Tagged: philosophy
Reaction to a Couple Obituaries, to Include the First Ever (for this blog) Mildly Approved Sentiment
“(Person) loved his family and he spent his life in service of their welfare and happiness. Most recently, he found great joy in being a grandfather, investing an enormous amount of time and love doting on his dearest (two named grandsons). He also cared deeply for the larger community around him.”
– What is being hidden here? A “lifetime in service of their welfare and happiness”? That kind of lie can only mean bitter, bitter relationships and it also evinces a total misunderstanding of language. Sorry, it was rough being in his family folks, but a few words in the Sunday paper after he’s dead is not going to “manifest” anything pretty, let alone reach back into the past and fix the issues. And why is it wrong to pick out one or two people (from the billions) to love? Ever since whites learned the power of the phrase “black community”, they feel guilty if they don’t use part or all of it during supposedly momentous occasions. Just stop. We don’t live as members of some group which needs fancy and false descriptors any different than T-Rex or George Washington did.
****
Onto the first ever approved, if mildly, obituary assertion.
“He got a black lab puppy last year in April named Oslo. She was the best thing that had happen to him in quite some time. He never went anywhere without her, and they spent hours every day playing fetch with the tennis ball. He loved telling jokes and always had a smile on his face, despite away being described as grumpy ass sometimes.”
– What makes these sentiments worthy is they are fearless. Do you see? This dude lived a kinda shitty life (if a dog is the best thing to happen to you, then you’re having a “sour go”). I love the use of “tennis” to describe the ball—like anyone really cares what kind of ball it was. So quaint. I could do without the “ass”, and I wonder why no “air quotes” around “grumpy ass”, but the beauty is that whoever wrote this had some respect for the dead. I repeat: whoever wrote this respected this man. And the dead man obviously had threatened, or lived in a way which threatened, haunting whoever lied about him after his death.
So good work. This pairing of deceased and writer can teach us all a thing or two.
Reaction to Kiefer’s Sentiment About His Father’s Passing
Kiefer Sutherland said, “He loved what he did, and did what he loved. And one can never ask for more than that.”
I disagree. I can ask for far more than that.
I have felt bliss. I want instant bliss.
I want more time than I’m slated for, and when my body was twenty-one.
I want sane women.
I want a job that requires no concern about “pleasing people” or making people “happy”.
I want my daughter.
I want every human on earth to have discernment.
I want every human on earth to acknowledge and live according to their strength of memory and speed of thought.
I want pizza on a rotating schedule from all my favorite restaurants served at a place of my choosing as I feel, and new types coming out according to a timeline of my fancy.
I want to be adored.
I want to be listened to.
Back to the time thing; I want time enough to flesh out this post and have my afternoon coffee stay hot until I say so.
In short, Mr. Kiefer Sutherland, you’re wrong. No. Doing what you love or loving what you do, or both, is not all anyone can ask.
Instead of failing at sounding wise, please just tell us how you feel at the news that your father died. Or don’t.
People: we must do better at this death thing.
America’s Husband 2, Plus Bonus Coverage of Ongoing Kidnapped Daughter Drama
A constant dripping on a day of steady rain And a contentious woman are alike; He who would restrain her restrains the wind, And grasps oil with his right hand. -The Bible
“Sling a paddle with the next and starve as contentedly as Job. Go for’ard when the sloop’s nose was more often under than not, and take in sail like a man. Went prospecting once, up Teslin way, past Surprise Lake and the Little Yellow-Head. Grub gave out, and we ate the dogs. Dogs gave out, and we ate harnesses, moccasins, and furs. Never a whimper; never a pick-me-up-and-carry-me. Before we went she said to look out for grub, but when it happened, never a I-told-you-so.” -Jack London
Holy Writ accounts for the italics para about nagging wives. But what can be said about Jack London’s fantasy blurb from his short “Siwash”? Is it not the Proverb we all believe to be the Word of God simply put in the positive?
