I read once, a memory is powered by remembrance. When we actively remember something over and over again we re-enforce the memory, establishing more neural connections, giving it more power over us; our character, personality, fears... and most of what we remember tends to be our traumas and failures. We relive those moments that hurt the most. Why do we willingly give up so much power to our pain?
I don't know that I want to completely forget the past; I'd like to think I've learned from it, like the time we sat through the 4 hour time share presentation, all day, just to get the free hibachi. There are however many places in my memory I don't live in anymore. I've burned pages to clear the monsters and ghosts that haunt. There was a time when the fire was blinding-consuming; my efforts to cleanse were so intense. I wanted to purge, throw everything out. I only helped strengthen those terrible fears that paralyzed my growth.
Like smoke from a campfire that clings, in my hair, clothes, skin; part of my essence, ghosts of my existence. I'm haunted by the impressions of my past if not the memories.
The way a man walks, will give a chill that crosses the street. I wonder what expression my face holds. Does he see the loathing that rises from some rotten core? The seeds of fear and hate that didn’t burn in my purge. All my senses betray me.
Cologne, a little too strong, and a fearful nauseous wave will leave me curled on the couch watching Perry Mason; soothing drone of black and white, good guy always wins; my savior if I could only find him. I could be happy to not leave the house again.
Short angry men frighten me. The smell of stale alcohol paired with clouded red veined eyes repulses me, and I dream of killing a stranger that breaks into my house. The baseball bat under the bed cracks his head and I'm finally free.
No real memory just primal responses to unseen fears, clouded figments, monsters without form.
The real fear is of me. What monster lives within? What am I capable of?
I’ve often thought of what I would do if faced with a violent attack. How many people do that? How many of us wonder what we’d do if we were being raped or burglarized, or what we’d do if someone molested our children? I’ve not only thought of it in my conscious mind but I’ve dreamt of horrifying experiences. Screaming and crying, no relief, just fear of what I could do if provoked. Does that monster live in me? Would I become that animal of fear and hate?
I might worry too much though. Most of the time I work very hard to be the person I want to be; good to everyone, hopeful of the future, generous, loyal, happy and kind, the kind of person that is “normal” by the definition of Perry Mason, Star Trek, and Leave it to Beaver. The point is I work at it. Everyday I can slip into that place of fear and everyday I face those haunts that make me who I am. Sometimes it’s easier than others but everyday I must look at who I am and choose to be who I want to be.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
My Dark Night
Upstairs room
Past the fright
Tiptoe quiet on this hungry night
Three small heads find their way without light
Down to the kitchen
into the fridge
Black is bright
Bathed in light
Toddle as they do
They make do
Cherry pie tonight.
All of us tight,
bunk bed sized room
blocking the only window light
string pulled tooth for her tonight.
Will she come,
‘Fraid not, she won’t fit.
Shelf in the kitchen will have to be it.
Bedtime is at eight
on every school night.
Hum of the TV and its glowing light
call us from our dreams
quiet as we might,
to sleep in the hall
just out of sight.
In between the kitchen
the living room
the hall and the laundry room,
is the Dinning room corner.
I spent most of my 11th summer there.
I don’t remember why
but the choice was clear,
busted rear
or the dinning room corner.
I used to gaze out the back door
at the yard sunshine bright
glimpses of brothers running with delight.
So entranced I was by the heavenly sight,
I didn’t notice my kid sister, stage right.
Her mouth opened wide
and the sound that ensued
shattered dreams of tomorrows
joining the brood.
Brothers
I had two.
As 9 came they were gone.
First one - then the other.
The first went to friends.
They treated him like a guest.
The second went to strangers.
They treated him like he was.
Dispatched like the creatures they were.
Mourned by the only heart that cared.
Just kids,
To know what’s right.
I promise, not to fight.
I’ll be good
I can stay out of sight.
Don’t send me away
Into that dark night.
Tears are full
And my chest is tight.
I’m very old now
And not afraid of the night.
Sometimes I wish
I had gone too.
Then I might not miss
The both of you.
Past the fright
Tiptoe quiet on this hungry night
Three small heads find their way without light
Down to the kitchen
into the fridge
Black is bright
Bathed in light
Toddle as they do
They make do
Cherry pie tonight.
All of us tight,
bunk bed sized room
blocking the only window light
string pulled tooth for her tonight.
Will she come,
‘Fraid not, she won’t fit.
Shelf in the kitchen will have to be it.
Bedtime is at eight
on every school night.
Hum of the TV and its glowing light
call us from our dreams
quiet as we might,
to sleep in the hall
just out of sight.
In between the kitchen
the living room
the hall and the laundry room,
is the Dinning room corner.
I spent most of my 11th summer there.
I don’t remember why
but the choice was clear,
busted rear
or the dinning room corner.
I used to gaze out the back door
at the yard sunshine bright
glimpses of brothers running with delight.
So entranced I was by the heavenly sight,
I didn’t notice my kid sister, stage right.
Her mouth opened wide
and the sound that ensued
shattered dreams of tomorrows
joining the brood.
Brothers
I had two.
As 9 came they were gone.
First one - then the other.
The first went to friends.
They treated him like a guest.
The second went to strangers.
They treated him like he was.
Dispatched like the creatures they were.
Mourned by the only heart that cared.
Just kids,
To know what’s right.
I promise, not to fight.
I’ll be good
I can stay out of sight.
Don’t send me away
Into that dark night.
Tears are full
And my chest is tight.
I’m very old now
And not afraid of the night.
Sometimes I wish
I had gone too.
Then I might not miss
The both of you.
Laundry
How did we beat the rock
to rinse from our skins
the days toils
to hunt and stretch more skins,
wanderer of lands, hunters
of the means of existence
aside brother, mother, son, or not,
all family of survival?
How did we scrub the cloth that clothed us;
in tubs on boards,
stretched out on glowing days
to catch sweet breezes
kissed by lavender and rose,
the same day as our neighbor,
shared baskets of time and space,
gossip and companionship?
A lost hour and a half,
forced by comforters and blankets
to stand alone
in a crowded laundry mat.
Machines horded with
hampers standing sentinel,
ancient rituals forgotten
to our invisible bubbles
that never touch.
Private worlds crammed
into front loading washers,
slaves to necessity,
woolen grime of poverty,
heavy blankets of shame,
baked in glass ovens,
sanitizing autoclaves.
