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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Monthly Archives: April 2020

Comes the Reign

29 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

America, coronavirus, COVID19, Democracy, life, pandemic, politics, treachery, treason, truth, USA

photo of water drops on glass

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The rain has continued nearly unabated for an unknown interval — perhaps only days, probably weeks, possibly years. Even continuous rain might be more bearable. Pitter patter, pitter patter, but not of little feet. 

No. 

Cruelly, there is the slight hint of cessation, a suggestion of passing clouds and possible sunshine. But none of these promises comes to fruition.

Pitter patter. Pitter patter. But not of little feet.

The cottage is seeped with dampness. The rose petals all have fallen. Nettles and thorns clamor at the windows asking for entry, if not for themselves, then surely for their insect pals. 

man holding umbrella

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Rugs, clothing, mattresses feel damp to the touch; smell of mold and decay.  In the distance, one hears rumblings and senses the blue flash. Between these punctuated blasts, the ever-present murmuring of pattering raindrops like a multitude of questioning voices.

Pitter patter, pitter patter, but not of little feet.

“How did this come to be?” they seem to say. 

“Once, we were a sunny land, a happy band.” Two tall trees toppled, it’s true, but brave deeds followed. And, still the land prospered. But not all deeds in those dark and dreadful days were brave. Oh, no. A few ignoble kings saw not tragedy but opportunity. Opportunity knocks but several times. One must jump at the chances. Take the bull by the horns and consolidate one’s power!  

police army commando special task force

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Pitter patter, pitter patter. But not of little feet. Soldiers in the distance, row on row.

If one has power, does not one have the responsibility to make that power everlasting and absolute? 

Pitter patter, pitter patter, all the while the golden glitter glows;

Distracts us from what we know; the arctic blow.

Riders rode through the range: “dissent is disastrous treason!”  Many mechanical minions made waves, intimidated, fooled, lied, and finally brought Mordor itself to the American shores, the American way of life, the fabric of our once-bright country that yet could be again, melted in the rain.  

two soldiers standing on road

Photo by Thang Cao on Pexels.com

The twisted cross of hate

Raised like a toast to celebrate

Our own lobotomy

Courtesy of the false dichotomy.

Pitter patter, pitter patter, but not of innocent feet.
Trample clatter, trample clatter.

action aim armed army

Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

This is the way Democracy dies.
This is the way Democracy dies. 

This is the way Democracy dies.
Not with a bang but a wimp-out.  

silhouette and grayscale photography of man standing under the rain

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 Citizen Soldiers, Part One

Citizen Soldiers, Part Two

Citizen Soldiers, Part Three

Claude, the Radioman

Trumpism is a new Religion

You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: The Game

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-academic 

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: OOPS!

29 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, management, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, Design, Feedback, pandemic, politics, systems thinking, testing, truth

 

sunset skyline boston dusk

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OOPS!  

The basement in the rented Woburn house was not particularly pleasant. Cold, damp, and dark, there were only four small basement windows and even these were cluttered with spider webs. One day, in order to try to make the place marginally more usable for my three small kids, I removed all the spider webs. The next day, the basement was swarming with hornets! 

OOPS! 

We had an oil burning furnace in that basement. The landlord cautioned me before we even rented it, that a pair of knobs should be used to make sure that the water level in glass vial be kept between two marks. This gauge looked like the gauge in a level.

I glanced at the gauge every so often. Initially, I checked it every day or so. But the level never moved. So, I began checking it every week. But it still never moved. It never seemed to move for two years. One day, I glanced at it, and to my horror, the gauge was almost completely empty. 

OOPS! 

Now, I was faced with a dilemma. Which of these two knobs was I supposed to turn? There were no labels. There hadn’t been any when I rented the property. Of course, I should have asked the owner more questions during the walk-through. And, then I should have immediately made my own labels. But I hadn’t. 

OOPS! 

I could not recall which knob would cause the fluid level to rise. I decided to try it. I just opened it a little bit. Nothing. I watched closely. I waited. Nothing. As in the illustration above, there were no marks either on the knobs or on metal behind them. So, I wanted to return the first knob to its initial position. But in my hurry to “fix” the problem, it hadn’t occurred to me to put a little mark on the knob and the background so that I would at least be able to return it to the original position. 

OOPS! 

Well, okay but it was too late for that now. I waited. Nothing. I turned the first knob back to where I thought it was. The glass was still nearly empty. Was it slightly less empty than it had been? Or was it slightly more empty? I wasn’t really sure. I should have also marked the level very carefully. I didn’t. 

OOPS! 

So, the glass tube was nearly empty. I did definitely remember that I had been told this was a very dangerous situation! I had tried one knob and it hadn’t seem to do anything. I decided to try the other knob. I turned it a little. Nothing. I waited. Nothing. At this point, the sweat was pouring down the inside of my undershirt. I wasn’t really clear what might happen if I failed. Could the boiler actually blow up? Could it cause a fire? Or would I be lucky and it would just ruin the furnace? 

I opened the second knob a bit farther. Nothing. I waited. I opened it a bit farther. Nothing. I opened it a bit farther. Nothing. 

Then, suddenly, the vial began to fill. Rapidly! Too rapidly! I quickly turned the second knob back to what I hoped had been its original position. The vial was still filling. Try as I might, I could not get the vial to stop filling! 

 

Bang!! 

OOPS!

The glass vial had broken. Luckily I had not been hit by the flying glass. I turned off the furnace and called the owner. Eventually, it was fixed. In a few months, we moved to Westchester, New York. 

Perhaps few people have had the exact experience I had with an oil burner, but I suspect almost everyone has travelled to a new place on vacation or a business trip or visiting a friend and decided to take a shower at some point. (Think back to the pre-pandemic days). 

If you are in most bathrooms for the first time, you really have no idea how to arrange the knobs for a reasonable shower temperature. If you move the knob(s) and feel the change almost immediately, you can quickly arrange things so that you have a comfortable shower. In some houses or hotels, however, if you move the knob, there is a significant delay before you feel any change in the water temperature. You might arrange it so the water is perfect. You get in the shower, and you get your self soapy and …

OOPS! 

You are suddenly being boiled alive! So, you step out of the scalding water, and drip water all over the floor and go back round to the controls and turn the knobs until it feels comfortable again. You’ve learned your lesson. So you wait. Still comfy. Good. In you go. Ah, feels nice…

OOPS! 

Suddenly you are being sprayed with ice water! 

Think back and you’ve quite likely experienced something like this. If the feedback is delayed a bit, it makes it harder to adjust things. And, if the feedback for your actions is delayed a lot, it makes the adjustment very difficult indeed. Of course, if you have experience with that particular system or you have a decent model of how the system works, then, you can do a much more reasonable job of adjustment. 

Guess what? This is one of the factors that makes “opening the economy back up” extremely hard to do safely. I didn’t say “impossible” but very difficult. If you decrease social distancing regulations and people respond to those regulations by doing precisely as you’ve directed, it will be at least a week before you have reliable feedback about whether your actions have been too little lifting of restrictions, just right, too much or way too much. (It’s quite possible the “Goldilocks Zone” between surging cases way beyond hospital capacity and destroying the economy is very narrow).  

And, now let’s imagine that you are one of those politicians who looks at the data and immediately realizes and admits that you opened things up way too much. You retrench. You close things down. Once again, there will be a delay before the rate of new infections, new hospitalizations, and deaths starts to decline again. Meanwhile, even if you, the mayor or governor is wise enough to savvy to the delayed feedback, many of your constituents will not be. 

“What do you mean, you’re closing back down!!? You just opened up two weeks ago! I brought everybody back, assured my customers it was fine, bought all this inventory — and you shut me down!? Now, I’ve been shut down a week and so what? The cases keep going up anyway. Your order is bullshit and has no impact!” 

If you bow to that pressure, it will be a disaster. 

OOPS! 