In the ongoing arguments with the wife, I throw out, “Why doesn’t scripture warn wives about nagging husbands? Did the LORD forget that? Is it because he is sexist? I think there are more difficult issue within Scripture than what it would mean to suggest that maybe He legitimately forgot. I’d run with that.
In any case, it’s a conundrum to nagging Christian wives.
****
I have mentioned that nearly everything reminds me of my kidnapped daughter. Well, this summer I’m back in Colorado. Trying to get back into regular contact with H- was primary goal, but others include the mountains. As such, I have been doing inventory on the camping gear as A-, J-, and I are going to hit the campgrounds soon. In so doing, I discovered—of all things—toothbrushes and toothpaste from the last time I went camping. And that would’ve been with H- some 6+ years ago. Sad.
Anyhow, the other kids and I are having our own fun in the mountains and I can only hope suicidal social media and general neglect isn’t taking it’s toll on H- as she is taught about how to normalize darkness by her mother. I only know she is alive because she hangs up rather than lets the calls ring through to vm. I probably should be grateful.
Here I just want to capture one undeniable fact: as her dad, I never did, have, or would’ve kept H- from her mother.
I feel shitty on the regular because I know I should’ve never married H-’s mom. It’s not a good feeling. But what to do? Best I can come up with is try to warn others.
Boys: Don’t marry whores. Just don’t do it. Nothing to do with scripture. Not talking true love waits. Just don’t marry whores. Take it from ol’ Pete.
Point/Counterpoint: Will the Influx of Africans to the West Work? (2)
Counterpoint: Yes.
Recall that by work we mean “rule of law” is retained. And by fail we mean “might makes right” resumes.
In response to the naysayers who think that the cultures are just too different, that it’s a bridge too far, I say, “But I am part of the welcoming committee.”
The reason this fact (my participation) gives me hope is that my number one American quality (important as America is leader of the West) is laughing while calling out BS, no matter the consequences.
And the only way forward is within the realm of the “Truth”. And one key element of “truth” (I’m teaching here—pay attention Africans) is you gotta be able to laugh at your own mistakes.
At least all you Pente have heard that love does not brag?
Was that meant only for the White Devil?
No, the answer is, “No, it was not.”
So it’s time to get over yourselves.
Are you unsure how to admit weakness and save face at the same time?
The West knows the fix. Laugh about it. Then hit the books.
Point/Counterpoint: Will the Influx of Africans to the West Work?
Today I’ll start with point.
****
Point: It will not work.
By work, of course, we mean “rule of law” holding.
By fail, of course, we mean “might makes right” resuming.
One immediate reason we are on the way back to “might makes right” can be understood by a brief one-liner.
The joke isn’t funny if you have to explain it.
America’s Husband
My wife doesn’t listen to me, so I think it’s time to offer my services more generally.
First, because it happened merely moments ago, wives and mothers of our great nation: you do not get to leave for your shitty job (whose money we don’t need) and have some soft “miss you” moment with the kids. That’s for the actually poor (not just the envious) and/or the single mothers who have a job or three because they don’t want their precious little babies pregnant at 16 too.
Next, we need to talk about envy. Yeah, yeah. The Ten Commandments forbid envy. But it was uninspired men who clarified the problem with envy. The problem is not what happens on the inside of the envious. Envy is a problem because of what the envious do as their life’s main work: sabotage.
Case in point: a wife/mother who works a shitty, low-paying job when she doesn’t have to and uses the money to keep up with the Kardashians and mega church wives. This isn’t about money. It isn’t about control. It is envy. She suffers from envy and is sabotaging the entire family—her own children most importantly.
There’s something else, you terrible wives and mothers of America. Take a first aid course. Or join Scouts. But you need to do something to stop the incessant and melodramatic overreacting to childhood.
Proceed at your own risk, reader. What you are about to read is true and terrifying.
