
“I often dream I have wings
but am unable to discern their usage.
While awake, I know that I should fly
but the ground irresistibly beckons.”
A poem for the day, X

“I often dream I have wings
but am unable to discern their usage.
While awake, I know that I should fly
but the ground irresistibly beckons.”
A poem for the day, X

Below is a simple story. My friend Anita painted another treat for me. As always, I accept the responsibility of trying to describe what I saw when I first looked at the painting. This is what seemed to be the story…
…
Their accidental love was just blossoming when they bought their first house; one so small that they once joked that their elbows rubbing together so often might reduce it to cinders. On their first anniversary, they planted a maple sapling in the back yard. They would sit on their small porch, quietly swinging, looking west, and observing the majesty of nature and their contribution to it. As the sapling grew, they used it to measure their shared time. In year three, lightning struck it and made it a pile of smoldering splinters. They replanted, laughing, hands thick with dirt. In year seventeen, a surprising and brief tornado ripped the replacement and took it to parts unknown. As he walked among the saplings in his neighbor’s nearby field to choose another, he felt the sharp pains again. This time, they stubbornly persisted. The doctor confirmed what he feared and as they planted the third maple, he gave her the devastating news and comforted her in the quiet way that only he knew. As his disease progressed, he lost his job and then she lost hers to care for the only man she had ever loved. They frowned and then giggled as the bank came to let them know that their small house of big love was theirs no longer. The day he died, she returned and hesitantly walked around and behind the now lifeless empty house, nervously holding her breath as the October sun beckoned her, even as the chilly breeze tugged at her. Even though their special tree was again no more than a small vertical challenge to the sky, she could picture what might have been. She could feel the warmth of the autumn sun and the lingering presence of him. She smiled, knowing that everything was just as it should be.
…

Pat Conroy, one of the best American authors to have ever penned a word, died yesterday. So often did I read his books when I was younger that I imagined grooves were created in my mind, ones filled with lyrical prose, and places brought to life, whispering their presence long after the book was closed. Whether it was in “Prince of Tides,” or “Beach Music,” Conroy knew how to create that echo of resemblance to things both real and imagined, and a desire to live in those worlds. The world has lost something mystical with his passing.

The beginning of a story…
On the outskirts of the decaying Arkansas farm town of Brinkley, a solitary man walked purposefully along the edge of a frozen January field. He had walked a hundred miles, powered by the slow and consuming burn of revenge. Each step punctuated his commitment to teaching the ghosts of his past the error of the word ‘no.’
There would be no deviation this time. The limiting exoskeleton of his youth would no longer detain him and the harsh, silencing rebuke of the culpable police and impeached family held no further weight upon his shoulders. He had jettisoned his entire life in order to quiet the insistent voices that greeted him each morning as he rolled out of bed.
He had packed one knife, a weather-worn pistol and two bullets, weapons sufficient to pay it forward to the world, one rid of the cancerous anger that had allowed his brother’s murder to transpire without consequences to those involved.
Absent from this small corner of the world for fourteen years, he had forgotten the beauty of the encroaching winter sunset, the smells of distant wood smoke and the slowing of time in the rural community. As his boots found foothold on the broken stumps of last year’s crops, he felt as if he were reversing course in time, feeling the intervening years lost to adulthood slip away, leaving a white-hot ember of angry remembrance.
‘No,’ he whispered to himself without realizing he had done so aloud.
As he cleared the southern perimeter of the expansive field, he crossed under sagging power lines between leaning utility poles. The birds sitting impassively on the wires squawked with hellish surprise as he looked up at the reddish skyline and screamed, ‘No!’ This time, he felt his anger flow out of him as his scream echoed along the tree line. His hand subconsciously touched the outline of the knife tucked into the waistline along the back of his jeans.
As the birds above him flew away, his pace increased, taking him toward the inevitability of someone’s death. Whether it would be his or those who had unwittingly pushed him out of his hometown fourteen years ago would be up to fate. 1991 seemed more real to him than any time since his youthful innocence had been stolen from him. Like each of us, he walked forward, uncertain and determined.
Esoteric status update #37: I was challenged to come up with a quote that would serve as the catalyst for a story. Here it is. Elmore Leonard would probably use it if he were still around.
I’m still surprised by how many people have difficulty “being creative,” whatever that might mean. I have the opposite problem most of the time. My brain is often a huge set of observational little notes, scattered and amusing.
Recently, another person told me that I was mistaken about my own basic beliefs. Whether it was politics, ethics, or something else doesn’t matter. What rises to the level of noticeable importance is that this person was insisting that I didn’t know my own inclinations and ideas. He or she would be one of those people to color or characterize my life, motives, and actions separate from reality.
Poppycock!
One of the reasons I started writing this blog was to note what I was thinking, my general ideas, and especially, to make sure that the revisionists didn’t go the same boring route they always do: change facts or ideas to suit their own agendas or ideas.