If you are a mayor governor, you also need to realize that your orders themselves have zero impact on the pandemic. What does matter, but which is influenced by your orders, is actual behavior. It may seem an obvious point, but it seems to be overlooked. If for example, you have been honest and open with the public, other things being equal, you will get greater compliance and faster compliance. If you have not been honest, on the other hand, you will get  (other things being equal) less complete compliance and slower compliance. As leader, the feedback between what you do and what you see in terms of cases will take a least a week just based on the nature of the disease. But there may also be additional time lag because of the fact that people will not all comply. It would be really good to have measures in place of aggregate compliance in order to understand what is really happening. 

Sadly, COVID19 is worse — much worse — in this regard than the shower example. I don’t just mean that the outcome is potentially worse than an uncomfortable shower. It is, obviously. What I mean is that the other examples, though they had delay, were (at least till I got in the loop) basically linear systems.

Spread of contagious diseases is nothing like that! 

It is exponential growth. Exponential growth can be explosive growth. 

You may recall from your high school days, that rabbits were introduced to Australia and for a time bred for food. At some point, they began to undergo a population explosion and became serious pests for Australia. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbits_in_Australia

You might find this paragraph of particular interest: 

“The population explosion was ascribed to the disappearance of native predators, but the emergence of a hardier breed by natural selection has subsequently been attributed to their spread.” — op. cit. (4/28/2020)

 

Awkwardly worded, but I take it to mean that one of the effects of exponential growth is that it can result in hardier breeds. I suppose that the hardier breeds also help foster that exponential growth. A resurgent pandemic also means an explosion — not just in the number of humans who are affected — it also means an explosion in the number of COVID19 viruses on the planet. Therefore, there is a much greater population from which adaptive mutations of various kinds can arise.

There is already evidence that COVID19 has evolved and now exists in different strains. Some strains may be more virulent than others. The degree of cross-strain immunity is as yet unknown. (Update?)

OOPS!

Imagine you live in a straw house. It’s actually pretty comfortable most of the time. But one night it gets really cold, so you decide to start a fire for warmth. Of course, you realize that your house is straw so you aim to be very very careful. And you are. And, then two sparks from your fire spew out in two different directions and set your entire house on fire. Of course, you do your best to put it out. But you don’t. It got away from you. 

OOPS!

——————————————-

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life!

Citizen Soldiers. 

Parametric Recipes and American Democracy

Essays on America: The Game

Author Page on Amazon

Myths of the Veritas: Books

26 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bullying, Democracy, ecology, empathy, ethics, fiction, greed, harmony, history, leadership, legends, lying, myth, politics, power, science, truth

snow covered mountain under blue sky

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Fleet of Foot took a deep breath. The air still held a bit of chill. In this place, the sun had difficulty finding and warming the land. He enjoyed the chill but also enjoyed the warmth when if finally came. He wondered how these Veritas who lived beyond the Twin Peaks regarded him and his companions. 

He realized that, whereas the Veritas who lived near the Forgotten Field of Flowers had had many interactions with a number of different tribes within living memory, the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks had had only three such “interactions” in memory and all had been disastrous raids where children had been stolen and taken off on horseback before a reasonable defense could be mounted. Of course, they had tried to track down The People Who Steal Children, but such tracks had led to a solid wall of rock that none could penetrate. Others, including the parents of Cat Eyes, Of the Night and Gathers Acorns, had attempted to cross the treacherous melting glaciers. None had returned. 

Fleet of Foot looked over at Cat Eyes who sat in a circle with a dozen of her kin and they pored over some of the mysterious markings. The strange pupils of Cat Eyes had made her immediately recognizable to everyone here except the young children. This had no doubt played a part in their easy acceptance of Cat Eyes though the lucky accident — if that’s what it was — of her fulfilling a prophesy — made what would have been acceptance and rejoicing into something more — something like the reverence that everyone in his own land felt for She Who Saves Many Lives. And yet, Cat Eyes was so much younger. He watched her — she seemed so at home with everyone here. Fleet of Foot remembered his former friends ALT-R and POND MUD. They — or at least ALT-R would have used the good feeling to gain power or wangle extra portions of delicacies. But this was not the nature of Cat Eyes. She got along with everyone of every age. Most of those in the circle were young but everyone was interested in the decoding. 

MythofVeritas-2-1

It was important work in the eyes of these Veritas who lived beyond the Twin Peaks. Even Gentle Talons sat sometimes in the circle learning the keys to understanding the markings and then, taking one of the collections and trying to make sense of it. It was a halting and laborious process. There were so many to decode! Each one was like a precious jewel. Each one sparkled and reflected a new light on what was all about them. Some told of medicines that had been forgotten. Some told of strange mythologies about the earth and the stars and the sky wanderers. Some described impossible creatures, both humorous and terrible; both gigantic and some so small one could not even see them! 

Each day, the Veritas learned something. And each day was pleasant. Yet, each and every day, Fleet of Foot felt a stronger and stronger tug to return to his own home. Trunk of Tree had begun to insist that they return days ago. He felt that they had accomplished their mission and learned much besides. Fleet of Foot looked up and saw that Trunk of Tree strode toward him. Fleet of Foot sighed. For he knew that Trunk of Tree was about to argue, yet again, that they should return with their news to the Center Place of the Veritas. 

“Good morning, Fleet of Foot. See yonder Cat Eyes. She has found her home. That seems clear. What of us? Our home is also beautiful. Let us arrange to go. Leave her here. Let’s get back. We can’t take all those … things … with us!” 

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He gestured toward the cliffs where most of these strange boxes of knowledge were still among the many unexplored shelves. Maybe we could take a few. Maybe some of these Veritas will want to accompany us. But we need to get back! We have no idea what Eagle Eyes and Shadow Walker have found. We have no idea whether — even now — our Center Place may be under attack with Killing Sticks. We’re well rested. These Veritas have no Killing Sticks. What use are they? Let’s go.” 

Fleet of Foot sighed. He felt much as Trunk of Tree felt. He worried about the Center Place. Yet, the decoding work seemed very important as well. It was as though — it was a kind of magic. Cat Eyes and those she had taught were discovering things — some ridiculous of course, like the fish with eight arms and a beak who lives in a giant lake or large birds who cannot fly and little bugs so small they cannot be seen but still make people sick. Or the notions about the sky wanderers and the sun. Absurd, but still interesting. 

selective focus photography of octopus

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Yet other things seemed very useful: medicines, ways to prepare foods, a description of a way to lengthen one’s arm with a stick in order to throw a spear faster and farther. No-one had been successful at actually making such a device though. Perhaps it was also fanciful. Why would
“The Ancients” mix together so many fanciful things with useful information? It’s a mystery. 

Fleet of Foot nodded to Trunk of Tree. “There is much truth in what you say, Trunk of Tree. I too am eager to return. I suppose — I am not entirely convinced that the tunnel will even work. It was too … it seems now more like a dream I had than a reality. Somehow, I too worry about the Center Place. Perhaps most of us should return now. Let’s see how the others feel.” 

“Why? Many Paths made me the leader. I don’t see why you keep thinking I should see how the others feel.” 

Fleet of Foot sighed and looked at Trunk of Tree. “I know you don’t, Trunk of Tree. I have some trouble to explain it. If we all understand how each of us feels, then, when something happens we can work together better. We don’t have to stop in the middle of an emergency and have a discussion when there is no time for a discussion. Each person knows — or at least makes a good guess — about how every other person will react.” 

“If everyone would just follow my orders, we would all know too. Because everyone would follow my orders. If we did that….” Trunk of Tree gestured with his open hands but added no words of clarification.

pile of stones

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“If we did that we would still be stuck in the tunnel. In fact, if we did that, we wouldn’t have even found the tunnel. Do you really want to decide for others whether they should go or stay? How might you make such a decision without talking with them?” 

“I know it’s important that we go back. We have information that we came to get. And, it may be important. And, you just said you feel the same way. Let’s just go! Come on Fleet of Foot.” 