****
So I hear J- screaming. Ag- and An- are both upstairs with him. I had just told An- to shut the bathroom door and it soon became clear that she didn’t watch out for J-’s fingers.
Next thing I know, my wife is running up the stairs as if it’s D-Day and someone just called “Corman!!”
I sat at the table, shaking my head and dreading this totally unnecessary scene.
A moment later and J- is still crying. My wife is now frantic.
I can’t completely suppress my humanity, and I am curious if there is about to be some blood or a clearly distorted digit.
I finally see the boy’s hand as my wife carries him down the stairs and into view and it is…completely normal looking.
He is still crying.
My wife has now grabbed some ice from the freezer and is trying to apply it to his hand.
J- is not having it. He is constantly ripping himself from her grip and every time the slower-moving particles approach his hand, he shrieks louder as only toddlers are wont to do.
Next, (when will it end, I wonder?) my wife grabs a towel and tries again with the ice, this time, though, insulated by a grimy kitchen towel.
From upstairs, to the kitchen table, and now the stairs, J- is holding his ground. Rather, he is running the show and displaying a sinewy—if still covered in baby fat—wile that impresses even me. Given the situation, I am compelled to believe it comes from his man-mind.
“Where is your instinct, woman?!” I finally erupt. “He doesn’t want the ice. He isn’t hurt. Why would you keep fighting against him?”
Catechizing rabbits.
“How about this? I’ll stop if you can answer a question. What does ice do?”
Crickets.
“J-.”
The boy stops crying (face is still a slobbery mix of tears and snot and spit) at the sound of reason and calm.
“J- just go downstairs and play.”
He turns.
“Or if you want to go upstairs and play with your trains, that’s fine too.”
He chooses trains and heads up the stairs, hands and feet in action.
Pause the story here and ask yourself, “Why would the mother not worship her husband and the father at this point?”
Back to the story.
“Nag nag nag.” (I honestly don’t remember what she said.)
“What does the ice do?”
And now, as typical, she believes I am belittling her in front of the kids and fires off on that accord.
I turn to A- (who had apparently taken a seat beside me at the table to enjoy the show) and say, “Ice reduces swelling.”
A- turns to her mom and begins, “Momma, ic-.”
I stop her. “No, A-. I am teaching you.”
****
What, wives, in the hell are you thinking ice does? You saw some doctor use it once? Does it cure COVID?
In short, my beloveds, I will not feel bad for being aware that you can somehow look past a screaming child in order to apply, what to you, is merely an old wives’ tale remedy to a non-injury.
Hotness
I mentioned that I have a little thing I say to the toddlers every night before bed. I want to use that fact to expand on a larger concept—perhaps the largest concept of them all—understanding.
My estranged daughter, H- (now 14), from the old days of mostly happy-go-lucky blogging, asked if I could have her half-siblings say something different before bed than the routine we had. I agreed—you know, ‘cuz children are so gentle. After all, as a divorced dad with limited parenting time because I have a job unlike her worthless mother, I wouldn’t want to do anything would’ve caused H- to stop talking to me.
Anyhow, here’s what I came up with instead of the Boy Scout Law and Apostle’s Creed. It’s far simpler and more focused. I simply started saying, “Everyone goes to sleep the same way. Big people and little people. Tall people and short people. Fat people and skinny people. Old people and young people. Beautiful people and ugly people. They all go to sleep the same way. They lay down and close their eyes.”
Pretty great, eh?
Of course I have developed little flourishes here and there—because I can’t help but want the kids to laugh.
Here’s the kicker. At some point I started asking, “Do you wanna know something?” And then A- would excitedly answer in kind. And soon she knew it wasn’t some new fact or whatever she had imagined the first few times, but just the intro to the thing.
Well, that got old quickly, so recently, and because I judged she could handle it after seeing how she seems to understand certain types of humor, I started connecting the litany to some earlier part of the concluding day. Maybe, “Did I tell you want I saw on a sign today?” Or, “Do you remember that funny looking man? Do you known what he told me today?”
