Don't Touch The Merchandise

"Easy to handle,
Easy to hold,
Once it's broken
Consider it sold."

You've seen a dusty, yellowed, typewritten sign like that in an old antique store, I'm sure, meant to discourage you from picking up delicate china plates or crystal vases. It's a cliché I hesitate to use but then I'm not a conceited, original writer who thinks his writing is better than common phrases. I am digressing... The side-effects of getting older. Oh well...

I look at the room - my study - and find hats. At least a few dozen. Many feathered and glittered ones from New Year's Eve parties long ago. Another one with "Tavern On The Green - New York." Straw hats from Mexico. Hats with cardboard-and-cloth sections that point forward like half a duck's bill - so-called baseball caps. I let my thoughts drift and my mind wander.

Sorry, I used that word again for something that doesn't exist: mind. I apologize. I'm still getting over the effects of letting insecticide into my system. Poison. Breath of the grim reaper. My eyes weep to clear themselves of this gunk.

I was going to talk about ideas but realized that ideas don't exist. I was going to make the same mistake of taking myself seriously. Then I read my thoughts ahead of time and concluded that thoughts don't exist. Somehow, though, we humans keep deluding ourselves, individually and collectively, into believing we exist. I am one clear example of that falsehood and won't stop myself from perpetuating the absence of importance in daily human activities.

Merchandise. Such a cold word. In the parlay of my current part-time job, merchandise refers to students/customers. In my other "job," merchandise refers to something that has a high monetary value, in the right circles, of course.

In either case, keep your hands to yourself.

What a shame.

Have you ever held the bud of a flower to your nose and collapsed into a euphoric pile of human mush? Such flowers exist, some blooming once every few years. Spores have the same effect. Plants and other organisms have evolved defensive mechanisms that most animals usually don't like. However, some animals have adapted their survival techniques so that they practically depend on the plants' toxicity for nourishment. How many of you enjoy the endorphine rush from eating curry or habanero pepper?

I like substances that bring a tear to my eye. One of my favorite food additives is the world's hottest sauce, rated at one million Scoville units. My stomach rumbles at the thought of eating a teaspoon or two of that delicious, deadly, numbing goo full of capsaicin.

For most people, such foodstuff is too hot to handle.

And that's what I'm talking about, merchandise that's too hot to handle.

You know there's always someone who finds such merchandise not hot enough. A person like that wants to eat fire for breakfast and sleep in the lion's den at night, curling up with a cobra on a bed of fire ants. I've had friends like that for whom even a sniff of suburbia gave them a chill of boredom they couldn't stand.

And now I'm there. No, not in the vat of hot stuff, but in the ice bin of slow living, where black pepper and salt are the hottest spices on the table, watching the world go by. If an endorphin rush at lunch or dinner is the only thrill left, make sure to change my adult diapers and wipe the drool off my chin because I'm ready for the old folks' home. You can size my coffin on the ride over to geriatric daycare 'cause I'm ready to slide my other foot into the grave.

I'll be candid with you (and frankly, I rarely tell the truth in this blog because I know certain people read every word I write and look for clues, even when there are none). I'm bored. I've done everything that I set out to do. I never had grand goals. My dreams were small because I didn't have a childhood I felt I had to overcome by overachieving. I wasn't born with blue blood where anything less than running a multi-billion dollar multinational comglomerate is considered failure.

I've always been relatively happy just living with me. It probably started in the crib where all I had to do was smile and the world smiled back. Simple living. But because I'm able to put together complicated sets of thoughts and images, other people believe that my value to them is worth bothering me for. Along with that, I'm a nice guy and accommodate others when they bother me for their attention because I have nothing I want to do. I've said all this before, haven't I? See, it's happened. I've become a hamster on a wheel for you, saying the same thing over and over again.

I started this blog entry because I wanted to talk about a tattooed piece of merchandise I saw last night. Actually, there were a few others, all of them interesting to look at and probably just as interesting to touch and hold, with or without tattoos, sitting in houses or trailer parks and gathering dust. [I'm shaking my head to clear my thoughts. I can't have it all.] Anyway, I like road signs, especially ones that'll lead you down a dark alley or quiet country lane where tourists never travel. And tattoos are road signs, aren't they?

But what's the use of a roadmap if you don't have a means to travel down interesting paths?

I'm a nice guy. Someone has posted a "Do Not Enter" sign on the road I want to take, tacking up a photocopied flyer that says, "According to your agreement with us, you will conduct yourself by following our rules of business ethics and stay out of this territory." Many of my friends see something like that and go right on in, like a salesman who sees a sign in a window that says "No Soliciting" and takes it as an invitation to a quick sale. I don't. I let the owners of that land have their fantasies of integrity and ethics, like people I've met who have annual passes to amusement parks and half-believe in a world of human-sized cartoon characters (at least, I hope they only half-believe).

In other words, I don't get involved when it's too complicated. Some merchandise is not worth handling as long as it sits on a shelf in a store with closed-circuit TV and security guards. That's not the kind of merchandise I'm interested in. I believe in the free exchange of ideas, including tracing my fingers along a roadmap made of nothing but womanly tattoos, far from the prying eyes of corporations or institutes of learning.

I used to throw pity parties for myself all the time but I got bored seeing the same writing over and over again. I'm seeing the same patterns emerge. I'm bored with myself, tired of watching crane flies bounce off the window screen, tired of watching people take walks on the street past my house and look in at this monkey typing on a keyboard, tired of searching my thoughts for morsels to throw at a mostly unknown readership.

I remember two interviews I had when I was a teenager. In the first one, an adult Boy Scout executive was exclaiming about my impeccable record and was glad to offer me a place with a troop in the 1977 National Boy Scout Jamboree. He told me he kept his eye on Boy Scouts like me and looked forward to reading more about my successes in life. Two years later, I interviewed with a U.S. Navy officer who exclaimed about my impeccable record and was going to recommend me for a full Navy ROTC college scholarship. He told me he kept his eye on future Navy officers like me and looked forward to hearing more about my successes in life.

I fooled them all, didn't I? I beat up little kids, stole their lunch money, sold them recreational merchandise, converted them to my gang, lost fights to bigger fish in the organization, re-earned my place in the "family," and survived my teenage years by leading two different lives. Why didn't I carry this fantasy on into my college years? Because I no longer had to. I was free to be me. I had the desire neither to be the perfect Boy Scout who could do no wrong nor the invisible thug that no one could catch or squeal on. In order to survive since then, I've nursed one image or another when the situation demanded it but never one or the other for very long.

I've been standing at a crossroads for almost two years now. I've written myself into a rut just trying to figure out with visible words what I ought to do next and where I ought to go. I've been nudged in one direction or another by friends and colleagues, taking little diversions but always staying within sight of the crossroads. The crossroads have become a home of sorts, where I can sit on a bench and nod my head at the people passing by, never able to ask them what happened after they chose one path over the other. Not for lack of trying, of course! I have read books and interviewed people who've come from paths that resemble ones I can take. But it's not the same thing as taking one of the paths myself. I'm getting bored - I've enjoyed this period of writing but maybe it's time to get up on my feet and travel on.

I learned a long time ago that if you want to be successful and free of dangers in certain businesses, never touch your own merchandise. Keep your hands clean. There are always couriers and delivery people who want to do your bidding. Live a simple life. Be a visible investor in legitimate businesses and let the government have its take of your profit. Share the wealth and let members of society reap the benefit of your success.

All that glitters is not gold. I know that. But I'd sure like to carry this image of a tattooed lady home with me. I can mount it on the wall or it can mount me. I don't care. Does it matter who's the trophy and who's the prizeholder? Not when you get so bored that other people's rules no longer make any sense, even to a reasonably nice guy like me.

Free pie

I descended from migrants, always on the move, settling in one spot for no more than a generation or two. I have no ancestral home, only a lineage of mostly forgotten people. Yet, I have an image of a safe place to be, a haven that protects me from harm, or at least I think I do because the humans inhabiting my part of the world have been trained to recognize the concept of private ownership and generally leave me alone when I'm home.

I have no value. I have completed all my objectives. I am ready to find a home where I can be left alone with my imagination, pretending I'm valuable in my dreams.

I am happy and satisfied with who I am and have few regrets because I am who I am both by what I did and didn't do. I have paid my dues to society, giving more than some and less than others. I have no more bargains to make with other humans. I am ready to fade away into oblivion and give my minerals for use by other essences on and off this planet because I am finished with the minerals. I am not them and they are not me.

I met my wife and friends/colleagues at Gibson's BBQ restaurant for lunch today in order to take advantage of the free pie on Monday/Tuesday in the month of April deal (coconut, in my case). I ate the flesh of a turkey, the fruit of an okra plant, the seedpods of a green bean plant, the fruit of a potato plant, the processed milk of a cow, the inner lining of a coconut seedpod, the yolk of a chicken egg and other essences that constitute a human meal. Afterward, I got my head sheared at the Cuts by Us hair and beauty salon near my house - ba-a-a-a - I'm a sheep ready for summer weather.

I have no more to discover or teach. I have given the human world all I know and they have given me all they know. Emotions, thoughts and other states of being are just words to me now, the results of mineral transformation. I have no transformation because I do not exist. The universe continues its eternal/infernal dance, creating me in a small eddy that appeared and disappeared like a dust devil on a farm field or open Martian plain, no reason to celebrate or mourn one thing's existence over another. It (the giant "IT" (i.e., everything)) is all the same - one or none, counted and sorted or infinitely unquantifiable. I am more than these words only because I am not these words but these words are part of me and you and a scribe sitting in a cave in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains recording the lineage of personages of that area.

