Misery Adores Company

 

Part 2 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

What about you? Did you ever get one of those childhoods where anything that could go wrong did go wrong? And it ended up doing a number on your whole personality, to the point that on a good day you’re still a big fat zero? I see a few sad hands. This month we’re touching on these unfortunately common issues of fragile self-esteem. And that's the proper way of saying it, as editor-in-chief here, although I realize all too well that “Misery adores company.” But if it weren’t for my fellow-sufferers, probably no one would believe the things to come. Our dismal past exposed to a disbelieving, disapproving public!

Of course I should know quite a bit about it, and I could even be called one of the foremost experts on it. I think that’s true, at least, and I’m flattered if you think it too. But the story could be told as well by my sworn enemies, wherever they are, those who tormented me beyond all sense. And yet I’m willing to concede they perhaps had good reasons, even if they were only reasons of their own. The degree to which indeed I was "squirrelly" hasn't been conclusively proven. But certainly they know who they are, to the extent that I’m that memorable, and it’s not hard to imagine that wherever they are they’ve made a success of their lives. Perhaps as prison guards, mafia hit-men, factory foremen, professional wrestlers, or gym teachers.

I know this much, I’m certainly not going to look up any of them. And I’ve avoided class reunions for this reason. Because anywhere there’s a punch bowl there’s a potential drowning. And I’ve managed somehow -- a guy hypnotized me at the shopping center once, about the time I took Abraham Lincoln as my personal spirit animal -- to live a semi-proud life, semi-proud of myself for respecting myself enough to sit up and take nourishment. Today I had my usual bowl of plain oatmeal, and just because my fragile self-esteem is such a vital part of my outlook, two pieces of burnt toast with butter past the expiration date.

Some of you may have sympathy for me. I'm proud to have your sympathy, because that lets me know that in a rough and tumble world there are still good people. So let me confer a few blessings your way. "This reader, among my best friends, knows a sad sack story when he or she hears it. May he or she be free of all bullies, evil-doers, letchs, trolls, souped-up athletes, gym teachers, prison guards, towel snappers, and extortionists. Let his or her self-esteem be up there with the immortals, who know the glory of righteous suffering but wouldn’t inflict unnecessary pain on a fly, killing them, yes, because we’re trying to avoid the next global plague, but quickly and with mercy."

Did I do the pledge yet? Looks like I didn't: “I pledge destruction to fragile self-esteem, and to the mental conditions from which it thrives, one person, under valued, too divided, with happiness and private showers for all.” Now, c’mon, guys, get me off this damned nail!

Yee Haw, Maw Caw, 3 Boobys

Chapter 16 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Diplomacy

Seeing a Jivaro hut on the hillside was a lifesaver for Up de Graff and Game. They felt new strength and their fear was gone. They didn't even think of the possible difficulties in their path. And being indifferent to the effect it might have on the Jivaro, they let out a yell of joy. They should've thought over what that might mean to the Jivaro; was it some kind of war cry? Because that was the effect it had. We used to have a war cry as kids, which was "Yee haw! Maw caw! Booby booby booby!" The "booby" triad was accompanied by repeatedly patting our stomach. How that'd fly in South America, I'd probably be dead.

The Jivaro burst into war-whooping and howling. The idea being to impress whatever foe was out there that they had huge numbers. For three long hours they kept up the yelling, but the intensity varied. Up de Graff broke the spell by leaving his rifle behind and walking slowly up the path. Three scared youths came out for a parley.  He did hand motions like paddling a canoe and they finally followed him. In the canoe the explorers had some trade-goods, including poison in a bamboo cane. There's no mention of warning labels, so we just hope they didn't get it mixed up in the pantry.

These were gifts, and that settled everyone down. From their tribe the natives brought a gourd full of drink called giamanchi, and it ended up being a lot. The Jivaro were quite open by now and the ice broken. But they still couldn't converse, so they tried sign language. The tribe ended up sending a special envoy to the Chief (named Lazaro), and they waited for him. Which only took about an hour.

Of course Lazaro was very interested in what the explorers were up to. They told him they were looking for gold and about their current camp. They accepted an invitation to stay with the tribe. But they still thought they should stay on a small island nearby. The concern had to do with the great health of the Jivaro and the comparatively poor condition of Game. He had old scars from having scratched sand-fly and mosquito bites. And many of them were reopened and resembled a nasty rash. The Jivaro saw it and practically stampeded, but they were fearing smallpox. Running sores are terrible and that's not a running joke.

Up de Graff persuaded the chief that Game didn't have smallpox. Next the Jivaro provided some hospitality. Their medicine man paddled them toward the small island. Once there, they set up a house, started a fire, etc. In an hour they had a decent shelter and fire, plus supper of roast yuca, roast corn on the cob, roast plantains, with peanuts and wild honest for dessert. My graphic makes it look like an upscale restaurant, but I'm just exaggerating, which might've been a mistake, since I started laughing to the point of tears, slapping my knee, and ended up choking on a piece of my own dinner, chicken. I could've used the chief to step me through the Heimlich maneuver. And a house built in an hour would've been nice.