“I think most will agree with you, but let’s hear their voices. Yes, we have learned some important things, but every day that Cat Eyes works with those — cousins of hers, we learn more about the world that we never knew.” 

“And we learn nonsense as well! What use it is to think about — the other day, I overheard Cat Eyes and her friends talking about a lake that is so large you cannot see across it! What nonsense. And, it tastes like salt. And, it has waves as high as a tree. What use are such ramblings. These things do not exist. I don’t believe any of it when there is so much that…now what?” 

There was commotion around the small circle of cousins. They all seemed to be talking at once. A small crowd was gathering around the circle and adding to the general commotion. As the crowd grew, others began to pause in their tasks and walk over to see what was happening. At last, Gentle Talons came over and used his not inconsiderable voice to quiet the crowd. 

“Please. Please! One at a time. What is all this ado about?” He looked directly at Cat Eyes, somewhat accusingly, somewhat wonderingly. 

closeup photo of book filed on shelf

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“Oh, Gentle Talons, we have been decoding this book — for that is what they are called — all of them are called “books” — this book is called The Book of Civilizations. And it … it says that all of this — she gestured with both her arms, palms up, to sweep in the entire excavated cave was made by an ancient people…that there have been many great gatherings of people. Such people learned many things and had comfortable lives. And they had many wondrous things. They explored everywhere and learned much.” 

It became clear that Cat Eyes, for some strange reason, was having trouble speaking. She was swallowing hard, holding back tears. 

The booming voice of Gentle Talons rang out, “Please, sister, continue. What? Where are these civilizations?” 

Trunk of Tree and Fleet of Foot had walked over to watch more closely. Fleet of Foot craned his neck and wedged his way forward to look more closely upon the face of Cat Eyes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. What is going on, he wondered. How can mere … markings on the page cause such pain? Books? She had called them books? But how can they cause tears? He forced his way into the circle and took the hands of Cat Eyes, holding them gently in her own. 

“What is it? What’s wrong, Cat Eyes? Why do these tears flow on your cheeks? What strange magic is in these — books?” 

gray concrete building on top of hill

Photo by Suliman Sallehi on Pexels.com

Cat Eyes squeezed the hands of Fleet of Foot and drew strength from them. She took several deep breaths and continued. “This book — this book tells of many wondrous civilizations. They used wisdom and experience much as we ourselves do. They learned from each other. They loved each other. They ensured that they had enough food and yet … each of them … each of these ancient peoples … destroyed themselves. But it’s worse than that. The destroyed themselves through greed and hubris. They sought to … they knew about the Myth of the Orange Man. They knew that lying and greed destroyed other, earlier peoples. And, yet, each time, they stopped … they stopped being kin and part of nature. They knew that greed had killed other civilizations before them.” Cat Eyes shook her head and sighed before continuing on.

“Yet, each new civilization thought — somehow — it would be different for them. Of course, it was not different. Lies and greed and putting power over truth destroyed every single one of them. The story seems so real. But — how can it be? How could people know such greed and lies led to so much death and destruction and yet — they did it over and over again? According to this….” Cat Eyes stopped. She shook her head. She gulped and slowed her breathing.

At last, she was able to continue. “According to this book, there are much worse weapons than Killing Sticks. And they have been used to destroy untold numbers of people. And, after the greedy take everything and kill everyone, they die too! Because — in all their greed, they forgot how to live without stealing from others. And this didn’t happen just once. It’s happened over and over. How can this be? It can’t be true.” 

history ancient peru south america

Photo by Amanda Kerr on Pexels.com

All had heard her words. And all reflected silently upon them. 

After some moments, Cat Eyes continued. “It can’t be true. And yet — I think it is — the book says that after a time, the greedy people begin to believe exactly that — that it cannot be true — and so — they make the same exact mistakes again. And again. And again. It seems impossible and yet…where are they? Where are the people who made these books and these caves? It seems as though they knew all of this — and allowed greed and lies to destroy them anyway! Are we doomed to be that stupid yet again?” 

Cat Eyes bit her lip and looked up at the eyes of each person she could see around her. No-one answered. She ended looking into the eyes of Fleet of Foot. But he too remained silent.

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——————————————————-

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: A Lot is not a Little.

The Anti-Academic Pandemic 

The Truth Train

Essays on America: You Bet Your Life

Process Re-engineering Moves to Baseball 

25 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, management, politics, sports, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

baseball, Business, Consulting, Design, efficiency, process, Process Re-engineering, sports, Trumpism, truth, work

[I wrote this satire when I was Executive Director of the AI lab at NYNEX back in the 1990’s. At that time, “Business Process Re-engineering” was a huge management fad. Here’s how it worked, in short. Consultants would ask top executives how their part of the organization worked. Then, the consultants would make a map of one of the processes of the organization. This was called the “As Is” map. Then, the consultants would simplify that to produce the map of the ideal (and supposedly more efficient) process. Then, the executives would pay the consultants a bunch of money and insist that their organizations stop using the “As Is” map and instead do things according to the “Should Be” map. In a few cases, there were some inefficient processes that were replaced with better ones. But in many cases, the “As Is” map was made based on a fantasy of what was going on in the organization. Unless the executive had “worked their way up the ranks” by actually doing the jobs, these “As Is” maps were almost certain to be ridiculous over-simplifications. Even if the executives had worked their way up, they could still be way off because markets change, technology changes, and workers change. Despite the fact that I wrote this about 25 years ago, to me, it seems much like the kind of ignorant and egomaniacal over-simplified mis-thinking that is rampant in the Trumputin Misadministration. So, I thought it appropriate to publish. (And, I miss baseball).] 

 

person holding baseball bat

Photo by Mandie Inman on Pexels.com

 

 

In a surprise move today, the take-over executive known affectionately as B. S. announced a take-over of the New York Yankees. 

INTERVIEW ONE 

B.S.: “The Yankees are facing new competitive pressures, and we will be bringing our management skills to the team to help them deal with those pressures and increase shareholder value while maintaining player morale and improving customer service.” 

Reporter: “So, what exactly will you be doing?” 

B.S.: “First, we brought in an outside Management Consulting Firm. Just between you and me, we paid them big bucks! But it was worth it.” 

Reporter:”Worth it how? What will you be doing?” 

B.S.:”Well, for starters, we’re downsizing the on-the-field team from nine to six players.” 

Reporter:”Uh….did these management consultants actually know how to play baseball?” 

B.S.”Probably. Maybe. I don’t really know. But that’s not the point. They are top-notch accountants. We plan to increase our operating efficiency 33%.” 

Reporter:”Fascinating. Any other plans.” 

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B.S.:”We have to be willing to change, you know, flow with the times. Once, spring training made sense. But in today’s highly competitive economy, we won’t be able to afford frills like that.” 

Reporter: “Cool. No training. That should save some bucks!” 

B.S.:”You said it! We have to pay for our big executive bonuses somehow. After all, we deserve to make more money for … well … for being rich.” 

Reporter: “Any other productivity measures?” 

B.S.: “Well, this inventory of bats, balls, mitts — I mean that has just gotten completely out of hand. Sure, I suppose we should keep a bat for the team, but having all those individual bats? Nonsense. And, don’t get me started on mitts!” 

Reporter:”No mitts? Won’t that decrease your fielding effectiveness?” 

B.S.:”No, we have a Quality Process to improve our fielding effectiveness. Besides our management consultants pointed out that cricket fielders don’t use mitts.” 

baseball glove and ball

Photo by Alexandro David on Pexels.com

Reporter: “Well, Mr. B.S., I think the Yankee fans are in for a real — a really different experience this season.” 

B.S.: “Thanks! And, believe me, Wall Street has already taken notice. The Market to Book value is up 10% already. Just wait till we move into the football market.” 

Reporter: “Football?” 

B.S.:”Sure. There’s no reason at all these ball-players can’t make themselves useful in the off-season by playing football.” 