And you know what? She understands. I know she understands because she no longer is parroting anything, but considers context and then chuckles—and get this—even though she knows the event mentioned never happened, she knows what is next.
In contradistinction to this (I’ve written about this before) I have witnessed—been horrified to learn—that it is possible to simply parrot. Folks acquire some sort of skill to get what they want, but they have no understanding. In a sense, they simply bully their way through life.
How does it work, Pete?
Good question.
Just like the bird. The person repeats whatever phrase they have noticed through trial and error achieves the goal. But try to talk to the person or ask them a question, and, as I think Thoreau or Emerson said of the Injuns, “It’s like catechizing rabbits.”
Where does “hotness” fit in? I am hot today. Every Sunday home I am hot.
Why Sundays? Because on Sundays, church day, the fullness of the lack of understanding comes to a point.
Blended families are terribly difficult—maybe completely impossible. But ones in which there are members who constantly illustrate their absolute lack of understanding may just be the dumbest idea mankind has ever allowed.
One family going to separate churches Sunday mornings not only breaks every understanding of “family” to pieces, but everything that family is responsible for—which is everything.
Reaction Post to Lines/Phrases from Today’s Obituaries
“In lieu of flowers, please donate to the charity of your choice.”
– I honestly don’t know which use of money is more worthless these days.
Keywords from one poor lady’s obituary: active member, served, nearly every way possible, invested, (another) active, zest, dedication to social justice, quality time.
– Way to sh!t on regular members (the rest of us) and whatever other type of time (god) there is.
One poor man’s: loved to be social, never met a stranger, always smiling and laughing.
– impossible
Another poor lady’s: enjoyed motorcycling, skiing, traveling, camping and boating in Puget Sound.
– she enjoyed all that only in Puget Sound? Or just the boating?
Lady: married a GM designer, raised her family, always involved with her church and in the community, excellent seamstress, creative and enthusiastic spirit.
– been a Ford guy myself (Hyundai and Toyota too), what is a seamstress in our day? Is it racist?
Lady: teacher at heart, loved volunteering in special education classes
– we can stop right there. This lady (or the writer) was a topper. How can I possibly compete with someone who loves working with specials?
Lady: (be sitting) married x in ‘68 and divorced in ‘99 and she remained single and happy until her passing, greatest love was her dogs, expert roller skater, fantastic seamstress, gifted mathematics student, donate her remains, and [she] would love it if you…
– was she not happy during the marriage? Or was she always happy, no matter her marital status? Dogs? No wonder she got dumped. I need specifics to further qualify skating ability claim, ie what age? What is a seamstress? We talking pre-Independence home-spun? She still getting kickbacks from body donation business? Why is that relevant? Lastly, do not, I mean never, talk to me like I am a child.
Christian, You’re Wrong About the Rainbow Flag. It Is Wholly the Alphabet Mafia’s Symbol. Let Them Display it Proudly.
I put My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a sign of a covenant between Me and the earth. And it will be, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow will be seen in the cloud…
So the bow shall be in the cloud, and I will look upon it, to remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.
(The above should be thought of as “axioms” or “definitions”.)
What is most curious, to an Eagle Scout/combat veteran’s mind like mine, is the use of the word “bow”. It really drives home how early man was always struggling to find analogy for their language. They saw in the sky something new and in the shape of, well, what object would ancient man have had to analogize from? The shape of…hmm. Oh, I know. It looks like the bow and arrow’s bow! Perfect.
But more importantly, for you, Christian, is that nowhere is fabric or any tangible good mentioned.
If this doesn’t add divine peace to your life, something is wrong with you and you should use this moment to align yourself with some truth.
The Living God is not messing around, nor ever has, with his creation or his plan.
If you see a bow in the sky, like an archery bow, then be thankful that Yahweh is God (and a faithful one at that), and not some other punk deity.
