't measure these with a dipstick. Maybe a rain stick. Too fast for a divining rod.

The rain storm passes. Dark clouds hang over another part of Earth, instead. Heart-shaped leaves slip out of their covers on the redbud tree, ready for a sunny day, but soaking up the sun's rays anyway.

Pink snow on the ground.

Yellow snow down the road.

Ever eaten a redbud petal salad mixed with forsythia blooms, soaked in rainwater? Mmm...now, that's the kind of love I'm talking about. Naturally.

Start of a New Book

The last blog entry was the final chapter in the saga of the life of a winner. The book's title, had you not already figured it out for yourself, is, "How to Create Your Own Lottery and Rig The Outcome to Your Favor." If the number of readers who've requested a true novelesque version of the book increases to an annoying rate, then I will work with my staff of highly-trained Happy Buddha figurines to collate the blog entries into a meaningful storyline, such as only they can divine, and provide the book for you, the reader, to stock on your dusty bookshelves at home or store on your electronic textual pacifier.

@}-,-`- @}-,-`- @}-,-`-

THE START OF A NEW BOOK - TITLE: "Red-Hot and Blue"

@}-,-`- @}-,-`- @}-,-`-


Fact: James Sawyers was born in Ireland about 1710. He came to America in the mid to late 1730s.

Fact*: PERSONAL HISTORY OF COL. JOHN SAWYERS.

"John Sawyers was born in Augusta County, Virginia, soon after his parents landed from England, 1745. His parents were English—the name being decidedly English. We suppose that his father was Sampson Sawyers. We find from the Annals of Augusta County, Va., by Waddell, that at the County Court in Staunton, Va., October, 1780, this passage:
'Sampson Sawyers' colored girl Viola sentenced to be hanged on the 1st of March, 1781, for burning her master's residence.'**
"We know but little of this Sawyers family, but we are of the opinion that there were but very few children in the family. Nancy Sawyers, who married James Crawford, and may be found in the Crawford History in this History, is supposed to be a sister, and Ruthie Peterson was another sister who came with him when he located in Knox County, Tennessee, and lived on a part of his farm on Big Flat Creek. Her husband's name was William Peterson, who died in 1818 and is buried in the Washington Church Cemetery.
"In person, Colonel Sawyers was fully six feet in height, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. His complexion was fair, had bright red hair and possessed the traditional long red whiskers characteristic of the Sawyers family. Withal, he was a commanding figure."

[* from: Family History of Col. John Sawyers and Simon Harris, and Their Descendants, compiled by Dr. Madison Monroe Harris, a Great Grandson of Col. John Sawyers and a Grandson of Simon Harris]
[** Full passage from Chronicles of the Scotch-Irish Settlement in Virginia, Volume I, AUGUSTA COUNTY COURT RECORDS. ORDER BOOK No. XVII. FEBRUARY 18, 1780: "Called Court on Violet, a negro slave of Sampson Sawyers. for feloniously burning her master's dwelling house on the night of the 4th inst. Guilty--to be hanged by the neck, &c., on 4th of March next at or near town of Staunton at 12 o'clock at noon, and after she is cut down, that her head be severed from her body by the neck and stuck upon a pole in the public place near Staunton. Adjudged value, £1,800."]

Hello there. I'm a real descendant of a pioneer man and a pioneer woman, two people who married, had children and settled more than once on the frontier of the expansion of European settlers on the North American continent. Through my veins flows the desire to explore new territory, and fight for what's rightfully mine, whether by thought of Divine Intervention or a combination of testosterone and peer pressure.

I look a lot like one of my ancestors. No doubt about it. At this point in my life, I don't have immediate plans to expand his heritage. So be it.

In these genes, what of him is actively living and breathing? I did not join my fellow men in battle, kill the previous holders of the land or treat other humans as property. Do any of those desires reside in my thoughts? If so, in what form?

Today, my ears are burning. I am a man. I know that. Testosterone is making me feel like a raging bull today. Although I am an overweight, middle-aged guy, I feel like I'm 30 again. My thoughts at this point are simple: "I want a woman."

Some men have a desire to build empires. Some men have a desire to own big trucks or drive fast cars. Our testosterone-filled grip on life shows itself in many ways.

I was eight or nine the first time I played doctor with a girl. Both of us instinctively knew we had a desire for the other, even though puberty had not caught up with us. We kissed when we were nine.

I have told that story before. Let me tell you a new one.

But first, I'll ask you again, what is monogamy? My previous incarnation told you about how two people can have a lifelong relationship if they put friendship before money. They can even be good lovers.

What about desire? Is there really such a thing as civility when desire is so much more interesting than how to hold your fork at the table or how to greet one another if you're from two different cultures?

I am not civil today. No, fuck that. I am the dreaded bull in a china shop, tired of tiptoeing through stacks of precious ceramic shapes.