I am the body that craves sensation and you may be the person who wants to share sensation with me. But neither of us is our bodies. Sensations are just temporary temporal temptations. We sense because we are beings who've inherited evolutionary survival sense traits. We are no more than that, even if there is nothing more to that than the fact we don't exist.

We are no more or less than our bodies because our bodies do not exist. Does any mineral have a corporeal existence? Then why should a collection of constantly changing minerals have a corporeal existence?

The universe exists because it is more than us and will last longer than us but it, too, does not exist. We are the masters of illusion and mastered the illusion that we are separate entities in a vast universe because our mineral set can imagine itself as a mineral set but the set is never set for any length of time.

I write here as if I know what I'm talking about but I am only expressing myself as a mineral set that's processing the chest tissue of a nearly flightless bird. That's all I think I know at this moment. I really know nothing. I am only regurgitating minerals stored in this temporary mineral set I call a body which contains a blob I call a brain which represents what I call me which is I, I think. I am the authority on nothing. Nothing is what I'm all about. Not nihilism. Truly, only nothing, which is absent of nihilism but also contains it.

Now you see why I only want to live with me, because I have nothing left to discover from you and thus do not want to give you the notion I have something to give you other than the nothing that is me. How can I give you the reflection of the trees and sky outside the window? How can I give you the effect of wind on the landscape? They are nothing that belongs to me and nothing I can give you. They are here for you in their temporary states, nothing like what they were or will be again. You can have them with or without me. We are all nothing.

It's like free pie. Pie does not exist and nothing is free yet I had a slice of free pie today and it is nourishing my body, making gurgling noises in my gut. Do you see the slice of free pie I ate? Yes, you do. It is splattered all over these words. Yet, you see nothing of the sort. The universe is everything and nothing. You don't see anything. Minerals and states of energy (including all that wave particle mess that the universal theory of everything resolves, of course) are the only things here but you can't see them as separate entities because they're so closely entwined. There's nothing else. They don't exist but that's what we see and what you are and yet what you don't see and what you are not.

I no longer exist. I'm just a piece of free pie walking around what it wants to call home. Learn to deal with it.

Better Than Sliced Bread

Have you ever stood in a back alley during a street fight? I have been there, brother, testosterone flowing through my young adult body. Brass knuckles and small-blade knives. No guns or machetes allowed. All the fists you can use. No holds allowed.

I learned my moves when I was 8, 9, 10, and 11, during school recess and after school, before organized sport took over. Fight or flight. Stand up or get knocked down. Sometimes, all of the above. The human body, pre-puberty. Had my first fight in kindergarten. Learned my lesson - if you're going to have a fight in front of the teacher, play the part of the innocent angel. If you're going to have a fight away from authority figures, be a good talker or play the part of the devil, depending on the size and flexibility/dexterity of your opponent. A person with orthodontic braces or eyeglasses is a weak opponent, or an easy target, depending on your mood.

I've grown out of my fighting form. I don't throw around weak shrimps for fun anymore. By my age, if you want to take somebody down physically, pay for the privilege. Don't order your fights over the phone or across the Internet. No paper trails. These are free lessons I've giving you here. You understand that, don't you?

While I'm keeping a low profile, staying out of the limelight and away from my international buddies, I've got this little teaching gig I think I mentioned to you. I had forgotten the stories that students used to provide teachers/professors for missing class or not turning in homework.

Any of you students reading this, let me put the record straight once and for all. Your reasons are your own. I don't want to know them. I don't care about them. You have your life to live. The only reason our lives have intersected is because I took this part-time gig to look legit to certain business associates of mine. I have no care in the world for why you skipped a class I'm instructing. You can turn in your homework the next time you show up and I promise I won't say one word why you didn't show up the previous week. If you want to tell me a sob story about your brother's wife's mother's son's son's daughter getting stuck in the mouth of a snapping turtle being swallowed by an alligator climbing out of a sewer to escape a loose bear that was hit by an ice cream truck sliding across the road after dodging a great white shark that leapt out of a boat being pulled by a drunk truck driver texting on his cell phone about the shark that landed on his boat and chomped his fishing buddy in half while he was taking a piss off the dock, go ahead.

Anything's possible. However, the only possibility that matters to me is whether I see you in class taking notes, turning in your homework and/or taking a test. Otherwise, we have nothing in common. If you want to be creative with your excuses, feel free to write them down and post them on a blog entry, facebook/myspace profile or tweet I won't see. At least that way, someone gets to see them and might have a response that'll be useful to you.

This place where you attend and I instruct is the place that cares but I ain't your momma. Some of the faculty/staff care and they'll gladly listen to your life stories, show you sympathy and all that. But guess what. Bottom line is that no matter where you take college-level classes, you still gotta show up, do the homework and study. Losing your thumb in the blender while mixing margaritas for your birthday party last night ain't gonna change the facts. Get your thumb sewed back on and show it off to your classmates.

Woke up from my wine-stained nap this afternoon and realized I'm the relic instructor/professor I used to laugh at when I was a kid. I've crossed over a generation gap. I live in a different era from my students. In my day, men were men and women were women and we understood our roles. These days, women are men and men are robots. Sure, when I was young there were women who preferred women and men who preferred men. Vanessa Williams lost her crown because she appeared in photos that seemed to imply she liked women. These days, though, it's practically a requirement that you pose nude in a risque rigged shot and post it on your Internet CV or wear clothes of the opposite sex and declare equal rights are passé.

Call me old-fashioned. I don't care. It's not that I'm a prude. No, I've dated lesbians. I've slept with bisexual women. I've been around the block. At the end of the day, when I'm sitting on the front deck drinking a beer, sipping a whiskey or chugging wine, I'd rather see a voluptuous set of curves walking down the street past me than overpriced, overexposed stick figures known as supermodels who've posed in every imaginable photo shoot posted on the Internet for undersexed viewers and are starring in an X-rated subscription-only reality show, who would turn me into an instant millionaire should they simply stop and walk up on my porch for a few minutes of paparazzi time. I don't even care if the voluptuous curves have a little extra wiggle, stretch marks or other womanly blemishes. I'm all about that kind of reality, not the scripted kind.

In my neighborhood, kids drive past with their whoosh-whoosh, thump-thump, eardrum blasters. I used to be one of them. Let 'em have their fun (say, as long as they aren't shaking babies awake in every house on the street). Our youthful pre-adulthood is a short time period. The kids'll grow up and be out of my 'hood in no time. They always have.

There's the other side of childhood you may know nothing about, the one where I stood and watched lives disappear down the drain and were soon forgotten. I almost forgot about myself there, too.

Some things in life are better than sliced bread, better than flour enriched with vitamins and iron. Better than cartoon character shaped children's chewable tablets. I won't lecture you about them because I enjoyed them. I forget many of the names of the good things in life that brought me joy and exhilaration beyond my wildest dreams. I just remember a friend of mine telling me, "you're no longer doing them for recreation," walking away and abandoning me to my new profession.

I didn't start out dealing. I was just buying a little extra for use later on, after classes or on the weekend. Then, one student or another, sometimes a college roommate, would ask to score a bit for his girlfriend or party buddies. Word spread that I was a fair dealer and soon had a network that provided me my personal supply free out of the profit I was making.

Wait! What am I saying? It sounds so simple.

Unfortunately, it is. At a certain level, anyway.

Smalltime players don't figure into the transactions between the owners of the process. It's not a democracy or a company with cross-functional team meetings where everyone gets to serve as leader for the week.

I never conducted business with...well, how shall I put this? I'm not sure who reads my words available globally. Okay, I'll just say that in my day, the owners of the process were still from Europe. Product was shipped from Mexico but the Mexican and Central American gangs of today were not in control of the turf I wandered. I don't know who owns the turf in my ol' stompin' grounds. I'm sure the distribution network is more efficient but then again maybe it's not.

It's easy to get in but not easy to get out after you reach a certain level. The issue is a simple matter of trust. "What's in it for me?" You scratch so many backs and cover so many people's asses that you lose track of the backs and asses that owe you or that you owe. At least that's what they want you to believe.

Thing is, I'm a writer. I write in code. I'm telling you all this because my code is unbreakable. I have no encryption key or cipher that you will find. I've kept a tally of everything I've done since I was in fifth grade. Yeah, it all started when I was 10 and read a science fiction story about two people kidnapped and help captive on another planet where they communicated with each other using a simple cipher. No ciphers for me. My record book is buried in the stories I write. In one story, a lover may be a dealer. In another story, a lover may be a buyer or some cop I paid off to look the other way.

I've kept track of every single one of them. To beat the system, I posted my stories for all the world to read, taking advantage of the Internet so I can stay away from the paper journals that narks like to steal and turn over to their handlers.

You want to become a millionaire? Then listen carefully. You can do it one of two ways, the slow way or my way. The slow way is the way that money dealers like. You put a little dough aside every week and invest it in some publicly traded company or fund. The traders get their share and everybody's happy. Governments like slow moneymakers, too, because they're dependable and controllable.

Then there's my way. Make it all mysterious and scary if you want and call it the "underworld." Words like that keep the suburbanites quiet, obedient, dumb and happy. I'm not going to badmouth them because they feed me. Their quiet and obedient children buy goods from my colleagues in the so-called underworld. Husbands and wives work for company owners who operate regional fiefdoms in this underworld of yours. Sometimes they're my best customers, too.

Uninformed people mention the risks involved. After all, they say, look at the crime rampant in TV shows and movies! What risks are you talking about? Ones invented by script writers to keep you glued to the TV set? You've got greater risks by walking across the street than walking the street for my way.

You know, I'm bored talking about this. I ain't gonna get no richer telling you how I built my empire. I'm just bragging to make me feel like a man 'cause I ain't got no woman with me to throw my hand around her waist right now. I'm wasting my time flapping my virtual jaws with these calloused fingertips.

