tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-317731252024-02-06T20:41:00.822-06:00Crumbs from the Curmudgeon<b><p>PERMANENT IMPERMANENCE</p></b>
And the wise men told the Prince, "this too shall pass."krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-64240652982074503952020-04-03T08:21:00.000-05:002020-04-03T08:21:38.861-05:00Tattoos for Trump<h2 style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Quarantimes Daily News</span></b></h2>
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<i><u><span style="color: red;">Today, a QDN EXCLUSIVE!</span></u></i></h3>
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<b><i>Trump Supporters Getting “Tattoos for Trump”</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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BOSTON -- Father John Satyr of Barnum Bible College in upstate Massachusetts is sending out a red alert after discovering a quiet but growing trend among certain Trump supporters. Calling themselves Tees for Jesus, a small group of evangelicals in Southern Florida is getting tattoos in the shape of the Trump-trademarked letter T, like those that adorn many Trump properties and products.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Trump supporter, who wished to stay anonymous, demonstrates<br />
the faint tattoo that appears when illuminated by a thermal gun. </td></tr>
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“The interesting thing about these tattoos is that they are invisible to the naked eye,” said Fr. Satyr. He explained that the tattoos are applied with a special invisible ultraviolet sensitive ink, making them visible only when they are exposed to black or ultraviolet lights. “Similar to the way a person’s teeth seem to glow under black light conditions, these tattoos shine only when they are exposed to certain kinds of light,” he explained.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The reason for the tattoos is nearly as bizarre as the practice, says Satyr. “This trend first started among QAnon followers, who believe Trump is close to declaring martial law because of the novel coronavirus. After that, they expect the president will crack down on massive pedophile rings they think are being run by certain Democratic politicians and party leaders,” he explained. “It’s under martial law conditions when those getting the tattoos expect it will pay off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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According to Fr. Satyr, the complex theory is being promoted on QAnon dark websites. It claims that the infrared thermal guns used by health care professionals to safely measure a person’s body temperature from a safe distance are, in reality, ultraviolet light guns which will cause these invisible tattoos to be revealed. “It will be a way of identifying them as true Trump supporters,” said Satyr.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most of the Trump supporters are having the invisible tattoos inked on their foreheads, since that is the most common place for the infrared thermal guns to be used in actual field conditions. A few are having them applied on their forearms, and some women are even having them applied in more intimate areas of their anatomy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They believe that after President Trump declares martial law, only people who have these tattoos will be able to move freely,” said Satyr. “This will allow them to purchase food and other necessary items, while people without the tattoos will have their movements heavily restricted, and may later be arrested and moved to concentration camps which they believe the federal government has been secretly building in recent months.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Father Satyr is a renowned expert on end-time religious beliefs, having spent the bulk of his career studying apocalyptic movements in the United States and around the world. He said he finds the practice of applying the invisible tattoos particularly shocking, and expressed his dismay at the convergence of religious apocalyptic beliefs with modern politics in the nascent Trump political party.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If you ask most Christians, ‘who is the father of lies?’ they will quickly say it is Satan. But when one points out to these Trump supporters that the President is a well-known and publicly documented liar, they refuse to see the connection. It is as if their intellect on such matters is as invisible as the tattoos they are now having permanently affixed to their bodies.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Asked whether he believed the tattoos are a fulfillment of Christian prophecies about the mark of the beast, Satyr shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“One thing I know about prophecies is that when they are fulfilled believers often don’t see it. We see this plainly in the tragic story of Jesus, who was not recognized as the Messiah by the Jewish people and religious leaders. Who is to say the same thing is not happening with President Trump? Perhaps he is the long-awaited anti-Christ, but these Christian evangelicals, blinded by their absolute religious certainties, simply do not see it. Or perhaps Trump is just another tin pot aspiring dictator, playing on the religious fears and fantasies of his followers. Either way, it seems like all the ingredients for brewing up a storm of misery and despair that will impact all of us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-29556924488144454082019-12-03T13:37:00.000-06:002019-12-03T13:38:30.484-06:00Mountain Mist<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1aRVnGGfQw3feXGj5dvmlSF9k3lRhaxGkzAiQ_YKQLd1tlxXb4WYcjn2UlHtm6bcZN9kY9VDqUgknwE2RfTIvtBPGlqWDZTOJKsAcG2rfqAXLJ5O8qlfDD61HpEsnCGACa9Vlg/s1600/misty+mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1532" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1aRVnGGfQw3feXGj5dvmlSF9k3lRhaxGkzAiQ_YKQLd1tlxXb4WYcjn2UlHtm6bcZN9kY9VDqUgknwE2RfTIvtBPGlqWDZTOJKsAcG2rfqAXLJ5O8qlfDD61HpEsnCGACa9Vlg/s400/misty+mountain.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Richard R. Barron, copyright 2017, all rights reserved</td></tr>
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Your love was like<br />
mist around a mountain<br />
in the early morning light<br />
lovely to behold but long gone<br />
before the onset of the night<br />
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<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-88258740398284856712019-12-03T13:36:00.001-06:002019-12-03T13:36:15.417-06:00Imaginary MenAs a father, and as an American male, there are certain avenues of behavior that are closed off to me. All men in this culture are expected to be strong, decisive, and brave. Excessive displays of emotion are considered taboo, and male-male relationships are expected to be masculine in nature: no crying, no whining, no real discussion of emotion. We are expected to be aggressive, determined, and assertive in every arena of life. We are required to act as if we know what we are doing, even when we very much do not. Our children must never know that we have fears; our lovers, partners and wives should never know how vulnerable we really are to their whims. We are taught to believe that we are in charge of our own lives, and that we chart our own destinies. We are the masters of our own souls.<br />
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All of it is rubbish. The men I know are every bit as emotionally fragile as any other human. Some are just much more adept and skilled at hiding that fragility. Others actually come to believe the legends they create for themselves. Self-sewn myths about their own prodigious skills, propensities, and physical attractiveness. I have known men like that, guys who are are quite successful with the belief that they are self-made men. It is a life orientation that can work, at least to a point. I have personally witnessed how, at the end of their careers, and toward the end of their lives, men like this come to the sober understanding that the things they ignored -- their children, their health, their families, their friends -- were the only things that really mattered. I have seen men who, at the height of their success and power, are lonely, bitter, frustrated and completely lost human beings. It is as if, all at once, the false gold they had pursued is suddenly revealed for what it is; the ephemera of success, prestige, domination, and wealth, all come to mean nothing unless they are spent entirely in the service of others. Suddenly these men begin to understand the sacrifice that others have made in order to be in relationship with them; they remember, often with shame and guilt, the harsh and selfish ways in which they have frequently behaved. They find themselves wondering how in the hell anyone could ever stay in a relationship with them.<br />