Eyes that never rise
above the turning worlds within
to see our world around.
to rinse from our skins
the days toils
to hunt and stretch more skins,
wanderer of lands, hunters
of the means of existence
aside brother, mother, son, or not,
all family of survival?
How did we scrub the cloth that clothed us;
in tubs on boards,
stretched out on glowing days
to catch sweet breezes
kissed by lavender and rose,
the same day as our neighbor,
shared baskets of time and space,
gossip and companionship?
A lost hour and a half,
forced by comforters and blankets
to stand alone
in a crowded laundry mat.
Machines horded with
hampers standing sentinel,
ancient rituals forgotten
to our invisible bubbles
that never touch.
Private worlds crammed
into front loading washers,
slaves to necessity,
woolen grime of poverty,
heavy blankets of shame,
baked in glass ovens,
sanitizing autoclaves.
Eyes that never rise
above the turning worlds within
to see our world around.
Fall
So beautiful
are those distant hills,
washed red
and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins
of green, bristle
like a mans
unshaven face. Curves
softened by the damp
haze of clouds and mist, cool
air, quiet - the soft touch
of rain drops finding
the path to their very own
leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms
twisted together in knots,
older crowding out younger.
Young ones reaching thin bodies
higher to see the light, feel
the air, taste
the rain.
How many drops touch
my tongue
before I’m blinded
by the rain.
All I want to do is feel
the touch
on my face,
imagine each as a kiss, moist
lips follow a joyful tear,
But they’re cold,
And I’m old.
I can’t see those summer clouds anymore,
wonder about their softness.
what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.
So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills.
Could I fit them between my breasts?
are those distant hills,
washed red
and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins
of green, bristle
like a mans
unshaven face. Curves
softened by the damp
haze of clouds and mist, cool
air, quiet - the soft touch
of rain drops finding
the path to their very own
leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms
twisted together in knots,
older crowding out younger.
Young ones reaching thin bodies
higher to see the light, feel
the air, taste
the rain.
How many drops touch
my tongue
before I’m blinded
by the rain.
All I want to do is feel
the touch
on my face,
imagine each as a kiss, moist
lips follow a joyful tear,
But they’re cold,
And I’m old.
I can’t see those summer clouds anymore,
wonder about their softness.
what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.
So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills.
Could I fit them between my breasts?
The Shave
“Relax.”
When they were first married,
she sat on the counter as he lathered,
and made faces in the mirror,
She watched -
curious,
interested, wanting
to be part of it. Watched
as he piled thick cream in his hand, spread
with fingertips down his jaw, across
his chin, as he buried the weekend’s passion
beneath the purity of white.
She watched –
As he folded
lips together; sensitive explorers that travel softly
over hills and valleys, backed by blades,
tenuous threats,
mounting tension.
She watched –
As he warmed his razor beneath the stream of hot
water. Mourned each whisker
as it washed down the drain, gently caressed
his face;
the smooth skin,
the occasional errant whisker,
stretched up to take in his clean scent
hand studied against his chest,
his soul drawn to the radiant warmth
spread
past the bonds of time, as he searches
her wondering eyes.
Resonance of remembrance reaches deep.
“It might be fun.”
Eyes closed,
Her warm hands test,
light touch fondles the stubble of growth,
gently massages the skin.
Her shadow circles his chair;
to be at her mercy,
the echo of her touch clings like a warm breeze.
“shhhhhh”, water in the sink; her breathy
whisper,
she holds a warm moist
cloth to his face,
cradling him between her hands,
As she has always held him;
between breaths.
he can feel the press of her legs
at his knees
and opens
to give her more room, breathes
in the moist
air with the scent of her hair -
so close.
his hands
pat nervously on his thighs
feeling their own mind, a strand of her hair
tickles his cheek as she leans in, her lips
soft and delicate, still holding his face.
His hands find themselves on the back of her thighs,
still reaching as she backs away.
“Relax”.
When they were first married,
she sat on the counter as he lathered,
and made faces in the mirror,
She watched -
curious,
interested, wanting
to be part of it. Watched
as he piled thick cream in his hand, spread
with fingertips down his jaw, across
his chin, as he buried the weekend’s passion
beneath the purity of white.
She watched –
As he folded
lips together; sensitive explorers that travel softly
over hills and valleys, backed by blades,
tenuous threats,
mounting tension.
She watched –
As he warmed his razor beneath the stream of hot
water. Mourned each whisker
as it washed down the drain, gently caressed
his face;
the smooth skin,
the occasional errant whisker,
stretched up to take in his clean scent
hand studied against his chest,
his soul drawn to the radiant warmth
spread
past the bonds of time, as he searches
her wondering eyes.
Resonance of remembrance reaches deep.
“It might be fun.”
Eyes closed,
Her warm hands test,
light touch fondles the stubble of growth,
gently massages the skin.
Her shadow circles his chair;
to be at her mercy,
the echo of her touch clings like a warm breeze.
“shhhhhh”, water in the sink; her breathy
whisper,
she holds a warm moist
cloth to his face,
cradling him between her hands,
As she has always held him;
between breaths.
he can feel the press of her legs
at his knees
and opens
to give her more room, breathes
in the moist
air with the scent of her hair -
so close.
his hands
pat nervously on his thighs
feeling their own mind, a strand of her hair
tickles his cheek as she leans in, her lips
soft and delicate, still holding his face.
His hands find themselves on the back of her thighs,
still reaching as she backs away.
“Relax”.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
He shouldn’t have been there.
His dark haired body
stretched out on the folding counter,
languid against the fluorescent brightness,
reflecting off the glass the sightless
night; passed closing time.
His shirt was open
waiting for the dryer to finish;
I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark stripe of curly hair
that spread from the center across his relaxed belly.
He was watching me sweep
from under the arm resting across his forehead,
while I watched him.
I’d never seen hair there,
only heard the whispered giggles
of what was found at the end.
Curiosity, wondered the feeling of it,
the timid hand’s sensitive touch,
lightly discover the curled texture
and the sudden jump of surprised abs;
but he doesn’t move, only the breath
sounds change, faster with strained
control not to gasp.
I told him a secret,
whispered it in his ear, so close to his neck,
his scent mine for a moment,
listened to his groan at the hearing;
my fantasy his now.