The explorers rested, nursed their feet, ate, and chatted, passing four days on the island. The chief then proposed that he should accompany them through the Pongo. His motive, a great one, was to get the other presents. But it was greater news for Up de Graff and Game, because it meant good help by real river experts.

Marie's Temper, Thar She Blows

Part 16 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

It’s a constant wonder to me — I’m fascinated that I’ve lived so long — that you can die from nearly everything. I read the death news everyday and think, "Yeah, that could happen," meaning to myself. But one of the few things you can’t die from is holding your breath till you turn blue. One of our early fears. Because, as experience tells us, we always choose to breathe. Whether it’s choosing, that’s probably the wrong word; there’s some impetus toward breathing that takes over. And as far as I know, you can't even turn blue willfully. We’re built with an inborn awareness that breathing's good.

Something we certainly can do (and do do) is engage in persistently bad behavior and eventually die from it. For me the biggest problem is worry. I worry about everything and will probably die from it. But at least I'll be able to say I worried about it so much I saw it coming. A murderer leaps out from the bushes and kills you to steal your watch, I didn’t see that coming. But I've actually worried about it even though I don't have a watch. (The guy would settle for other stuff.) Anyway, I'm guilty of worrying too much about worrying too much. And if you pile up a string of worries about what you’re worried about you can see why it could be fatal.

This lady, Marie, the power that was overwhelmingly subtracting from her lifespan was a terrible temper. It’s fine with me that she’s dead, although I would've never said that to her face. Her temper was so terrible, she’d bite your head off if she heard such a thing. So what a relief now to say out loud, "Marie’s dead, and she brought it on herself!" Not suicide, of course, except the slow motion kind that a lot of us commit. Like me from worry. There are coping mechanisms that help, though, mostly reminding yourself that things always seem to work out, whatever the problem.

But with her temper, I don’t think there were coping mechanisms. Having a temper from hell is a thing you apparently have to accept, no refusals. It's ingrained. Picked up, probably, in childhood. The kid who stamps her feet and cries about every disappointment. That's the sort of thing you need to deal with at the time. Although I don’t know how. Reasoning with people with temper (or proto-temper) is often futile.

In childhood psychology, though, I’d guessing you would take away some of the disappointment by granting her wishes selectively. So she'd grow up knowing every wish fulfilled isn't how life works. And that to react with a bad, steaming bad temper is not helpful or appropriate.

But it's not my place today to conduct a full post-mortem on Marie. I’m sure the undertaker was up to his hips in worthless temper dripping out of her, but that’s a science too unpleasant to describe. We’ll just take our place on the other side of the curtain and say — temper or no temper — Marie is now dead, whatever the cause of death on the report, probably listed as a merely physical and not psychological thing, maybe brain implosion. A collapse of the head, now the size of a pea. Like a mine shaft shrinking inward from forceful molecular packing.

It certainly cleared the air for the rest of us. Now we can breathe freely instead of facing Marie's terrible wrath for every little thing. And that’s a good thing, coming not a moment too soon!

Timmy's Doing Well

The other day someone reminded me of one of my favorite TV shows when I was a kid. Which was very long ago, making the show an oldie but a goodie. About a boy named Timmy and his dog, whose name isn't coming to me, wait, it's Dane! Thought I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I had to think about it for a minute and there it was.

I was thinking, Was it Digby? Delbert? Great Delbert? I thought it started with a D. The picture I found online said Dignified, but that couldn't be right. I knew right away it couldn't be Dignified. Then Dane came to me. One thing I know for sure, Dane wasn't a collie; my first dog was a collie and they're a lot bushier.

Timmy, though, that's the kid's name for sure. Because I've often heard Timmy mentioned over the years. Let's say he came close to falling in a well. Or came close to being lost in the haymow. I had that happen a few times. One of my favorite activities as a kid, actually, was playing in barns. Haymows feel dangerous. I was genuinely afraid and excited. You're stepping around the cracks of the bales, the hay, and it feels like you could be swallowed up. But no kid was ever swallowed up, not while the dog was around.

Dane could be counted on -- and I'm talking about the show now -- to rescue Timmy before anything bad happened. You might think, That's not much of a show, since you need a plot, you need conflict to have a show. True, there's lots of shows like that. Those are the ones I hated. I never wanted conflict, and yet I didn't want shows to be documentaries where nothing happened. The only conflict I wanted, just for the sake of argument, was this: The fear that something might happen. That was my true life story: Something might happen at any minute, but if I'm smart -- smart and careful -- it won't.

OK, the plot of the Dane show is coming back to me. Timmy's parents would be playing cards with a neighbor couple. The kids would be running wild, although they were good kids. They made up adventures that took place in the haymow, for instance. There was always some danger, but Dane would growl, and everyone would know they were doing something wrong. Once they had Dane's warning -- Knock it off -- they changed their behavior and were good.