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Of course, American men will seldom ever speak with each other about such realities and truths. There is no need to, really. There is an unspoken understanding among men that we are each involved in our individual masculine journeys. We are each the hero of our own real life heroic adventure. It is a solitary journey, one which we must traverse mostly alone. In our own perceptions, we daily do battle against the injustices and inequities that we encounter in everyday life. We walk in perpetual awareness, mentally preparing ourselves for that fateful moment when we are called into physical struggle to protect the ones we love. We spin hero fantasies in our minds eye, where we take out the bad guy, and rescue the hostages, or save our loved ones from terror and harm. Any man who has ever actually faced those situations knows how terrifying they are, and how instinctive your behaviors become. Only with repeated exposure does one build the courage to stand bravely like the movie heroes we believe ourselves to be. I have seen men panic, cry and run from danger. I have seen big strong men faint dead away at the site of blood, or upon seeing a mangled body in a fatality car accident. As the strong, reliable, soldier types we imagine ourselves to be, we should be immune to the brutality that we sometimes encounter in life. We should be unmoved and unshaken when we see the gruesomeness of violence and war. We imagine ourselves willing to stand in the breach until our very last breath, in order to protect our loved ones, our community and our nation.<br />
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In this way, we are all imaginary men. We are not as brave, as capable, as we imagine ourselves to be.<br />
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At the same time, there is immeasurable depth, unrealized courage and untapped strength in each of us. When called into action, most of us will respond admirably and bravely. It is in those moments that the reality of ourselves as men can be known. Likewise, we can find those true men of strength in moments of love and vulnerability to those we love and cherish. The men who love strongly, love truly and love fearlessly are not imaginary, but in this culture, unfortunately, they are very rare.<br />
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<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-26266883246144082342019-06-24T08:17:00.001-05:002021-01-11T10:38:46.794-06:00Competing Universal Truths<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDLI6P-nLSWOTanb0_NtdeKbwb4QvWvXKKjDb6m2TySqAaUVv5ZSUPKpMhvZ7TfC9OwMosPCZ4jT9YWASS20LtOocCdBj3d0f_ZKxJcWYD_RIxexOnnOn_Yfap4UB_iAIJCtR7w/s1600/Image-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDLI6P-nLSWOTanb0_NtdeKbwb4QvWvXKKjDb6m2TySqAaUVv5ZSUPKpMhvZ7TfC9OwMosPCZ4jT9YWASS20LtOocCdBj3d0f_ZKxJcWYD_RIxexOnnOn_Yfap4UB_iAIJCtR7w/s1600/Image-1.jpg" /></a>I have been thinking a lot lately about our competing realities.<br />
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Right now in America, it is possible for us to live in completely alternate and parallel universes of truth. Some of us live in a liberal-rational universe of progressive democratic idealism and (mostly) relative truth. Others of us live in a religio-literal universe of scriptural prophecy, apocalyptic foreboding, conspiracy theories and absolute truth.<br />
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All of us are victims of the battles raging between these two universes.<br />
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Our parallel universes are evidenced by the fact that we have evolved conservative and progressive news networks, and online news sources that aggregate and present information in ways that affirm our prior biases. Different universes of truth need different universes of news. The universe you inhabit is indicated by the news choices you make and information sources you consume.<br />
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Each universe has its own apocalyptic mythology. In one universe, the apocalypse is a cascading environmental disaster of man-made climate change, or worse, a total nuclear war and global annihilation. In the other universe, the apocalypse is an imminent supernatural intervention by God that will separate winners from losers, sheep from goats, and a time when faithful believers will be rescued and rewarded. Or worse, a total nuclear war and global annihilation, which the faithful believe they will miss because they hold an acritical belief in the "rapture."<br />
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Both universes are founded upon assumptions and beliefs that can't truly be tested. Whether the universe started with a something-from-nothing bang, or was created by an all-powerful supernatural being, there is no way to definitively prove, or disprove, either creation myth.<br />
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Those ensconced in the libero-rational reality will likely flinch to hear the Big Bang theory referred to as a myth. A true believer almost always blanches when their sacred ox is gored. However, science-based beliefs are every bit as made up as religious beliefs. They are created in the human imagination, just like all religions. Sciencentrists (a neologism) privilege knowledge they believe to be <i>discovered</i>, or "scientifically proven," much like religious doctrinaires point to scripture and say "thus it is proven."<br />
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It is undeniable that scientific knowledge undergirds most of the technological and quality-of-life advancements that the modern world enjoys. It is also undeniable that scientific advancements have given birth to some of the most horrific and terrifying prospects for humanity's future: nuclear wars, biological warfare, and vastly improved battlefield weaponry, to name just a few; not to mention the environmental destruction that industry and technology make possible. Whether science-based beliefs are a net positive or net negative for humankind is an as yet unanswered question.<br />
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Libero-rational individuals are likely, at this point in the essay, to comfort themselves with the smug assumption that science is absolutely a positive development in the history of humanity. This response puts the lie to their much proclaimed preference for "objective truth," and "open-minded inquiry," and reveals their prior-bias for what they will accept as "truth" and "knowledge." At every stage of human history, the dominant and hegemonic power has proclaimed itself to be the pinnacle of human achievement and understanding. Thus, in the middle-ages when philosophy was a hand-maiden of the church, it was believed that religious understanding and knowledge were the flower of humanity's best minds, and thus all other beliefs were assumed to be vastly inferior, or dangerously flawed. In other words, much the same smug attitude that many in the libero-rational universe hold in regard to scientific knowledge, and in their utter rejection of religious beliefs and understandings.<br />
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Those ensconced in the religio-literal universe are often also offended upon hearing their beliefs described as products of the human imagination. In that universe, truth is <i>revealed </i>to humans by God, and that truth can be found within ancient human writings they believe are divinely inspired by God, another proposition which is beyond human capacity to validate. They willingly turn a blind eye to their own agency in accepting the multitude of rationalizations, explanations and misinterpretations that comprise belief in their sacred texts.<br />
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For the libero-rational universe, the truth about reality is <i>discovered </i>through rational thought and scientific experimentation. For the religio-literal universe, truth is <i>revealed </i>by God through manifestation of the supernatural into the natural world. Both universes, however, rely on the same human agency in accepting, believing, upholding and maintaining their ascribed sets of beliefs. Each individual adds his or her own psychic energy to perpetuating and propagating the beliefs they have either chosen or inherited from their socio-cultural ecology.<br />
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One big difference between these two universes is their relationship with human agency. The libero-rationalists, supporting the truths of human scientific discoveries, embrace human agency in this life. For the inhabitants of that particular paradigm, humans have the power and responsibility to make changes we deem are good and necessary. For those living in the religio-literal universe, human agency is surrendered to an all-powerful, hopefully beneficent, supernatural being who intervenes in human history to effect its will for the world. A potent symbol of one's affiliation to this universe of belief is how completely one surrenders their life to the whims and influences of this supernatural being. That is to say, when faced with the toils and tribulations of everyday life, when one surrenders their own agency to rely, instead, upon prayer and other religious observations, in hopes that will change the situation or circumstances that are distressing the believer.<br />