Lips just touch his cheek as he leaves.
stretched out on the folding counter,
languid against the fluorescent brightness,
reflecting off the glass the sightless
night; passed closing time.
His shirt was open
waiting for the dryer to finish;
I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark stripe of curly hair
that spread from the center across his relaxed belly.
He was watching me sweep
from under the arm resting across his forehead,
while I watched him.
I’d never seen hair there,
only heard the whispered giggles
of what was found at the end.
Curiosity, wondered the feeling of it,
the timid hand’s sensitive touch,
lightly discover the curled texture
and the sudden jump of surprised abs;
but he doesn’t move, only the breath
sounds change, faster with strained
control not to gasp.
I told him a secret,
whispered it in his ear, so close to his neck,
his scent mine for a moment,
listened to his groan at the hearing;
my fantasy his now.
Lips just touch his cheek as he leaves.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Power
A distant sun
with no one to see it rise.
The ocean has the power
to crush a ship,
throw a survivor on shore,
or burry him deep.
Do clouds have power?
Insubstantial wisps of white fluff
carried on a sigh,
but when they turn gray and dark
and crowd the sky fighting with flashes for space;
then we see their power.
Where do you keep your power?
It seems small and frail
tucked away deep
in a quiet space.
It’s been slapped down
too many times to come out aggressively
and claim what it wants,
so it is timid and unsure.
Waiting for certainty,
the slightest bit of encouragement
to stretch out just a little bit more.
But a scattering wind can blow out a storm
before it has a chance to gain its potential.
And so your power builds just a little,
testing the breeze,
wondering if this will be the moment.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
My name is Uncertainty. (thoughts and a poem reprint)
At sixteen I went through the “ Who am I?” phase, smoking, drinking, sleeping around, trying to identify the life I would lead. When I met you I became the complement to you, enjoying those things that you enjoy, racing, shooting pool, drinking…
When our children came, I became the image of mom as close as I could come to perfect, a composite of yours and not mine and borrowed from the TV ideal; PTA, parks and play dates, coffee and shopping, making ends meet.
Today as the cloud of second hand smoke wafts by and I consider bumming one from the young man in shades, as he takes lengthy draws from the end, I realize I’m again in the “who am I?” phase. Twenty years from the last smoke of my own, waiting for class to start. The first time around I had an idea where my path would lead me. Now – I just don’t know.
At seventeen
No thought was clean,
So close to purity of thought.
At eighteen
stuck in between,
never understood what she had wrought.
At twenty-one
So much fun
Oh, he really is the one!
At twenty-three,
Does he love me?
At twenty five,
Again -
Does he love me?
At twenty-seven,
Does it matter?
At thirty-four,
Not any more.
At nearly forty,
What will I do?
So filled with doubt.
Uncertain – Fool!
When our children came, I became the image of mom as close as I could come to perfect, a composite of yours and not mine and borrowed from the TV ideal; PTA, parks and play dates, coffee and shopping, making ends meet.
Today as the cloud of second hand smoke wafts by and I consider bumming one from the young man in shades, as he takes lengthy draws from the end, I realize I’m again in the “who am I?” phase. Twenty years from the last smoke of my own, waiting for class to start. The first time around I had an idea where my path would lead me. Now – I just don’t know.
At seventeen
No thought was clean,
So close to purity of thought.
At eighteen
stuck in between,
never understood what she had wrought.
At twenty-one
So much fun
Oh, he really is the one!
At twenty-three,
Does he love me?
At twenty five,
Again -
Does he love me?
At twenty-seven,
Does it matter?
At thirty-four,
Not any more.
At nearly forty,
What will I do?
So filled with doubt.
Uncertain – Fool!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
I thought of you at lunch today.
Alone at my outdoor table for one,
Half in the sun,
The tangy flavor of the sun dried tomatoes
basil and mozzarella, on my burger,
red olive oil staining the grilled bread.
The sheen of buttered crumbs, dust my fingers
and beg to be licked;
too exotic and busy for your simple,
greasy spoon, hometown tastes.
Heat and vinegar of Tabasco firing the ketchup
For my salty fries.
Long given up
flavor, of a hard pear cider, crisp and dry,
with its lingering tartness
clinging to my lips.
Could be shared
Half in the sun,
The tangy flavor of the sun dried tomatoes
basil and mozzarella, on my burger,
red olive oil staining the grilled bread.
The sheen of buttered crumbs, dust my fingers
and beg to be licked;
too exotic and busy for your simple,
greasy spoon, hometown tastes.
Heat and vinegar of Tabasco firing the ketchup
For my salty fries.
Long given up
flavor, of a hard pear cider, crisp and dry,
with its lingering tartness
clinging to my lips.
Could be shared
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Power failure
The source of all goodness and joy in my world of work and play is having serious technical difficulties. The AC adapter has a short. It always seemed to get hot after an hour or so, of intense concentration on what ever writing project I'd been working on, but today it spit at me. Flares of "fuck off" shot from some exposed wires just past the rectangular adapter, with no power reaching my poor computer. I've used the last of its battery power to pen this fearful note and to order the replacement adapter, which had better arrive on Monday! Tragically this means no Sunday Scribblings entry this weekend however I may figure out how to use this other, less complicated instrument I've found, pen and paper, to write out my entry and post on Monday!! Or maybe Tuesday.
While I wait I've picked up some light reading. "The Age Of Turbulence, Adventures in a New World", by Alan Greenspan.
While I wait I've picked up some light reading. "The Age Of Turbulence, Adventures in a New World", by Alan Greenspan.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Collection
The phone rang today. At the other end a woman asked if we handled any rental property. As a real estate office, we handle the purchase and sale of property, but not really rentals. Some of our agents own rental property. After explaining this I offered to take her information and pass it on. What are you looking for? Do you have any pets? How long have you lived where your at now? Why do you need to move? How much can you pay in rent? Do you need a certain school district?
She and her husband are both applying for disability benefits and her uncle gets social security. Their son is in the same middle school as mine. They need at least two bedrooms. They used to run an animal rescue but had to close down; they still have two large dogs that they rescued and a Chihuahua that they’d like to keep if they can, she explains tearfully. They were just told that the owners of their home of over four years, sold the house and now they have to move. They pay $550 a month but she thinks they can go as high as $700. Their combined income is about $2200.