I'll put it more plainly. The world is full of so many timid and scared people who have been brainwashed to put civility above all else that the world is truly mine for the taking. I can scatter the sheep with a single roar.

I roar with laughter but others think it's intimidating because they're scared to lose their vested interests, which should be obvious to them is nothing more than the emperor's new sartorial elegance.

What the hell are they thinking?! Were their parents lemmings? Are they living in a cattle yard, ready to be slaughtered?

Why have children if all you're going to do is turn them into well-behaved automatons?

I want a woman. But not just any woman. I want a real woman, one who's not afraid to take a chance on something new. One who's got nothing to lose. Nothing to gain or everything to gain, I don't care. One who's willing to lose it all. Otherwise, why the hell should we keep on living? I sure don't want to be my last incarnation, whose only solution to success was to curl up and die. WTF.

I retired from my last job because I knew where that destiny was leading me. I felt my manliness maturing into a mountain of strength and the only way I wanted to celebrate was to find a good woman (or two or three) with whom I could wallow and enjoy the spoils of victory. However, my misguided youth led me to believe that civility was important above all else. I made myself crazy with desire. I pursued the wrong women. I wooed the timid sheep that I was used to being around when I was younger. You know the ones - the high collars and sweet smiles - because I didn't know any better.

Well, la di fuckin' da. I ain't a shepherd. I don't want no flock of "we're afraid to think for ourselves so we'll follow you around." I want ba-a-a-d. And I want it real good.

My old gang (and yeah, they don't get into all this reincarnation crap - they see me for who I really am), they're always willing to hook me up. But it's not that kind of action I'm after. I'm not the anonymous sex type.

I'm still part of my old self. I'm tired of living this life. But it ain't life itself I'm tired of. I'm tired of timidity. I'm tired of towing the line cause we gotta worry about what the neighbors think. Are you kidding me? Have you seen my neighbors? If they're the ones I've gotta worry about, then I might as well be lobotomized and march to my government job with them. Well, except for that one foxy 30-something single woman down the street who waves at me whenever I take a jog in a sweaty T-shirt and shorts. If I'm appealing to her in that condition, then why am I sitting here in front of this laptop all cleaned up and dressed in nice business clothes? lol

I'm tired of apologizing for being a guy. Men and women can run their own companies that cater to church-goers and conformists all they want. I ain't part of their crowd.

I've paid my dues. I've conformed to my family's dreams and desires. I gave them the first half of my life. Now it's time to be me. Time to look at that beautiful brunette with the icy blue-gray eyes and tell her that yeah, she IS a curvy woman. I can see that from a mile away. So why are we wasting time talking? Time to let the real me out of the bag. Time to put all that goody two shoes Boy Scout crap in the garbage and hit the road where my buddy, Destiny, has been patiently waiting for me to catch up (I admit I'll miss some of this old stuff piled up around me but not all of it, that's for sure).

Underground Cable - Do Not Dig!

Peanuts, pecans, soda crackers, cauliflower and broccoli make their way through my system so I apologize if my writing has the scent of vegetables and nuts. I did brush my teeth and wash my hands before sitting down in front of the computer.

I took a walk under high voltage lines again today, heading east up and over a small hill until I landed on the sidewalk that leads past my subdivision (housing estate). I made the mistake of walking past my subdivision and down the busy five-lane road. Chemical lawn treatment, mown grass, chlorinated pools and burning trash assaulted my olfactory nerve. Mothers pushing baby carriages (perambulators or prams) told me I was out of place (and out of my mind, too, for that matter). If they're the reason I'm teaching students/ customers, then I must stop. An education factory job is not for me. Let someone else teach/ brainwash people to seek the American suburban dream. Just the thought of 500 houses, with 500 lawnmowers and 1000 parents with 2500 kids and everything else that piles up in that thought is making me ill at ease. Makes me want to put on some ol' Rage Against The Machine and go jogging until my lungs and legs are on fire like I used to before I wore out my hips, knees and ankles.

As I decide how to get out of this teaching gig, I also wonder if I should shut down this blog. I think I've run out of anything meaningful to say to others. My observations can continue offline, if I even have any left to make.

I've concluded I'm tired of living out everyone else's dreams. They don't need me to reach their goals, despite my last desperate attempt to believe so. There's more to people than smiles. I know I can influence people in a positive way, but what's the point if it's only enabling them to get things I don't believe in?

Surely there's some place I can go where my impact is minimal and government obligations are few, where I don't have to worry about overhead power lines and underground cables. I'm not asking for a utopia. I'll gladly let the world go on without me.