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Our current political situation in the United States is very much a result of the clash between a religio-literal universe and a libero-rational universe. Many Trump supporters proclaim themselves to be Bible believing Christians -- which means, they believe the apocalyptic script that has evolved over many years of Protestant Fundamentalist groupthink. They view Trump as somehow ordained by God, and think his task is to bring about a resurgence of the nation of Israel, thus paving the way for the second coming of Christ. It is a schizophrenic belief, however, since many of these same people believe they will be spared any end-of-world nightmares scenarios by virtue of being "caught up in the air" by Jesus during a much-feared-but-still-hoped-for Rapture.<br />
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Many Trump resisters, however, feel that Trump is nothing more than a demagogic fraudster who trades on the acritical prior biases and beliefs of his self-described Christian followers. For these resisters, Trump is a dangerous and precedent breaking, racist and hate-spewing con artist who threatens the entire American experiment in democracy.<br />
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Proceeding, as both do, from their firmly held and diametrically opposed universes of belief, it is unlikely that there can ever be true accommodation between these two groups of believers. As has happened in other countries around the world, religious fervor and blind obedience to religious authority is threatening to erupt in this nation as well. Because each universe holds the other in disdain (although, fairly, the libero-rational camp is open to valuing a diversity of opinion), it is likely that only the total defeat and capitulation of one side to the other will determine which version of reality will prevail.<br />
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Robert Frost may have captured this dichotomy of beliefs in his brief but gut-punching poem:<br />
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<b><i>Fire and Ice</i></b><br />
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Some say the world will end in fire,<br />
Some say in ice.<br />
From what I've tasted of desire<br />
I hold with those who favor fire.<br />
But if it had to perish twice,<br />
I think I know enough of hate<br />
To say that for destruction ice<br />
Is also great<br />
And would suffice.<br />
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<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-30406768357216787572019-02-14T19:30:00.001-06:002019-02-14T19:30:16.290-06:00Every Day LoveLove is not romantic.<br />
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Real love lives<br />
in the muddy ditch<br />
of human passion.<br />
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Anger, jealousy,<br />
words later regretted;<br />
those are the true<br />
facts of love<br />
and marriage.<br />
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Forgiveness,<br />
patience,<br />
reassurances<br />
of desirability,<br />
apologies whispered<br />
in the dark.<br />
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Love is proletariat.<br />
no matter which<br />
class it obtains.<br />
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Hard working,<br />
ever abiding,<br />
shown in touch<br />
and in deed.<br />
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Love persists,<br />
and grows<br />
deep roots.<br />
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A family tree<br />
is grown in<br />
the hard sunshine<br />
of every day love.<br />
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<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-36682954884213819462019-02-14T08:11:00.000-06:002019-02-14T08:46:15.014-06:00Soul Prison"We have known this before. We have done this before." He stirred half-and-half into his coffee, turning it a creamy caramel brown. He adjusted his glasses and scratched his nose with his right hand. There was gray stubble showing on his cheeks, and tiny red veins showed on his cheekbones and nose.<br />
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"The one story in the Old Testament that is literally true is the Tower of Babel. That is another moment in human history when mankind became aware of its own godly power, and understood that these human forms are really just prisons for rebellious angelic souls."<br />
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Outside the coffee shop, it was a cold Oklahoma morning. He pulled a small flask from his jacket pocket, and poured a goodly portion of whiskey into his morning coffee, mixing it in with a spoon. The other people in the coffee shop went about their lives, chatting, enjoying a scone, visiting with friends. No one else paid attention to our conversation.<br />
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"So let me get this straight," I started. "You're saying that these bodies, these human forms we walk around in all day, are prisons? Made specifically to harness and restrict the powerful spiritual beings that we truly are? That we all naturally have the power of gods, but these bodies worn by our souls suppress those powers?"<br />
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"Exactamente!" he said, sipping from his big, white, coffee mug. "They have good bagels here, would you like one?"<br />
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"No thank you," I said, smiling about how he went from profound statements of metaphysical speculation to jabbering about food, and back again.<br />
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He sat back down with a toasted sesame bagel and honey pecan cream cheese. "Where was I?" he asked, spreading the cream cheese onto his bagel.<br />
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"You were talking about these bodies being prisons for our rebellious souls."<br />
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"Right," he said, pointing a cream cheese smeared knife in my direction. "Did you realize that most religious have proscriptions against suicide? You know that because you're a Bible thumper. In Christianity it is a considered a grave sin to commit suicide. Why is that? Have you ever given that any thought?"<br />
<br />
"No," I answered truthfully. "But I remember when Gennifer Carn killed herself by sitting on the edge of a bathtub, and shooting herself in the chest with a shotgun. Everybody at work said she was burning in hell forever. I thought, well shit, her old man was screwing around on her, and she was distressed. Why would God condemn her to an eternity in hell for being so heartbroken that she couldn't take it anymore?"<br />
<br />
"You get my point, then," he said around a mouthful of bagel. "There is a belief, almost a consensus, that people who commit suicide are committing a crime against God. And that is true. Suicide amounts to a jail break by souls who are trying to shorten their sentence."<br />
<br />
A drawn out "ooooohhhhhh" while nodding my head was all I could manage as what he was saying sunk in.<br />
<br />
He slurped a shot of whiskey-dosed coffee, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am making it sound so dramatic, calling it a prison. In a way that's true, but it's more true that we are living inside a correctional system. This entire world, and all of its inhabitants, are residents of a spiritual penal institution. We are here to have our attitudes adjusted, our behaviors corrected, our understandings expanded, our souls purified through suffering and grief, and also to be glorified by love and sex and close friendships. And dogs. I'm pretty sure dogs make us better, just by hanging around with us."<br />
<br />
His service animal, a big yellow lab named Sheffield, looked up at him, grinning. It was like Sheffield understood what he was saying.<br />
<br />
Suddenly the coffee shop grew louder as more customers wandered in. He moved closer to the table and leaned across, looking me in the eye. "You ever been dead?" he asked me.<br />
<br />
"No, never dead. Had a few hangovers though that made me wish I was dead." He didn't smile.<br />
<br />
"I died when I was in the Nam." he said. "I got shot by a machine gun, right through both legs. I remember getting hit, and time just slowed down. I didn't feel any pain. It was like I jumped outside of myself, and watched from a distance as my body went tumbling to the ground. It was like watching a slow motion movie. It felt like I was hovering about four feet above my body, watching as the firefight continued around me. I watched my own eyes glaze over as I bled to death there in a muddy field, with a hot sun beating down on me."<br />