The person I was talking to might not have reacted well had I called a verbal timeout and pointed out the rude idiocy of him or her telling me that I was mistaken about what I believe or don’t believe. If we are all free-thinking adults, I should have politely insisted that he or she knock off that particular line of insistence. But we stay silent sometimes, letting the louder mouth think that the battle has been won.
But the person was wrong and off base.
I imagine that this happens several times a week, but goes unnoticed in the busy patchwork of my life.
As incomplete as this blog is, I am glad that it is here. Even though my ideas change over time, they at least provide a footpath for someone to walk on. Regardless of what someone is shouting from the grass along the walk.
Why is that so many nimrods loathe being reminded that they are spouting nonsense? “You can choose own opinions, but not your own facts,” goes the old refrain. And with good reason.
Take one minute to verify the claims, stories, and videos you post. You aren’t required to, of course, but no one is going to simply TELL you when you have crossed the line into absurdity. (No one ever tells me and I cross the line constantly.) It’s the same sort of reasoning that we all use when we are around Dallas Cowboy fans, or even Razorback fans – you just need to have pity for them and go on about your business. They think every season is going to be “the” season and no matter how long you discuss it with them, they aren’t going to come around to logic with you on the issue. It’s the same with people who post crazy.
Joke Intermission!
“Before you criticize a man, walk a mile in his shoes. That way, when you do criticize him, you’ll be a mile away and have his shoes.”
― Steve Martin
There are many, many sites and search engines to help you avoid being the object of ridicule or rampant eye-rolling, not to mention that horrible feeling that you are indeed missing a few bolts upstairs when you lash out and get angry when someone offers even a simple “Please check your story,” as politely as is humanly possible. Below is a sample list of places to start…
If you are “one of those” who insist that every site is run by liberals (or even conservatives, for that matter), the United Nations, or some secret conspiratorial organization, I ask that you use Google, DuckDuckGo or any other search engine of your choice to do even a basic knowledge check of your claims. (And/or add another layer of tin foil to your hat…)If you are getting all your news or information from the same echo chamber of lunacy, please branch out. It will help you recognize nonsense when you read it, much less by the time you post it. No matter what your preferred sources of news and information, don’t limit yourself to a singular source.
You should NEVER become angry when someone asks you to question something you’ve posted as fact. (You can call them an idiot under your breath, in the privacy of your own home, though, because that is just plain old human nature…) Being open to new knowledge is crucial to being a rational, effective member of society. You don’t have to be open to everything, simply have a mind receptive to other viewpoints, especially if presented in a rational, objective manner.
I make this superfluous post in the hope of not having a repeat of this year. A couple of dim bulbs were violently and unimaginatively angry at me and other people on social media because of their unwillingness to do any research, as well as exacerbating the situation by adding vindictive temper tantrums when a mind slightly open to review would have eliminated the display of temperamental antics. If you are going to post that Facebook is going to start charging us, or that you can post a copyright claim on your social media to retain total control of it, or that black helicopters are flying over at night…
This is part of the bargain of social media and social interaction. You can say anything you want, of course. But don’t be surprised when people politely question you – and then flee in terror when you lash out in retribution at them. We are all going to make mistakes and be wrong. Throwing a punch or calling someone a vile name only lessens your ability to communicate with everyone else.
.
(If you are going to insult, please do it creatively. I love a creative, interesting insult. The problem is that so many of the crazies only have one arrow in their quiver when it is time to rant. Boring!)
“… you’re nuts but you’re welcome here.”
― Steve Martin
Almost every joke can offend someone. No matter how innocuous its content or noble your motive, it is possible that your humor or words can cause pain.
This isn’t an excuse to deliberately go forth and start spouting hurtful things.
But it is a reminder to use your internal filter to acknowledge that someone, somewhere, might take your words or jokes in a manner unintended. You can’t censor everything you say out of fear.
Doing so weakens your ability to communicate.
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| This is the logo used when I was kid. Dolly Madison is now owned by Hostess Foods. I wrote them many years ago, telling their marketing department that their logo sparked my ability to write words. |
For those of who know me, I love the style of cursive writing. Writing “longhand,” as we can archaically call it, is a peaceful, meditative thing – at least for me. I wrote letters long after my contemporaries abandoned the practice.For those who had to attempt to read and comprehend my writing, I apologize! My handwriting resembles the scrawls of a man being forced to write at gunpoint, while receiving random electrical shocks. It’s that bad – regardless of the time I spent trying to do it better.
But (and there is always a “but” in these essays), as a left-handed person, cursive written was indeed a cursed activity in school. I remember the first cursive letter I ever wrote. It was an “L.” I was living with my grandparents at the time and they had a small black and white television, so we gathered around it to be entertained. It was either Friday or Saturday evening and we were watching a show sponsored by Dolly Madison. In rural Central-Eastern Arkansas back in the very early 1970s, being able to get even 3 stations was a miracle. Much of the programming was very tame by today’s standards, too. Putting an antennae up was also a necessity but it increased the chances of a lightning bolt to the house, too.