You see, I believe that an animal should grow and die naturally. As the animal ages, it loses its ability to fight off disease, thus its energy level falls below that of other beings whose higher energy allows them to feed directly off the dying animal or eat its resources. In my mind, a human, after age 45, has lived its full life and is ready to die. It could have produced 3 or 4 offspring by the age of 15 (with assistance from its parents and grandparents), nourished the offspring to produce their own offspring (with assistance from its parents) and be ready to die so that its grandchildren can feed off the resources that the original human used. And so on. The idea that worker bees have to keep producing in society until age 65 or 70 is brainwashing, in my book, using crowd mentality to produce a false sense of what is normal.*

[*"Normality is a statistical mean to which none of us wholly belongs." - John Weightman in The New York Review of Books (Vol. 31, No. 17)]

I am about to reach my 47th year on this planet. I have enjoyed two years of retirement, which is all I ever wanted. My body could probably go on living another 45 or 50 years, if I wanted to feed off the crops of pharmaceutical companies. But I don't.

I guess I have to admit it. I am tired of living, period. All the rest of humankind can have this planet and my share of it. They need it and want it more than I do, anyway. That's obvious from the former cotton and soybean fields I see being turned into crops of houses in the dozens of subdivisions popping up around me. Blind ambition. I'm not the one to enlighten them and give them sight.

Time to sit down with my wife and have a serious talk about the future. I don't even know if I'm part of her dreams anymore and vice versa. She wants to travel and see the world. I've seen enough to last me a lifetime. Maybe I've seen the sign for me to move on. Perhaps it's finally time to find a waterfall to crawl in behind and let my biomechanical body rust into oblivion. That's why I've warned you not to follow my example. I know where my road leads. You need to find your own row to hoe. Here, you can have my Rake.

NOTE: This is my last blog entry for a while. The world is full of enough realism/negativity as it is. Trying to keep sorting out my thoughts online is going to get rather messy and disorganized. I'm tired of trying to be snappy and cool while figuring out my future. I'm not an exhibitionist. I've left a lot of my thoughts unsaid, whether they were just plain boring or even insightful. Enjoy your life. Have kids. Take care of your family. [Do as I say, not as I do. hehe]

Every Issue on CD-ROM!

Today, I have a decision to make. Those who read this blog for idle entertainment, I'll try to make the decision interesting for you. Those of you who read this for inspiration or advice, you'll have to look somewhere else today, I suppose - again, I tell you that I am only making observations about my life - to those who've told me that they gained understanding about their lives because of something I said, I repeat that I am not responsible for the consequences of your subsequent actions.

When I feel out of sorts, bordering on boredom or situational depression, I seek irony or humor to cross out any attempt of mine to take life seriously. Today, I hold in front of me two collections of humor - "Totally Mad," the complete collection of MAD magazine from 1952 to 1998, and "The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker," all 70,363 cartoons from 1925 to 2006. I drink tea from a cup with a mock cover of a soap opera comic book titled, "Corporate THRILLS." Two men and a woman in the drawing. One guy has his hands on the woman's shoulders. The other guy says, "Take your hands off her pal! That's the woman I want for my... ...EXECUTIVE VICE-PRESIDENT!"

After the meeting with the startup team yesterday, I thought about a future, moments ahead of me that simultaneously include both the startup team and me. I thought about a future where I and students in an institute of learning share the same moments together. I wondered about the moments where my wife and I share the future together when I am sharing moments with the startup team or students. The phrase, "someone to pay the bills," popped into my thoughts.

Before I sat down to write this blog entry, I checked our home email. A cousin of mine informed us that she is moving out of the home she shared with her husband while they complete their divorce and at the same time, her daughter (my first cousin, once removed?) is marrying her childhood sweetheart in Texas, eventually moving her 12-year old daughter from east Tennessee to Texas with her (my cousin's daughter lost her husband to a previously undocumented disease).

Right now, I am debating whether I should take myself seriously. I never have before so why start now? I have looked at the world through a microscope, a telescope, an airplane and a hot air balloon. In all instances, I have not found a view that tells me there's a way off this home planet of ours. Yet, in my thoughts, I act as if I'm looking for a way out of here, that all of the human interactions that have shaped me are not really real, and that I haven't shaped others around me, either, because they had the choice not to be influenced by me.

A question has been looming in the back of my thoughts for years. Whenever it starts to surface, I push it aside or throw a mental blanket over it. Today, that thought hangs on a banner across the walls of my mind. No matter which path I walk in my personal synaptic labyrinth, this thought's trying to get my attention.

What is the thought? "What if I have been lying to myself most of my life?"

Today, I have a decision to make. I want to answer that old question of mine before I do anything else.

I had fallen asleep last night thinking that I was going to write my next blog entry about what keeps two humans devoted to each other physically and mentally their whole lives. I was going to examine the sexual temptations that have literally sat in my lap that I somehow found the reserve to walk away from to keep me from breaking down the barrier that keeps sexual diseases out of my marriage. I was going to research chemical attraction, pheromones and the like, to see if there's a subtle secret that successful married couples share in how they keep renewing their chemical attraction to one another. I was going to discuss the social training that goes into keeping two people together in the midst of complex societies, when it's no longer just a matter of survival for an adult couple to stay together to raise their kids in the wild jungle or dangerous woods (training that includes giving people the notion that there's a reality to the concept of "falling in love with a soul mate," as if we can't fall in lust with any human that walks into our personal space). I was going to finally observe that my wife took her mother's advice to heart and married a friend she happened to love and not a lover she hoped would turn into a friend. I was going to add that it helps if one of the marriage partners is one who's willing to pay the bills, no matter whether one or both of them earns the income. That way, you've solved the money, sex and companionship problems that often plague or doom marriages.

