Tagged: poetry
Today Is the Definitive Day of Sadness for the United States of America
I feel sad.
It’s difficult not to brood or stew for the next several hours until the press conference.
I don’t join the “elder abuse” or “his family won’t let him” choruses.
I just feel sad.
As a child, all I wanted was to serve our great country, the greatest country the Earth had ever seen, bar none.
As a man, all I feel is sad.
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
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.
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.
At Bedtime, You Gotta Be Smarter Than The Toddler!
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.
The trick is having them lay in bed as soon as possible in the bedtime routine. That’s the trick.
I had been reading to them (the best possible thing imaginable). But we had been sitting on the floor together. Or almost together. Usually Bee-bop and Rock-steady would find their way around every corner of the room as if led by a bewitched divining rod while I read and beckoned them back to the fold. But the reading was happening and they even were memorizing the words in turns. So I was fine with it.
But then we would excitedly pray (Aaronic blessing from frame on the wall—“Favor, A-, not favorite”) and sing and then I would put them to bed. Finally, I have a little thing I say to them every night.
But if I left at this point, someone would get out of bed and the light would be on and playing would ensue.
Any parent knows this is enough to drive you crazy. Just GET IN BED!!
No more. Tonight I had a moment of clarity and put them in bed before the book. They both tried to sit up to see the pictures until…they got tired of maintaining that position. Then they laid until the page turn and then sat up and then laid down again after examining the picture.
Finally it was pray, say the thing, and then I sung any remaining pressing ideas to sleep.
Boom!
Lights out.
What an amazing dad I am. And not a moment too soon.
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.
I Present the Latest Sham Holiday: Mother’s Day
Christmas, especially in its commercial sense, is at least pure and focused. Mother’s Day, on the other hand, has become a sham entirely. Worse than Kwanza. Worse than Juneteenth. Worse than whatever the heck Easter is supposed to be.
At church today a very old “Dr.” lady gave the sermon. She talked about how hard the job of “mother” is. That is to say, she talked about how hard the job of “mother” used to be.
If you send your kids to daycare so you can go to work to pay for daycare, is that noble?
If you are so tired from this unnecessary job that you feed your kids processed food, junk food, and fast food on the regular, is that noble?
If you spend any leftover income from your job on TJ Maxx and Ross for yourself instead of, I don’t know, saving for future expenses, is that noble?
This poor old lady, dignified and noble as she was, was so out of touch that she described my mom, who finished up 20 years ago. But today’s “modern” moms? They look and sound nothing like my mom.
It’s disturbing. And it’s another example available for use when instructing children to not be slaves to the sound of words but to consider concrete context too.
Having a baby doesn’t making you a mother anymore than being female makes you a woman.
Funny thing is, I, one of the last men raised by a mother (and father), didn’t get my mom anything on this holiday. But I did buy some over-complimentary cards (from me and the kids) and pointless gifts for my wife. What a sham.
There is nothing outside the man which can defile him if it goes into him; but the things which proceed out of the man are what defile the man.
We Must Stop the Hype!!
I have a rule. Each day, I won’t read anything until I have read from the Bible.
On night shifts, I sometimes break this rule, but only in its relative sense. The calendar day might have changed, but if the morning is the end of my shift, then I think I can justify perusing whatever strikes my fancy without incurring divine wrath.
The calendar day, then, today started with one of my favorite things to read: eulogies. And not just any eulogies opened the day, this April 20th of 2024, but the ones about the victims of the Columbine school massacre. If you have never read them, you owe it to yourself to find them and read them. They are terrible. The parents, or writers or whoever, should be ashamed. Did these people even know they were parents before their kids were murdered? You wouldn’t think so if you only read the eulogies. Nearly every sentence, and the sentiments behind them, vie unceasingly for the award of “Worst Ever Written”, but one stands out. “Her mother, Dawn Anna, helped coach the team.” What? I’m so confused. Your kid has been murdered and you want the world to know something about you? Lady: you had maybe 8 sentences with which to pay tribute to your daughter and you used one to highlight that showed up to a couple cheer practices? What is wrong with you?
Anyhow.