I tell her that I know of a small three bedroom house across from the grade school just around the corner from the middle school that has just become vacant. The previous renter needed something a little bigger since the birth of her third child and moved to a more spacious apartment with a pool. She plans to home school the kids but is having trouble with providing for the social needs of her middle school son and second grade daughter. She used to volunteer at the grade school, making popcorn and served on the board of the local PTA.
I fight the urge to collect them all. To open my arms and comfort their collective pains, to spend my mental energy solving their problems and making them my own. It seems such a small thing, give someone a ride to the store, to listen to someone else talk about issues with their teenage son, to counsel an abused mom, to have a safe home for the kids to come to that they know what the rules are and what to expect. Seeing the green mucus run from the nose of my friend’s son and knowing it’s the unhealthy childcare environment; what harm is there to take care of him myself and save her the hundreds of dollars I know childcare costs.
So much of this world could be better if more of us did just a little more to help. The instinct is there but we all fight it for fear of getting hurt.
Once while driving through town, traffic seemed unusually heavy. A red pick-up truck with a loaded camper on the back has stalled and the driver is pushing it by himself down the street. There is no street parking on this highway through town and his push has to round the next bend and then, maybe travel another block up the side street to possibly find a parking space to stop and evaluate the cause of the stall. But this poor man is pushing by himself, and the side street has a slight incline. How is he going to make it? Around him, car after car passes without even a honk. Eyes see his pain, the exertion, the sweat dripping in his eyes, as his small daughter try’s to steer. How many pass – before finally someone jumps out of the still moving van his wife is driving, and begins to push. Then someone else does the same. The wife drives to the private parking lot just around the corner and begs the gate guard to please let these poor people park here. By the time the truck reaches the lot, four more people have jumped out to help. Combined, such a small effort; but it couldn’t have been done with out them.
I collect small differences, little “goods” of the world. All those small pieces of good that fill the world but so few claim for fear of the little effort it takes to bring it to life; those pieces that fill up the heart and fortify it, making it whole, light, free.
She and her husband are both applying for disability benefits and her uncle gets social security. Their son is in the same middle school as mine. They need at least two bedrooms. They used to run an animal rescue but had to close down; they still have two large dogs that they rescued and a Chihuahua that they’d like to keep if they can, she explains tearfully. They were just told that the owners of their home of over four years, sold the house and now they have to move. They pay $550 a month but she thinks they can go as high as $700. Their combined income is about $2200.
I tell her that I know of a small three bedroom house across from the grade school just around the corner from the middle school that has just become vacant. The previous renter needed something a little bigger since the birth of her third child and moved to a more spacious apartment with a pool. She plans to home school the kids but is having trouble with providing for the social needs of her middle school son and second grade daughter. She used to volunteer at the grade school, making popcorn and served on the board of the local PTA.
I fight the urge to collect them all. To open my arms and comfort their collective pains, to spend my mental energy solving their problems and making them my own. It seems such a small thing, give someone a ride to the store, to listen to someone else talk about issues with their teenage son, to counsel an abused mom, to have a safe home for the kids to come to that they know what the rules are and what to expect. Seeing the green mucus run from the nose of my friend’s son and knowing it’s the unhealthy childcare environment; what harm is there to take care of him myself and save her the hundreds of dollars I know childcare costs.
So much of this world could be better if more of us did just a little more to help. The instinct is there but we all fight it for fear of getting hurt.
Once while driving through town, traffic seemed unusually heavy. A red pick-up truck with a loaded camper on the back has stalled and the driver is pushing it by himself down the street. There is no street parking on this highway through town and his push has to round the next bend and then, maybe travel another block up the side street to possibly find a parking space to stop and evaluate the cause of the stall. But this poor man is pushing by himself, and the side street has a slight incline. How is he going to make it? Around him, car after car passes without even a honk. Eyes see his pain, the exertion, the sweat dripping in his eyes, as his small daughter try’s to steer. How many pass – before finally someone jumps out of the still moving van his wife is driving, and begins to push. Then someone else does the same. The wife drives to the private parking lot just around the corner and begs the gate guard to please let these poor people park here. By the time the truck reaches the lot, four more people have jumped out to help. Combined, such a small effort; but it couldn’t have been done with out them.
I collect small differences, little “goods” of the world. All those small pieces of good that fill the world but so few claim for fear of the little effort it takes to bring it to life; those pieces that fill up the heart and fortify it, making it whole, light, free.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The End.
Fairy tales woe to happily ever after. --- And everyday after.
Splendid sunset of red streaking the sky. --- Blue glow of dawn.
Bright sliver of the waning moon. --- Sigh of the new moon waxing.
Exhausted three week vacation,
pulled up in front of the house. --- Unload
Bent over the last row touching
each seed to the ground. --- Sprout of spring
Paydays stretch to the next. --- Never ends
Fall --- Spring
Road --- Endless
Death --- Rebirth
Faded lilac blooms. --- Pruned for next years blossoms
Summer --- Spring
Childhood --- Over and over and over and over…
Good rubber on the tires. --- Every 10,000 miles
Rivers dance to the sea. --- So long as it rains.
Bears winters nap. --- Again after a hearty meal.
Winter --- Promise of Spring
Baby’s cry put to the breast. --- He’ll be hungry again.
Extinction ------
Jostled bus ride after work,
vacant stare out the window. --- Everyday for the rest of your
Life
Splendid sunset of red streaking the sky. --- Blue glow of dawn.
Bright sliver of the waning moon. --- Sigh of the new moon waxing.
Exhausted three week vacation,
pulled up in front of the house. --- Unload
Bent over the last row touching
each seed to the ground. --- Sprout of spring
Paydays stretch to the next. --- Never ends
Fall --- Spring
Road --- Endless
Death --- Rebirth
Faded lilac blooms. --- Pruned for next years blossoms
Summer --- Spring
Childhood --- Over and over and over and over…
Good rubber on the tires. --- Every 10,000 miles
Rivers dance to the sea. --- So long as it rains.
Bears winters nap. --- Again after a hearty meal.
Winter --- Promise of Spring
Baby’s cry put to the breast. --- He’ll be hungry again.
Extinction ------
Jostled bus ride after work,
vacant stare out the window. --- Everyday for the rest of your
Life
Fuck off!!
------
The only true ending, extinction and Fuck off.