Toward the end, everyone would go back to the house, the kids and Dane. The family up the road would throw in the towel on the card game and head home too. Mom and Dad would be wondering how thing were going with Timmy and Dane, and how it went with the other people's kids, and it was always the same: Thanks to Dane, nothing bad every happened. The perfect show.

Dane would bark, a couple of quick barks, his nose in the air, seeking Timmy's Dad and Mom's praise. "You did good!" Mr. Douglas would say, lightly scratching Dane's nose and offering praise, "Timmy's doing well! Good boy! You, too, Dane!" And mother, Jacqueline Douglas, would offer the same sort of praise, said in that soft, sensual purring style that she was known for, "Such a good boy, yes you are, good Dane... Keeping Timmy well!"

Everyone would enjoy an evening biscuit, brush their teeth, and hit the hay, so to speak.

The Golden Child

I don't write much about myself, my own life. I guess I've been very modest, since, believe it or not, there would be a lot to write about. But many of the original witnesses are now deceased. And some of these topics appeared to be strictly off limits when they were alive. What were they precisely afraid of, that's something I could never wheedle out of them. My mother would throw up her dress and flee the room.

Still, in the hoary mist that makes up the past -- thick enough to cut with a knife -- there are things about me, and destiny, and about great things that I could accomplish. I dare say would accomplish, but I'm pretty sure everyone's forgotten the prophecies. Which don't just spring out of thin air, but are always something that someone's considered, then hidden in their hearts, then pulled out time and time again to rehearse, then concealed, and on and on like that, all very cyclical, see? Let's say my dad was in on it. He was sharp with an incisive mind; I wonder what he knew!

I got very little guidance on these things. But what wasn't spelled out was hinted about, that I would accomplish certain things, and before that, I would know it when I saw it. Friends, I know nothing. Just a kind of tingly feeling I get when I fall asleep -- or just before falling asleep -- when I'm regaled by, yes, beings, personages, memories dredged up, and revelations even now that are new! This one spirit from the hoary mist, he was hoary himself, hoary-headed, old-fashioned speak for essentially white. White as snow, the purest white you've seen this side of a snow drift.

What would I accomplish? I've accomplished very little thus far. Unless the revelation/prophecy somehow involves this blog. It's weird, I'm telling a story and I don't know how it goes! I'm feeling my way. But doesn't it stand to reason that anything that is prophetic, if it's meant to take place, that it would take place whether I knew what I was doing or not? Like going to the bathroom. Everyone knows how it goes. You do your business, then pull 'em up. Like the kid on the diapers commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

I could make up prophecies, but that would be artificial, false. I could keep my ears open, and everything I hear try to distill it through a mental process of thinking. I've done that before. Like the time I learned to tie my own shoes. I'm thinking now of ... women! My mother always had female friends. They would get together and do things together. They would talk. Maybe at the lake, on a boat, away from the crowd, among themselves. What were they talking about? She had friends who would live close to her, then move somewhere else. Why did they move?

Seems like a dead end. So many of the folks who attended my birth and early years are dead. It seems, though, that there was something hushed that was occasionally heard, about the obstetrician they had at the hospital, or one of them. How he was always into the hidden lore (or something), how he was thrown out of various churches for his offbeat ideas. I remember hearing some of this, that he was a essentially a mystic obstetrician, and the words "golden child." That's it, I think. Mom and her friend, this one lady -- I remember her name -- had something between them about a guy like that.

I'm going to be working on this from time to time. Freely associating memory scraps with what "must have been." What are the sorts of things people keep to themselves, talking in whispers, acting like they've swallowed the canary? People's mysterious destinies. Like I was meant to have and live, no doubt... I foresee the formulation and using of many techniques. I've long had the conviction, When in doubt, improvise. Act like you know what you're doing. For those reasons alone, and in fulfillment of them, I must be The Golden Child! Yes, I'm certain of it!

Newsletter -- The Peace of a Thief

Yesterday, I lifted up one of my staff members, Stan "Tipsy" White, as a great example of the glories of drunkenness, and got a lot of nice comments, so I thought today I'd highlight another member I sincerely admire, Dashing Danny Whfrf.

Danny's a traditionalist, and I like that, a traditional thief. He's not into new crime like computer hacking or carjackings, which of course have their place; he's into what has to be one of the oldest criminal activities of all, thievery, stealing. It's so old there's even a 10 Commandment about it! Fortunately Danny doesn't live in some backward country where they cut your hands off for stealing, because he'd be out of work then, needing as he does his hands for holding the gun and carrying stuff off.

Of course in these days where every field seems to have succumbed to modernism -- and I'd complain, "Modernism for modernism's sake!" -- it's rare to find traditional craftsmen, working not only with their hands but with their wits. When you work with your wits, you need wisdom, and that's what Danny uses to scope out a situation, see where the goods are, where the exits are, and what it's going to take to get him in and out in one piece. Part of one's wits also entail foreseeing the unforeseeable, if we can put it like that, having the foresight and intelligence to roll with the flow. Danny's not afraid to change his plans on the fly, such as his route of escape. He says he's dove out of more second story windows than he cares to remember!