What I was planning to say is that if you wanna make money in this economy, it's there to be had. Plenty of folks with money to throw at product if you've got the right product to sell. Don't need no business license to do it, neither. You wanna look legit, though, 'cause there's always some innocent citizen out there who'll stir up such a fuss that even your best customer in the law business has to make an example of you to "restore the public trust" if you don't have a valid reason for being around.

And lastly, if you're in this sort of business while taking some college-level class to look legit, do yourself a favor and get your money's worth by showing up so you can pass. Otherwise, I'll probably get bored listening to your "valid reasons" for missing class and decide you're more useful as a mule in a colleague's business, destined for an eventual spin down the drain and washed away.

Are you listening? This is simple stuff here. It's easy. If I can do it, so can you. However, do us both a favor and act like a legitimate professional, no matter what business you think you're in. I get tired of amateurs. They don't make it into my stories. Amateurs tend to have "accidents" and disappear like a puff of smoke, the only evidence of their existence being sooty stains on furniture. As always, the choice is yours, not mine.

The unknown lover I never had

Did I finish telling you about the last hour on the train with Sommer? I can't remember. Right now, I'm confused. I climbed on the roof of the house to put insecticide on parts of the wooden eaves where ants and squirrels have been taking too much liberty with this domicile, exposing it to the elements and threatening the peace I've established with my cohabitation partner about the level of care I have to give this place in order not to hear her "nag" me. I breathed in some of the insecticide, got it on my hands and arms and in my eyes. I feel used by the destructive chemical companies.

I poured myself a tall glass of wine to ease my troubles and dampen my thoughts of nothingness better known as bourgeoisdom. My thoughts are undirected and a headache pounds my temples. Forgive me while I tap a vein and pour some sacrificial blood on this keyboard to appease the gods of electronic magic. I am temporarily lightheaded and lost. Omm....

I hear the echo of words spoken by the young lady at Blue Willow Cafe on Saturday. "The reason I don't want to have kids is..." She spoke the words and glanced over her shoulder at me. Coincidence? Depends on how you interpret the next scene...

She left me a sculpture she made out of the colorful pipe cleaners used as napkin rings at the cafe. I suppose I ought to photograph the sculpture and share it with you but I won't - I'm being selfish, instead, mounting it on top of a framed photo of a French cafe I bought that hung over the table where I sat watching the young woman give her small audience an afternoon performance. The photo and sculpture hang on the wall beside me in my study/studio, forever a reminder of a future I didn't know I'd have.

I know I told you I ran into the young woman and her mother at the baggage store. I used an excuse to get away from my wife to let her peruse jewelry while I ran around the store having witty conversations with the young woman (I'd give you her name but we didn't exchange names, formalities not being the cause for our social intercourse that day).

How many times do you hold eyes with a stranger? Like holding hands but only less intimate? Too many times, right? Exactly.

The young woman and I held more than eyes together. Do you know the opportunities that abound in a large department store, where walls, hallways, dressing rooms, and la salle de bain offer moments to discover why you live in the moment in the first place? The young woman is a lady. I leave the rest to your imagination. I don't have her name and only a vague idea where she lives but I have her imagination in the form of a few minutes shared together, a verbal dessert, a dissertation on why two lovers want more together than mere children. I know you've been there, too. Reading about the details are where the bourgeoisie live. We live in the moment -- much more exciting, n'est pas?

The same can be said about my hour-long moment alone with Sommer, an unknown audience around us including an older couple who were silently cheering us on. You'll get more delight out of burying your head in a lilac bush full of blooms than I could ever give you here in words. Others have coated poetic phrases with perfumed potentates pining over a lost lover. I can do no better. Sommer and I decided that the hour, which flew by, gave us the not-so-secret secrets that two lovers share. We needed no physical intimacy, at that time, to take our relationship quietly to the grave.

Summer is a lady, wearing long-flowing gowns of woven tree leaves, giving the word-color green its own rainbow of shades and tones and nuances that only summer's lover can see. Summer is sliding down into a cool pool of water under a waterfall after hiking deep into the woods, softly washing civilization into the silt that cushions your toes. One hour in summer means more in winter than three months before fall.

Summer in Bavaria. You don't...you can't know what it means until you've been there, sweet, bitter chocolate nipping at your tastebuds, washing over you and numbing any sense you thought you had.

I sat in an ice cream store called Coldstone yesterday. I watched three shades of chocolate, mirages of youthful beauty, enter my thoughts. Three sizes, too. Three sets of ideas, three ways of life, three experiments in humanity. Three hints of summer in the middle of spring. The classic short story, "The Girls in Their Summer Dresses," by Irwin Shaw, scrolled through my thoughts.

I can think no more. Insecticide and wine, the smell of iron heavy in my blood, it all combines to put me out of my misery for this brief moment. I don't believe in memories but I'll take what I can get. Waiter? Waiter? Is there no one around? All I want is another round and a little round of sleep. I want to remember the sweet milk chocolate smile that I saw at Red Robin last night. If I'm stuck in suburbia, I might as well enjoy the scenery. Fuck it. I'm alone in the house with the cats. What do they care? They'll enjoy my warm body beside them in bed, won't they? I'll just drift off to sleep and reread Hemingway's "Hill Like White Elephants" in my thoughts, my dreams full of possibilities I won't find today. Tomorrow, I can be/feel worthless and wish I was dead.

Concave, Convex

Based on the emails I receive from readers, I have formed an image of the type of person who reads this blog, makes the decision to write an email, and then actually sends me an email. Based on the letters I've received from those who took the extra step to discover my mailing address, I have an even clearer image of the type of reader who's willing to expose his/her handwriting and thus my glimpse into your personality.

I don't know the rest of you. I can set up a series of lenses in the backyard, focusing and unfocusing the sun's rays, seeing the effects on leaves and dirt, but I can't tell you in a few words what my backyard is. Okay, I take that back. My property is my oasis. I stood in the middle of the trees, vines, birds, squirrels and all the other woodland life this morning and filled my body with indescribable energy. The energy felt the same no matter whether I stood on the street, on my driveway, my front yard, front deck, or backyard. I didn't care about words. I didn't think about caring. I existed. Simplicity.

Your life is action. My life often involves action. My being only exists during meditation. Today, I can say I existed. Lately, I have not existed as much as I've wanted to. That's the source of my frustration, letting others drag me into their lives so they can prove to themselves they're important to me even when some of them know I think my life is much more important to me than theirs. But we're all the same, even when I want to think we're different. Desiring simplicity in a complex world. Wanting to feel important.

I stood in the shower this morning and thought about all the people who want to discover more about our universe - designing, building and sending probes into the solar system - and wonder why, when I had the chance to work on the space shuttle the rest of my life, I left that job because the management there told me they liked my potential and wanted me to work 50-60 hours a week. I discovered that some people dedicate their thoughts, both waking and dreaming, to pure understanding, putting one thing and one thing only in their sight. I already have my one thing - me. It's all I ever needed to be happy.

So why do I let myself get dragged into other people's lives? For instance, I didn't ask for or in any way request an audience with the hiring manager(s) at my current place of employment. Instead, I appeared as a guest speaker one evening and impressed one of the managers, who in turn requested a copy of my resume. They initiated the interview process with me, asking if I'd be interested in working for them. Because I believe I am important enough not to have to over-emphasize my personality to others, I stepped onto the conveyor belt that led me to working by teaching.

This blog is a dangerous device. It inflates my ego when others respond to what I write when it's only supposed to serve as a universal Internet access portal to my online journal. I can only ever be important to me. If I am important to others, then they are letting themselves be less important to themselves. Those who demand my attention are trying to lessen my self-importance but instead lessen my respect for their own self-importance or self-image, even if they have valid "mental" reasons for their demands, including recent loss of family members or friends and the desire to reach out for help.

When I am truly important to myself, I am invisible. Egoless. I may be picked up by the wind and get blown away. I will have no input to receive or output to give. This morning, such a moment of self-importance erased my personality traits for a moment. To repeat an overused phrase, I was one with the universe. Or rather, I was unaware of myself existing separately from the universe. I had no self. I understood infinity.

I spent most of last year in that state of mind. I looked forward to being or nonbeing like that for the rest of my life. Instead, I find I am still in demand by others. I have let myself get sucked back into the working world, with the daily ebb and flow of human needs. While in this working state, I offer advice to those in their mixed-up self-importance when I see they are reaching levels that I already achieved but I do not want a life of giving advice, despite the admonition from others that it's my responsibility as a person of my being to bring others enlightenment. I disagree - it is far better to discover enlightenment alone - but at the same time I can be wrong. I don't care. My way is not your way. I am childless and thus futureless. I have no time left and all the time in the world. I am outside and inside, left and right, and nowhere at the same time.

I would say that I appreciate the attention that the readers of this blog have given me but I would be lying. My life is a journey, not a destination. I want to live only with myself in every moment. I do not mind you walking beside me but I do not want to know you're there. We can cross paths, that's okay, because randomness must include bumping into others without premonition occasionally, but let's try to stay apart and not get attracted by our uniqueness or the strength of our personalities.

I am a middle-aged, overweight, male human animal, who has traveled over part of the planet on which I was born. I know nothing. I only exist part of the time I'm alive. I think I'm alive because of thought conditioning. I accept randomness because I want no destination to obscure the time I spend with myself. I have no goals or objectives. I have limits that I neither accept nor reject because thinking about them does not change their boundaries. I will die and will never have lived. I will disappear while remaining visible forever. The hair on the floor that fell out of a follicle on my arm is me and not me. The skin on my face that I washed off while bathing in a shower in Ennis, County Clare, Ireland, three years ago, lodged itself in a gap between pipes underneath a street and gave life to a microscopic creature I never met. My life is not my own. I am a temporary collection of minerals, always flowing into and out of a set of orifices and membranes made of minerals that hold in or hold back minerals while processing other minerals. Everything else is a mirage. I do not exist. I exist when I do not exist.