Instead, I'm examining the question, what if I have been lying to myself most of my life?

What does that mean, exactly? Well, the way I see it, I know what life is all about. I know the simple solution of success: "Have kids. Take care of your family." I know that humans are social animals who like to form hierarchies that eventually explode into bureaucracies that get rebuilt over the centuries because either they fall out of fashion (those dang barbarians just want to have the hordes of gold and stores of food for themselves, don't they?) or the local environment has been wiped clean of human sustainability.

But yet (or yeti, in this case, maybe even SETI), I want to believe that I have some other ultimate solution for success, at least for me. Not only do I want to believe, I KNOW IT. I have it right here in my head. I have kept it safe inside me so that others can't have it (thank goodness, we can't fully "read" people's thoughts - until then, my secret's safe with me). If I don't share it with you, then it dies with me and I'll be the one with the smile on my face, not you, knowing I've had the solution to my success with me my whole life but never had to use it because I could lean on the rest of human society to pay my bills.

Everybody wants a bargain. Everyone wants to have something that gives him/her the advantage to be a better person. We want what's best for our kids. We want to be the only one on the block who got the deal of the century that we bought or can sell. Our genes and chromosomes are programmed for survival of the fittest.

Or so I've been led to believe. But what if I have been lying to myself most of my life?

You know what I'm talking about. For instance, what's a bachelor's degree for? Is it to show you have a certain set of knowledge? Not really. Actually, a degree should show you have the ability to learn and adapt quickly to social expectations (assuming you got your degree in 3-5 years). Is a degree necessary for success? Not at all. [So why am I teaching students/customers that they should get a degree? I'm beginning to think maybe I shouldn't. I realize that I believe in freedom to think for yourself without having to pay for a conditioned brain but I'll get to that in a moment.]

How am I lying to myself? Is it because I think that life is a joke and that hell would be a situation where you're the only one in on the punchline? Wow! Now that's a thought worth pursuing. Pardon me while I raise an imaginary glass of whiskey in my pub for one and exclaim, "A round for everybody! The joke's on me!"

Where am I lying to myself? I sit in a room so packed with memorabilia that I don't even know what I have anymore. I glance around the room and see all the items that went with situations that influenced who I've become. I have never fully imagined a moment of my life without nearly instant access to these physical items. They are part of the extension of me. To someone else, every single one of these items is junk, especially out of context. Their value is situational. Therefore, by extension, my value is situational.

Why would I be lying to myself? Am I trying to protect myself from something? Is reality all that scary? Does another part of me know something that the rest of me doesn't? Am I looking at my body and seeing someone that others don't?

Am I lying to myself? That's the real question here. I only added the "what if" and "most of my life" parts to give the question dimension in order to fill up the whole space on the scrolling marquee in my mind (don't know who's going to pay the electric bill for that one).

The answer to all of these questions is no. These are only words. The truth remains*: "Have kids. Take care of your family." I have no kids, no direct genetic offspring to call my own. Others may want to say I'm part of their family, no matter whether I'm genetically related to them or I'm a potential customer of a product someone is peddling at a bargain price. I have probably contributed to someone's successful fulfillment of the mantra, "havekidstakecareofyourfamily," but not because I actively chose to be involved.

[*Ode to Led Zeppelin's "The Song Remains The Same" that I know by title only and never heard or seen - an example of influences that appear for no apparent reason]

So now I can empty myself of the doubt written into the question, "What if I have been lying to myself most of my life?"

I am still me. The greatest me that will ever be. I'm a winner in a game I've never played. I don't want to play other people's games and that's all right. Now I've got to figure out how to make my wife happy while I extricate myself from trying to raise somebody else's kids and help a startup company get the people it needs to be successful without my involvement. I know the fact that none of this really matters because I don't have any vested interest in how any of this finally turns out. I'm not going to be someone else anytime soon so some of it does matter - I like to laugh and see people smile. Oops! I just told you my secret. Oh well. As I said before, if I have a thought, then thousands, millions or billions of other humans have the same thought, too, so it never was a secret to begin with. That doesn't keep me from lying to myself that I'm the only one who knows. Damn! I just gave away my other secret. Okay, time to shut my mouth and go for a walk.

[For those who've asked about the subject of my next book, it's a satire about satires about the motivational book movement. It won't be available in stores or on sale at the table at the back of the conference room where I'll be speaking next week in Toledo, Lancashire, Albuquerque and Walla Walla. I could, like so many others, organize this blog into a book or simply let you read the book in semi-serious, quasi-serial form right here for free. The latter is much more interesting to me and gives me the freedom to walk and think, without being hounded by an agent for the final copy of the book or fans who want my autograph on a stack of dead trees. Talk to you soon. Gotta get out and enjoy the sunshine.]