Damn the luck, though! He's currently doing a little prison stretch that's sidelined him, but he's proven himself an honorable and worthy fellow in demonstrating "good behavior." Plus, he went beyond the call of duty when he ratted on a couple rat-finks in the clink, who were planning to knife a guy simply for not sharing a Playboy magazine his sister smuggled in to him. And that put Danny in good with a few higher-ups, who then put him on the fast track to eventual release by sending him to the local work release farm. From there he was let him out to help me as a staff member on my upcoming newsletter.

I've been happy with Danny's work ethic. He's very bright-eyed, looking at all the angles. Which is even more amazing given the late hours he keeps after a full day. I bet he's explored every part of our town. I sometimes wonder what discoveries he's making -- our town's a fascinating and hospitable place, and I believe he's found that to be true. But he's not one to show a lot of emotion; he's reluctant to get sentimental about civic pride because he might break down and cry. And once you've been in the pen, that's a big no no.

Yes, the thought's crossed my mind that he might be pulling a few jobs around town. He always goes armed, which he sees as a fundamental constitutional right, and it could be he sees things he likes that he honestly can't afford, since the state's only giving him 12 cents an hour. That's not much money for a full day's work! I've chipped in a few cents to make it 15 cents, but even that's only marginally better. You could literally blow through a whole day's pay on an unfrosted cupcake. Fortunate for him, we have little joint downtown that'll sell you a single cigarette or he'd be completely lost.

If he is pulling jobs, more power to him, right? If he's at peace with it, who am I to raise a ruckus and mess up his thinking? He tells me his mama never raised no fool, and I confess I'd say the same thing about my mama. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Danny's got it. And even if he didn't have it he'd know where to find it, which is reassuring.

Messing up his thinking would be the same as messing with his peace of mind. And that's something I'd never do. Danny's got what a lot of us haven't got, the native sense that God gives thieves, who believe, "The whole world belongs to me. What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine." There's such a beautiful innocence in that, like a baby reaching out and picking a piece of food off his daddy's plate. Daddy just sits there and laughs, "You're such a good boy!" The amazing thing, then, is to carry that attitude through your whole life; what's out there is like the air, it's your environment, your enchilada, and completely free for the taking. It don't get no easier than that!

Newsletter -- Only Child

INCREDIBLE -- Hard to believe I'm not an only child, because I'm my biggest fan. I reread my first newsletter post of a couple days ago, and I have to say "Bravo!" That business about me posting about DQ as far back as 1971-72 was really prescient, since it continues to be an abiding interest today. I guess I had incredible wisdom back then as well as today! Pointing to something deep, the theory that each of us has things in our consciousness that we are not entirely aware of, at least in their full bloom. The seed is there but it's not in the form we recognize as anything. I'd like to develop techniques to enhance this faculty. One technique I remember from somewhere -- I'm floundering to remember what it's called -- oh, yes, it's brainstorming. What can you say about the world of such amazing techniques?

SUBSCRIPTIONS -- The newsletter idea is bringing out the best in me. I credit this to the fact that I've always been a fan of the idea of a good newsletter. Whether you're sending it out to every employee in a company, to every member of a church, or, as I envision it here, to every member of the online community who makes a full lifetime commitment to receive it, and further, who pledges to make the most of it, i.e., as far as their own wisdom and development, as well as becoming even more of a life-affirming person than they already are. Beware of subscribing, but you're blessed if you do.

ONLY CHILD -- A good newsletter gives you the feeling -- as the writer or the reader -- that you're someone special, because it's just for you, a relatively small group of people, the in-crowd. For me, in my generation, unlike every scrawny honyock today, we didn't have the sense all the time that we were special. The closest you came to that sense was if you were an only child.

My mother had so many kids she didn't know what to do, and I was first. So I was an only child for a while. Looking back on it, if I had then the knowledge I have today, I would've screamed bloody murder every time my parents retired for the evening. They would've thrown their arms up in disgust, gotten mad at each other, each accusing the other of being a bad parent, and I'd have kept them to myself. But of course I love my siblings, that's not the issue.

OK, big deal, I was deprived back then, but that doesn't mean I can't write a newsletter today ... and catch up!

These days, though, there's so many "only children" the kids have it incredibly good. They're made to feel so amazingly special that I wonder what's going to happen to them when they're thrown to the wolves of the world when they leave home. Assuming they ever have to, since Mommy and Daddy's reach is so much longer now, being online and connected 24/7. On the other hand, maybe it'd be better to be thrown to the wolves, then they could be like me, grasping at every crutch that drifts along, which truly is what this newsletter idea is. I notice none of the "only children" in my family have a newsletter...

Yes, I have "only children" in my family, and I see them daily on Facebook. They've just colored another picture! They put the candle on their birthday cake all by themselves! They just wrecked the car, but, good news, we've already got a new one! Don't get me started...