<br />
As he described it, I could see the images in my own mind. I could imagine him as a young wounded soldier, laying under a hot sun, dying.<br />
<br />
He took another sip of coffee, and his eyes had a smoky, far-away look, as though he wasn't seeing me anymore. "That's when I met the being of love and light. That's how I know what I know."<br />
<br />
He went on to describe his experience. First, he said as he watched his body from above, a pinkish gray fog started to surround him, until he could no longer see himself lying on the ground. Then, he said he was rapidly hauled through a long dark valley, which he called "the valley of the shadow of death." At first he was frightened, he said, but then he saw a bright light in the distance rapidly moving toward him. The light grew closer, and brighter. "If I had eyes, I would have been blinded," he said. "But I realized that I was outside my body, and that I was perceiving things without the aid of my body. I could see, but I had no eyes to see. I could hear, but I had no ears to hear."<br />
<br />
The bright light came closer until he felt enveloped by it, no longer able to distinguish between where his disembodied self ended, and where the light began. He described a sense of overwhelming peace, and love, and acceptance from the light. He claimed that, without hearing it, the bright light was communicating with him. It told him not to be afraid. "Let's see what you have learned," the light told him. At that moment, his life began passing in front of him very rapidly, and from the time of his earliest memories to the moment he lay dying on the battlefield, he saw every moment of his life. He felt every emotion he had ever felt. Moreover, he said, he could sense the emotions of all the people he had interacted with throughout his life. The hurts he had caused. The pain and anger he had evoked in others by his actions and decisions.<br />
<br />
"The being of light wasn't judging me, not like we are told by religion. It wasn't a deal where the being was saying that I sinned, or screwed up, or was evil. Instead, it was like a review of my life with director's commentary. The light was teaching me, telling me what I was learning during each memory we observed. It was kind of like a parole hearing, where the parole board makes you talk about what you have learned, how you have improved, and whether or not you have accepted responsibility for your crimes."<br />
<br />
He took another bite of bagel, and I saw the cream cheese smeared on his lips as he chewed. He swallowed and took another drink of his coffee. Breaking a small piece off the bagel, he tossed it toward Sheffield, who expertly snapped the tidbit out of the air as it passed in front of him.<br />
<br />
I sat quietly on my side of the booth, waiting for him to resume his colloquy. His eyes had a distant stare, as if he was not aware of my presence. I could tell he was re-living, or perhaps re-dying, his battlefield experience.<br />
<br />
Suddenly he looked at me again, and he was present in the moment. "That being of light showed me things, told me things, taught me things, that I never would have been able to know here in this life. Here in this limiting body." He patted his left hand three times over his heart. "It told me that I wasn't ready yet, and that I had more to learn about love. It said I had to go back. I protested that I didn't want to return to my body. I said I wanted to stay with the light, and to continue learning. Believe it or not, the being of light laughed, in kind of a loving and soothing way. It said I would return, and we would be together again. But that my time in this life wasn't finished. All of a sudden, I was back in my body, being dragged through the mud by two of my fellow Marines."<br />
<br />
He paused to reach down and stroke Sheffield's head. The dog looked up at him with adoration in its eyes, but also what I sensed to be concern and alertness to my friend's emotions. "Who's a good boy?" my friend said absentmindedly.<br />
<br />
"But, how does that lead you to believe these bodies are prisons? That this life is a prison sentence?"<br />
<br />
"It's hard to explain," he said. "What I experienced in those few minutes I was dead can't be conveyed in words. Our language is also limiting, just like our bodies. Our language rests upon common sensory experiences that we can all understand. The words we have invented are tied to those experiences of the physical world. What happened to me was not in this physical world, but a world that we would probably call 'spiritual,' except that for me, it was real. As real as you and I sitting here right now. So, without really speaking, the being of light told me, or inserted into my mind, the understanding that this life is like a prison, a school, and a hospital, all rolled into one. We are here being both taught, and corrected. The days we are each allotted are like the term of our prison sentence. We can do nothing to either lengthen or shorten those days. We have to serve our term. We can't escape this."<br />
<br />
His plate was empty, save for dozens of toasted sesame seeds that had fallen from his bagel. He stared down at the plate, lost in his own thoughts again. My phone started buzzing in my pocket, reminding me that I had another appointment that I needed to get to. I wished that I could stay and visit with him longer, but he was also becoming restless.<br />
<br />
"It was good talking to you, young man," he said, reaching across the table to shake my hand. "I don't often tell these things to people. In fact, you are only about the fourth or fifth person I have ever really talked to in detail about it. But, I feel like I am getting close to the end of my sentence." A wan smile brushed across his lips. "I ain't mad about that."<br />
<br />
Just then, Sheffield stood up and moaned, then whined. "Well, my guardian angel is asking to go outside," he said, scooting toward the end of the seat. He reached out and pulled his motorized scooter closer to him. With deft and experienced moves, he lifted himself out of the booth and into the chair. The dog knew how to move out of the way, and once his master was in his chair, the dog stood patiently on the right side of the chair, waiting to leave.<br />
<br />
"I appreciate you spending part of your morning with me," I said. "I can say that I have never had a conversation anything like this one, in my entire life."<br />
<br />
"You're welcome, son," he said with a smile. "You're going to need that knowledge soon." A little laugh escaped his mouth. "See you around, then," he said, pushing the joystick on his scooter, and motoring quickly away.<br />
<br />
I sat stunned, pondering what he meant by his final words.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-85502110001409900172018-11-09T08:30:00.002-06:002019-12-03T13:30:30.631-06:00ApocalypseThe word Apocalypse simply means "the revealing."<br />
<br />
That is why the Bible story is called Revelation.<br />
<br />
Most people think of apocalypse as a cataclysmic event.<br />
<br />
The end of the world.<br />
<br />
The return of God.<br />
<br />
The ultimate triumph of good over evil.<br />
<br />
I believe that is incorrect.<br />
<br />
Apocalypse is the slow roll of time,<br />
<br />
the perennial unveiling of the next moment.<br />
<br />
Revelation has become mythology.<br />
<br />
People expect it as some future event;<br />
<br />
A day to be both dreaded and hoped for.<br />
<br />
Instead, we each live Apocalypse every day,<br />
<br />
with every passing moment of our lives.<br />
<br />
Revelation is ongoing.<br />
<br />
The story reveals itself<br />
<br />
turning page by turning page.<br />
<br />
What is written as revelation<br />
<br />
we each determine for ourselves.<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-31350813192548548712018-09-19T09:20:00.003-05:002018-09-19T09:20:49.849-05:00Room with a ViewIn my father's house<br />
there are many rooms.<br />
<br />
In every room<br />
is a window.<br />
<br />
Outside every window<br />
is a different<br />
view of God.<br />
<br />
On earth<br />
the rooms<br />
are different<br />
religions.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2018</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-36601965974909143102018-02-24T15:51:00.001-06:002018-02-24T15:51:10.906-06:00Global Unrest<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know
things that</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do not know
how <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are
whispers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of wisdom<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
that echo in
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
my brain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They come
from me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and yet they
do not<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