Ends Communication, cooperation, understanding, sympathy, empathy, interaction, consultation, collaboration, tolerance, comprehension, compassion, appreciation, consideration, support, acceptance, harmony, trust, and love.
------
The only true ending, extinction and Fuck off.
Ends Communication, cooperation, understanding, sympathy, empathy, interaction, consultation, collaboration, tolerance, comprehension, compassion, appreciation, consideration, support, acceptance, harmony, trust, and love.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Folly
Standing on the top of the ladder
shifting side to side, toes
gripping the rung,
reaching for the limb,
wondering "what the hell
am I doing,
is this really worth it",
the inevitable fall, snap
of the twig, the sudden jolt
as gravity reaches up to catch
my foolishness and pull me back to earth,
the reality of precarious existence.
the breeze is nice
scented with honeysuckle and lavender,
blue sky expanding above.
how far to the hills?
into the cool shaded pine air,
soft needles carpet the ground,
why the apple tree in the hard baked orchard?
What the hell does that snake know anyway?!
shifting side to side, toes
gripping the rung,
reaching for the limb,
wondering "what the hell
am I doing,
is this really worth it",
the inevitable fall, snap
of the twig, the sudden jolt
as gravity reaches up to catch
my foolishness and pull me back to earth,
the reality of precarious existence.
the breeze is nice
scented with honeysuckle and lavender,
blue sky expanding above.
how far to the hills?
into the cool shaded pine air,
soft needles carpet the ground,
why the apple tree in the hard baked orchard?
What the hell does that snake know anyway?!
Saturday, August 25, 2007
I get that sinking felling….
Sinking - like quicksand?
That slip into troubled darkness,
the ghost space of a haunted mind.
Pressure squeezing
out life until the empty vacuum waits.
Waiting for the last breath
that triggers the filling; what will come?
Expecting the bite and grit
of sand and water flooding mouth and lungs,
tearing a path around the heart –
to crush the last of love.
Wanting sweet relief of weightlessness
and air; clouds of peace.
It will come, no matter what.
That slip into troubled darkness,
the ghost space of a haunted mind.
Pressure squeezing
out life until the empty vacuum waits.
Waiting for the last breath
that triggers the filling; what will come?
Expecting the bite and grit
of sand and water flooding mouth and lungs,
tearing a path around the heart –
to crush the last of love.
Wanting sweet relief of weightlessness
and air; clouds of peace.
It will come, no matter what.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Email I wish I could send to a friend.
Somehow I imagined that as we grow older, we redefine achievement and greatness and throw away the old measuring stick in favor of prospective on what is really important in life.
Eighteen seems very young to accept mediocrity, and how is that giving your best to life anyway? Realizing you’re not the best at something and deciding that it’s ok is the same as giving up. You don’t have to be the best at anything you just have to give your best to everything you do. Is that what you mean? The problem I have isn’t that I’m not the best but that I can’t give 100% to everything I do. I have too many things I want to do so nothing gets my best. My mediocrity isn’t for lack of effort or desires it is the dispersion of effort and desire to do everything. That is the fact of my decisions and my battle is how to come to terms with that. I’m not good enough to be the best at everything and I’m just barely getting everything done OK. So does that make me mediocre?
Could I be the best at just one thing or do I use this dispersion of effort as an excuse to not be the best at anything; a denial of average? What would happen if I focused all my energy to one effort and still only made it half way? Would that mean failure?
Something to think about a little more.
Eighteen seems very young to accept mediocrity, and how is that giving your best to life anyway? Realizing you’re not the best at something and deciding that it’s ok is the same as giving up. You don’t have to be the best at anything you just have to give your best to everything you do. Is that what you mean? The problem I have isn’t that I’m not the best but that I can’t give 100% to everything I do. I have too many things I want to do so nothing gets my best. My mediocrity isn’t for lack of effort or desires it is the dispersion of effort and desire to do everything. That is the fact of my decisions and my battle is how to come to terms with that. I’m not good enough to be the best at everything and I’m just barely getting everything done OK. So does that make me mediocre?
Could I be the best at just one thing or do I use this dispersion of effort as an excuse to not be the best at anything; a denial of average? What would happen if I focused all my energy to one effort and still only made it half way? Would that mean failure?
Something to think about a little more.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Dear Diary
Monday, April 20, 1987. - Dads been acting strange today. Something was off first thing this morning. I had come down to make breakfast for Melody. Stumbling down the stairs making more noise than I had planned, cringing at the cascade of a green and yellow toy with bells built-into the wheels; something more for a toddler to drive around on the carpet rather than my six year old sister to play with. Dad didn’t make a sound. As I passed by my parents room he was sitting on the edge of his bed (now it’s his) looking through a box of papers and pictures. He didn’t even look at me. I was braced for the hollering, the barking of orders for having disturbed him, but nothing, he didn’t even look up. Relief and worry washed over me as I got to work on breakfast. Melody was sitting at the table gazing absently out the dinning room window. Rain trailed the view through the pane. Mom’s car sat in the driveway waiting, the big maple tree across the street waving back at me; everything seemed paused, anticipating. They didn’t know there was nothing to anticipate. Breakfast was cold cereal and a banana. Mom always made us eat a banana with our cereal and there was a bunch of them browning on the counter. She must have gone shopping before….
Melody and I sat eating, heads bowed over bowls as if praying. I just wish it wasn’t so quiet. Dad came into the kitchen. He tossed mom’s car keys on the table, “Take her to school.” The keys splayed out on the table like a hand holding on to the smooth surface right in front of me. If this had been last Monday they would have been snatched up and Melody would have been rushed to finish and hurried off to school; today they just laid there, frozen to the table, my gut knotted, the picture of Melody and I smiling up at me; strangers. Her hands held those keys everyday. The hemp braid I made at camp when I was ten strayed off to one side out of alignment with the rest, an extra hair tie for Melody, mom always had handy to tame her mane of curls. The cereal floated in the bowl a thin banana slice resting on the spoon paused for the next bite. Melody’s eyes were locked on the keys, if I didn’t do something we’d be home for another day. I don’t think I could stand another day pressed in with all those memories. The house is so full of them there isn’t room for us. Looking through the drizzled window at the distorted view of mom’s car; it’s going to be a tight fit in there too.