And wouldn't you know it, there's a big difference between these "only children" and me, their incredible success. They haven't got a newsletter, but that doesn't mean they aren't using crutches. Mostly Mommy and Daddy's continued helicopter parent intervention. And now with drones, I'm afraid what the next generation will be. Both parents have a drone on you, you can't do anything wrong so you may as well be an extraordinary success!

I had some other stuff to say about "only children," but it's coming out a bit harsh. But I'll just say, if my parents had a drone on me when I was in college, things would've been different for me too.

OLD NEWS -- It's the third day and I'm about out of old news. That's how little happened in the past. Oh, I have one. When I was a kid I used to go around the neighborhood singing "Long Tall Sally." You know Little Richard's version, and Elvis' version, fairly tame. Then there was The Beatles' version, with Paul McCartney shrieking out the opening, "I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John, Claims he's got the misery but he's have lotsa fun, oh baby!" I'd be out shrieking that and I remember this one time, a neighbor lady came running out of the house like she thought it was an life or death emergency. She was ticked off to find it was just me singing, but probably relieved too.

Newsletter -- A Sacred Trust

INTRO - I've been kicking around the idea of getting my newsletter started again. It seems like there's no excitement like newsletter excitement. You're always rubbing someone the wrong way: "How dare you put that into print!" (There's always an email version, too, for those who don't like the sensitive nature of gossip in print.)

HISTORY - My newsletters actually go back to 1971 or '72, when I distributed one in my neighborhood, printing it on a Hectograph. In more modern times I briefly published in the early days of this blog, 2008. When I had the bright idea of real-life meetings. Which, incidentally, was how I made a lasting friend, Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el). But in those days he was a maniac and sexually assaulted me, so it wasn't all good. We're OK now.

NEWS - One of the pluses to subscribing is the newsletter is it's a great place to get news of me and the ideas I'm kicking around. You get insights into the creative process, including some of my strange meditation techniques, some of them so dangerous I should probably only hint at them. I was being chased by demons when this newsletter idea came to me.

SUBSCRIBING - I need to offer one big hint on unsubscribing, with the basic message about it being DON'T. When someone tries to unsubscribe it really gets to me. It's not pleasant and I can't be held responsible for my actions. The last time it happened I held my breath and ended up so blue I had to go in for painful skin-dying. You wouldn't want to unsubscribe anyway because you'd miss out on all the news of me, the ideas I'm kicking around, etc. In conclusion, I consider a subscription to my newsletter a sacred trust. With something like that, your eternal security could hang in the balance.

MY TRAVELS - Something I like putting in my newsletter is a record of my travels in the community. Which part of town will I be in today? Only subscribers know! Will I be at DQ? Perhaps. I've been a lifelong fan of DQ ever since I heard of it. How far back would that be? I wrote about it in my early '70s newsletters. I had an article about their banana splits being 40 cents. Then 45 cents! That's the day my life ended (the first time), when they raised the price. Now they're $3.39, a good bargain.

PEPPERING - I may even pepper my newsletters with a feature called OLD NEWS, snippets here and there of old memories, that are enhanced in their interest by the passage of time. One item of OLD NEWS I can think of right now concerns how much I would daydream when I was a kid. I used to sit in my room and stare at the air itself! I'd watch dust motes floating in the sunlight for hours, then feel sad when I had to leave them. Now, even though it's been over 50 years, I still sometimes wonder what ever became of those old friends. 

Great Caesar's Ghost

Was Julius Caesar evil? I'm asking. For once in my life I'm not trying to conceal my ignorance. I know virtually nothing about him. I tried to read him in Latin one time. But not knowing Latin it was a tough go, and I made it up to about page 4. I know he traveled around doing stuff, to England, building walls, etc., but that's about it. And I read Shakespeare, the play where he got killed midway through.

My other exposure was the Adventures of Superman episode where he (apparently) comes back from the dead and appears to Perry White, who has a catchphrase, "Great Caesar's ghost!" The way that episode goes, if memory serves, is that it's just more Adventures of Superman two-bit thugs out to swindle Perry for a few bucks. I love the old Superman show, but there was never much there.

For my purposes today, Great Caesar is very evil, and his ghost, being him, is also very evil. And that's me saying it, who basically doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, I've had some scary moments in my life where I've imagined there were ghosts, like when I was a little kid. The last thing I wanted to be dealing with -- and my main Superman days were when I was little -- would've been Great Caesar's ghost!

It's easy to imagine the ghosts of the great -- the infamous great -- was being around. They were larger than life, therefore they're larger than death. They did their mean crap when they were alive, and now that they're dead, they still have the moxy-on-the-ball to get out there and do mean crap. I could probably toss out Hitler, since he always comes to mind when it comes to evil. And Julius Caesar, whose evil I'm not even sure about.

Whatever the reason, he's back with a vengeance, no doubt because he's dead and wants to share his misery with us. He's a ghost, that's one word for it, but he's also a shade, a somewhat freakier ghost. You see him when the light's right, and before you can get a handle on what you're seeing, he's gone!