begin in me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are born
out<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of my
experience<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
culled from
my<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
knowledge and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
my mind<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are a
brain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
chemistry solution<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of fear love
hope<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and Apocalypse<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are
echoes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of humanity’s<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
war torn
history<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do not
invite them<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They form
unbidden<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
in the
darkness of my<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
collective unconsciousness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They speak
to me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of global
unrest<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
a whirlpool
of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
blood and
violence<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are how
I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
recognize our<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
current state<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They are how
I know<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
what is
about to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
be unveiled<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Would that I
could<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
rid myself
of their<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
dire warnings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and depressing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
presence<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead I
wait<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and watch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
as they
unfurl<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
like the
plot<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of a too oft’
read<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
book<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We are these days witness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
to the
self-fulfilling<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
prophecies of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
hate and
hurt<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
war and peace<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Before the
storm<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
passes we
will<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
all be
changed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-82581530005612045912017-09-27T10:48:00.001-05:002017-09-27T14:24:24.481-05:00HappinessMost Americans want to be happy. In fact, we are so keen to be happy that we even sacralized it in our Declaration of Independence.We spend most of our waking hours doing things that we believe are "in the pursuit of happiness." But how many of us are actually "happy"? How many of us can honestly say that we have reached the peak of the mountain, where happiness abides, and we are now permanent residents there?<br />
<br />
The truth is, not many people are happy these days. There is perennial and perpetual grousing from Americans at every level of our society. Even those you might imagine would be the happiest among us -- the very wealthy individuals who never have to worry about money, cars, or unpaid medical bills -- seem to be unhappy. They are constantly trying to accumulate more and more wealth, as though their pursuit of happiness requires the never-ending acquisition of ever more money. They are persistently trying to use their fortunes to change our culture into their own likeness, indicating that they are unhappy with the way our nation is evolving. It also means that those of us at the lower end of the socio-economic scale are probably equally happy, or equally miserable, as those at the very tippy-top.<br />
<br />
Why is that? Could it be because we treat happiness like it is a destination? Like it is a place that we will eventually move to, and live there forever? Or like it is a material reality, and if we can just own enough of that material, we will own happiness?<br />
<br />
Paradoxically, thinking of happiness in those terms is to invite unhappiness, because it is an unrealistic idealization of happiness that can never be attained. Like the Buddha taught us, unfulfilled desires lead to suffering. And there is no greater suffering than the unfulfilled desire to live in a place called happiness. Unless, of course, you move to Happy, Texas, population 647. Even there, though, the population is very tiny.<br />
<br />
Perhaps what is needed is to reorient our understanding and expectations of happiness. Maybe happiness is not a place where we get to stay forever. It may, instead, be constituted of rare moments in time; when we are in the loving embrace of the woman or man we love, for example, or giving loud and laughing smoochie kisses to our young children and grandchildren. Or during peak moments of performance, like running in a race, or playing music in front of an appreciative audience, or standing on a mountain enjoying wonderful vistas.<br />
<br />
Happiness is, indeed, a rare commodity in a long human life, which is why we are more apt to cherish and remember moments like these. At the end of our lives, perhaps those collective minutes of happiness will be added up and presented to us for review, and only then will we realize that most of our lives were passed in happiness, even though they seemed instead to be filled with heartache and sorrow. It could be that by understanding the very fleeting and passing nature of happiness, and not expecting that it will be a permanent psychological or material experience, we will actually find ourselves to be more happy. Perhaps by appreciating the serendipitous moments in our lives when we feel happy, we will actually find ourselves living a more joyful existence.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-76299343718559763392017-09-21T08:06:00.004-05:002017-09-21T08:23:55.425-05:00Scratching FleasHumans are like<br />
parasites on mother earth,<br />
sucking her oil like blood,<br />
polluting her sky with our<br />
greed-befouled collective breath.<br />
<br />
It is no wonder she awakens<br />
from slumber to start scratching<br />
at her bothersome fleas.<br />
<br />
Hurricanes, flooding rains,<br />
earthquakes, tornadoes,<br />
wildfires and the ever<br />
increasing heat of<br />
her fevered infection.<br />
<br />
The earth is a self-healing being,<br />
and her irritation with our infestation<br />
increases by the minute.<br />
<br />
The spirit of the earth<br />
stirs itself awake,<br />
and we should be very afraid.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-59446651230476575232017-09-14T08:32:00.004-05:002017-09-14T08:32:30.535-05:00Will There Be A Trump-Inspired Mexican-American Roundup?<span style="color: red;">Spic.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Wetback.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Beaner.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Taco bender.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Lawn man.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Illegal.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span><span style="color: red;">Light skinned n*gger.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
These are all words and phrases that have been applied to me at some point in my life. Starting in high school in the late 1970s, I became aware that being half-Mexican in Oklahoma meant I would be tagged with racial slurs. It also meant that I would endure hearing many "jokes" about Mexicans from white people who were too clueless to realize they were being racist.<br />
<br />
<i>White High School Popular Guy</i>: "Hey, Francisco! Are you a wetback? Or a scratch back?"<br />
<br />
(They would use my Spanish name when they were about to launch into some off-color joke.)<br />
<br />
<i>Me:</i> "What?"<br />
<br />
(I was still at the play-along stage then.)<br />
<br />
<i>White High School Popular Guy:</i> "Did you swim across the river, or crawl under the fence?"<br />
<br />
Never mind that I was born in the United States, as was my father. The fact that I had a Latin sounding name meant the white people who dominated my high school felt free to say shit like that to my face. Not all of them, but a surprising amount. Where I grew up, there were no black people, only a few Hispanics, and quite a lot of Native American people. So, in my hometown of Henryetta, Oklahoma, racist attention was directed at the available minorities.<br />