Reporter:”Well, with a few exceptions, it takes a different set of skills — and a different body type even to —“ 

B.S.:”B*** S***! That’s what those nambly-pambly unions would like you to believe. Didn’t you play football and baseball when you were a kid? Huh?” 

Reporter: “Well, yes, but not at a professional level. I mean….” 

B.S.”Well, we’re going to increase shareholder value. Period. End of discussion.” 

football game

Photo by football wife on Pexels.com

 

 

INTERVIEW TWO 

Reporter: “So, B.S., how is your plan going?” 

B.S.: “Great! Fantastic!” 

Reporter: “So, you’re winning ball games then?” 

B.S. “We are meeting all our financial targets for cost-containment. In fact, our top-notch accounting team has uncovered another big cost savings.” 

Reporter: “Really? What?” 

B.S.:”We’re going to outsource our pitching. No more high-paid prima donnas! Nope. We’ve found a vendor who can provide pitching for 1/10 of our current costs!” 

Reporter: “Hmmm. I don’t know. They say, pitching is 80% of baseball.” 

B.S.: “Exactly, my point, boy!” 

Reporter: “Well, are you actually winning games?” 

B. S. “I already told you, our costs are down significantly!” 

Reporter: “Yes, but when you actually get out on the field, do you score more points than your opponents?” 

B.S. “There are some temporary performance anomalies — mostly due to bad weather — and the lack of cooperation on the part of the Umpire’s Union.” 

Reporter: “Lack of cooperation?” 

B.S. “Yes, the Umpire’s haven’t quite adjusted to the new realities of competition. Once they make the proper adjustments to the strike zone, I have every confidence that we will be fully compatible run-wise with others in our segment of the league.” 

tilt shift photography of a baseball referee

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Reporter: “I see….” 

B.S.:”Meanwhile, we’re also improving and upgrading our capital infrastructure.” 

Reporter: “You mean…the stadium?” 

B.S.”Exactly. We’re replacing the concrete with much newer high-tech polypropylene glycol embedded styrene.” 

Reporter: “Oh. Will you be replacing those hard seats?” 

B.S. “Seats? Don’t be ridiculous. That would be way too expensive.” 

Reporter: “Well, how will the stadium be different — from the fan’s perspective?” 

B.S.: “Fans? Oh, fans. It will be a much more modern, more high-tech stadium.” 

Reporter: “So, how will the actual experience of the fans be different?” 

B.S. “Did I mention that our stock price has risen 5%? Wall Street knows what’s best for baseball!” 

Reporter: “Perhaps, but according to our wire service, you lost last night to Cleveland, 26-0. That’s….” 

arena athletes audience ball

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B.S.:”That’s a temporary aberration! I told you! The Umpires have got to get on board here. We’re only asking a proportional shrinkage in the strike zone to match our cost-containment figures. Our new policies are a success. We don’t need to be questioned by nay-sayers spouting statistics. This interview is over!” 

 

 

INTERVIEW THREE 

Reporter: “So, BS, I hear your team has surpassed the opening losing streak record of the Pittsburg….” 

BS:”Bah! Our expenses are down! Our stock price is UP!” 

Reporter: “How about the fans? How’s the attendance?” 

BS: “Attendance? It takes time for our end users to adjust to the interface changes, but they will. After all, what are they going to do, take a ride to Seattle just to watch a live ballgame?” 

Reporter: “Well — or, maybe across town.” 

BS: “Get serious. It takes less time to get to Seattle. Anyway, we have taken some of the surplus and hired some systems analysts to help us out. We should be on a winning streak in no time!” 

Reporter: “Wouldn’t it maybe make more sense to hire some — you know, outfielders, say?” 

BS: “You obviously don’t know anything about business. That’s why they hired me. Ever hear of the expression ‘a level playing field’?” 

Reporter: “Yes, but what … ?” 

BS: “Well, we are not going to have one! Not much longer! Our system analysts have designed a system to tilt the entire stadium on command. So — in short, our ball-players will be hitting DOWNSLOPE while the opposition will be hitting UPHILL! Come on. Tell me I’m brilliant! And, we are moving the stadium to a place where the tax rate is less and the real estate is cheaper! Go ahead! Tell me I’m brilliant!”

scenic view of mountains

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Reporter: “Uh, you’re brilliant, but — ah — won’t your opponents object?” 

BS: “Who cares? Our lawyers have combed the rule book and the UCC and NOWHERE does it mention anything about not tilting the earth!” 

Reporter: “Well, maybe not specifically, but surely on the basic principles of fair play….” 

BS: “Ha hah hahahahhh! Oh, you really crack me up! ‘Basic Principles of Fair Play!’ Oh, that’s rich. That’s realllllly rich. Yes. Good one. Listen, sucker, if you can get away with it, it’s what you do! Have you been asleep? Ever hear of tobacco companies? How about the Ford Pinto? Billionaire Milliken? Get real!” 

Reporter: “Still….somehow, I always thought of baseball as a sport.” 

BS: “Oh, right. And, I always thought of Howard Stern as Marilyn Monroe. Geez. Our profits will soar! Our profits will soar! Oh, so many plans. Fewer squares! Fewer innings! Fines for foul balls! Fines for run homes! Fines….” 

Reporter: “Excuse me, did you say ‘run homes’?” 

BS: “Yeah, those things — don’t you call them run homes — where the guy loses the baseball? Talk about waste!” 

Reporter: “Those are Home Runs. That’s one good way to win ball games.” 

close up photography of four baseballs on green lawn grasses

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BS: “Yeah, whatever. Maybe to you. To me, they are an unnecessary waste. Just like second square.” 

Reporter: “Second square? You mean, ‘second base’?” 

BS: “Whatever. That little square bag out there in the middle of the sandyfield.” 

Reporter: “Have you ever actually played baseball?” 

BS: “Me? I was too busy for frills, my friend. Too busy making my first million. And I did it through hard work and ingenuity. I did it in high school. It wasn’t easy either. Do you know how many of those little first grade brats you have to shake down for lunch money just to get a thousand bucks?” 

toddler with red adidas sweat shirt

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Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Donnie Learns Golf! 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier!

Donnie Visits Granny!

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Truth Train

Winning by Cheating is Losing

Trumpism is a New Religion

 

 

Hi-Golf-Ku

23 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, sports, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

cheating, golf, haiku, poem, poetry, Tennis, winning

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One of the reasons we decided to retire in Southern California was so we could play golf year round. But once we got here, we ended up playing tennis 5-8 times a week, leaving little time for golf. Now, neither one is available. 

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Many others are in the same boat. While the act of actually playing golf is probably relatively risk free, getting a pencil, a score card, a cart, paying, picking up a stray ball, going to the toilet, picking up the flagstick could be problematic. Meanwhile, we can still enjoy the memory of golf. And what better way to do that than with a few Hi-Golf-Kus? Feel free to add your own in the comments section. 

close up photo of golf ball

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You live on the edge,

Fall instead! You’ll be safer

Off that fearful ledge.

brown and white snake

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Putt: Why do you go

In, around, and out?  Afraid

Snakes may live below?

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Driver, you drive me

Nuts! I swing you straight. And yet…

You go your own way.

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Photo by Frank Cone on Pexels.com

Bunkers: small, sandy.

Beneath grains lies mud, concrete, 

Netting, rock, Surprise!

four rock formation

Photo by nicollazzi xiong on Pexels.com

Golf rules are many;

Bound by one Great Principle: 

If you could, you can’t! 

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A rose is a rose

Is a rose. But grass? Grass grows

Inconsistently. 

cattail plant

Photo by Emily Hopper on Pexels.com

The price of golf? High.

Enjoyment of golf? Iffy.

Addiction? Certain.

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Golf advice is free! 

Given — two stroke penalty! 

Taken — two strokes, too!

woman playing golf

Photo by Jopwell on Pexels.com

New white ball glows bright!