That Time of Year Again (for ages 18+)

March...what's in a name?* Let's see, 30 days hath September, April, June, and November; 31 days hath the rest, except in February, which has 28. So March has 31 days, right?

[*you can figure out that ode, I'm sure. If not, ask the Bard.]

I'm getting old so I'm repeating myself but the month of March brings back one year in my life that marked a huge step up my mountain of success.

I know you can't read my thoughts so I'll let you know I'm remembering the Dixie Motel on Hwy 25E in 1985. Not just any room but the room I shared with Sarah one weekend.

Sarah. A name that can't be spoken aloud in this house.

I've told you that I attended a community college in Morristown, Tennessee, in 1985. In two quarters, I accumulated enough credit hours to add to my stack of credit hours from other institutes of learning to earn an A.S. degree. But the degree is not important to me (it was important to my family and society, though). Instead, the experiences I accumulated have impacted my life more than any mandatory exposure to packaged learning.

Not only do I remember the Dixie Motel, a place that Sarah took me so we would not be discovered together (although, in fact, she preferred the Hyatt Regency but I convinced her the idea of a seedy hotel fit more into my writing plans), I recall the national park, state parks and city parks of east Tennessee where we would go for our one-to-one gatherings.

[While I write this, an unmarked bucket truck is being operated by a couple of guys with hard hats, presumably to repair/add cable TV lines on a creosote pine pole across the street from my house. For fun, I'll pretend they're installing monitoring equipment for a government agency or private business. It makes all three of our lives interesting writing material later on.]

I don't claim to be a saint. Far from it. Thank goodness, my experiences are mine to call my own. I might have been encouraged to partake of recreational substances but no one forced them down my throat - I chose the peers with whom I shared the times where my desire for new experiences exposed me to unknown chemicals. So be it. In the same sense, I chose to follow a path where my relationship with women led me to a married woman's bed. Not only her bed, but a tent in a campground in the Great Smoky Mountains, at least one motel, the backseats of cars, park benches, various rooms in the house she shared with her husband, various rooms in houses that her husband was building as a general contractor, and just about anywhere Sarah wished.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It was March where we literally stirred the ashes of a fire into raging heat. The 7th, 8th or 9th of March 1985, to be exact, approximately so, recounted in "Thus Spoke Sarah Through Straw."

Yesterday, I read about the death of a famous moonshiner in east Tennessee. His home address listed him as a resident of Parrottsville. When Sarah and I dated, she lived with her husband and two children in Parrottsville. I used to have one of Sarah's business cards that listed her address at that time. I've lost the card and the memory of the street name. But I'm sure she or her ex-husband knew of the moonshiner. Parrottsville is not that big. It's a short drive from Moonshine or Mason Jar Alley (a/k/a Newport). I'm sure times have changed there but it used to be really small. In fact, it seemed everyone knew I was dating Sarah, except her husband, of course.

I'm teaching students/customers who are now the age I was when I met Sarah. How many of them will flirt and fall in love with each other, recite and write poetry, and eventually have sexual liaisons? I can't believe I'm here now, imagining the possibilities. The circle is complete, I suppose. I have become that which I always wanted to be. The old man with the stories. Just like my philosophy/logic professor at the community college (except for the fact that he tried to seduce Sarah during a camping trip, not realizing that Sarah was trying to seduce me, instead. He was single. I am married and sexually committed to my wife, which changes the circle to a spiral, I guess.).

I have friends who have reached the "empty nest" age, where their hatchlings have fully flexed their wings and flown out of the nest. I never had a nest to fill but I am reaching the end of my first cycle of life at the same time as them. Instead of my kids leaving, though, I am adding someone else's kids to my life out here on a tree branch in the woods, teaching them how to continue the life of a free bird.*

[Obligatory Southern U.S. resident ode to Lynyrd Skynyrd's overplayed song, "Freebird"]

What now?

At lunch today, I met with the startup company and introduced them to a friend of mine who has been involved in more than one startup and thus has accumulated his 10,000 hours of startup experience. I asked him to speak to the startup team so they would know what to expect. I think it was a good learning experience for them. They are interested in adding my friend to their advisory board, with possible investment later on, after he's satisfied that the business plan is solidified. Next, I've got to get a sales/marketing person and legal counsel involved to complete their inner circle of business savvy.

What about me? What do I want next? At one time, I imagined I would be an older professor who would have a tryst with a student. Now that I'm that older professor, I'm not so sure. The generation gap is worse than I imagined. The interest in sexual experimentation is not strong enough to overcome the sexual barrier/promise I placed on my one-marriage-per-lifetime deal or the additional burden of a generation gap to deal with. I don't want a complicated life anymore (although I certainly keep finding business ways to complicate it a little, don't I?).