Dad just stood there watching me; no yelling, “Well get moving boy!! Didn’t I just tell you to do something!!?” He just waited, his eyes searching me. I don’t know what he was thinking, he just wasn’t acting himself. He was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and now that I think about it the bed was made when I saw him earlier slouched at the edge; dad never made the bed. His eyes ringed with red but dry, he could have just come in from work, eyes irritated from the dust of the mill; only it was morning, mom was dead, the funeral had been yesterday, and we are dieing here slowly, instead of the aneurysm that exploded in her, ending everything so quickly.
They had been arguing, mom’s patient voice murmuring between his clear loud thunders; I can’t even remember what they had been arguing about. Just another of many. Then quiet. - - - “Jaaack!!” The anguish in his voice, I don’t remember how I got down the stairs. He was crumpled on the floor with her in his arms, rocking; she wasn’t moving, her mouth slightly open, her hand limp, her keys on the floor, splayed out like a hand.
Mom told me once that because I was first born and a son, that dad named me; mom named Melody. She’d laugh a little and smiled at me conspirator like, “but you’re more like me than you are him”. Then her face would change, her eyes looking at me so far away, “He really does love you, he’s just had a hard time of it and doesn’t know any other way”. “When you get older you two are going to go around, just remember he loves you.” “He wants to prepare you for the world out there that hurt him, but you’re more me than him, so the world you see is a lot prettier.” “Oh, there are monsters out there for sure; walking around looking like people, but inside each one there is a piece of a good soul just waiting for someone to call it out.” She leaned in and looked at me, straight in the eyes, so close to my face, all I could see was her eyes. “That - is what we’re good at.”
I looked in dads eyes, looking for that ‘piece of a good soul’ mom was talking about. His hard look intent on intimidation, looking for a fight, wavered around his eyes; the line of his jaw, muscles twitching with the tension of clenched teeth, proud shoulders pulled back to his military pose, heavy boots anchored to the floor balanced and ready to chase and fight, but his eyes. They looked so frail, tired. Is that what she saw; the man, tired of the fight, but doesn’t know any other way?
I put down the spoon and reached for the keys. They were warm, held by dad all night. I looked at Melody, her face set, like dads. “Maybe we should go to the coast today dad?”
His body shrank a little, off balance, his eyes trailed between his children. All that’s left of her. All that matters. He reached out and took back the keys. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Melody and I sat eating, heads bowed over bowls as if praying. I just wish it wasn’t so quiet. Dad came into the kitchen. He tossed mom’s car keys on the table, “Take her to school.” The keys splayed out on the table like a hand holding on to the smooth surface right in front of me. If this had been last Monday they would have been snatched up and Melody would have been rushed to finish and hurried off to school; today they just laid there, frozen to the table, my gut knotted, the picture of Melody and I smiling up at me; strangers. Her hands held those keys everyday. The hemp braid I made at camp when I was ten strayed off to one side out of alignment with the rest, an extra hair tie for Melody, mom always had handy to tame her mane of curls. The cereal floated in the bowl a thin banana slice resting on the spoon paused for the next bite. Melody’s eyes were locked on the keys, if I didn’t do something we’d be home for another day. I don’t think I could stand another day pressed in with all those memories. The house is so full of them there isn’t room for us. Looking through the drizzled window at the distorted view of mom’s car; it’s going to be a tight fit in there too.
Dad just stood there watching me; no yelling, “Well get moving boy!! Didn’t I just tell you to do something!!?” He just waited, his eyes searching me. I don’t know what he was thinking, he just wasn’t acting himself. He was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and now that I think about it the bed was made when I saw him earlier slouched at the edge; dad never made the bed. His eyes ringed with red but dry, he could have just come in from work, eyes irritated from the dust of the mill; only it was morning, mom was dead, the funeral had been yesterday, and we are dieing here slowly, instead of the aneurysm that exploded in her, ending everything so quickly.
They had been arguing, mom’s patient voice murmuring between his clear loud thunders; I can’t even remember what they had been arguing about. Just another of many. Then quiet. - - - “Jaaack!!” The anguish in his voice, I don’t remember how I got down the stairs. He was crumpled on the floor with her in his arms, rocking; she wasn’t moving, her mouth slightly open, her hand limp, her keys on the floor, splayed out like a hand.
Mom told me once that because I was first born and a son, that dad named me; mom named Melody. She’d laugh a little and smiled at me conspirator like, “but you’re more like me than you are him”. Then her face would change, her eyes looking at me so far away, “He really does love you, he’s just had a hard time of it and doesn’t know any other way”. “When you get older you two are going to go around, just remember he loves you.” “He wants to prepare you for the world out there that hurt him, but you’re more me than him, so the world you see is a lot prettier.” “Oh, there are monsters out there for sure; walking around looking like people, but inside each one there is a piece of a good soul just waiting for someone to call it out.” She leaned in and looked at me, straight in the eyes, so close to my face, all I could see was her eyes. “That - is what we’re good at.”
I looked in dads eyes, looking for that ‘piece of a good soul’ mom was talking about. His hard look intent on intimidation, looking for a fight, wavered around his eyes; the line of his jaw, muscles twitching with the tension of clenched teeth, proud shoulders pulled back to his military pose, heavy boots anchored to the floor balanced and ready to chase and fight, but his eyes. They looked so frail, tired. Is that what she saw; the man, tired of the fight, but doesn’t know any other way?
I put down the spoon and reached for the keys. They were warm, held by dad all night. I looked at Melody, her face set, like dads. “Maybe we should go to the coast today dad?”
His body shrank a little, off balance, his eyes trailed between his children. All that’s left of her. All that matters. He reached out and took back the keys. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Tough Decisions
When we are sick we go to the doctor, when we get "old" we retire to a comfortable living on our lifetime of investments. If we are career minded we work long hours while our children spend creative days with trained caregivers that enlighten with art, music, reading, and imagination all within the safety of criminal background checks; unless we’re like Sametta Heyward.
Without knowing the story behind the news article, Sametta Heyward was a single mom called in to work, when her sitter canceled on her. She drove her 1 year old and 4 year old to the group home she worked at, set them up with fans, food and drinks, leaving them in the car for her 3-11 swing shift. She has been charged with homicide by child abuse. The article from the Associated Press written by Bruce Smith, I read in the Sunday Register Guard (8/5/07), goes on to recount interviews with neighbors and co-workers describing Sametta as having gone through some difficult times but seemed like a “loving mom”.