What precisely he's sharing of his misery, I haven't had personal experience. Except I know it can't be good. Likely much of it's passive, afflicting the vulnerable. Like Perry White, who was very vulnerable in that episode. Tired, dragged-out, listless, with very little resistance. He needed Jimmy Olsen and Jimmy's pal, Superman, to help.

All evil must be dealt with. Please vote Democratic.

This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh

I'm loving this whole "itch-meditation" thing. Although, of course, after only a few days of it -- and with even the theoretical basis of it still so little known -- there's a long way to go. But as every journey (those on foot) begins with the first step, so too this one.

Forgive the philosophical sentiment, but that's what it's doing to me. The more I sit and stew in my own itches, forbearing scratching, the more I search for a deeper justification. One thing I hate, absolutely hate, is to launch out on something, only to find it was my own folly, then having to come slinking back with egg on my face. Like when I left home at 11, immediately got a thorn in my foot, and my parents had to take me to the ER. I seriously thought I could walk all the way north and make a go of it.

This, however, I hope is different. I'm no longer 11. I've been around, and I've probably made about every mistake I'm going to make. So I'll go by that certain knowledge, and with the stepping out on faith that's always been a part of my spiritual upbringing. I know the answers are out there, and if I can work up a previously undiscovered one and get my name on it, so much the better. I've certainly never heard of anyone doing with scratches and itches what I'm attempting.

All that said, again, I'm loving it. I've only scratched four or five times in the last day. Not out of the discomfort -- which admittedly has been immense -- but testing some stray theories on an occasional scratch being a type of reset button. The biggest bad news so far has been that my meditations aren't really leading anywhere except to this theoretical, philosophical work. So as far as "turning off my mind, relaxing and floating downstream," downstream hasn't even yet come into view.

The only visualizing I'm managing is to see the centers of itch spots as red, pulsing, nagging, terrible unrelenting bastards. Put this in your junior yogi notebook: Itches only intensify, they don't go away. And if they ever fade out on their own, it's only because three others have erupted and are much worse. I'm seriously thinking to add more scratching. It's amazing how scratching is such a relief. Nature's no dummy. The horse, the dog, and every other animal that scratches, they know something. As for elephants, they roll in mud and spray themselves. I'm totally familiar, personally, with how horses and dogs do it. But I've never rolled in mud and sprayed myself, which might be worth a try.

Or it could be that itches in meditation have to be entered without that relief. Like my soulmate Luke Skywalker, your consciousness goes cruising in, and no one thinks you can hit it, then you send a conscious charge down one persistent itch, and the whole thing blows up. Mere scratching's what everyone does, and it never gets us anywhere. Of course I'm a long ways from that.

I was watching some more science TV yesterday, and saw another show about black holes. Remember, in a previous post I likened itches as being possibly like black holes, with the rest of the aureole around the itch spot being like the rest of a galaxy? You can do all kinds of things if you get close enough to a black hole, in addition to being summarily killed. You can go back in time and be suddenly younger than everyone else. Which, if that's possible, maybe a little meditating on the spot might at least convey psychic insights. Who knows? It'd be wild to suddenly be younger than everyone else, but I can see it presenting problems when you show up at Social Security for your benefits and you look 11. Which is when I headed north and got the thorn.

Hmm, that thorn. It went in my foot. What if it just happened to hit one of these black hole points and that's why I'm like this? It's actually astounding that my foot hardly ever itches. The only constant place I get itches on my feet is between the toes, athlete's foot. Which I fought with tough-actin' Tinactin and had pretty good success at. I'm sure the thorn went in the mid section of my right foot, right where it never itches. I might have a foot with potential super powers. Am I Superfoot?

This is among the many things that need further exploration.

This Putin Thing Is Good News After All

I know everyone's up in arms about Putin invading the Crimea, then next, perhaps, Ukraine, and then the vorld! I am, too, since it's always been my belief that a guy ought to live a humble, peaceable life, for the greatest personal happiness and also for the good of the community. On this point, apparently I and the ex-KGB agent, for unknown reasons, disagree.

I actually sensed all along that the guy was bad news. There was his background, right away a red flag, so to speak. Then there was all that business of him having the actual control of the country even after they had elected a president. Then the macho pose he was striking for the last several years, killing bars with his bare hands like Daniel Boone, and shirtless to boot.

And when you get me going on this stuff -- stuff I'd much rather ignore -- it can be very unsettling. Because, being an old guy, I have clear memories of the old Soviet Union and the way they haunted my childhood. There was always talk of us being blown off the map, etc., which never happened, as it turns out, but as a child I didn't know it'd have a happy ending. I was also a child in Sunday School every week, so I went to bed each night with two terrors: a literal Hell and a literal Soviet Union. They vied for which might be worse. It wasn't till I was an adult that I realized they were people very much like us and not big raving monsters. And that was just Hell. As for the Soviets, the thought of Brezhnev's ugly blockhead and shadowy features still creeps me out.

Now, looking back over all that, except for my grief and that of millions of other kids, the key thing is it did have a happy ending. Despite Ronald Reagan's best efforts to keep the grief going, the Soviets finally crumbled on their own. And we thought we were home free.