If you see a colorful flag, then…do whatever conscience dictates. It really doesn’t matter and shouldn’t disturb you.
Analysis of the Golfer’s Parent’s Note
The note:
“We have so many questions that have no answers. But one. Was Grayson loved? The answer is yes. By us, his brother Cameron, his sister Erica, all of his extended family, by his friends, by his fellow players and – it seems – by many of you who are reading this. He was loved and he will be missed. Life wasn’t always easy for Grayson, and although he took his own life, we know he rests peacefully now.”
My analysis:
What’s the rush? I have been saying for years now that nearly all post-death comments are ridiculous and unsatisfactory and insufficient. And yet(!) everyone always feels the heat and thinks that they need to say something—and quick!
So he committed suicide. Share that, no problem. But share only that.
But if you are going to be poetic, then commit.
“…that have no answers.” Oooo. So well-written.
“…but one…” Oooo. So provocative.
Are you dying to know what that one question is? Isn’t their rhetorical tool-bag just brimming? And don’t you know that they could’ve used other devices here too? Eh, eh, eh?
Umm, no. Fail on both accounts.
I would’ve never thought, “Was Grayson loved?” was the one question that we can know the answer to. Never. His eternal resting place is more provable and tenable and defensible than whether he was loved.
The remaining words before the second thing they “know” (I forget; was it one or two answerable questions?) are so self-serving I will roll over in my grave when I get there, in support of poor Grayson.
Using the spotlight to rattle off the names of everyone who couldn’t possibly have had a hand in creating the darkness? It’s sickening.
Maybe I am wrong. Maybe that wasn’t their point. Maybe they just wanted to use the occasion to introduce themselves to the world. (Wwwwwhich would be worse, of course.)
Then the second (if unnumbered) known. “He rests peacefully.”
Hmm. Sure. Tell yourself that. And then repeat it to us. And then use our well-bred social tact, which prevents us from arguing the point, to confirm its truth. In fact, I think that is the exact recipe for knowing a lie about the afterlife from a truth about the afterlife. Or at least Paul of Tarsus indicates as much, doesn’t he?
Or not.
For me, I had a sociology class in high school which required us to write our own obituary. That was probably my first introduction to the concept. Second was flight training. Third was combat. Fourth was reading the Columbine things. Fifth and most impactful was when the University of Utah student was murdered during the #MeToo heyday and her professor parents described her in the most embarrassing manner available to people with such enormous vocabularies.
After that one I wrote what I wanted any note about me to say and sent it to my mom. (Probably should send to others as well. She’s no spring chicken these days.)
Do I expect her to actually use the words? Hell, yes! If she knows what is good for her she will.
But even if she doesn’t, it has led to some good conversations and I like conversations.
As someone who has worked around death for most of his adult life, I want to share a little secret with you, dear reader. Death is no accident. It is not a mistake. It is not correctable. It is not a glitch in the matrix. We die. All of us. One by one by one by one.
What is an accident, what is a mistake, what is correctable, and what is a glitch is lying. Furthermore, I would go so far as to say “not speaking from the heart” in the time of death counts as lying too.
Was Grayson loved? Hard to say. We seem to think love is stronger than everything, and is the very light that keeps the darkness away. But of course no one would admit they don’t participate in love. Why didn’t the light work, then?
Is Grayson at peace? Well, that depends on many variables—even if we have direct evidence of his belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of the Living God. While not en vogue, I still put my money on the idea that most people think the after-effects of suicide on the soul are not pleasant. But maybe that’s just me.
To be clear: if you’re a parent or spouse or child of someone who dies, and if you want to say something, take your time. There is no rush. But know that you can screw it up. And you should want to avoid screwing it up. You pretty much only get one chance at it.
For all you naysayers out there, after a mere three more days than his parents had, here is what I came up.
****
Grayson killed himself. No one knows what that feels like—don’t be fooled.
We are sad. And we are confused.
Captain’s Log 