Hides in grass just like it’s night.

Burrows out of sight. 

clouds countryside daylight environment

Photo by Kaique Rocha on Pexels.com

Cheating’s not rare; yet — 

Only Trump claims wins when he

Didn’t even play.

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—————————

Author Page on Amazon

The Winning Weekend Warrior (The Mental Game for All Sports)

Winning by Cheating is Losing

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Thrumperdome

22 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, politics, story, Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

COVID19, fiction, irony, life, pandemic, parable, politics, satire, story, truth

animal snake reptile closeup

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The three walked arm in arm down the now-deserted street. Sure, it was unusual for three homophobes to walk lock-step, arm in arm, down the street — any street. Luckily, their fully loaded assault weapons hung loosely down their sides so no-one would question their manhood. After all, what says, “I am a manly man; I am courageous!” more than having a weapon of indiscriminate destruction hanging by your side?  Bigly manly.

The heat was stifling on this hot, humid, hazy day. Brain Krimp kept swatting vaguely at his face. But it wasn’t helping. Where were these damned flies coming from? he wondered. He couldn’t see them. Maybe they aren’t flies, he thought. Brain turned to his companions and asked, “Hey, Henry? Bill Bee? You guys hearing some kind of buzzing insect? I don’t see them.”

“Nah,” offered Henry. “But — you know — sometimes those antibody shots make me … they screw up my hearing.” 

Brain glanced over at Billy Bee. “You?” 

“Yeah, they are a pain. But better than dying with a tube stuck down your throat, right? Anyway, just ignore it.” 

Brain nodded. He was trying to ignore it, he thought to himself. But instead of lessening, the sound grew louder. It wasn’t so much a buzz as a whisper. But what the hell was it saying? 

photo of person wearing face mask

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“Thank you.” This time Brain heard it distinctly. He looked at his companions furtively. They didn’t seem to have noticed. Maybe it was just the shots. 

“Thank you!” It was more distinct this time. And louder. Surely, they had heard that. “Seriously, didn’t you guys hear that?” 

“I think one of the survivors was leaning out the window thanking us,” said Henry. “Good for him. At least somebody knows reopening was for the best.” 

“Yeah,” added Billy BeeBop. “There were way too many people. Still are. And way too uppity. Those that are left will know their place. Mark my words. And almost all the wealth will be controlled by the likes of us.” 

road in between buildings

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Brain scanned the apartment buildings on both sides of the street. He didn’t see anyone hanging out, but the sound was growing louder. Only…only, it wasn’t sound so much as sense — a kind of impression or even mind reading. Someone — or something — was out there and it was signaling or saying “Thank you.” It seemed to grow louder and more distinct. And, yet, Brain still had the odd feeling that it was not sound so much as thought. Best not to bring it up again. It wouldn’t do to have his co-conspirators think him soft in the head. 

At last, they arrived at their goal: The Cache. It had been decided to gather all the best loot in one place and “Der Fooler” had agreed to amass the portion from their states right here at Mercedes-Benz — well, Brain corrected himself quickly, it used to be called that. Of course, now, it was called “T-RUMP Stadium, Peachtree.” All the Stadiums were called T-RUMP something or other now. It made it easy for the T-Rump to remember their names. He just referred to them all as T-Rump stadium, T-Rump river, T-Rump highway, and so on. Of course, everyone else was confused about what he was really referring to. That caused inefficiency, delay, mistakes and rework. But that only made the lives of the proles more miserable (which was half the fun anyway). It didn’t impact the nabobs — so who gave a damn really. 

But, thought Brain, that damned buzzing does bother me. Not enough to spoil my take of the spoils though. Come on! He pep-talked himself and attempted to put on his game face.

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The armed squadron that accompanied the three governors came up to the Cache guards and showed their credentials. They entered together through the runway, just as the Falcons had once done not so long ago. A dumbed-down version of Pomp and Circumstance was being played full blast. TASS photographers snapped pictures as they went out with the governors like a second skin. Once the trio arrived on the staging area for the nabobs. “The Govs” as they were collectively known, waved to the crowd. Each one stepped forward in turn as their various accomplishments were touted over the loudspeakers. 

Bill BeeBop grinned from ear to ear. The other two had seen the vast mountain of stuff on TV, but apparently Bill had missed it. He was astounded how much stuff was here! Of course, it had been collected and transported here from three states, though much of it was from right here in Atlanta. It was surprising how much wealth had been collected all told. 

First, they had confiscated everything from people who died intestate. Of course, normally, one would expect the family to divide such things in the absence of a formal will. But the T-Rump had declared that such wealth would be needed to pay for all the social services required by the proles. Of course, there were exceptions for the nabobs.

The second wave of stuff had been stolen from people who were alive, but too sick to fight back. Of course, there had been the occasional necessity to put someone down who objected, despite being deathly ill, to having ICE steal whatever family heirlooms they had been wanting to bequeath to their son or daughter or special friend. But they had only numbered in the hundreds. It was nothing compared to the untold thousands who had died from the virus itself. In many ways, the shootings had probably been a kind of mercy killing for the very ill, Brain consoled himself. 

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The third wave of re-assignments had been the most fun of all. While it had been fun to steal stuff from poor people, the third wave had taken things from various “Enemies of the State” and since it had included engineers, scientists, politicians, reporters, newscasters, top government officials and so on, it tended to be much better stuff.

And, now, there it was. All the stuff from all three states. Each of the governors got one hour to collect their favorites and put it in their wheelbarrow. At the far side of the stadium, their three “opponents” milled about nervously. They too each had a wheelbarrow. Of sorts. There was no wheel. Instead, a triangle of metal went down to a bare hub which scraped along the ground. Everyone could see this would make moving the wheelbarrow much more difficult. 

Their “weaponry” differed as well. While each of the governors had a fully loaded assault weapon with four extra clips, the proles were each outfitted with a nail file. True, it was a metal nail file. And, it did have a sharp point on one side. 

person holding black and red hair brush

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But still. 

Henry was so excited and eager to start the games that he damned near forgot to put his hand over his heart when the Russian anthem started. He felt a sharp elbow in the ribs; turned quickly and was about to smack Brain when he realized what was happening. He put his hand over his heart and looked up with what he hoped looked like a beatific and radiant smile. He wondered whether T-Rump was watching live, or even in person. Of course, the real whereabouts of the T-Rump were always a carefully guarded state secret since so many still openly despised him even though everyone in America was so much better off. At least if you believe the T-Rump. 

The gigantic bull horn sounded and they got moving. Henry noticed that one of those damned cowardly proles had ignored his wheelbarrow and simply run and grabbed a single large trophy of some kind and began running for the exit. 

That really rankled Henry’s sense of fair play. “What the hell?” he said aloud. “We’re supposed to be giving people a frigging show, for God’s sake. You can’t just go sneak off with one item. For a split second, Henry half-wished he had a high powered rifle instead of the AK-47, but what the hell. He sprayed a long burst over in the general direction of the running figure of the prole who had damned near made it to the exit. “Oh, man! That is sick! I shoulda got me one of these a long time ago.” He laughed as the torn figure of the running prole crumpled and the trophy spilled out of his nearly severed hand. 

Henry felt good. He glanced quickly in the vicinity of the fallen prole and realized the had also hit an usher, a guard, and at least two spectators. “Damned, I’m good!” he yelled and turned back toward garnering more wealth for himself. 

It took nothing like an hour to complete the “contest.” Each of the three governors smiled for the cameras and stood waving at the crowd, sweat pouring down off their brows and down the backs of their necks. 

But who had won? At last, the stadium scoreboard lit up. They estimated the total wealth as — too close to call. Each of the governors had collected approximately one million dollars worth of stuff. Eventually, a more careful and detailed appraisal of the goods would undoubtedly reveal which one was the real winner. But for now, it was a tie. A three-way tie. 

people cheering during soccer match

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The scoreboard presented more details. Prole contestants had successfully acquired nothing! The crowd — who were 99% proles, by the way, cheered and waved their hands wildly. Total number of prole competitors dead: three! Again, a wild cheer went up from the crowd. Total number killed, competitors and audience and staff — 34. Now a half-hearted half-cheer went up. Not that decent a total really. Especially, when you considered that COVID19 was still killing about 3K per day and rising. 