I live in a community of poor and working poor. 96% of the kids, my kids go to school with, are on the free and reduced lunch program. I’m using this as an indicator because it means that they are at or below the poverty line set by the state for our county. What I’ve seen has gone by my eyes without much consideration. Over the years my own apathy has blinded me to what had always been a passion; children, their safety, enlightenment and empowerment.
My mother worked, sometimes two jobs,to keep the house going as the main bread winner in our family. My stepfather worked too but his was seasonal field work that slowed down in the winter after the plums were dried into prunes, and didn’t start back up again until early spring when the fields started planting. He worked hard long days and never made much money; so much of our survival was on mom.
We were very lucky for about two years. Really it was one summer and part of the preceding and following school year. We lived in a big house that had four bedrooms, a dinning room, an inside laundry room, and a big backyard that backed up to the neighbors house and a vacant field; no fences to bind us in and free access to blackberry vines, apple and cherry trees, a generous neighbor with a lush vegetable garden, and another with seven kids to play with. Our school was only blocks away and mom worked across the street at the health department. Life was very good then. It was still a financial struggle but we could get by.
My little sister had just started kindergarten and had to go home alone. She was scared alone in the house and would call mom at work everyday because she heard ghosts in the house. My responsibility as the oldest child, was to go straight home after school and take care of my brothers and sister, make dinner and clean the house.
This was one of the best most comfortable times in my families struggle to survive in this world. Everything was as good as it could get; mom and dad working, home close to work and school, fresh fruit and vegi’s to supplement the meager resources available to our budget. Still we were home alone for hours until mom got off work and my sister even longer. My mother had little choice. To not work meant welfare and food stamps, we’d done it before, but she had gotten this job through a program putting women back to work funded by the Carter administration. It was meant to be a future without government assistance. She was excited about it, talking everyday about what she was learning, how much she liked the people she was working with. To her it was a chance at a career that had a future.
Before the end of the next school year, the government administration changed, priorities shifted, and the program she was being paid from lost it’s funding. The shoe string department tried to get other funding to keep her but in the end she lost her job. By the next summer we were living in a motel a mile outside of a desert town in California, the six of us sharing two rooms watching tumble weeds roll by.
As I read the paper this morning and observe the priorities of the current administration I wonder about how little has changed. Children are still not a priority, and families still have to face the decision of what to do with their kids when work is how you feed and house them, but it also takes you away from them. How desperate must a mom be to do what she did? What would I do without the friends, family, and husband that I have? I have been blessed but what about the others. What should I do, what can I do to help? Do I let the vastness of the problem blind me with apathy or is there something I can do?
Without knowing the story behind the news article, Sametta Heyward was a single mom called in to work, when her sitter canceled on her. She drove her 1 year old and 4 year old to the group home she worked at, set them up with fans, food and drinks, leaving them in the car for her 3-11 swing shift. She has been charged with homicide by child abuse. The article from the Associated Press written by Bruce Smith, I read in the Sunday Register Guard (8/5/07), goes on to recount interviews with neighbors and co-workers describing Sametta as having gone through some difficult times but seemed like a “loving mom”.
I live in a community of poor and working poor. 96% of the kids, my kids go to school with, are on the free and reduced lunch program. I’m using this as an indicator because it means that they are at or below the poverty line set by the state for our county. What I’ve seen has gone by my eyes without much consideration. Over the years my own apathy has blinded me to what had always been a passion; children, their safety, enlightenment and empowerment.
My mother worked, sometimes two jobs,to keep the house going as the main bread winner in our family. My stepfather worked too but his was seasonal field work that slowed down in the winter after the plums were dried into prunes, and didn’t start back up again until early spring when the fields started planting. He worked hard long days and never made much money; so much of our survival was on mom.
We were very lucky for about two years. Really it was one summer and part of the preceding and following school year. We lived in a big house that had four bedrooms, a dinning room, an inside laundry room, and a big backyard that backed up to the neighbors house and a vacant field; no fences to bind us in and free access to blackberry vines, apple and cherry trees, a generous neighbor with a lush vegetable garden, and another with seven kids to play with. Our school was only blocks away and mom worked across the street at the health department. Life was very good then. It was still a financial struggle but we could get by.
My little sister had just started kindergarten and had to go home alone. She was scared alone in the house and would call mom at work everyday because she heard ghosts in the house. My responsibility as the oldest child, was to go straight home after school and take care of my brothers and sister, make dinner and clean the house.
This was one of the best most comfortable times in my families struggle to survive in this world. Everything was as good as it could get; mom and dad working, home close to work and school, fresh fruit and vegi’s to supplement the meager resources available to our budget. Still we were home alone for hours until mom got off work and my sister even longer. My mother had little choice. To not work meant welfare and food stamps, we’d done it before, but she had gotten this job through a program putting women back to work funded by the Carter administration. It was meant to be a future without government assistance. She was excited about it, talking everyday about what she was learning, how much she liked the people she was working with. To her it was a chance at a career that had a future.
Before the end of the next school year, the government administration changed, priorities shifted, and the program she was being paid from lost it’s funding. The shoe string department tried to get other funding to keep her but in the end she lost her job. By the next summer we were living in a motel a mile outside of a desert town in California, the six of us sharing two rooms watching tumble weeds roll by.
As I read the paper this morning and observe the priorities of the current administration I wonder about how little has changed. Children are still not a priority, and families still have to face the decision of what to do with their kids when work is how you feed and house them, but it also takes you away from them. How desperate must a mom be to do what she did? What would I do without the friends, family, and husband that I have? I have been blessed but what about the others. What should I do, what can I do to help? Do I let the vastness of the problem blind me with apathy or is there something I can do?