Now all our enemies would be pipsqueaks we could swat like flies, our industrial might would transition to fulfill domestic and global peacetime plenty, and we would be free of Republican warmongering. Instead, we got brazen terrorism on the home front, industrialism shipped abroad, and Republicans up the ass, not only with warmongering but every other evil. This is not the world I signed up for when Gorbachev and Yeltsin were doing the right thing by committing national suicide.

So Putin's forays, gobbling up his neighbors and making feints at a larger global hegemony, might be good news after all. If it means we become more insular, nationally and industrially, we can have jobs and a better standard of living. If we're focused again on mutually assured destruction, hallelujah, because we know it's only a fiction. (And if it turns out not to be, at least we'll die heroically, not with a whimper as it'll be with global warming.) Speaking of global warming, troubles with the Russians is something the Republicans won't deny, so we'll be in it together. We can heal our divided nation, bringing reasonable people and these others, the crazies, back together.

I honestly think the best thing after this would be to give up the Internet to hackers, then at the height of their reverie, destroy the whole thing. Again, as counter-intuitive as it may sound, insularity and the fever of fearful nationalism is our only hope. And without computers and the Internet, we'll have an even better jobs outlook. Phone operators will be back, we'll be building filing cabinets once again, and getting to know our neighbors in a friendly way over coffee, not berating them in anonymous chat rooms and shocking them in endless sexting sessions.

Viva le Putin!

I'm A Gentleman And A Scholar

I was the recipient of a rather great honor the other day. In one of the picture-sharing social-media sites where I have an account, I complimented a guy for one of his pictures, and he messaged me back, "You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar!" Read that again ... It's awesome!

Of course I was floored. I honestly never heard anything so nice, in addition to it being unexpected. I probably don't need to say it, since it's something you can obviously guess, but I've thought about his statement over and over ever since. Remember, this is a guy who's never actually met me in person, and somehow, some way, he was able to capture something of my essence and compliment me in such a great way.

Really, it affirms some of my own thoughts, even though, as they say, we're always our own worst critics. And it's true. I'm always getting on my own case about something. Maybe I left something undone, or I put off a needed task, or I let my usual perfectionism get in the way, blah blah blah. I'd love to be two separate people in those moments, at least split myself off temporarily, so I could kick my own ass. But then, whatever criticism I might offer myself, when it gets right down to it, I'm also an unabashed fan. I stand back and survey my accomplishments and think, "Good God, man, you've truly got it going on!"

But to have some other person like that, someone I complimented for a photo -- I think it was a colorful sunset, or maybe a rustic oak barrel snapped in black and white; it was something -- to just come right out and lump me together with two classes of extraordinary individuals, gentlemen and scholars, that's really quite an extraordinary honor.

Also, it actually came at a point in my life where I was feeling a little down. I have regrets about childhood. I was such a typical kid, playing outside, having a good time with friends, riding bikes, messing around at the creek, fishing, etc., that I didn't always have time for academics. Rather, I didn't take time. Looking back on it, I really wish I could've been a prodigy, like a kid they promote out of kindergarten straight to college. Brainy like that. That's a scholar!

So what was the problem? I guess the honest-to-God truth is I was very much a typical kid, with the average intelligence of a kid about my age. You could probably say I was even lagging behind where I should've been. In sixth grade I probably had the mentality of a fifth grader. Then in seventh, a sixth grader, etc. So about a year after graduation, I went, "Oh, that's what they meant in 12th grade." If I was a scholar, it was very much hidden, buried, a hidden potential.

As to being a gentleman, that was my upbringing. Saying goodbye to people when I left. Saying please and thank you when there was a pressing need, like when someone needed to get the hell out of my way and finally did. As I recall it, I always got high marks for being a gentlemanly boy, then teen, then young adult, then older adult, and now, as I am, standing at death's door. There's no reason to be a bad ass now!

OK, I thought you'd like to hear about the compliment I got. And if you have any other compliments for me -- like if you think I'm a third thing in addition to being a gentleman and a scholar, you can leave it in my comments. But what could it be? A gentleman, a scholar, a great blog writer, a friend to animals, a compassionate person to the down and out, a live wire, a coffee-lover, or all that and more!

How Easy Do Rabbit Heads Pull Off?

I have a bunch of rabbits in my yard. I see them everyday. They haven't been thinned out now for generations, meaning rabbit generations. Grandpa used to make traps for them, and we'd eat a lot of rabbit. But since his death, I have pretty much given up the old ways. Now I eat store-bought food, and I can't think of the last time the store had rabbit.

I used to go hunting for rabbits. Of course this was an activity that came from my grandpa and the other male members of the family. We'd get up bright and early, between September and February, and head out to the ditches in the country. You needed a .410 shotgun for rabbits. But you couldn't legally have your shotgun already put together in the car, so you needed to stop, get the gun pieces, put it together, and get it loaded, and hope, in all that time, that the rabbit wasn't already gone. Rabbits must be very dumb, because we'd still get lots of them.