I'm back to the thoughts of the character who wants to live the life of an old hermit. Is it just a character for my next book or is it really me? I'm tired of conflict and doubt I'll write another novel so I don't need any new experiences to weave into a made-up storyline with love interests, conflicts and resolutions.

I don't have kids. I don't have a family to take care of. My life is complete. How do I walk this Earth taking only what I need for the rest of my days? A writer lives with the characters in his/her head, watching potential plots play out and then writing them down. I have to sort out where in all my characters resides me. Or if there ever was a me to begin with.

Until then, I wait and meditate. After all, what's the hurry? It's not like I have some place I have to go.

Good Nesting Skills

I have a title, and thus a theme, but nothing to write about. Where is my Muse today?

Maybe something will come to me in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, I'll continue on a previous theme. A while back, I joked about some old gang buddies of mine who wanted in on my new act. They figured that if I had weathered the economic downturn, then maybe there's some good to get out of me, after all, despite some of my geek/nerd habits that don't interest them.

I ran into one of them yesterday. Funny how many of us go along in our supposedly safe suburban lives, ignorant of the underworld that lurks around every corner, has its fingers on every doorknob and its electronic eyes on every computer keyhole. Anyways, this buddy of mine, he's got a job for me to do. And he thinks I'm going to keep it a little secret between us. As if!* As tech savvy as some of them guys is, they don't never check my blog, does they?

[*Ode to the movie, "Clueless"]

I may've mentioned to you that my new job guarantees at least 10% of the customers will lose interest in the product we're selling and be interested in something else. Well, my good buddy thinks he ought to be gettin' a list of those disinterested customers from me. He doesn't see I don't have a list that says, "Look right here and you'll see the obvious 10%." He thinks that like this week I can hand him one or two names and the same thing each week to give him a steady stream of new customers to sell his goods and services (or recruit them to help in the security enforcement business he runs).

So how long do I keep him at bay before he loses patience? I don't know. I've never crossed paths with my buddies since the time I snitched on one of them for stealing a valuable geode from the father of a schoolmate of ours who'd brought the stones in for show-and-tell in junior high school. My buddies roughed me up a bit, burglarized my parents' house and let me know that anything else stupid I wanted to do would up the ante. They weren't afraid of a little arson, in other words. One guy even burned the house next door to him to prove the point. As far as they's concerned, once you're in the gang, you're in for good. There's only one way out and it ain't a ticket to heaven, as far as they figure it.

Some of my customers haven't shown up yet. They're faceless names to me. Maybe I should just give my buddy a list of those customers. It's after I see faces that I become attached to others, anyway. A name's just an anonymous set of words for a phone book, right?

So while you all go about your innocent days shopping, cooking, mowing, working, studying or whatever else suburbanites do in spring, keep in mind that you live in fantasy land, one foot on Disney's doorstep and one foot on Dante's doorstep. Some of y'all will be ripped in two. Some will live out your fantasies and never know what's going on. The rest of you will be in my gang or a rival gang. I'd like to tell you you have a choice. And maybe some of you will, when the time comes to make a decision. Some of you won't. You'll be like me.

It's not like I look over my shoulder. I'm not paranoid. It's just that sometimes I see a face in a crowd and recognize a certain look, which tells me to expect a message. Or I'll see a familiar gang sign (not all of them are spray-painted by testosterone-juiced adolescents; some are posted in 8.5"x11" pieces of paper taped to the inside of a plate glass window on a storefront or stapled to telephone poles in the neighborhood (ever wonder why "Lost Cat!" posters never seem to belong to any of your neighbors - now you know, but not from me)). Or a strange number on a Caller ID at home that, when I mix it with the anagram name, spells a message from a buddy and leads me to a temporary "job" assignment.

Now what was it I was going to say about good nesting skills? Oh yeah. I'm not a father. Although the idea of my genetic heritage wandering the planet when I'm gone is interesting, I ain't no pappa bird, building up a nice, clean nest for some mamma bird to plop her eggs into. I sure ain't bringing no worms, bugs or chewed-up seeds for any offspring, neither. I ain't gonna pick out the fleas, ticks and other pests that inevitably infest the nest. But I seen some guys like that. I saw them back when I was in college, during my party days, where they'd go around picking up bottles, emptying ash trays and taking out the trash just as soon as all of us party vermin were leaving their place. Wasn't like they were clean freaks. Nothing like that. No wiping down tables and putting coasters everywhere. It's just that they made sure we were out of their flat by midnight or 1 a.m. and the place cleaned up, so they could get some quality shuteye with their wives and babies and have a healthy nest in the morning to wake up to.