Now, the scoreboard switched to video mode and there he was!! The enhanced image of the T-Rump appeared. His hands appeared almost normal and even his skin looked vaguely humanoid. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Vast clouds of oxytocin laced with oxycontin were released into the crowd. After some minutes of cheering, the T-Rump gestured for silence.

“Not terrible. Not great. I gotta say. A tie? Come on guys! Who wants a tie? Should I let this stay a TIE? “

The crowd roared back “NO!” 

“No. See? I’m a genius. I know what people want. Hey, guys! We’re on to round two. Round two rules are this. One of you has to die and the others will fight for their share of the dead guy’s loot? Got it? GO!” 

Brain and Henry immediately crouched down and began firing first and aiming later. Billy BeeBop just stood still with a surprised look on his face. He said, “I thought we were all on the same…” The hole through his throat made the last word difficult to decipher. It might have been “side” or “team” or “cabal” or “conspiracy” though the last two were likely not in that man’s vocabulary, even before his head was torn apart.  

Brain wasn’t sure whether or not the T-Rump would decide there would only be one winner or not, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Nor was Henry. As it dawned on each of them that they had been mortally wounded, each felt an overwhelming feeling of outrage at having been betrayed. 

Just before his head hit the astroturf, Brain had a strange thought: we could have cooperated. The blood kept draining from his body and that meant draining from his thinking apparatus as well. Before he lost consciousness forever, Brain sudden realized in a flashbulb of insight who had been thanking him: COVID19! He had been one of the Meta-carriers and they thanked him profusely. It was nice to be needed, he thought. They assured him that he had achieved the Christian equivalent of a saint. Then, he died.

T-Rump got on the video feed and held his fists up in triumph. “Now, that’s more like it! Am I right?” 

He pointed to the scoreboard, which was now framed by fireworks that were shaped like a golden hammer and sickle framed on a large red background. 

Total Number Killed: 255! Much better!

photo of fireworks display

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Total Wealth estimate: Three Billion dollars for the T-Rump and 0 for anyone else! 

T-Rump smiled beatifically and said, “OK folks! There are 255 bodies out there! You know what to do!” He began to lead the chant. 

“Eat them raw! Eat them raw! EAT THEM RAW!” Some of the proles were still surprisingly nimble and sprang over other proles and railings and seat backs alike. 

Soon, the chant was replaced by the soothing sound of thousands of teeth crunching on fresh kill.

After all, the proles were hungry. Very hungry. 

T-Rump smiled beatifically as he looked on the cannibalistic carnage. He had one last announcement. 

“You guys have been great! Enjoy your dinner! I want to account — right today — today. I am announcing the results of next year’s World Series! Which will be played right here in Trump Stadium! And — you ready for this — the winners of the World Series will be The Trump Falcons.” 

The proles paused for a moment and clapped, each suspiciously eyeing their neighbor to see who would break back for the human flesh first. 

food steak meat raw

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——————————————-

If Only — A fictional crime story about two very real historical characters.

A Horror Story of Karma.

At Least he’s our Monster.

Legends of the Veritas: The Orange Man
 

Choosing the Script

21 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

art, COVID19, fiction, horror, leadership, life, pandemic, politics, sociopath, story, truth, USA, writing

white travel trailer

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A gentle knock upon my door,
Merely this and nothing more.

The man looks vaguely familiar — or even kin.
I don’t care much though for his thin-lipped grin.

“Hello” he states in a warm friendly brogue.
“Hello” I hollowly repeat. He looks like a rogue.

A longish pause between us billows.
Like upside down H-Bomb pillows.

“May I help you?” I ask polite as I should.
“Do you not recognize me, Mr. Ironwood?”

I must admit, he looks familiar yet…
I do not know…perhaps…I do forget.

“No, I do not think I have made your acquaintance at all.”
Feeling all the while that I am being overly formal.

“Henry Holmes. Pleased to meet you in person, at last.”
Here he sticks out a fatty sausage-fingered hand to clasp.

cooked sausages in close up view

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“Very funny. Where did you find my manuscript, my story?”
“I didn’t find it. It found you. And, now, you’re lost. So sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but…”
“No joke, I’m afraid that you’re written out of the action.”

“Well, excuse me, but I think you’re confused. I wrote the play.”
“Well, excuse me, but I think you are the one confused. I wrote the play.”

“Nonsense. I am the playwright. You are a player…or more precisely, villain…”
“You are suffering from delusions of grandeur. I wrote the play; it’s full of killin'”

“Whoa. Henry. Wait. You are not Henry a person. He’s a role in my play.”
“Very funny. But the bottom line is this: the editor has cut you out today.”

“Ha-hah. Why am I even talking to you? It’s ridiculous. Who are you?”
“I am Henry Holmes, playwright. And, here I bid you ‘adieu’ …”

“Things change, Mr. Ironwood. Things change. You’ve been switched over to a parallel universe where cruel clowns are put in charge. You know the kind of clown I mean. Like the one in Stephen King’s IT. Only instead of the people of the town recognizing the evil, that the clown embodies, a third are worshipping the clown.”

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“There’s no such place! What are you … that was also fiction. No-one in the real world would put an evil clown in charge of a whole town!”

“A town? Oh, my. You are in for a surprise. It isn’t just a town. He’s the leader of the free world!”
“Nonsense! No parallel universe would be twisted enough … it couldn’t survive long … with a cruel clown at the helm!”

“Who said anything about it lasting a long time? Of course it won’t. But anyway, that’s the world where your new role is. They’re filming right now. Better get your butt over there or you’ll be written out of that script too!”
“Who writes these scripts? Shonda? Where are you going? I didn’t invite you into my trailer!”

“Oh, Peter, you are too much! It’s my trailer now. See, I brought the name plate.”
“Henry Holmes. Well, that doesn’t prove anything.”

Peter watched as Henry walked up the stairs inserted a key and unlocked the door. He nearly closed it but stuck his head out to say, “Ta ta! Lot B over at Universal. Tell them Henry sent you.” He cocked his head sideways in a Henry Gibson impersonation and flashed a wide toothy grin much like that of a psychotic circus clown.

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Then, he was gone.
The trailer was gone.
Warner Brothers was gone.
Universal was gone.
LA County was gone.
USA was gone.
Earth was gone.

It didn’t explode.
It didn’t erode.
It crumbled to bits.
Without any plans, without any wits.

gray industrial machine during golden hour

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It fell apart at the seams,
Like shattered dark dreams.
Like a mask full of holes,
Or a lawn full of moles,
A land without souls,
Filled with A-holes.

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And then there were none.
All were lost.
Everyone.

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Everyone:
Not a world where we want to be:
Where Henry Holmes
Is free and roams
And rules and checks and slays.
You’d like it better in one of my plays.
Where criminals lose and end up in jail.
Clowns may try but they all fail.
Responsible leaders rule with compassion
And no-one falls for a Fascist fashion.
In that world, it’s true that death may come.
But not of sickly embracing what’s dumber than dumb.
Not of enslaving oneself to the yoke,
Not of repeating the words of a joke.
Eschew the fascist fantasy,
And see what leadership can really be.

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Photo by Life of Wu on Pexels.com


If Only…

The link below is a work of “pure fiction” however — the protagonists (one of which is Henry Holmes) and their “back stories” are true. The story linked below, however, takes place in a nearby but parallel universe.

https://petersironwood.wordpress.com/2017/07/28/if-only/

The Truth Train

Tales that Explore Real Leadership

Author Page on Amazon

A Mere House of Mirror

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bias, Carnival, COVID19, empathy, fiction, Fun House, insight, Mirrors, prejudice, racism, relationships, religion, short story, truth

Chapter One: Mere Mirror

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The hot, humid, cloudless August day offered not the slightest breeze of comfort. The girls had finished their snow cones only three minutes ago, and they already felt the stifling heat. They looked around for some shade. Jean jumped up and down and pointed excitedly at the large wooden structure ahead of them. 