<br />
I spoke with my father about it once. I asked him if I should fight the kids who made fun of my Mexican heritage. He told me to just let it roll off my back. He said fighting wouldn't stop them, and only working harder than them would make a difference. It took me years before I understood what it meant to "work harder," which is about one and a half times more than how hard most white people have to work. When you grow up as part of a minority in America, you start the race behind everybody else, and have to run twice as fast to catch up. Most minority people never do catch up.<br />
<br />
My father told me that, one day, there would probably be another Mexican-American "repatriation," like he remembered from the 1930s. A lot of white people don't even know about that <a href="http://www.npr.org/2015/09/10/439114563/americas-forgotten-history-of-mexican-american-repatriation">sorry chapter of American history</a>, when United States citizens of Mexican descent were forcibly detained and transported to Mexico. This happened between 1929-1936. People who were born in the United States, many of whom were fully legal US citizens, were rounded up and sent to Mexico for the same reasons that we are hearing today: "They are taking our jobs." "They are bringing in crime and drugs!" "They use an unfair amount of public resources!" "Dirty Mexicans are dragging down our neighborhoods!"<br />
<br />
It is estimated that during that time period, between 500,000 to 2,000,000 people were rounded up for deportation. Further, as much as 60% of those rounded up were US citizens -- people who were born in the US.<br />
<br />
Just like today, the repatriation of the 1930s was supported and egged on by a sitting Republican president, Herbert Hoover. Like Trump, Hoover played on racial and populist sentiments to justify his decisions. And like Hoover, it is highly likely that Trump will go down in history as one of the worst -- if not THE worst -- American president ever to hold office.<br />
<br />
With his decision to rescind DACA, Trump and his ever-kneeling suppliant (or suck-pliant) AG Jeff Sessions are sending overt signals to the racists in our nation that say it is okay to harass and even harm those they "suspect" of being illegal immigrants. <a href="http://www.kxii.com/content/news/Texoma-racial-slur-video-goes-viral-442815683.html">Like the fat, white dumb ass Oklahoman captured on video</a> telling a woman and her daughter they were "speaking immigrant," and should go back to Mexico, racist people are being emboldened by the "wink and a nod" racists who dominate our executive branch of government right now. I suspect it won't be long before we are reading about calls to "round up" Mexicans and "send them back to where they came from." I won't be surprised if it actually happens. My dark-skinned father saw it coming a long time ago. It is sad to see it all coming true.<br />
<br />
Just last night, Trump met with Democratic leaders Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi. After a chummy dinner in the White House, Schumer and Pelosi came out to announce that a deal had been reached to save DACA. Trump followed shortly thereafter to say a deal had not been agreed upon. For Trump, apparently the only way he will agree to a deal is if the Democrats agree to funding his penis-compensating border wall. While Dreamers wait and wonder, politicians haggle over who has the bigger hands and tiniest heart.<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-45722551587946468952017-08-05T12:13:00.001-05:002017-08-05T12:19:10.314-05:00GratitudeYou were good for me.<br />
Good to me.<br />
Because we ended<br />
I didn't get the chance<br />
to say a simple thank you.<br />
<br />
You changed me.<br />
Mostly for the good;<br />
some brokenness too.<br />
And for both<br />
I give you gratitude.<br />
<br />
The beauty of your body<br />
lingers in my mind.<br />
The taste of your love<br />
is still bittersweet<br />
on my tongue.<br />
<br />
I harbor great sadness<br />
that we went our<br />
separate ways.<br />
I deeply regret that<br />
I could not make it work.<br />
<br />
I look forward<br />
to the time<br />
when it is pleasant<br />
to remember you.<br />
But right now<br />
it still hurts.<br />
<br />
For all of it<br />
I am grateful<br />
and would not<br />
have it any<br />
other way.<br />
<br />
Even though<br />
I lost you<br />
you were<br />
the answer<br />
to prayers<br />
that I prayed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-90469801383378508712017-07-22T22:31:00.002-05:002017-07-24T10:35:20.945-05:00The Poet's SoulThe poet's soul<br />
is a curious thing,<br />
sometimes cries,<br />
sometimes sings.<br />
<br />
At times a quivering<br />
emotional jello,<br />
others a loud<br />
rage-filled bellow.<br />
<br />
As soft as the down<br />
of a new-hatched bird,<br />
as sharp as the blade<br />
of a samurai sword.<br />
<br />
Innocent and child-like<br />
in matters of the world,<br />
crafty and cunning<br />
in love's torrid whorl.<br />
<br />
The poet's soul<br />
is both gift and curse,<br />
for we who paint life<br />
in rhyme and verse.<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-86104660889500417942017-07-20T14:45:00.000-05:002017-07-22T09:39:34.476-05:00Mi Casa No CasaBiracial at birth<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7aEv7W0IBqNYSh9EsWPliEcLH3YuazUmOm-zVVk0sFNVoaT0moOUuTtvXedNfaP22kaYv2ITe7bK3dYsPcu9FjpZF0mdxImPpcB_RXahE8lFX_2etZIps8lc9f0sQgRG1OWKNw/s1600/We-The-People-art-work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1500" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7aEv7W0IBqNYSh9EsWPliEcLH3YuazUmOm-zVVk0sFNVoaT0moOUuTtvXedNfaP22kaYv2ITe7bK3dYsPcu9FjpZF0mdxImPpcB_RXahE8lFX_2etZIps8lc9f0sQgRG1OWKNw/s400/We-The-People-art-work.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image copyright <a href="https://www.positive.news/2017/society/25160/us-street-art-celebrates-common-bonds-trump-enters-white-house/">Positive.News</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
back in the day,<br />
back when it hurt,<br />
a half-Mexican stray.<br />
<br />
Not quite white,<br />
not quite brown,<br />
quasi-colored skin<br />
with no proper noun.<br />
<br />
Mi casa no casa,<br />
I stood in between,<br />
no hablo espanol,<br />
no tengo a quien.<br />
<br />
Never sure where I fit,<br />
which culture to embrace,<br />
getting by on my wits,<br />
no race, no face, no space.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp704H4PfTIj4EIQ_vrLFnrvWL4f6JFlYxKo1faZVlFaYhqNXmRViYVnRS8GYl3veKFiik3F2LtoBYkowDun-5P2qACWBl6dYVshhRmRUhY1A9dXa70dPCqZjmidPkddPFuvRilg/s1600/Otherbox.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="237" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp704H4PfTIj4EIQ_vrLFnrvWL4f6JFlYxKo1faZVlFaYhqNXmRViYVnRS8GYl3veKFiik3F2LtoBYkowDun-5P2qACWBl6dYVshhRmRUhY1A9dXa70dPCqZjmidPkddPFuvRilg/s320/Otherbox.JPG" width="212" /></a>Mi casa no casa,<br />
I had no place to go,<br />
I blazed the trail I made,<br />
and made my way alone.<br />
<br />
Today it is different,<br />
mixed is the new norm,<br />
part this, part that,<br />
new boxes on forms.<br />
<br />
We of mixed colors<br />
are taking the world,<br />
for love has no borders,<br />
and hair has more curls.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mi casa no casa.<br />
May that die with me.<br />
Todos una raza,<br />
el mundo nuevo esta aqui.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-40792208119602595482017-07-18T15:17:00.000-05:002017-07-19T07:43:29.811-05:00TombstonesShe asked to meet my family,<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4d7l3iQxagCFJX8VUn_YDOdwq6dP7vfnAXFNRCSmdSMQtEH5WPoQ-7kHAfaVeaF7a5aPYRDxL06JpyYygai-0_tyfe-Beqapd6kFtcv2_PGN64LoUq2bvd08jBkbYLj8nKYnlg/s1600/headstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="750" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4d7l3iQxagCFJX8VUn_YDOdwq6dP7vfnAXFNRCSmdSMQtEH5WPoQ-7kHAfaVeaF7a5aPYRDxL06JpyYygai-0_tyfe-Beqapd6kFtcv2_PGN64LoUq2bvd08jBkbYLj8nKYnlg/s320/headstone.jpg" width="320" /></a>so I took her to the cemetery.<br />
<br />
I introduced her to the tombstones<br />
of my mother and father,<br />
brother, sister, sister-in-law.<br />
<br />
I explained that half of my family is there,<br />
so this is where half of my heart lies,<br />
languishing in full blown eternity,<br />
family memories moldering in the grave.<br />
<br />
The graveyard was cold and snowy,<br />
a fitting scene for a January day,<br />
the nearby road buzzed with traffic,<br />
overhead the sky was ashen gray.<br />
<br />
We lingered not long.<br />
It takes but little time<br />
to commune with loved ones<br />
who died and left you behind.<br />
<br />
I knew that day<br />
she and I would not last<br />
for she had no experience<br />
of family who have passed.<br />
<br />