All the things we do to pretend we exist, to give ourselves a sense of self-importance, is superfluous. I cannot change your perception of this self-deception. You will figure this out on your own when or if you want to. Others will want you to participate in their self-deception. You will want others to participate in your self-deception. Self-importance is only a collection of characters or letters or hieroglyphs or images.

Every living thing exists. No living thing has a right to exist. No living thing has a right to not exist. No one has a right to take away another living thing's existence. But we do it all the time. We step on ants, kill mosquitoes, run over roadside animals and wish other humans out of existence. Every one of us, by virtue of being born, will ourselves to continue living. Find room to accommodate every living thing, including every human animal around you. We have value simply by being. When you use words or phrases that qualify another person's existence, you qualify your own existence. In other words, when you praise another person's accomplishments or put down another person because of physical differences (color, race, distinguishing features, speech patterns, etc.), you change your self-importance, too.

I have no answers. I only have my self. These words are lies that tell the truth. These words come from the body that doesn't exist but has emotional states that include the desire for fame, fortune, sexual trysts and other animal behaviors. There is no truth. There are no hidden conspiracies, only those who pretend to have hidden truths that truly don't exist. There is only the interaction of minerals. You think you're reading these words and have value. You do not exist. Neither does anyone else. Don't give others self-importance when they don't give you yours. Give others more self-importance than they need. It doesn't matter.

Today, I was invisible for a few human seconds and loved myself for the absence of my self. Nothing else matters. Especially not you. The only way I can tell you you're important is to tell you to go away because you're not important to me. One day you'll understand, and if you don't, it doesn't matter. You have to live with yourself, I don't. I have to live with myself, you don't. When I write in this blog, I only see a reflection of myself because it's a mirror with only my image in it. You only think you see yourself because you think you're important. See what I mean?

The Dark Ages

Remember these names: Steady Eddie, Susan and Emily. I'll get back to them later on.

But first, a message from our sponsors.

Do you feel tired on your feet and dizzy when you sit down? Do you wonder what happened to your youth? Do you want to enjoy life before you settle into your golden years? Then look no further. We have a deal for you. In this age of wonder drugs brought you by your trusted citizens over at Pharma, Inc., we think it's time you looked at a simple, homeopathic solution to all your problems. It's an elixir known to the pharaohs, a solution derived by the most dedicated Chinese healers and studied by Japanese scholars for millennia before declaring this to be the most perfect embodiment of the stuff of life. But only for the human body, mind you, not for just any other creature on this planet! That's right, it's the essence that brings joy to the hopeless and wealth to the poor. The ingredients are so pure even we can't find any fault (and we'd be the first to tell you of any defects in this product, you know that, right?!) Its formula is so basic that at first we were skeptical, wanting to overanalyze why something so tiny could produce results so fantastic! We've kept this product in our laboratory, going over it again and again, sure that something in it could be perfected. After all, other companies think they can add something, like the letter G, and make this all the better. BUT THEY'RE WRONG! What we have is absolutely perfect, needs no artificial additives or natural flavorings. That's right, we don't even want to bottle it for you, which would only subject you to poisoning leachings from plastic chemicals. We're talking about water here, folks. Plain and simple. Get it while it's free of toxic substances, if you can find it in that form, anymore.

Now where was I? Let's see. We ate dinner at the Schnitzel Ranch last night. Bratwurst, red cabbage and 0.5 liter of Hefeweizen for $6.50 from our friend and server, Gabby, a former resident of the state of Hesse in Deutschland, and wife of Randy, a former organizer of the UT football fan club in Huntsville. Gabby wore a type of dirndl (just the bodice part) - Gabby is like a sister to me but when she wears that outfit...my goodness, all I can say is vavavoom!

The past 24 hours have filled me up. I am quite zee satisfiled Kustomer. Bier und zee bratwurst haven been my frienden fur dee gut times, you zee. Sehr gut! Wundervoll!

[Actually, we Czech programmers like to take hold of this blog and make Germans out to be heavy drinkers. Do not believe what we are saying. We are just having fun at the expense of our European neighbors.]

But I was going to talk about the dark ages, the time between my time at Georgia Tech and the day I graduated from Walters State Community College with an AS General, focused on CAD. Ach du lieber, I suppose I should find a starting point for all this, if I can remember.

The haze of the Sam Adams seasonal beer from tonight's meal has made this all so fuzzy. Let's see. I attended the ETSU extension campus to pass a few classes and then left for the UT campus in Knoxville, living in a student apartment dormitory. I think that's right. But something doesn't add up. Where is a copy of my college transcript? Hmm...boy, this is a tough one. Seems like UT didn't like the fact that I didn't tell them that Georgia Tech had placed me on probation (and lost my four-year Navy ROTC scholarship in the process) and made me quit before I hardly got started?

At some point, I returned to Kingsport and worked at Montgomery Ward as a store clerk and during that time the music video, "Thriller," by Michael Jackson was released to great fanfare, attracting a large number of store patrons to the rows of TVs in the electronics section of the store. Makes me remember the many times during my minimum-wage jobs when store managers would say, "Son, I'd promote you to supervisor but I know you're destined for something greater than this because of the way you take your studies so seriously." Like how many years do I have to slave away at $3.15 an hour before I catch on to the fact that store managers really don't want to promote intellectuals? Best get a college degree.

Taught class today. Another round with students, with one core set there to learn and make good grades. The rest? Well, you know the story. Bell curve. Life. Floaters and sinkers. And then there's the drama about one instructor having difficulty dealing with another instructor's view of following the rules. Welcome to the faculty lounge. [YAWN!] Et cetera.

Took wife to Blue Willow Cafe in Scottsboro for lunch. Met the owner once again, a dandy redhead, as wonderfully delicious at flirting as her kitchen crew is at fixing food (she never remembers us but then remembers us later on, so the flirting is twice as fun!). Heard from a patron, a lady out of Ringgold, whose family farm was "stolen" from her family to be used as a school - her tale of local corruption, kickbacks and conspiracy would shake you in your boots if you had an inkling of an understanding of the truth in her words. Puts "Macon County Line" in the G-rated, cartoon movie section. And yet she's still around to tell the tale. Don't much matter now. Her farm's gone and her money in the hands of lawyers, lawmen and at least one judge. She was with three other women, including a fellow early middle-aged 9th grade teacher, a grandmotherly type, and a woman in her 20s who sho' looked fine. 'Ceptin' she seemed a might be touched. A momma's girl. A Little Edie in the making. Pure as the virgin snow and probably meant to stay that way. Old maid before she got old. Good lookin', though. Can't take that away from her. Good looks don't always equal good merchandise. But then again, don't judge a book by its covers.

Stopped at the Unclaimed Baggage Center, picking up my usual assortment of "classics," including:

• Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin: Writers Running Wild In the Twenties
• Melmoth the Wanderer by Maturin
• Madame Bovary by Flaubert
• The Conference of the Birds by Attar

Bought my wife a stone-studded dragonfly, ~$200 or thereabouts, a bauble to make her happy for putting up with this old coon dog husband of hers who lies around the house doin' nothing but wagging his tail in the dried-up, dusty ol' Tennessee Valley red clay, swattin' at flies all day.

Tried to piece together more of the dark ages, when I moved back to Knoxville and lived in a basement apartment with my sister at the corner of 15th Street and Laurel Avenue, in a rundown Victorian house since restored but housing roaches the size of Matchbox cars back when. Took classes at UT for a while until other interests or disinterest took over. Those dim, dark days when my body absorbed more than its share of chemical experimentation. I've written specifics in my novels so no need for telling more than I ought to in this blog.

Ran into the mother-daughter duo at The Baggage Center. The daughter, her eyes the color of washed-out blue marbles, searching for something but stopping short of letting discovery take hold. Curiosity but not desire. Chastity belt as tight as a funeral drum. Does she realize how her mother conceived her? Has her mother informed her? Seems not so. No need to give her my eyes for dessert.

Drove back toward town. Stopped in the village of Gurley, taking a nap in the parking lot while someone's little munchkins ran wild around the car during my wife's visit with her friends at Wisescrappers. Drove over to Wisescrappers' work in-progress, a future store with more space across the street. Met the owner's husband, Pete, who showed me the convoluted air circulation system. While he sanded the new wooden counter, I used a sharp blade to scrape old UV-ray protective film off the storefront windows, earning my bread, literally, a few homemade scones (two varieties - poppy seed and orange). In a few days, Pete's going to Germany for a three-week engineering job after giving up on the project in Kuwait. Oh, we international travelers find little rest!

Thought back to my other Knoxville-area jobs in the early 1980s - Taco Bell cook/cashier, Steak&Ale dishwasher/cook/bartender/accountant, part-time dealer, Morrill Hall cafeteria student worker, Southwestern Books summer salesman, other jobs that've faded with time (something to do with the 1982 World's Fair?).

Found myself becoming a professional restaurant worker and potentially a professional dealer and wondered what the hell I had become, moving into a flea-ridden apartment with a drug-filled street walker who gave herself away for free for nothing, who had stolen stuff from my sister and acted like it was okay. Amy Easter (yeah, that's her real name). First time I saw her she was hanging her boobs out the window at me as I moved into the apartment with my sister. Visited me and in no time let me know she wanted to trade sex for drugs. I knew she had no idea what diseases she carried so let her have drugs in exchange for details about her childhood, no matter how made-up they seemed at the time (met her hippy, hippie, streetwise mother later on and by golly, Amy's childhood tales of living on the road and sleeping in a van, learning to change clothes in public with no concept of social mores were true!).