If you look casually at the logo above you can see that the “L” that my grandma showed me how to draw was essentially the bonnet in the logo. I was so proud of myself.
I learned a lot of letters from my grandparents. What is amusing is how relatively uneducated they both were, but they loved the time they spent showing me words. In fact, the way grandpa taught me to read words caused me considerable trouble in 1st grade. My teacher ultimately assigned me special help. I was regarded as a little simple. I simply didn’t know how to sound out words in the way preferred in the alleged modern teaching method. Grandpa had taught me to recognize an immense list of words. I could pronounce them and use them in sentences correctly, but it set me back compared to other kids my age, as I could not break down words into syllables and sounds distinguished by letters. My favorite thing to use to learn new words: the TV guide. In grandma Nellie’s house, the TV guide had more stature than the bible. As I progressed, learning how to sound out the alphabet in pieces instead of whole words, the truth is that I actually learned how to conceal the fact that I was still learning much, much more by learning entire words than I was by sounding them out. I’m still convinced that I can read so quickly precisely because I learned how to read the wrong way. (If you believe that there is a wrong way to learn.)
Before I forget, I didn’t go to kindergarten. Due to mom and dad moving to Northwest Arkansas between school years, I skipped having to go. I went from reading TV Guide to 1st grade at John Tyson Elementary. It is now considered highly unusual for a kid my age to have skipped kindergarten. Back then, though, there weren’t any stringent truancy laws to exact revenge on parents who didn’t enroll their kids in kindergarten or other programs before elementary school.
Later, in school, I had the terrible misfortune of having to deal with a couple of teachers who stupidly insisted that writing with my left-hand was wrong and needed to be harshly weeded out of me. Naturally, I resisted them. My grandpa had insisted that I learn to write and draw with whichever hand was comfortable. He wasn’t progressive in any sense of the word – but he did make an effort to be sure that I enjoyed writing and drawing, even if I did it poorly. And make no mistake about it, my drawing and penmanship were terrible. Unlike other kids, though, I never learned to loathe writing or to be embarrassed about my notable lack of skill. Even as my left hand left huge smears on the paper as I wrote, I didn’t let it dampen my enthusiasm. Even when those very few teachers were asses to me about writing left-handed, I knew they were wrong. One of them in particular tried vainly to shame me for my horrible penmanship. I didn’t care, as I knew that no matter how hard I worked, my penmanship was never going to be great. Some teachers just couldn’t get it through their heads that, as a left-hander, their methods of instruction were exactly backwards to me. Even in the 6th grade, I had a teacher treat me like an ape over my lack of concern over writing with the “correct” hand. She never missed an opportunity to tell me my handwriting was atrocious. Little did she know that my dad had already provided infinite training in the ability to ignore a lot of harshness being directed at me. She was a child in an adult’s world, at least in my mind. I do wonder sometimes whether she realized how horrible she seemed to me then.
Now, seeing that the tide is turning regarding cursive writing, I would like to weigh in and say that I admire cursive writing. It’s elegant and evokes times past. It does enhance motor control and acuity. But so do many other activities, ones more anchored in our ever-changing world.
But it is still wrong to continue to require it. The arguments being made for continuing to teach it are usually based on not understanding where cursive originated.
The world has moved on and those who would shout to the heavens to require this antiquated way of writing are wrong to insist on their stubbornness to require it. Focus on regular writing and leave cursive writing with calligraphy, which once was an admired and respectable means to write. Like it or not, the world has shifted to block lettering, preferred by computers and keyboards. Try as you might to anchor written communication to the past, it is not going to be successful or even necessary. It is the way of the world to claim remorse over the changing ways we live our lives and to seek to keep elements of our past alive, long after the necessity or even the utility of it has passed. I can understand the appeal toward maintaining old customs, even when they are no longer relevant.
Remember, I love cursive writing, even though it was very difficult for me to learn. Part of it might have been that everything looked backwards to me in my hard-wired left-handed world. As much as I love the idea and essence of cursive writing, it is already an elective art.
It is time for schools to acknowledge the antiquated status of cursive and use the immense time involvement on something much more useful, such as reading. One of my personal prejudices is the belief that reading in and of itself is one of the most redeeming and intellectually valuable pursuits of anyone, at any age.
Sidenotes:
If you are interested, you should google “Writing in Cursive,” or read the link here: Click Here for Cursive Wikipedia Article Cursive was used for informal writing, while what we might call block lettering was the preferred and more esteemed way to write. Cursive was considered to be more illegible. Interesting? I think so. If you only read the Wikipedia page in the leak, I’m certain that you will discover that the issue is a little more convoluted than those arguing about it would admit to.
Cursive writing also originated from the necessity of compensating for quills and other antiquated writing utensils. Not lifting one’s writing utensil not only provided for greater speed, but also mitigated limitations of the method used to write. Please note that people arguing in favor of mandatory cursive training in school are in fact making an argument based on aesthetics over obsolescence.