“Jean, I don’t want to go in there. I hate Fun Houses.”

“This one’s cool, Wilm. Totally! Outstanding mirrors.”

The sun shimmered on the Rye Playland sidewalks. Sweat beaded on Willamette’s forehead. “Some old pervert’s always trying to grab at you in there.”  

skate ramp

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Jean nodded and then laughed. “Maybe some cute young guys too. Ever think of that? Come on!” 

“I don’t want to be groped by anybody, Jean!”

“No, me either. But, you know we might meet some cute guys. What say, Wilm?” 

Willamette half-smiled in surrender. They sauntered over, trying to time their arrival to coincide with any nearby hunks. Sure enough, a couple cute guys were about to get in line behind them when two white trash hillbillies slid in first. 

Willamette rolled her eyes, knowing that some stupid skeleton would flash in front of her and make her scream and she told herself she wouldn’t but she always did anyway. She wondered why she had let Jean talk her into this.

This time was no different. She screamed when the skeleton jumped out,  just as she knew she would. She cursed at herself for it. Then, she nearly fell flat on her face when they stepped onto the stupid steel rollers. She was about to protest to Jean that she still hated these places. But Jean had disappeared.  Willamette could see the house of mirrors around the corner. At least, she thought, this part won’t be scary.  

Willamette looked in the first mirror. Her eyes Zombied. In the mirror in front of her stared a horrified old man with pasty white skin and unkempt dirty black hair.  What an illusion! She laughed. But the laugh that came out was an old man’s whisky-roughened laugh. Her eyes slowly gazed down at her hands.  

Her hands were gone.  

In their place were the gnarled fingers of an old man, white skin, blue veins, dirty fingernails.  

She screamed. 

And, then she screamed at the gravely sound of her own voice. 

—————————————-

Chapter Two: Mirror, Mere

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“Come on, y’all’ll enjoy it.”

“Sounds stupid. Ain’t been in a ‘Scare Houses’ since I was twelve.”

“This here one’s great!” Jay-Bob snickered and winked at his buddy, Willard. “’Sides, you can cop a feel.”

Willard’s pale skinny finger fluttered toward the facade. “Looks like the same stupid grinnin’ clown and the same ugly witch as back in ‘Bama.’  What’s so special about this’n?”

“These New York dudes got themselves some whiskey cool mirrors.”

“One’s thang’s for danged sure. These here Ryeland tickets costs ’bout ten times our state fair for the same danged rides.”

“Come on, Willard, give it a go.”

“Fine.” Willard spied two teenage girls joining the line, and sidled in behind them. One had tight slacks but the other wore a loose cotton dress. Didn’t she know about that blast of air? Or, maybe she did. Liked, in fact, showing off her panties. Pink? Black? He wondered to himself.

The dark, the pop-ups, the rollers. Willard’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The youngsters eyes adapted much faster and they immediately sped ahead out of groping range. What’s next? Stupid House of Mirrors. Willard turned the corner. Where the hell was Gene?

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“Screw him,” he muttered aloud and wondered whether he’d be a beanpole or a midget.

 He looked in the mirror.

Willard didn’t want anyone else to hear his question so he used a stage whisper — though he had no idea what that term meant. 

“What the — !  Gene, how they do that?” 

But Gene had disappeared.

Willard blinked again at the cute, black teenage girl gaping at him in the

mirror; blinked; stared down to see skinny black hairless arms and the bluely

sparkled fingernails; screamed in that high girly voice; watched the ample

heaving breasts.

Then he screamed even louder at the sound of his thin soprano voice. 

————————————————-

Chapter Three: Mirror, Mirror

IMG_7590

“So, how’d we do, Gene?”

“Mmmm. The conditions were there, but no insight. No change. No enlightenment. Frankly, I think we’re in trouble, Will.”

“Drat.”

“Maybe the thing with human beings is…. I don’t know. If they’re too freaked out, they can’t reflect on their own prejudices. In fact, I don’t think they can reflect on anything. They just become scared bunnies.”

“But if they are too comfortable, they never change. They just sit and — whoa!  — Gene? What was that kind of trumpet blast sort of noise?”

“What do you think? We’re being called into judgment.”

“Already? Where? Over there? It’s so damned bright!”

“God is light. No surprise there. Hey, we gave it our all.”

“Small comfort, Gene, when we both fry to embers. I can’t see a thing.” 

“It’s too bright. There are brilliant lights omnipresently. All places seem to be light, bathed in light, reflecting light. I can’t see where I’m going.”

“All paths lead to the one path.”

“What? Oh, great, we’re about to be fried and you’re waxing philosophical. Not to mention Zen. Wrong religion. What is it about you people?”

“We what people? Black people? Is that what you mean? People of color?”

“Christ, Will, how many millennia have you known me? No, of course I don’t mean because you’re black! I mean, ‘you people’ as in you intuitive types. You have to learn to think things through logically.”

“Excuse me, Gene, but you have to learn to listen to your intuitions! God IS ZEN.” 

“COME HITHER!” trumpeted God.

6D58577A-D98C-4100-8325-EA90BE444CE0_1_201_a

———————————

Chapter Four: Mere, Mere

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“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re the real black.”

“You’re the real whitey.”

“You’re just a youngster.”

“You’re old.”

“You’re a thievin’ female wench. Give me my body back!”

“You pervert dirty old man! Your body disgusts me!”

“You stole my body!”

“Man! What?! Why on God’s green earth would I covet this ancient body? Why? I had my whole life ahead of me. I hate crappy wrinkled fingers — fatty yucky sides!” 

man hands waiting senior

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Yeah, well I miss my –.  Never mind. I liked bein’ a man.”

monochrome photo of woman smiling

Photo by Avonne Stalling on Pexels.com

They sat on very separate stumps in an unending forest of stumps. Overhead, the sky shone pale blue. No crows cawed in the distance. No planes vapor-trailed. No faraway cars hummed along the Interstate. They stared into the infinite horizon of flat waveless ocean. They sat silent for a long, long time.

Finally, s/he spoke. “Does it really matter? I mean, here, does it matter?”

“Maybe it don’t. You might have a point.”

They sat for a moment looking out silently at the endless sea.

“Did it ever really matter? Really?”

“Dunno. But we need water. Fer sher. Not sea water. Fresh water.”

FDC90856-D493-4828-80DE-853D923627CF_1_105_c

“Check. I’ll search that-away. Yell if you find anything. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Willamette and Willard took ten steps apart; turned back simultaneously, stared, shook their heads in unison and laughed. It can’t be truly said that it was a hearty laugh, or even a pure laugh, but it was a laugh. It was a beginning. 

How to find water? If water reflects sky, might not sky reflect water to those with open eyes and open hearts …when human survival depends upon it?

One may hope. One may hope. 

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—————————

Essays on America: Labelism

Pattern for Collaboration: Find and Utilize Diversity

America

Author Page on Amazon

You Must Remember This

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

Climate change, COVID19, ecology, environment, greed, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, truth

worms eyeview of green trees

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

A breeze flutters the leaves of the tulip tree
It seems to me
They wave, they warn,
“Remember us. Remember, that we may come again.
That once again forests of greenery will come to be.”

 

adventure arid barren coast

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Under this clear blue sky,
Under this bright yellow sun,
In this verdant surround, I see, nonetheless,
Long lines of grieving skeletons
Wandering the gray-brown dessert
Searching for food, for water,
For the lost way,
The fallen times.
Someone has lost the memo,
Broken the schedule,
Failed the test,
Not met the ROI.