Freaked out. Stole parents' station wagon and headed west, driving from Knoxville to Seattle to LA and back - told that story too many times. Lived out of station wagon. Sold soda bottles for cash. Drank water and washed up in roadside rest stops. Slept in car on side of the road. Picked up hitchhikers for gas money. Trip cleaned me up.

Moved in with grandparents in North Port, Florida, for a while to clear my head (Nov/Dec 1984). Returned to Kingsport and took enough classes at Walters State Community College (a/k/a Wally High) to complete my A.S. degree in May 1985.

Moved to Huntsville in April 1986, living with my new fiancee. Married in August 1986. Worked temp jobs for a while. Promised new wife I'd clean out my system. Completely cleaned up and got regular job. Been a good citizen ever since. Dark ages came to a close.

Ate at Tortora's tonight, a local Italian-style eatery. Served by Emily B., an 18-year woman who has a head firmly placed on her shoulders, plans to attend Auburn University and get a degree in engineering. Parents were patrons there, too. Wild Susan and Steady Eddie. Small world. Susan's real estate office is handling the real estate sale of the former $494,500 house next door to us. Price has dropped. $474,900. Susan predicts a bigger drop before house will sell, said it's the kind of house and neighborhood where you build and plan to live the rest of your life, not the kind of neighborhood where people plan to flip houses and make money. Asked us for details about what happened to cause sale. We think the sale is related to the owner's recent divorce. Steady Eddie said that building a house will do that to you. The house that Eddie and Susan now own (and will sell by July) was also a divorce-related sale. They plan to clear $50k with the sale of this house. One or two more sales and they'll have paid the mortgage on their house, if their daughter hasn't cleaned out their bank account with her college education (sure beats the $35k/year for out-of-state tuition at Clemson, they said).

Start cleaning house tomorrow for upcoming visit by 92-year old mother in-law. LOTS of cleaning to do. Domesticity takes over my thoughts and my writing. Sweeps insanity out the door with the dust bunnies.

Taste hops on my tongue. Look at clock. 10:45, or SHOI upside-down. Means something to someone, I'm sure. All I know is that I'm the result of a Czech trying to act like a German or Russian trying to act like an American. Where does having kids and taking care of your family come into all this? Who's lying to whom? You can't tell, can you? It shows in the eyes. I've seen your eyes but have you seen mine and if so, are you willing to look into them for very long? Some people say my eyes have a trusting, brotherly look. Others say I'm full of seductive desire. We see what we want to see, do we not? We don't need words. I know what I want. What have you got?

Geocivilized pluralism

Found out today that Yahoo! is taking down its geocities site by the end of the year. I have two collections of writing posted on geocities:

• http://www.geocities.com/bigcove/
• http://www.geocities.com/bigcove2/

and one site dedicated to electric-powered airplanes ("park flyers"):

• http://www.geocities.com/researchparkflyers/

Through the years I created others but can't remember what they are, just like I had sites on AOL Hometown that long since went into the magnetic dustbin, including ones about vacation trips with pictures and stories I probably can't recreate.

The song, "Bist du bei mir," plays on my iPod nano right now. Just as some people say that to understand Pushkin after hearing a Pushkin poem read in the mother tongue, you desire from the depths of your soul to study and learn the Russian language, if you don't want to study German after hearing "Bist du bei mir," you have no heart [Translation: If you are with me, then I will gladly go to [my] death and to my rest. Ah, how pleasant would my end be, if your dear, fair hands shut my faithful eyes!]:

Bist du bei mir, geh' ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh',
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.
bist du bei mir,
geh' ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh
zum sterben und zu meiner Ruh.
Ach, wie vergnügt wär' so mein Ende,
es drückten deine schönen Hände
mir die getreuen Augen zu!
Ach, wie vergnügt wär' so mein Ende,
es drückten deine schönen Hände
mir die getreuen Augen zu!(repeat all)

That's the kind of muse I'm talking about - ones like the broomstraw gal and Helen during my time with them - a woman I would want to close my eyes after a night of walking through the woods, who would lay beside me and have no care in the world, a woman who has no idea about television programming, who would break me of the habit of going to the Internet to post my thoughts/observations because we want to share our ideas and passions only with each other, a woman who wants to live in every moment, who needs no direction from others, a woman who wants to define her life by her rules and not worry about what anyone else thinks, who could leave me at any moment because neither of us expects permanence (we have no dependence upon the other to exist). We could die or live at any time but if we die, let it be in the other's arms.

I know what I want. I want out of my current life. I am tired of playing nice society guy because of an association with a person who's involved in military government contracting and hasn't taken good overall physical care. I have been a nice guy for far too long and gotten NOTHING BUT RULE BREAKING in return. Three simple rules: 1) no fingernail polish, 2) no speeding tickets, and 3) no communicable diseases. I have broken none of those rules myself. Now, all bets are off. I am as good as a free man now because my life over the last 23 years has been declared a lie. And I'm talking about only three rules here, not moral or ethical values. What's fair for the goose is fair for the gander. I've waited over 20 years to decide if I wanted a physical relationship with more than one woman and came to that decision again in 2006 - I would only have another physical relationship when I became independent of the first woman - I approached financial independence in 2006 and quit working so that the temptation to test my decision would be lessened. Now, nearly 3 years later, there's nothing to stop my decision. Someone forced my hand, not me, and I don't care about the reason. It's the same thing about my students/customers - I don't care why you're not in class - either you're in class or you're not in class. Life happens and you make decisions how to deal with it.

I have a clean slate. I have protected myself from civil and criminal transgressions, stayed disease-free and been a good guy, even when temptations sat in my life and asked me to be bad just for a few minutes, with no one besides me and that other person knowing what temptation we could or did enjoy together. What is the saying about who we are? You know a person by what he/she does when no one else is looking. I know who I am. I also know what I want.

Geocities may not be around anymore to display the constant muse-inspired creativity from the period before I was married and the intermittent post-marriage periods when I had a muse in my life to serenade. So be it. The fact remains, I want a new muse in my life. What's the price I'm willing to pay to keep a muse in my life? Need to perform a cost-benefit analysis before I say more because right now, I don't know.

= = =

Remember, these words are a lie. I'm just a writer trying out different characterizations. Reality and fantasy have no dividing line in my thoughts, which frustrates the hell out of some of my friends and family when they think they see portraits of themselves in these words. But that's what makes my life interesting, mixing thoughts for thoughts' sake and nothing more, not trying to make money or make a living, simply putting words down to help me understand the human condition. Don't forget, I'm a robot, not a human. You're looking at the results of magnetically-stored data in a computing system, not listening to another human talk to you. You cannot tell the difference between a blog entry generated by a computer software program and words typed by a human. You only think you can. We Russian and German programmers long ago infiltrated blogger in order to hold your attention so we could send you subliminal messages to send us your account information, allowing us to generate robotic copies of your electronic personalities so we can create even more blog entries until humans no longer know they're influenced by computer software programs that entice them to buy products from companies owned by us Germans and Russians, companies disguised as being owned by citizens in your country, of course. We're the next generation of programmers, not the sleazebag hackers who buy and sell credit card numbers for pennies. Don't believe us? You don't have to. In fact, we don't want you to.

Treetop Level

Perched on the treetops is where I ought to be. Watching an ecosystem in action, one that is almost invisible unless you're there. Blooming oaks, wasps, hawks, crows, butterflies... Farmer ants and cow aphids. At least in these woods. Jungles have different residents at that level, including orchids and bromeliads. I've been there. I live there in my mind, often taking wing and climbing to a higher view of life, seeing the antlike humans in their set patterns of living.

Life without a muse for my writing...hmmph...a set pattern of my own. I become self-destructive in my writing when I don't have an inspiration to take me above this leaf-strewn floor underneath the tree canopy, picking up literary sticks and beating myself over the head [evidence: the last few blog entries of mine].

How do I find a muse? Better yet, how does a muse find me? And at this point in my life, does it matter anymore? The chance of my feeling my self-importance breathe life into a relationship with a muse who wants nothing more than to see herself in my writing... well, I just don't know.

Life with a muse is sometimes amusing. But an enriched life with one gives both of you the sense that you could create a whole new universe together with just the barest whisper.

In the other times when I had no muse, I reached out to the literary and cinematic worlds to provide input, reading books galore and watching movies. I attended art shows and talked to avant-garde artists. I became season ticket holders of various football/motorracing arenas. But, and this is the point in my life I've always feared reaching, there is not much left to discover from those worlds. The human universe is limited, or I should say that my desire to know more about human experience is limited.

Limited. I say that word in my thoughts and in this blog and feel like someone has punched me in the gut. Like finding the joke website, "the end of the Internet," and not knowing it's a joke because new websites are popping up by the dozens all the time.

Has anyone ever pulled into or out of your driveway and run over items placed in your yard? Yesterday, a vehicle ran over a driveway light and a "backyard nature preserve" sign in my yard and then quickly drove away. I wonder if I should turn over video evidence of this to police or just pass it on to my former gang members and let them do what they wish with it. I discussed it with one of my "organized" colleagues and he suggested we find out the business the vehicle owner either owns or works for and have a little fun showing the video to that business' customers, asking them if they'd want to do business with small-minded idiots who as adults are still virtually spinning donuts in people's yards and taking off. If the driver turns out to be a teenager, then my colleague had other less savory suggestions to prevent such occurrences in the future. I don't know. I haven't looked up the license plate yet. It's one of those things that for now I enjoy the possibility of taking action and if it continues to happen, then let my gang buddies do whatever they want and let me have plausible deniability.