Friday, August 3, 2007
Spheres
Mother, father, me, two brothers, sister,
Grandma, grandpa, three aunts, four uncles, thirteen cousins,
husband, four sons, daughter never had,
father in-law, mother in-law, three brother and four sisters in-law,
six nephews, four nieces by marriage and blood, two god-daughters, and a god-son,
best friend, best friends husband, three sons and a daughter,
best friends mother and father, sister and two brothers,
good friend, good friends wife, and mother, daughter and niece,
friends husband with a drug problem,
friend that sends her sons to Texas for two months
to see the father that never calls,
laid back friend, husband, son wana be hacker, daughter growing up too fast,
friend across the street, life mate, son, daughter, two sisters, niece, and another on the way,
kids school teachers over seven years, principal, school cooks, and custodians,
kids best friend, kids best friends mother, brother,
school secretary whose husband has Alzheimer’s and lives in a home.
boss and his wife, owner, owners wife, and daughter,
office mate, her disabled husband, and two sons,
coworker that loves horses, her husband, son, and daughter,
and thirty others that work side by side, and over one hundred more
at the other two branches, the seven women and two men that check groceries
at the store, and the four others that run them to the car, and Rose that sells roses,
the young man at the gas station, the other four at the car wash one in college,
and the young lady
looking for a cheap apartment that punches the car wash ticket,
the aloha girls that sell Bad Ass coffee hot or cold for Lui,
the “Is there anything else I can get for you today, Ooook” lady at Jack-in-the-box,
the woman at the Dairy mart whose brother wants a cheap foreclosure to fix up and sell,
and two more of her co-workers, that guy holding the sign selling pizza next to the woman asking for change, PBS and NPR, the marine charged with conspiracy to commit murder for hauling a man out in front of his neighbors to “teach them a lesson” and shooting him, serving 43 days losing one rank and going back to work knowing it was OK, saying he’d do it again.
circles
How narrow our world has become
that we see and hear our stomachs turn
and souls burn,
from the touch of evil brushing the edges
of our sphere as it touches
the next that circled the next that
encircled the eyes
of those who see the horror
and we do nothing,
it isn’t in our world.
It isn’t us. Yet.
Grandma, grandpa, three aunts, four uncles, thirteen cousins,
husband, four sons, daughter never had,
father in-law, mother in-law, three brother and four sisters in-law,
six nephews, four nieces by marriage and blood, two god-daughters, and a god-son,
best friend, best friends husband, three sons and a daughter,
best friends mother and father, sister and two brothers,
good friend, good friends wife, and mother, daughter and niece,
friends husband with a drug problem,
friend that sends her sons to Texas for two months
to see the father that never calls,
laid back friend, husband, son wana be hacker, daughter growing up too fast,
friend across the street, life mate, son, daughter, two sisters, niece, and another on the way,
kids school teachers over seven years, principal, school cooks, and custodians,
kids best friend, kids best friends mother, brother,
school secretary whose husband has Alzheimer’s and lives in a home.
boss and his wife, owner, owners wife, and daughter,
office mate, her disabled husband, and two sons,
coworker that loves horses, her husband, son, and daughter,
and thirty others that work side by side, and over one hundred more
at the other two branches, the seven women and two men that check groceries
at the store, and the four others that run them to the car, and Rose that sells roses,
the young man at the gas station, the other four at the car wash one in college,
and the young lady
looking for a cheap apartment that punches the car wash ticket,
the aloha girls that sell Bad Ass coffee hot or cold for Lui,
the “Is there anything else I can get for you today, Ooook” lady at Jack-in-the-box,
the woman at the Dairy mart whose brother wants a cheap foreclosure to fix up and sell,
and two more of her co-workers, that guy holding the sign selling pizza next to the woman asking for change, PBS and NPR, the marine charged with conspiracy to commit murder for hauling a man out in front of his neighbors to “teach them a lesson” and shooting him, serving 43 days losing one rank and going back to work knowing it was OK, saying he’d do it again.
circles
How narrow our world has become
that we see and hear our stomachs turn
and souls burn,
from the touch of evil brushing the edges
of our sphere as it touches
the next that circled the next that
encircled the eyes
of those who see the horror
and we do nothing,
it isn’t in our world.
It isn’t us. Yet.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Respect and Humanity
My family and I went on a little vacation to Odell Lake. We stayed the six of us, in a one bedroom cabin with my in-laws; mother, father, and sister, a total of nine souls. Four fine days and three nights; so many people in one small space made for just a few tense moments, but the weather was wonderful and between the lodge, lake, playground, woods, and cabin we all had enough space most of the day.
One of the memorable moments for me was a discussion I had with my father in-law; a very fine man with a joyous sense of humor (a balance of clean and dirty jokes depending on the company). I have so much respect for this man that even after 20 years married to his son, I still can’t bring myself to call him by his given name. He is Papa, as the kids call him, or Sir. He noticed this and made mention of it only once, several years ago, and accepted my explanation of why. I just didn’t and still don’t feel comfortable. I’d like to think it’s because I respect him so much and I very much respect his achievements and honors. He has worked hard for the company he retired from 18 years ago, working his way up the ladder to management and retiring at 55. His investments and financial planning has allowed for a comfortable living for him and my mother in-law, and he has helped us over the years when we needed it, even helping with the down payment for our house. I owe a great deal to him and to his example of service to his community and family. So you can imagine that when we somehow ended up on the opposite sides of a debate, I felt some caution. To offend this man would cause me pain but at the same time it isn’t in me to back from a debate about something I believe in, so debate we did.
We discussed Mexican immigration in the US. Not something that we can solve in an afternoon discussion over the dinning table and in the end he and I came to one conclusion we could agree on; if we were faced with watching our children go hungry, and we knew we could find a way to support them by traveling to another country, quite simply, we would.
Hundreds die every year crossing the border; men, women, children. We have criminalized seeking a better life.
Our country is founded on the belief of working hard to make a better life for ourselves and our children and most of us can trace back to an immigrant.
Separating families through deportation is wrong.
Denying education to children that have lived most of their lives in this country just because their parents brought them here when they were too small to make the decision themselves is wrong.
These are mostly moral opinions, however if you could imagine yourself in any of these situations the right and wrong of it would become very apparent.
As for the rest of our discussion, we agree spending billions on a fence is a waste. The Berlin Wall came down and so eventually would anything we would build.
And their will always be those that only see color and culture and will never understand because they don’t want to. They want to believe that these people come to hurt them and take from them their birth-rite, US citizen. When all most want is a job and a home to raise their family in.
When we start seeing the people, when we listen to their story, when we see the desperate eyes, and feel their heart beat in our own chest and know the desire of each of us to achieve and provide for our own, then we will solve. Until then we are only reacting like frightened animals, posturing and blustering, puffing up and trying to frighten back what we won’t really understand. And people keep suffering and dieing.
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