I thought of them when I was walking the woods this past week, seeing little groups of birds flying through the trees and finding the oasis of bird seed at the back of my house. Chit-chatting away with each other. Chasing each other around. Warning each other when unknown silhouettes flew overhead (a couple of buzzards). Going quiet when the hawk stopped at my backyard waterfall for a sip of water and maybe a chipmunk snack (chipmunk was too quick that day). They had good social and parenting skills. I don't know if goldfinches, tufted titmouse or other birds have good nesting skills. No matter. They're taking care of their own.

I suppose that's what I'm doing in my way, too. Trimming the deadwood from suburban society. Better make sure your nest is on a strong, living branch. Otherwise...well, you get the picture.

View From The Peak

Some thoughts to ponder overnight:

• I reached my goal of owning an Italian sports car.
• I reached my goal of working in Europe.
• I reached my goal of holding a certain number of jobs to qualify myself as a journal-keeping journeyman so I could have some things interesting to write about.
• I reached my goal of getting professional reviews of a novel of mine.
• I reached my goal of being wealthy enough to retire at age 45.
• I reached my goal of teaching young people the "secrets" to life.

Now that I've reached all my goals, what do I do next, especially if the ways of the world have lost interest to me?

I know who I am. I know where I do or don't belong. I know how to laugh. I have cried when I didn't want to.

Only one dream left of mine that I have not completely lived. When I was a child, I saw myself as an 85-year old man standing on the steps of a church in Greeneville, Tennessee, handing sticks of chewing gum to children and telling them short stories of wisdom in the form of funny jokes, turning my love of humor into the life of an old laughing guru. But I have fulfilled that dream through my middle-aged teaching gig, showing students that humor and goals/dreams are the yin/yang of success. In the depths of my understanding, I believe the person in my childhood dream is representative of those who find wisdom in their later years when they have time to reflect on their lives. Instead, I have spent the first 45 years of my life reflecting on my life and the lives of others in order to build wisdom in half the time that some take.

In my current set of thoughts, I have climbed to the peak of the mountain upon whose feet I was born. I am not a wise guru or sage. I have only my thoughts and my life upon which I have built the strength to reach the mountaintop. Many of us have climbed the mountains of our lives and looked at each other. This we already know. We can see each other and nod without speaking to know that we're comfortable with our being. We do not need each other and do not put obligations on the other. We sit and meditate upon our thoughts. We see an ocean of humans below us, clamoring for attention, fighting one another, carrying hidden agendas and ulterior motives under their cloaks, putting extra burdens upon themselves and doing all sorts of things that prevent them from reaching the tops of their mountains.

Where do I physically go in the real world to simulate this place of peace, my mountaintop? I will sit and meditate upon this thought for a while. The answer is there but I cannot see it yet. Patience teaches more lessons than haste. A walk in the woods always helps, even if not all the wooded area that my feet crunch dry leaves underneath is in my name.

Upon what can one survive? Where is knowledge of nutritional needs and self-reliance in the quiet days of one's peaceful existence?

I assume these blog updates would disappear in order for me to reach full balance with myself, eliminating wasteful use of data centers, telephone lines, power plants, and computing technology. I can return to the half-filled paper journals lying around, without buying more for many years to come, if I feel the need to continue to write.

What of my ties to the economy in the form of stocks, bonds, mutual funds, IRAs, property holdings, cash and such? Hmm...I am not trying to reach some perfect one-man band break from the rest of humanity. Or am I? In one way, yes, I am ensuring that I am not personally attached to social hierarchies. No obligations to others. But neither am I severing all ties to humankind. I, like so many others, am finding a way to reduce my participation in the supply-and-demand cycle of the marketplace, doing away with my tax burden in the process. If I have no income, buy/sell no goods, and own no property, then what do I owe any government? Is there a place in the world where self-reliance and lack of government obligations peacefully co-exist?

Politicians, civil servants and military personnel have a vested self-interest in promoting the existence of territorial governments that gather taxes from residents of their territories. Tenured teachers have a vested self-interest in promoting the existence of institutes of learning where people must pay to go before getting official positions in the working world. Stockholders have a vested self-interest in promoting the existence of corporations that have all the rights of real people, charging others for the ideas and products that the corporate bodies have. So who is left to promote the existence of humans to live free of the cost of organizations on this planet?

There are sellers of books promoting frugal living. I suppose I should return to that area of learning to find part of the answer I seek. Some of their ideas certainly led to my being able to retire at 45 (for instance, I bought two Italian sports cars for less than a total of $8000 by shopping smartly and fixing/repairing the cars myself, saving LOTS of money; I buy off-brand goods with the same quality/ingredients of name-brand goods; I pay cash for off-season vacations, rather than use credit cards for peak-season trips; I never buy large-ticket items on impulse; my wife and I bought one house and paid it off; my wife and I have owned three new vehicles in almost 23 years of marriage, a luxury we decided we could afford).

Is there a book about a place where the millionaire next door can go live out a peaceful existence for the rest of his life after he's reached all his goals, lived all his dreams, and fulfilled all his obligations, more at risk of natural storms than the political and economic storms that sweep through the lives of socially connected humans? Hey, this is my life. I reached all my other goals so just let me have this dream of a one-person utopia out there somewhere that I can reach if I keep searching long enough. At least for tonight.