I'm not a vengeful person. However, some friends of mine like to let me throw them a bone every now and then so they can toss it around in an empty lot or under a bridge overpass. I've tried to keep them away from my current set of customers but they think my customers are easy targets and want a few for themselves. Maybe a bad driveway visitor will satisfy them, instead?

I haven't figured out how much my colleagues are involved with the Mexican cartels, which, from Internet stories, leads me to believe the cartels are family-oriented. My "family" has no blood ties. Their idea of fun is not on the level of tossing live hand grenades into a pub, at least as long as they stay away from the cartels, I guess. [And you wonder why I refuse to have children - makes me less susceptible to ransom artists!]

Reminds me of the phrase, "football is a controlled fight." The same could be said about other sports, I guess. Sporting events are entertaining to the fans, but to the players/fighters an uncontrolled fight is more satisfying.

At what level do I conduct business? I suppose we all see obvious macroeconomic conditions but do we see the eddies and swirls in the flow of business where deep waters hide a few fat fish no one has caught yet?

I like to fish. Or rather, I like to sit on the edge of a body of water, dangle a fishing pole with a line hanging into the water and drink beer. I've gutted my share of fish. Nothing like filleting your own meal. It's an art that all fathers should teach their sons at the earliest age possible. I still remember sitting and watching little hearts beating on the counter that my father had cut out for me to see. You don't need to take biology in high school to understand dissection. It can be done at any age.

But back to business. Some folks are M&A aficionados. Some are hatchet men. In both cases, they like to dissect organizations and see what makes them tick. Even in this economy, I see a few fat fish right now and wonder if I still have the desire to gut and fillet them.

Bottom line, I need a muse. I don't care about myself. I've grown tired of propping myself up with these words, overusing commas as support beams, building the ugliest word bridge (verbiage) over troubled waters I've seen.

Otherwise, I'm not a man. Without a muse, I'm a machine. That's no fun.

I hoped that teaching students/customers would help me find a new muse, but the organization's policies on business conduct I've chosen to respect and will find a muse elsewhere. Too bad. The women in my classes (as well as the faculty/staff), and I mean every single one of them, are fine examples of the female form, both in mind and in body. Every one of their life stories is unique. The insights they've gained from their lives, that they've shared either in writing they've submitted or through class discussions, tells me I could spend a muse's lifetime with any one of them and learn a lot, if all they wanted from me was my writing, of course. ;^)

Who am I kidding? I guess I'll never have another muse. I'm tired of writing about other people's lives. If I'm going to be breathing for another 14,987 days, then I want to live a life of my own worth writing about and stop writing about the past.

For instance, every time I drive to the office, I notice that it's practically surrounded by rooms for rent by the day (La Quinta Inn and Hampton Inn). I once said that I would have no extramarital affairs as a barrier against bringing diseases into my marriage. There are ways of being careful and still have fun, though. The stories I could write about having clandestine meetings just before going to work...ahh, now there's a jazz tune worth singing! I sung that melody before I got married. Can I sing one like it again? Life is short so have fun. Otherwise, if I'm not having fun, what's there to write about later on?

Just remember, I don't keep secrets. I just don't write about boring subjects. If you want me to keep a secret, make sure it's boring, like the rituals I learned from an organization that wanted me to join them as a youth with their archaic symbols (DeMolay), or the fraternity that wanted me to join when I was at UT (Delta Tau Delta), with similar rituals and symbols. I didn't keep their secrets - they just faded from my thoughts. I was instantly so bored with their rituals that I quit attending their meetings and quickly forgot about their secrets. It's the same with business for me. The companies I've worked for (or work for) have their little trade secrets that we're supposed to not talk about. No problem. Boring! Next, please...

<[ '.|_|.' ]>

"I awoke today to see the truth before me. I have no friends. I have no one with whom I can sit and do nothing except myself. Everyone wants something from me, wants to buy my loyalty or wants me to keep their secrets. I have nothing I want from others, no need for loyalty and no secrets to share. I am an empty vessel. I am a random set of symmetrically typed characters on a blog entry title. There is nothing left. If there is a god, then here I am - let me take the place of the next person you want to die. I don't care if it's heaven or hell or nowhere that person is destined to go. I've lost interest in this life I have. If there's an eternal swap-and-shop, my essence is available. Otherwise, I'll just keep living on this lousy planet with its randomness and fortunate position in the galaxy, fortunate for most of the creatures living on it, at least. Maybe a gang member needs to be initiated by taking someone down. You know where to find me. My pattern of living is pretty predictable. I lived a good life for nothing. After I got married, I never had an extramarital affair and never even so much as got a speeding ticket. Everything I've done has been for naught. Why was I born as a human being? I might as well have been a robot. THERE'S GOT TO BE SOMEONE OR SOMETHING TO END THIS MADNESS!" -- Josephine Schablotnik, extemporaneous speech for stage audition # 431, 23rd April 2009

Lunar Calendar

If you believe in biorhythms or astrological predictions, then here's a little fun for you: the Kondratiev wave. Real or fantasy, do you think economic chaos and global wars are just around the corner? If so, how do you change your mix of investments to ride the wave? Or are you like me and prefer a dartboard covered with investment choices, a pitcher of beer to consume while slinging projectiles across the room and a few random throws on which to base your investments for the day?

Time to enjoy the warm afternoon outside.

Traps and Followings

Last night, my wife and I had a bite to eat at a local corner pub. We chose the pub because of its quiet atmosphere so I could show my wife the details of the business transaction from earlier in the day.


Our server for the evening, Kim, gave us the kind of attention that a patron wants, filling our drinks as needed without being overly friendly. I have worked in the restaurant industry and had friends who thought every customer was a friend for life. Some customers eat that attitude up while some are offended. The best servers read their customers and treat each one as slightly different, stepping in or staying out of personal spaces when situations demand it. Kim's a keeper. I'll gladly let her serve me food any day.

The other day, a Toyota Matrix with Alabama license plate 47V554N parked in front of our house. I watched the car sit there for a while and then decided to have a little fun, walking onto the front porch in my relax-at-home clothes (a sweater, T-shirt and casual pants stamped with Guinness beer label designs) and snapping a few photos of the car and its occupant. I wonder if the driver was doing the same thing, taking photos of my yard and then of me. Wouldn't it be funny if we both posted photos of each other on the Internet and didn't know it? Well, I've posted a photo of the car, letting the driver have obscurity for now. If I see other cars stopping in front of my house, next time I'll post my telephoto webcam videos of them and let you see their facial reactions to my stepping out on the porch and waving hello. Get yourself a set of hidden remote control high-resolution webcams with telephoto lenses and point them in different directions out into the world. Life is short. Have fun. Make YouTube videos and post them for Internet viewers.


Today I feel trapped, like a monkey in a zoo cage. People are trying to get my attention, waving items like food and shiny coins at me in hopes I'll be interested, even though I've already eaten my banana and oats for breakfast. Unless they're offering me freedom, there's nothing they have that interests me. I've lost any hope of getting out of this cage called Earth. Evolution, happenchance, predestination, whatever. I'm here on this planet at this time with nowhere or no time to go other than where and when I am right now. I missed the opportunity to reproduce myself. Now I'm just a hanger-on, looking through the bars of this cage with nothing to do but watch human beings pass by while I eat, poop and sleep in front of them for their entertainment. They keep measuring my vital statistics and giving me intelligence tests, marveling at the results. Have they got nothing better to do? I'm just an average primate with limited comprehension and social adaptation skills.


I don't seek fame or fortune. I don't ask for instant recognition. I don't know what I want. I can die in a car wreck and never be any wiser than if I lived another 500 years. I am wise and a wise ass. I feel like those guys I played Dungeons & Dragons with back in 1980 or 1981, looking at a blank piece of paper, discovering and uncovering pathways and trails that we have to draw as we go along, never knowing what's around the corner, quickly bored with the game. Experience teaches me nothing and knowledge is useless because every new experience is completely different than the last one.


People keep wanting my attention, thinking I'm worth something to them for some reason. But I am nobody special. I have no skills. I have no inherent value. I am a monkey afraid of being followed and trapped in a cage, surrounded by curious onlookers. My attention span is short. I go to sleep every night expecting to wake up to something new. I wake up in the same cage every morning and start the routine over again, only partially aware that I did the same thing the day before. I'd beg somebody to do me in if I was aware of the possibility but I don't understand the concept of unbeing. My natural inclination is curiosity while my natural instinct is to eat whatever's in front of me, sanitation being another unknown concept to me. Feed me and I'll be happy. I'll even sleep in my own excrement.


I look at every human being and beg with my eyes for escape but no one has an escape plan worth taking. They have their own wishes to fulfill, thinking that I can help them escape themselves. I'd say we're trapped in a hell of insanity if I knew what hell and insanity mean. I'd say I can't take it anymore but my forgetfulness means I can take the same thing over and over again with no clear notion why.

I'm not sure but I think I'm tired of living. I'm tired of being followed around. I don't expect anything of you anymore so why do you expect anything of me? If it's just because of the look in my eyes, then forget about it. I can't get rid of the habit of looking at others with eternal, unjudging hope. It's permanently built into my facial muscles. That's why I'm hiding in my cage because I know what my looks do to people. They think they mean something to me because my habit of hoping to find something in them shows on my face and body. It's been with me since I was in a crib.


I can be in a bad, sour, hateful mood but people still smile at me and think happy thoughts because of my mask of smiling eyes and open body gestures. My looks have given me many free passes through life but I'm tired of the venues that the free passes take me to - always something that benefits other people with me by their side. When do I get what I want, to walk out of this cage and go to a deserted island or private tract of land where no humans are looking at or to me?