That was the first thing I read. The next was the Bible, Exodus chapter 35. Exodus should really be called “Building Yahweh’s Tabernacle”, if books should be entitled with words that indicate the general content. But what do I know? This particular section is not exactly riveting material, but the idea of taking a contribution only from people who possess a willing heart is certainly a good balance and teacher to how local churches should talk about tithes and offerings. And I can happily report that the Black Baptists are of a mind with scripture, in their words at least. “…A cheerful giver…” is almost always the only encouragement/exhortation when the weekly collection is taken up. Don’t believe me? Then head to a service tomorrow and see for yourself. (“cheerful giver”)
Next, I read “1.3 Volume forces and surface forces acting on a fluid” or, rather, part of that section of G.K. Batchelor’s An Introduction to Fluid Dynamics. I picked this book up to investigate if it may contain information useful to my quest to more fully understand the area of my professional operation—the sky. Today’s reading had another benefit, being this part of a sentence, “…is of course –S(n,x,t)dA, and since this is also the force represented by S(-n,x,t)dA, we see that S must be an odd function of n.” (S = Sigma, which character my keyboard here doesn’t easily offer for use.) My step-son is working through algebra and here was a perfect example of the truth of the assertion, “Math is the language of science.” So I called him to tell him so. You can imagine for yourself how excited he was to be shown this.
Next on the reading list for today was Sir Isaac Newton’s Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, the section called “Scholium”. And it was amazing. I’ll just add here that the biggest lie you’ve ever believed is that science is hard. The actual inventors, Newton being King Inventor, necessarily make it easy to understand. Pick it up the next chance you have.
Then it was onto the essay The Art of Biography by Virginia Woolf. In it, she essentially announces that “biography” is neither fact, nor fiction, but something else entirely—and maybe the best thing.
Why do I share my readings of today with the blogosphere? Because I remember where I was as Columbine unfolded (at school myself, excitedly awaiting the final bell so I could go to work and then go see some new sci-fi movie, The Matrix, that was getting rave reviews) and I remember that people wanted me to believe the shooting was momentous and carried great import. And 25 years later, I know through and through with a certainty that is rarely found—they were wrong. No one cared then. No one cares now. The massacre should hardly have made the news. The eulogies should never make the news. It was a tragic, senseless crime. It was nothing more or less. Move on.
We must stop the hype!!
Why I Can’t Adopt MLK’s “Content of Character” Line
“Is that okay to say these days?”
“Probably not. To be sure, ‘No.’ But they’re my kids, and I like mulatto best. Haha.”
****
Mulatto has a certain clarity of meaning beyond just the fact that they are the product of me and their mom. Don’t you agree? Yes, it means white and black parents. But it also conveys, in 2024, “You’re kinda barking up the wrong tree already, stupid.”
Sure, I admit this is a bit harsh. And as such, I have not been using it exclusively. But my wife and I’s two kids garner enough attention, or I should say, my wife and I’s two kids’ hair garners enough attention that I needed something “full Pete” to say in response to all comers. In other words, I needed a line. But mulatto wasn’t cuttin’ it.
Naturally, MLK’s “not by the color of their skin” line is accurate, but as everyone has seen, it is also terribly ineffective. At the least, it is tired.
In having and using a “line”, I also am arming the two kids with their own “line”. Cuz, despite my general optimism in life and even my new line’s particular contribution to that hope, the problem ain’t going away. So I have been wanting to come up with something worthy of my progeny, for my progeny. And I have.
Again, they’re mulattos. Through and through. That is a fact. But while that word is funny to me and folks who know me well, it is unintelligible to Ethiopians and taboo to Yankees.
Here’s my solution. It starts with the fact that “mixed” is kinda en vogue. So, picture with me, say, a Home Depot parking lot. On a Sunday. Got it? Heavy foot and vehicle traffic. Sunny blue sky. Wind that negates low-talk.
I have J- in the cart, An- is at the car, and Ag- is about to help An- into her door when a dude, older, and a mix between homeless and Colorado Native, says to his partner—wife or fellow bum—and loud enough for all to hear, “Oh those are two beautiful babies.”
I smiled and thanked him politely.
Then he randomly re-appeared and continued as if never having left the area—but he and his companion had left—“I have some mixed grand-babies and they are just the most beautiful kids. You are lucky to have them grand-babies.”
I informed him, good-heartedly, that they were my own children, to his shock, and then he doted some more before leaving.
Mixed? Hmm. Mixed.
Eureka!
Next time, here’s my response.
“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”
****
That is my new Full Pete “line” and I believe it accomplishes everything I want it too and probably a teensy bit more at no additional charge. It has bite, but is not record-stopping like mulatto. It is at least as memorable as “content of character”, if not more so. And most importantly, it can carry the fire of truth forward into future generations.
Mixed?
We have to stop the nonsense, folks! Who’s with me?
“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”
Captain’s Log 