She could not fathom<br />
the finality of family death,<br />
had no sympathy or patience<br />
for the graveyard's final rest.<br />
<br />
She can never understand<br />
until it is her turn to know<br />
how half your heart can lie buried<br />
under bitter cold wet snow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-88051589479056403062017-07-17T22:10:00.001-05:002017-07-18T09:38:19.468-05:00Innocent Love<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEwdMVBFEWQ9CfSvNhXzBKCUd8yxqb_hYCYNp_NHkjQVOT4raGk4PCAIfJIKjq1_HxVLUQzS-zv_jXcUGQFgpPoeZXI0iUNR31O9riGZ9wL57orFWPh1LrN0NJLwYa1dY3N6eCA/s1600/Maddy+friend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="945" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEwdMVBFEWQ9CfSvNhXzBKCUd8yxqb_hYCYNp_NHkjQVOT4raGk4PCAIfJIKjq1_HxVLUQzS-zv_jXcUGQFgpPoeZXI0iUNR31O9riGZ9wL57orFWPh1LrN0NJLwYa1dY3N6eCA/s320/Maddy+friend.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo copyright Jill Atkinson, 2017</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I remember innocent love,<br />
the kind that had no questions.<br />
<br />
Love that shone in our faces,<br />
put the light of life in our eyes.<br />
<br />
I remember being happy<br />
over ice cream and a new toy.<br />
<br />
When friendship came easy,<br />
and trust was freely given.<br />
<br />
I remember summer nights,<br />
warm breezes, firefly chases.<br />
<br />
Hot days of roaming the woods<br />
looking for poor kid adventures.<br />
<br />
I remember when smiles were genuine,<br />
and lies were a terrible sin to commit.<br />
<br />
And many days of holding hands<br />
giving big hugs and doing small favors.<br />
<br />
I remember innocent love<br />
when I see my granddaughter smile.<br />
<br />
When I hear her laughter<br />
and watch her play.<br />
<br />
I remember hope when<br />
she says she loves me, too.<br />
<br />
The unmitigated truth in her face<br />
lightens my heavy old soul.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-32469162835786113332017-07-14T11:26:00.001-05:002017-07-22T22:29:53.550-05:00Love Poems<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm1xr7RCTqk2DQ_oHHfgTzPYJU-3wyHKmir7LYwOO4k975A657y8WfoXLKclBvjvuXeFcAMGCOywGj__kAN2osM2UKsFj93omMdYwwlQo3x0E8PJin33aaDgOKS3ZDkEdqNhwiA/s1600/brokenarrow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="577" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm1xr7RCTqk2DQ_oHHfgTzPYJU-3wyHKmir7LYwOO4k975A657y8WfoXLKclBvjvuXeFcAMGCOywGj__kAN2osM2UKsFj93omMdYwwlQo3x0E8PJin33aaDgOKS3ZDkEdqNhwiA/s400/brokenarrow.JPG" width="400" /></a>Nobody loves<br />
love poems<br />
anymore<br />
<br />
Who has the<br />
time to care?<br />
<br />
The demands of<br />
work, children<br />
family and friends<br />
make romance seem<br />
old-fashioned<br />
perhaps even a<br />
waste of time<br />
<br />
We can't even be<br />
bothered much to<br />
meet anymore<br />
preferring our dates<br />
to be mobile<br />
express and if<br />
possible online<br />
<br />
But I gave you<br />
my time<br />
my poetry<br />
my attention<br />
and my care<br />
whatever else my foibles<br />
if you needed me I was there<br />
<br />
Yes, words are cheap<br />
and love is hard to define<br />
in poetry that most often<br />
can't be coaxed to even rhyme<br />
<br />
Still, I gave you my words<br />
my heart and very soul<br />
to say in worn out language<br />
the things that can't be told<br />
<br />
It wasn't enough<br />
You found another<br />
less poetic sort<br />
<br />
Because nobody loves<br />
love poems<br />
anymore<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-27877278169701750002017-07-10T14:19:00.002-05:002017-07-11T14:11:02.419-05:00Love I've Thrown AwayYou will always be<br />
my worst regret<br />
and best memory<br />
<br />
The hole in my heart<br />
where you once lived<br />
may tear me apart<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLm1UDIeajOlbdhMTt2bqNh5yBt6QcLALRW8mHQE7fo3mZI3UExQqmRHI_khTyaZ957KnBszLUQnMlW7GSmjmBdL5dE5cpUCmEYiKOQAkIw3y_j262hGOy8YxCqvhaS0UCa2alKw/s1600/halfhearted.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="366" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLm1UDIeajOlbdhMTt2bqNh5yBt6QcLALRW8mHQE7fo3mZI3UExQqmRHI_khTyaZ957KnBszLUQnMlW7GSmjmBdL5dE5cpUCmEYiKOQAkIw3y_j262hGOy8YxCqvhaS0UCa2alKw/s400/halfhearted.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The words that I write<br />
cannot redress<br />
the loss of your light<br />
<br />
You gave me so much<br />
the best of love<br />
your soft healing touch<br />
<br />
Allow me to say<br />
you were the best<br />
love I've thrown away<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-6189561290235592032017-06-27T21:09:00.000-05:002017-07-22T09:42:19.193-05:00Now<span style="font-family: inherit;">The word now is a powerful and mysterious word.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It can be used as either a noun, or a verb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The instant I tell you that now has arrived,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It will have flashed quickly past both of our eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every new moment renews now anew.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No way to stop it, rewind or review.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now has us all in its metaphysical spell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The ever flowing present never has failed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Time goes on forever, as does the now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As life ever endeavors to slow it all down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">© Francisco G.
Rodriquez, 2017<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-19377555553697953932017-06-15T21:55:00.000-05:002017-06-29T08:45:10.089-05:00Broke Down Beat Up Heart<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisa5-xbepF5kET3THSNg6BFbMsRVElaFD5TCGwrvMf4XWlz9npQRbYMl6nuuQEU6HtqAEXCABo484fs5z7QB7Bqk5b2UsRaxuLn-4wLLodnLSm6Lng-YK4NSWo0PrrHIiftbkp3Q/s1600/Beater.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="610" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisa5-xbepF5kET3THSNg6BFbMsRVElaFD5TCGwrvMf4XWlz9npQRbYMl6nuuQEU6HtqAEXCABo484fs5z7QB7Bqk5b2UsRaxuLn-4wLLodnLSm6Lng-YK4NSWo0PrrHIiftbkp3Q/s400/Beater.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
My beat up heart<br />
is a rusty old car<br />
worn out brakes<br />
needs new tires<br />
doors won't open<br />
except from outside<br />
windows rolled down<br />
handles broken inside<br />
<br />
My beat up heart<br />
had too many drivers<br />
grinding down gears<br />
crash cart survivors<br />
drove me into a ditch<br />
left me without a hitch<br />
<br />
Broken down old beater<br />
the kind you can't trust very far<br />
Only thing good is the heater<br />
and the engine still purrs<br />
<br />
Crappy rusted out old wreck<br />
still going and stubborn as heck<br />
Perhaps I should consider<br />
installing a taxi cab meter<br />
onto my old broken down<br />
beat up heart<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 32px;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-87576963404490869482017-06-14T08:43:00.003-05:002017-06-29T08:45:19.402-05:00Walmart Parking Lot Life and Death Drama<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped at Walmart after work
yesterday to pick up a few things. For whatever reason, most Walmart parking
lots in Oklahoma seem to be a popular gathering spot for Grackles, those shiny
black birds with long tails and little red eyes that aggressively stare you
down as you walk past. "What'chew lookin' at?" it seems like they are
saying.<o:p></o:p><u5:p></u5:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I was loading my items into the
back of my vehicle, I noticed a movement zipping from underneath my truck to
the one right next to it. Then a grackle went hopping along the same path. I
turned to see what was going on, and just then a tiny, brown, desperate little
mouse came running right toward me, with the grackle in hot pursuit. The bird
would grab the mouse by its tail and yank upward, like it was trying to flip the
mouse into the air. I could tell the mouse was tired and wounded. It paused
between my shoes, looking up at me for an instant, like it was asking for help.
I raised my shoe and kicked at the bird. It flitted backward, and looked at me
with an indignant glare. The mouse ran back under my truck. The bird gave me a
wide circle before going back to the chase.<o:p></o:p><u5:p></u5:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that moment, my sympathy was
with the mouse. There have been days lately when I swear I feel just like that
hapless little rodent. I wanted to help, but couldn't imagine myself running
around in dress clothes, chasing a bird and a mouse through a Walmart parking
lot. Logically, I knew that I was only watching nature play itself out; there
is nothing inherently evil or wrong in the drama between predator and prey.