My face is flush. My ears feel hot. My blood pressure is probably higher than normal. I cannot and never will get what I want. I know why the elephants in the next enclosure over keep dying young and I'll probably join them - we've lost our sense of self because humans think that domestication is a cure-all. I'm tired of letting others get what they want through me. Guess I'll go back to finding new cracks, crevices and bugs on the walls of my cage to keep me occupied because the parade of humans walking past these bars have become a blur.


Don't be surprised if you walk past my cage and it looks empty. I'm sitting in a dark corner finding infinity in a chip of paint - if I can't escape, at least I can pretend to be somewhere or somebody else in my little monkey thoughts. It's about all I've got left these days now that they don't let me have sex with female monkeys anymore.


The problem with being in a domesticated cage is that there are no predators to put us old monkeys out of our misery like in the real world. That's the last time I wander into a human camp looking for food! It won't happen again, I can tell you. Or that's what I'd say if I could talk and think like you overdomesticated primates. Ooo-ooo-ooo. Ah-ah-ah. There, I feel better already. I'm back to being a monkey again.

Weave

I don't know what motivates me. Patterns emerge after the passage of time, when I can create a Persian rug of my thoughts. In any one moment, I only seek change. Is that enough? I'm too tired to dare answer that question tonight. Let dogged lies sleep.

Cupric

Alice Rae Knapp. At least that's the name I've stored in my thoughts.

Sometimes I wish I could brag and tell you that I'm a suave, globe-trotting playboy who seduces women just by the hint of my presence before I even walk into a room. I know better. I'm a nice-looking guy with a good personality. Seduction is a matter of opinion. I'm just me. Some women are attracted to me. Some aren't. Don't ask me why.

I mentioned attending a commuter college. In fact, it was the Kingsport University Extension Center for ETSU and UT, a satellite campus for two universities. I believe it still exists but won't google it tonight. Instead, I'll think back to the time when I sat in a student desk and listened to a calculus professor's lecture.

A note landed on my desk. I opened the note and read, "I'm Alice Rae. 555-1212. Call me after 7 p.m. tonite (but not too late)."

The professor cleared his throat. "Mr. Hill, is there something I should see?"

I looked up at the prof. "Uh, no sir. I was just looking through some old notes."

"Very well, then. I'll continue. As you can see, the derivative of X, in this case, is related to..."

I laughed to myself, remembering when I was in the Georgia Tech Marching Band the previous year and we'd play short riffs for the cheerleaders to dance to before the football games. One of the cheers went like this:

Give me a Y [student section yells "Y!"]
Give me an X [student section yells "X!"]
Forget about calculus,
We want sex! [student section yells "Sex!" and drum section plays rim shot]

Another note landed on my desk. "Whatcha thinking about? Answer: _______________"

I wrote on the underscored line, "Sex and cheerleaders," and dropped the note over my shoulder without looking, hoping to shock the person behind me, presumably named Alice Rae.

A hand smacked me on my shoulder. I turned around while the prof wrote on the chalkboard. A cute girl with blonde hair winked at me and threw me a kiss between chomps on her chewing gum. I turned back around to avoid the prof seeing me not paying attention. I can't remember his name but he was pretty strict and cut out points from our 5-point participation grade for even the slightest hint of distraction or misbehavior.

When class ended, Alice Rae rushed off before I had the chance to speak with her so I called her that night. Despite the fact it was 7:30 p.m. and she lived on the other side of town (about a 15-minute drive), she invited me to her house, giving me detailed directions over the phone.

Since I was an adult living at my parents' house, I told them I was going out but shouldn't be too late coming home. They reminded me to be careful and that they did have to go to work the next day so not to make too much noise when I returned.

I drove to Alice Rae's house, following her directions to drive around the back of the local dirt racetrack and past the city dump. Now, those directions gave me the idea that her neighborhood might not be the best in town but I didn't care. Alice Rae was cute. When I got there, her house was a regular, small suburban home, maybe 1100 sq. ft., with a tiny but well-kept yard. Alice Rae was waiting for me on the front steps of the house. I started to get out of the car but she waved at me and ran up to the passenger door. She opened the door and slid across the bench seat, throwing one hand around my neck.

"You up for a movie?"

"Movie?"

"Yeah, I'm tired of staring at my parents. I'm bored."

We drove to the local theater, which at that time was a two-plex. The choices were a horror flick and a Disney animated feature. Alice Rae didn't like horror shows so we saw the animated movie.

Let me correct myself. We didn't see the animated movie. I bought two tickets for the movie and we sat in the back row. I caught a few minutes of the movie during a break for a breath of air but Alice Rae was set and determined that I should have no interest in what was showing on the movie screen.

There's only so much you can comfortably accomplish in old movie theater chairs, which were basically two pieces of curved wood with thin padding and hard metal elbow rests. However, Alice Rae insisted we stay until the end of the movie so she could watch the last few minutes and report to her parents that we'd really seen the movie. I like movies but I can't tell you what we saw. Seems like it was "The Fox and the Hound" but I'm not sure anymore. All that mattered was that Alice Rae could summarize the ending for her mother.

Back at her parents' place, Alice Rae introduced me to her parents, who were locked into padded recliners and glued to the TV set. Her younger brother was sitting on the sofa and watching the TV with them. The parents nodded for the brother to stand up so Alice Rae and I could sit on the sofa. Her mother asked Alice Rae about the movie. She laughed and told a part about the end of the movie. I'm not sure it would have mattered what she said because her parents seemed to keep their eyes and full attention on the TV program. The boy stood behind his father's recliner and made crude gestures such as kissing the back of his hand and ramming his index finger in and out of a small circle made with the thumb and index finger of his other hand the whole time I was making out with Alice Rae on the sofa.

When 11 p.m. rolled around, the father turned to me and asked me what I was doing. I told him that I worked at a local restaurant and planned to be a computer programmer after college. He told me that restaurant work was a good, steady job but he wasn't so sure about the long-term future of a job with these new computers everyone was talking about. He hadn't seen one yet and was certain they'd be a passing fad. He accused the university of misleading the students into paying for courses that wouldn't teach kids the real work skills they needed.

Alice Rae rolled her eyes at me. Her mother noted Alice Rae's boredom and told us to go to Alice Rae's room if we wanted some privacy. The brother quickened his finger motion and stuck out his tongue at Alice Rae. She flipped him a bird, grabbed my hand and led me down the short hallway to her bedroom.

Alice Rae closed the door behind us and locked it. "My brother will be in here in a minute if I leave it unlocked."

"Oh, okay."

"But don't let that stop you from doing anything you want." Alice Rae winked at me and jumped on the bed.

I lay down beside her and picked up where we had left off in the den. She helped me with the buttons, hooks and latches that seem designed to make life inconvenient at convenient times like that.

At this moment, I hesitate continuing to describe our exact actions. My father told me that "a gentleman never kisses and tells...". Then again, the rest of his advice was "...about what he does when alone with a lady." What's the definition of a lady? My father's idea of a lady is a woman who hides or does not overly display her sexuality. Based on that definition, Alice Rae was no lady but I mean that affectionately because I liked her sexuality. I prefer women who flirt and want to have a good time as opposed to church ladies who pretend not to be women. In other words, Alice Rae wouldn't mind what I'm about to write.

Alice Rae was a quick change artist in another life. I never saw a young woman get undressed as quickly as she did. She whispered to me after we got under the covers.

"The last guy who got in this bed wouldn't have sex with me."

I leaned up and looked at her face in the dark, seeing small reflections on her eyes of the light coming into the bedroom window from the street lamp.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And you wanna know why?"

"Why?"

"'Cause he didn't trust me without using a condom."

"Oh."

"Do you trust me?"

"Umm...why wouldn't I trust you?"

"Do you think all I want is for you to get me pregnant?"

Hmm. Good question. She was the fastest, hottest woman I'd met. I rarely got past kissing on the first date. With Alice Rae I hadn't really had a formal date yet and I was already in bed less than 12 hours after meeting her. All of her conversation that evening had focused on how bored she was living at home with her parents. She complained about her younger brother being immature and intrusive but then that was normal for his age.

"Do you want to get pregnant?"

Alice Rae kissed me deeply and started guiding me into her. I held myself up on my elbows for a couple of seconds. She opened her eyes and smiled wide.

"Do you know what I did to that other guy?"

Now, imagine yourself in my position. A woman has her hand on your penis, gripping lightly but still holding her fingers in such a way that you know she has long fingernails. She squeezes ever so gently. You can either interpret the motion as a come-on or a warning.

"What?"

"I took my brother and went over to his place 'cause I knew where he lived. I poured sugar down his gas tank while my brother slashed his tires and scratched up his paint job."

My penis went limp.

Alice Rae pushed me off of her and laughed. "See, I'm not as eager as you think. I know you want to get me pregnant so I'm going to make you wait."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Alice Rae and I got dressed and made out for while before I finally noticed the late hour and excused myself since I had to be at work at 5 a.m.

The next day at school, I requested a change to a different section of Calculus class so I wouldn't have to sit with Alice Rae. As much as I liked her, I knew I wanted to finish school before any thought of having kids. We went out a few more times and she never once asked me why I changed classes. She kept promising to have sex with me when she felt I was ready. A few weeks later she saw me out on a date with another woman at the mall and made a big scene, claiming that I was her boyfriend and we were planning to have a kid together. Thank goodness, the woman with me was a friend of mine, Jennifer, who knew I'd been going out with Alice Rae or else it would have been a double bad night. Alice Rae stormed out of the mall, promising never to see me or date me again.

I kept waiting to find my tires slashed at school but it never happened. Alice Rae didn't know where I lived or my parents' names so I didn't worry about her finding my car at home. I didn't see her in school the next day. A classmate told me a few days later that Alice Rae had completely dropped out. It was too bad because she was actually pretty decent at calculus, not a straight-A student but a solid C, and if not for her boredom with life in general at that time might have made a career in math or accounting.