As for the skinning of a rabbit, naturally it was the same whether you shot them or caught them in a trap. The first thing you do is pull their head off. And it's remarkable, but there's nothing easier in the world than pulling off a rabbit's head. You put it under your shoe or boot, holding it by the back legs, and pull. You don't even need to strain yourself, because their heads come off like they're held on by a single thread. Nothing easier. Maybe waving hi.

These days, to tell the truth, I hate killing anything. The other day I destroyed the appearance of an iPod player to rescue a gnat. That's how much I hate killing. Although, to be honest, I've killed a few bugs that have suddenly landed on me. It's just an instinctual reaction, happening just that quick, and didn't come from my considered judgment. A small spider was in the sink and I was very considerate of its well-being. But back then, we ate rabbits, squirrels, pheasants, turtles, raccoons, 'possums, and every variety of fish. I was raised by people who lived through the Depression. We ate dandelion plants from the yard! And it was all good, too...

That meant I'd personally get a rabbit every now and then. And it was actually not that disagreeable to pull off their heads. They're obviously designed to come off easily. God knew they'd be way down the food chain, so why give them good neck muscles? Connect them with the sinew equivalent of Scotch tape and be done with it. A rabbit gets up in the middle of the night for a midnight snack and trips over a rock ... whoops, lost his head!

I said that about God and the food chain. That might be the real story on rabbits' heads. But there's other critters down there with them, squirrels and fish come to mind, and their heads are on good and secure. I can't remember what we did with squirrels, but obviously their heads don't come off as easily as rabbits, because that's something I would remember.

Rabbits' heads are barely attached. We can go our whole lives without seeing another human decapitated. Not rabbits.

Criminals And The Finger Of Suspicion

I've been thinking a lot lately about crime.

I'm not myself a criminal, knowingly or actively. If I were, I wouldn't be writing about it, because I firmly believe the first rule of being a good criminal is to keep your mouth shut. But I do tend to think like a criminal, or how I imagine a criminal would think, since I used to think that if the Soviet Union ever took over the United States I would probably be part of the patriotic, though criminal, resistance. So I'm forever thinking, If this were Soviet-occupied America, how would I misbehave? It might be time to quit thinking like that except I have little actual control over what I think.

The biggest difference between now and when I first started thinking that way back in the '60s, other than there no longer being a Soviet Union, is the increase in surveillance technology. Back then a kid could easily imagine himself in a successful, ongoing resistance movement. I was very stealthy in my comings and goings. I was like a magician in my ability to divert people's attention and do all kinds of underhanded things while they were watching. But with surveillance technology being so much improved now, all they'd have to do is check the video and you're busted.

It seems like we used to talk about these things, too, me and other kids, unless it's just a dream I had. We would sabotage everything the Soviets were trying to do to us. And they'd never catch us, that's how good we'd be. But, alas, not now, with video and DNA, etc., the two biggest killers of anonymity. All they had back then was fingerprints. or turncoat eyewitnesses.

But what I'm thinking about today is crime pure and simple. How hard it is to be a criminal, or how hard it should be if everything's working. I've been reading the crime news in the paper. And it's astounding to me how many people persist in criminal activity, even though they're about guaranteed to be nailed these days. Yet, there they are. A few days ago it was this: A party of guys, four or five, went to the apartment of four other guys. One member of the visiting party was an acquaintance of one of the guys at the apartment. But still, even with this acquaintance, he (and they) robbed them and made their getaway. Is that dumb or what? Before morning they had one of the guys in custody, and I wouldn't want to be the other guys for anything! If you're going to be a criminal, dumb ass, there can't be anyone there who knows you!

I seriously think I would make a pretty good detective. Because I'm always thinking, "If the Soviets were here, etc., what kind of trail would I be leaving if I did this-or-that job?" And I frankly can't come up with the perfect crime! Because I'm running it through my mind, A B C, how they'd catch me. It's not just video at the crime scene; it's video at every point along the way, how they could easily trail you no matter where you went. Beyond that, of course, there's DNA. You drop a hair follicle and you're done for. And I'm taking into account hairnets, shaving my head, a complete body shave! You shave and there's bound to be at least one hair left on your clothes...

OK, if it were a matter of national security, sabotaging the Soviets, it'd be a small price to pay to give your life for the country. But to give your life to rob someone at their apartment when they know you? Not near as lofty!

But there are criminals who are a lot more cagey. Like guys who come from out of state, rob a bank, then immediately go to a different state. They've got the advantage of no one knowing them, and they're going where no one knows them. But they're still up against the same thing. The Soviets, or in this case the proper American authorities, have ways of dealing with them. Cameras, the ability to phone ahead to other police departments, profiling, and other forensic resources. Footprints, tire prints, torn jacket on barbed wire. It's not a good way to make a living! Let's say you get $50,000. Big damned deal! $50,000 is peanuts. If you go to prison for 20 years, you traded freedom for 2,500 bucks a year. You can easily find a job, even in today's tough job market, that would pay more than that. Crime is idiocy.