Still, I wondered if God ever feels the way I did in that moment, watching we
humans go about the business of shooting, stabbing and otherwise killing each
other, often saying we are acting on His behalf?<o:p></o:p><u5:p></u5:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mouse ran along the curb, looking
for a place to make its escape. The bird kept pestering and pecking, and I knew
soon the chase would end. Not knowing what else to do, I got into my truck and
started the engine. I swear I saw the bird raise a feather at me as I turned
out of the parking lot. I found myself hoping the bird would choke on a mouse
bone.<o:p></o:p><u5:p></u5:p><br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 32px;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-63159447553490605392017-06-13T21:59:00.001-05:002017-06-29T08:45:34.588-05:00Wondrous Spaces<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJi1wl78t5tsSYCZEC4gfz2ft29mZQnQrzUgvcNQjmirc4MUTiZLLajg-2Zui3Xg80rnXeyKvNKRnf6NR-SICGWF8rtRhUP_FnIpJfgU7GFehmQzVWJgHg_yCynvOgI5c4puzIg/s1600/Wondrous+spaces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJi1wl78t5tsSYCZEC4gfz2ft29mZQnQrzUgvcNQjmirc4MUTiZLLajg-2Zui3Xg80rnXeyKvNKRnf6NR-SICGWF8rtRhUP_FnIpJfgU7GFehmQzVWJgHg_yCynvOgI5c4puzIg/s400/Wondrous+spaces.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Canyon from Navajo Overlook -- <span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">© 2015 </span><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Richard R. Barron</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Our world is filled</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
with wondrous spaces,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
magical places</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
that demonstrate</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
just how small we are</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
in the scheme of things.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Without hands or eyes</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
nature paints a beautiful sky,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
a breathtaking landscape,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and humanity stands in awe,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
feeling at once grand,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
yet incredibly small.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mountain ranges bounded</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
by oceans endless,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
space full rounded</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
by bright stars limitless,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
this world but a speck</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
floating in infinite time,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
a pool of deep dark forever.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The poet teaches</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172906" target="_blank">we can see the world</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172906" target="_blank">in </a><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172906" target="_blank">a grain of sand</a>.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
W.B. preaches we can </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
hold infinity in our hands;</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
that our vision is limited </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
only by the blinders on our brains.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Open vistas, massive geologic structures,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
perspectives from a mountainside,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
all expand our presence in the world,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
make us yearn for wilder days of yore,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
when we lived a harder life,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and loved the land</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
like a husband loves a bride.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Wondrous spaces are sacred places,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
deserving of our devotion and love.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
They enrapture and bind us,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
beckon and remind us</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
of a grander presence</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
that can only be described</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
as coming from above.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 32px;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-4233007047712570092017-06-12T08:24:00.003-05:002020-11-24T15:34:10.391-06:00The IlliteratiThey revel in their ignorant bliss;<br />
happiest when they can hiss<br />
at the educated masses,<br />
eager to burn books into ashes.<br />
<br />
The strong arms of stronger men,<br />
they threaten violence just to win,<br />
unwitting tools of the upper classes,<br />
misinformed fools showing their asses.<br />
<br />
The illiterati take pride in not knowing<br />
how much they do not know;<br />
noisily amplify the lies flowing<br />
from crazy like a fox TV news shows.<br />
<br />
Most never had a chance at the American dream,<br />
so they invest their truth in alt-right Internet memes,<br />
and while claiming to know the founder's intentions,<br />
vote to reduce their own hard-earned pensions.<br />
<br />
They are terrified of the nation they think will unfold,<br />
having swallowed most of the racist lies they were told,<br />
and so rally to drive foreigners out of this land,<br />
while believing themselves to be God's helping hand.<br />
<br />
There is no reaching the illiterati,<br />
there is no cure for this cancerous rotting<br />
that blinds the minds of those such as these,<br />
who willfully lock themselves into cells with no keys.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 32px;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></i></b><br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31773125.post-37122918979720925122017-06-10T06:59:00.000-05:002017-06-29T08:45:59.536-05:00Campbell's MonomythJoseph Campbell taught us to look beyond the particulars of any given mythology or religious tradition, and to instead consider the universality they might contain. He demonstrated that there is a basic skeletal structure of most mythologies, particularly those that that he designated as "hero myths." In his book <i>The Hero with A Thousand Faces</i>, first published in 1949 (!) and still available in print today, he examines the hero's journey, and establishes his theory of the <a href="http://orias.berkeley.edu/resources-teachers/monomyth-heros-journey-project" target="_blank">monomyth</a>. The monomyth is the skeleton upon which hangs the flesh of any given hero myth.<br />
<br />
Campbell differentiated two types of heroes: the physical hero (e.g., Hercules), and the spiritual hero (e.g., Jesus, Buddha, Abraham, Mohammed). His monomyth model applies more evidently in tales of physical heros, like Odysseus, Gilgamesh, and Luke Skywalker. Campbell asserts that regardless of the hero and the details of his or her tale, the basic elements of the story have a universality that stretches across time and culture. There is a sameness to the story line, regardless of the specifics of that story line.<br />
<br />
1.) There is often an auspicious birth. The child is born of a virgin (Jesus), for example; or immediately takes three steps and proclaims that this is his last incarnation (Buddha); or his mother is impregnated by seeing a falling star (Laozi); or often, a god impregnates a human female (Hercules). The auspicious birth presages that this person is different, and that their life story has weight and meaning.<br />
<br />
2.) At some point in their lives, the hero is called out of normal society, and makes a decision to follow a calling, or is otherwise lured into an adventure. Jesus, went into the desert; Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure. 3.) At this point of the journey, the hero often encounters a helper of some kind, a sage or sprite who initiates them into a higher understanding, a broader vision of reality (e.g., Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi; or the little goat guy, Philoctetes, and Hercules). 4.) The hero is then faced with some kind of ordeal that marks their passage into the adventure, a discovery, or a turn from normal reality into an epic purpose. Campbell calls this "crossing the threshold." The important thing is that the hero makes a choice to pursue the adventure.<br />
<br />
5.) Afterward, the hero is faced with a variety of tests or trials, against which she must prove her worthiness. Again, the hero is often assisted by other figures or things. They may find, or be given, magical items that help them successfully overcome the tests. For example, Perseus is given winged sandals and a helmet that renders him invisible. So, too, Bilbo Baggins finds a ring that makes him invisible, and gets him out of several scrapes. 6.) As in any good story or <a href="https://www.nyfa.edu/student-resources/5-films-that-play-out-the-monomyth/" target="_blank">movie</a>, there is ultimately a climax, a final battle, struggle or revelation, a moment when the hero's life -- and often the fate of their people or the world -- is at stake. Of course, the hero will prevail.<br />
<br />
7.) After killing the dragon, defeating the monster, or tricking the lesser god(s), the hero's adventure comes to a close. It is at this point that he has a crucial decision to make. He can persist in the place of adventure, and find more adventure, or he can decide to return home, bringing with him the magic, knowledge, or insight that he has gathered on his journey. Campbell uses the tale of Jonah in the belly of the whale. After being vomited back onto shore, Jonah immediately returns to human society with his incredible tale of events and understandings. 8.) It is at this point that the knowledge acquired by the hero becomes the province of normal human beings; the magic, the knowledge; the expanded perspective is shared with the rest of human kind.<br />
<br />
What fascinated Campbell, and what I too find intriguing, is the manner in which these same elements, this same kind of journey, occurrs repeatedly in human mythologies, regardless of the culture or time from which it arose. Campbell's thought was influenced by a German scholar named Adolf Bastian, who is credited for helping develop the discipline of anthropology. He was also the first proponent of the "psychic unity of mankind," the idea that all humans share the same basic mental structure and framework.<br />
<br />
Bastian's own study of mythologies led him to theorize that they contained what he called "elementary" and "folk" components. The "folk" components are comprised of the local, culturally-relevant elements of the story. They are the parts of the myth that its hearers can recognize and understand, and relate to their own social and cultural environment. The "elementary" part of the myth represents the basic underlying structure of mythology, the "monomyth" that Campbell theorizes in his famous work <i>The Hero of the Thousand Faces</i>.<br />
<br />
Campbell was also influenced by German scholar Otto Rank, and in particular his book <i>The Myth of the Birth of the Hero</i>. In this book Rank compares the birth and early life story of Moses with the birth mythologies of other well-known heroes from different cultures, like Sargon and Oedipus. In this work, Rank equates the hero myths with human dreams, arguing that they represent repressed human desires, and are therefore informative of the human mind and psyche. Rank was an early disciple of Sigmund Freud, although he later split with Freud's method of psychoanalysis. As an early psychologist, Rank was interested in the way mythologies represent, or provide evidence for, larger, basic human psychological needs and <span style="font-family: inherit;">desires. It i</span>s probably Rank's work that inspired Campbell to famously say, <a href="http://mythsdreamssymbols.com/mythanddreams.html" target="_blank">"... a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you."</a><br />
<br />
Throughout his life and studies, Campbell remained fascinated by what mythology and literature can teach us about human psychic nature. His work established that, in mythologies, there are common (elementary) traits that cross cultural and time boundaries. He believed that fact was significant, that it indicated areas where further scholarship and exploration was needed. Why, for instance, do the same elemental mythological structures crop up again and again? What does that tell us about human nature? Is there something larger, something deeper, something more universal in this fact that we should be paying attention to in our own considerations and studies?<br />
<br />
I think the answer to all of those questions is yes. The basis of many forms of communication is a repeating pattern.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 32px;">© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017</span></i></b><br />
<br />krmudgeonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02570437529133118014noreply@blogger.com2