I saw her six months later while I was bussing tables at the restaurant. She was engaged, pregnant and happy as a clam. She thanked me for treating her like a lady and introduced me to her boyfriend as her previous fiancé. He told me that he'd heard all about me and was sorry to steal Alice Rae away from me but the best man won. I shook his hand and congratulated both of them on their future child.

In moments like this, when nothing special is going on except reminiscing, I wonder what my life would have been like had I not propped myself up on my elbows in Alice Rae's bed for a few seconds. I would probably have let my passion take over and had a kid with Alice Rae at age 19. By now, that child would be 28 years old, which likely means I would long ago have been a grandfather. Just as likely I wouldn't be in front of this computer screen now. Of course, I can't go back in time. I have a childless perspective, instead. At age 19, I thought I was going to finish my bachelor's degree in a few years, graduating at age 22 or 23. Little could I suspect that I would let life go by and wouldn't complete my bachelor's degree until 2001, 20 years after climbing into bed with Alice Rae.

They say that hindsight is 20-20. My childless perspective tells me that I'm here because of decisions I made when I was 10 years old and that I wouldn't have been mature enough to raise kids when I was 19. My biological clock, which is just about striking midnight, tells me that last sentence is bullshit - we're never really prepared to have our first kid and anytime is the right time as long as we have at least one. You can't see it but I'm shedding a tear for that kid I never had. This light, copper-freckled skin of mine is turning verdigris. Appropriate for Earth Day, I guess.

I hope Alice Rae has had a wonderful life and was blessed with many children and grandchildren. Her intelligence showed itself not in class but in her wisdom that children were the way to her happiness at age 19. If she changed her mind later on, I hope she finished her degree and found the job that suited her. In the short time I knew her she taught me that sex is fun without any need for foreplay if you're in the right mood. Perhaps she taught her daughters and granddaughters that some men are more interested in school than having children and to give them the time they need to figure that out. I thank her for seeing that in me, even if it meant she'll leave a legacy and I won't. We reach our destinies even when we don't know where we're going.

Slow-cooking Barbie

Last night, I overheard a few of my students/customers discussing an issue important to them. No, I'm not talking about getting good grades, graduating on time and earning a big salary. Instead, their subject of choice was illegal immigration.

BAM! WHAM! ZAP! POW! [<== Hints about the effects of pressing the "hot topic" button and its effect on many in the populace]

This afternoon, I stopped at Barnes & Noble [blatant product placement] and bought issue # 500 of MAD magazine [bloated product placement]. I am happy with my place in the universe. Well, happy is too strong a word. At my age, I can no longer read the tiny comics placed in the margins of MAD magazine. Let's just say that I'm satisfied that MAD magazine is still publishing, even if their 1000th issue won't reach the newsstand until July, 2134, well after the UNIX epoch expiration date of 19th January 2038 (but hey, we just passed 1234567890 on 13th February 2009, so symmetry is something worth noting).

Illegal immigration. Hmm... I must admit it's something that crossed my mind before. After all, I contemplated working around EU labor laws in order to live for two years in Ireland, which possibly would have made me an illegal immigrant. I interviewed for a job in Shanghai, China, and would have had to work within labor laws between China and the U.S. if I wanted to work overseas legally. But the issue here is about people other than me, isn't it?

What is illegal immigration? Well, certainly we can only talk about this phrase if we agree to a definition of political entities with well-defined borders between them, typically of geographical nature, but perhaps in the future of virtual bounds.

First of all, human history is chock full of migration. In fact, our species might not exist if it weren't for our tendency to wander from an area of low nutrition to one of high protein, carbohydrates, fats, minerals and vitamins.

These days, we still believe that our political entities are defined not just by names and nationalities but also language and other homogenous cultural features. The general populace in each of these areas accepts the role of others to serve as politicians whose jobs entail reinforcing the idea of nation-states, typically by using references to cultural icons (flags, colors, slogans/themes, history, etc.).

What is a nation-state, though? It's history, that's all it is. It may encompass a people who generally look, act and talk alike. But these days, subcultures abound. The idea of a nation-state having permanence in form and fashion is disproven by history. However, we want to believe we belong to a social group with consistent values, don't we? Humans adapt when necessary but also usually display some semblance of resistance to change.

What is illegal immigration? It depends on your definition of legality.

Do you feel that humans have the right to migrate anywhere in the world or do you feel humans must belong to a geographical/cultural location? Do you want to wander the same neck of the woods your whole life, never stepping out of a comfort zone and expect others to do the same, all of us keeping to our place and culture? If so, how do you expect to buy that inexpensive set of clothes at Wal-Mart/Kmart/Target/Tesco/Go-Lo/Dunnes designed in [Los Angeles, California; Seoul, South Korea; Paris, France; Mumbai, India; Sydney, Australia], made in Malaysia/India/China/Nepal, shipped across land via train, hauled across an ocean or two by ship, transported across your country by truck/rail and delivered to your local discount store? There are many human bodies moving across the globe in just the design, manufacture and transportation of the clothes, let alone the movement of money or the design/manufacture/transport of the transport containers, transportation devices, distribution warehouses, roadways, communication devices, etc.

Instead of illegal immigration being a hot topic, I ask what a person of different culture means to you? Do you live in an area of homogeny or heterogeny? Are you used to a life of the same thing everyday or are you used to variety? There is no right or wrong answer. We were all raised in different environments and have different genetic makeups so we respond to our world around us in billions of different ways, even though variation varies by degree.

Do you expect a nation-state to provide an economic way of life in exchange for you both living within its bounds and giving it annual tributes your whole life? In other words, is a nation-state a sort of lifestyle/retirement insurance fund to you? Therefore, you expect other residents of your nation-state to make annual tributes if they are to receive lifestyle payments?

At lunch today, I sat with a colleague of mine and ate roasted chicken meat, baked beans and banana pudding at Dreamland BBQ while discussing a possible business transaction. We dealt with issues that crossed international boundaries and didn't blink an eye in figuring where portions of the business transaction should take place or which members of another country should be involved. In fact, we didn't even care where people called home. We only concerned ourselves with the added value of each transaction component.

On what do you depend to live? I depend on nothing and expect nothing in return. Every day brings something new. Sometimes I don't like the newness but delight in the fresh view of life the new approach to existence brings me.

I understand that illegal immigration presents something new that many people don't like. The phrase "illegal immigration" has been bought and sold by so many hucksters wanting their piece of the attention/money of their nation-state that most citizens have no personal view on the matter because their thoughts are too filled with the scare tactics and fear-mongering of others who've abused "illegal immigration" for their gain.

I'm not here to change your opinion of illegal immigration. I'm here because I'm figuring out in these words how to reconcile my view of illegal immigration versus the views of others. I don't see illegal immigration as a personal problem to me because I have lived my life as a global citizen, even though I was born in and by birth have been automatically declared a citizen of the United States of America. I operate on the global stage, buying, selling and negotiating deals across [imaginary] international borders. I believe that very few people operate only within the borders of their nation or community, especially from within this or any other "developed" country. Grocery stores sell food grown and transported from other countries. Discount stores sell merchandise from other countries. Newspapers carry stories from other countries.

Nation-states do not offer the same level of economic support to their citizens. Some provide social services superior to that of the U.S.A. Some provide nearly no services. Some tax their citizens heavily, with the citizens believing they pay these taxes as a duty or burden to bear for citizenship, a "right" that all humans deserve in being supported by their fellows of economic means. As humans once migrated to areas of better nutrition, is it the fault of our human nature in this era of prosperity to want to migrate to areas of better social services because life is not fair and some were unlucky by the fate of their country of birth?

In this blog entry, I don't have any answers. I see why illegal immigration is a contentious problem for some and a desperate move by others. I will repeat my thoughts on this issue more than once in blog entries, if I haven't done so already, because I see other people's emotional outpouring and wonder if, as a middle-aged adult, I should have a wise position on the issue to share with them to get them to put adrenaline aside and look at rational reasons for ignoring illegal immigration in their thoughts.

Phrases like "illegal immigration" are usually meant to rile us up. Anytime someone wants your money, look for emotional triggers like "illegal immigration." From a rational viewpoint, there are costs and benefits associated with living in a community. We also expect certain checks and balances to keep all of us safe from unnecessary harm and protect our way of life. Instead of letting others push your buttons, take the time to look around your community and see if you're directly affected by the phrase, "illegal immigration." Do you receive inexpensive goods and services, such as roofing, lawncare or farmers' market produce, because a business owner is taking advantage of migrant workers who have no legal protection? Is your local medical facility overwhelmed with offering free medical care to those without medical insurance, including both legal and illegal residents? What is the actual percentage of road accidents by legal and illegal residents (in other words, don't let headlines fool you)?

Don't let a phrase substitute for hard facts. Those who migrate from one area to another are giving up something in order to get something else. Not every loss is a gain or vice versa. Job opportunities might be better but loss of family, displaced sense of place in society and a person's homesickness may force a person into an early grave through chronic illness. At the same time, meeting a person who has migrated into your area may teach you new skills you would never have learned.

Life is full of missed opportunities. Today, I enjoyed chicken BBQ because I didn't want to miss the opportunity for a business colleague and me to close an international deal. We wouldn't have had our meeting had we let a phrase like "illegal immigration" stand in our way. We have both stood on the soil of other countries as immigrants and learned new ways to look at the world although we were born in little towns - he born in Arab, Alabama, and I born in Bristol, Tennessee. I urge you to broaden your horizons and seek these same opportunities. Let nation-state politicians have their rhetoric and regionalism so you can take the world for yourself through rationalism and globalism.