Triple Treat

This weekend, Ireland won the 6 Nations Rugby tournament, accomplishing the Grand Slam again 61 years later. Reminds me of my youth when I did something well, I'd get a triple treat ice cream - three scoops with caramel or fudge topping and a cherry on top. Despite the dismal news about the economy worsening every day, at least a bit of uplifting sports news carries us into Monday.

Now can Munster continue their winning ways, too?

NIMB

When do we embrace our place in the universe,

rather than pretend we are apart from it?

= = =

In class yesterday, I talked with the students/ customers about the 10,000 hour rule, recently revived by Malcolm Gladwell in his book describing outliers.

= = =

I think some of them understood the concept - that you set aside time first for yourself and then for others. In that personal time, you concentrate your efforts (physical and/or mental) on what and who you want to enhance. You may want to be a better religious adherent. You may want to be a better parent. You may want to be the best peashooter on your block. It doesn't matter what you choose. The point is that to reach the goal of being the best, you generally spend 10,000 hours on your efforts and you will find yourself at the top of your game, no matter what it is, given that you understood your limitations in relation to your goal. For instance, a person who stands a little over 4 feet tall (1.25 meters) as an adult will probably never excel in professional basketball in the center position but may hold the record for most consecutive free throws made.
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How long do we have to live a basic life before we excel as integral parts of a whole?

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I wandered the woods behind my house this morning, seeking the first blooms of shooting stars (Dodecatheon meadia) for this season. In my meandering, I found redbud (Cercis canadensis), waterleaf (Phacelia bipinnatifida), Japanese maple (Acer palmatum) and trout lily (Erythronium albidum).

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Birds, butterflies, bees, flies, gnats, ants, spiders, snails, and other fauna flourish in the northern Alabama woods this time of year. I saw scat and other signs of nocturnal animals. Occasionally, I smelled the sleeping/breeding quarters of unidentified animals. Mostly, my nose was overwhelmed by the scent of cut grass and spring onions wafting over the woodland air from domesticated ground covered in a monoculture of untasty monocotyledonous green plants (that's a mouthful, eh?) from nearby habitation quarters of Homo sapiens domesticus.

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In the distance, the sounds of hammering and mowing ensured I did not fully escape into the belief that I was alone in the world. Under my feet, primarily dry ground, a concern to me this early in the year. The drought of recent years has reduced the trillium and mayapple populations and has not yet disappeared, despite recent rains.

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Yesterday, my students/customers noticed a tone in my demeanor. I brushed it off as my possibly having caught a cold. In fact, I felt sad and was in physical pain as well. I thought of Helen in the silence - any connection? Does she think about me anymore? I don't know. Our lives were cemented a long time ago. We accepted the separate family invitations to walk paths clearly marked for easy, successful sojourns in the first 45 years of our lives. What now? As individuals, who were once conjoined, what have we become?

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I pondered these questions as I sat at the junction of the Huntsville Library and Embassy Suites and looked at the traffic circle in between the two, while waiting on my wife, who was closing up her booth for the day at the craft show in the Von Braun Center. Before I left the house to pick her up, I had just watched a middle portion of the movie, "Grosse Point Blank," which brought forth thoughts of smiles and laughter buried deep inside my labyrithine brain.

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My dear, dear friend, Helen, what has became of you?* I still don't know what I meant to you. At one point, you were everything to me, our limits not a hindrance but a fun set of games to play. If only you didn't want kids. But what would the world be without your Christy? I do not know. I wish I understood the desire to have kids and raise them. So far, all of us exist only because of reproduction. You have given the world more than I'll ever understand. I'll forever have us in these words. You have more than me.

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[*Ode to Pink Floyd's "The Wall"]

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I wandered the woods today, in search of something more than a blooming plant. I sought sanctuary. I sought peace. I sought but knew I would not find. I did not want to find what I sought, for if I did, then my search would be over. Instead, in the silence, I heard a question hanging over my head - "Where do I belong?"

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As I jumped from rock to rock, as I placed each foot carefully like a monk not wanting to step on his ancestor, I slowly became aware of the meaning of the question. Only upon the return, after I stepped foot within the boundaries of my official place of civility, setting my body down on a plastic loveseat perched on a rock ledge in my backyard, did the question fill the landscape around me for full understanding.

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I belong nowhere and I belong everywhere. Thus, I will never find an exact spot to call my own. I am simply part of the universe. I am not the universe and the universe is not me. There is nothing for me to find and there is everything for me to find. I will spend my life seeking the answer to a question. With every answer, another question appears. There is no ultimate truth.

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Life is repetitive. Life is art. Have kids. Take care of your family. Life is chaos. Life is order. It is all the same and it is all different. We became a part of the universe before we were born. We were never apart from it.

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