2ED5B35A-54F8-43CB-8534-46D31A07049D_1_105_c

 

I have drawers of papers,
But what do they mean?
And why are they there?
They seemed so important once.
I have closets of clothes
That no longer fit.
I have machines that would buzz and whirr delightfully
If I could find a place to plug them in.

woman in black jacket sitting on rock formation

Photo by Chase McBride on Pexels.com

 

And, in these dead days of gray on gray,
I must remember, I must tell,
Though few believe,
“Once there were forests here,
Trunk on trunk of thick tall tree,
Leaf and flower, flower and leaf,
Green, green, under a clear blue sky.
We can make it live again.”

49CBA1E0-13F8-445C-9E9F-00467169FFC5

 

Now, so the story goes, the Devil tempted us with knowledge
And we were exiled from Eden into this world.
But, really, who is this Devil, anyway, I wonder?
What if, drunk on half-knowledge, we left voluntarily?
Greedy for the shiniest bauble,
The sparkliest stone,
We forgot that sunset on lake,
Icy creeks, and snow-laden trees,
Are more beautiful than jewelry.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I see them marching, line on line,
Mindlessly miming a pattern, a template,
Aimlessly roaming, but all in formation,
With no information, but under orders, all the same.
The cadence of the stepping,
The drubbling of the drums,
Makes it all seem okay somehow
As row on endless row,
Over the cliff they go.
Blind are they to the leaves of the tulip trees, still green,
Waving their warning; warning with their waving,
Bending, sighing, singing, in the breeze:
“Remember such as these,
When there are no more trees.
Remember such as these,
After the fire and the freeze.”

A6253369-6ABE-4B57-884E-BEFF53F7F505

Author Page on Amazon

Index to a Pattern Language on Cooperation and Teamwork. 

Myths of the Veritas – Explorations of Leadership, Empathy, & Ethics in times of crisis. 

Gifts that Keep on Giving

18 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

disease, empathy, ethics, fever, fiction, illness, leadership, legends, life, medicine, myth, pandemic, stories, truth

756025C0-5F06-47D6-A778-08972B8C29E6_1_201_a

Many Paths woke with a start. She felt unusually cold for a summer morning. It felt as though a cool breeze was slicing through the wall of their cabin. She turned toward Shadow Walker’s side of the bed to tease him again about not sufficiently caulking the spaces between the logs. Then, she sighed, recalling that he was gone. Again. 

Ah, well, she thought, I can do it myself later today. Perhaps I can get Tu-Swift to help. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her sleeping pallet. The room swam before her eyes. She wondered what was going on. She had heard about so-called “Dances of the Earth” but had never felt one. Fear for her people tugged at her heart. She put her eye close to one of the large openings between the logs and peered outside. The bright light of day seemed to stab her eye and she recoiled quickly. The room seemed to spin again. “I am not myself” she said aloud.

FF3A930A-56A7-4526-8A52-76B89044AE65 

She put her hands on her knees and stood slowly. She noticed that her hands were sweating. But she was freezing cold. She staggered toward the door and felt as though she needed to begin her nights sleep — not the usual energy of morning. She drew back the deerskin covering of the cabin and once again, the  bright morning sunlight seemed to stab at her eyes. She jerked her head back and again felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. 

The light was too bright. For one thing….

“Good morning, Many Paths! You slept well, I see!” He chuckled. “But you’re not alone. It seems everyone slept late today! Too much of a feast last night, I guess.”

The image of Tu-Swift swung into view. “Good morning. No, actually, I didn’t … I don’t know. I don’t feel right.” 

Tu-Swift took a few steps toward her and peered more closely. He’s smile fell to pieces like a dropped vase. “Sister, you do not look good. And… and your face is covered with red dots. What is that?”

background bright decoration design

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com

Many Paths put her hands to her face. She could feel that the skin was bubbled with teeny mountains of skin. “I don’t feel good. I’m hot and cold at the same time.” She began to shiver. 

“Come on!” said Tu-Swift. “Let me help you over to see She Who Saves Many Lives. Maybe she has seen this before. I wanted to talk with you any way.” He reached up and took her hand. She was so unsteady, he decided to take her by the arm instead. As he did so, her robe slipped up her arm and they both stared at her bare forearm which also was covered with tiny red dots. “What is that?!” he repeated with more urgency in his voice.

Many Paths felt weak and shaky. She couldn’t make herself think straight. She notice that Tu-Swift’s grip was powerful. He was growing up fast. Too fast. Too swift. She chuckled. 

“What’s so funny, Many Paths? What are laughing about?”

“What?” she replied. “I don’t know. Where is everyone?” 

“I don’t know, Sister. As I said, everyone felt lazy I guess. Too much food?”

“Food?” asked Many Paths. “No, thank you. I’m not really hungry. Not hungry exactly. Our guests? They are gone, right?” 

“Yes, they left four days ago. Are you all right? And then Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes went to track them back and try to discover more about the Z-Lotz. Remember?” 

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c

“Of course. Yes. That’s right. Why are you here? I thought you wanted to go with Suze … or Cat Eyes.” 

“No, sister. You are definitely not well. I would like to have gone with Cat Eyes to see those Veritas over the twin peaks, but I am still not able to walk far or even ride. Sorry. It still bothers my knee. Anyway, I was coming to see you — I’ll tell you later. Here we are at the home of She Who Saves Many Lives. Ah, but I see we are not the first.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives came to door of her cabin. “Welcome. I am glad you are here, Many Paths. I have a puzzle here and no solution. Can you show Many Paths your hands?”

Stone Chipper appeared in the doorway and nodded to Many Paths. “I am most glad to see you, Many Paths. I was scared. I came and spoke from your cabin door, but you did not answer. With the sun so high in the sky already, I assumed you had already gone out. I have had cuts and bruises of course but nothing like this. And my hands are quite tough normally.”

Many Paths seemed to forget for a moment her own malady and took too large a step forward, falling into the arms of Stone Chipper. “Are you all right, Many Paths?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes. What happened to your hands? They … boiling water? What…?” Many Paths suddenly sat on the edge of a bench near the door. She took the hands of Stone Chipper in her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. And another. And another. 

At last, she asked, quite calmly and coherently, “What did you do to your hands? You don’t know?” 

Stone Chipper shook his head. “No.”

“Have you eaten anything unusual lately? Something not shared with the tribe because it was too small to bother with?” 

Stone Chipper thought back over the last few days. “No. Nothing. Nothing unusual or unshared.”

60BBE396-CC08-43F0-BB72-B2CA37D7B5FC

Many Paths tried to look into the heart and mind of Stone Chipper. He was clearly quite worried. Surely, he had burned his hands before. It hurt…but… “Does it feel burned?”

Stone Chipper nodded vigorously. “Yes. A bit different. But very much like a burn. But I haven’t burned myself! Not recently. And not like this. My hands. All over my hands? I would have noticed. Right? That’s what is scaring me. Not the burn. But how could I be burned like this and not even notice?” 

Many Paths took another deep breath. “What have you had in your hands?”

“Just the usual, Many Paths. My tools. My stones. My food. And, that glass. You know, that the Z-Lotz gave us.” 

Many Paths said, “You’ve been working with that gift? That stuff they called glass?” 

Stone Chipper said, “Yes. Trying to. But it isn’t that good. Shiny. But rather useless. At least so far, I have not figured out how to shape it and it breaks so easily. I guess it’s just supposed to look pretty. It feels extremely smooth and slightly warm, come to think of it. But not hot enough to burn me, if that’s what it is.”

Many Paths looked at him more intently, “You said that it felt almost like a burn. How does it feel different?” 

Stone Chipper. “I am not sure. But, usually, when you get burned, it is from the outside in. This feels almost like I am burned from the inside out. And, my hands feel just slightly less strong, as well. It’s very odd.”

Many Paths, “Do you think that somehow this glass caused these — burns?” 

Stone Chipper thought for awhile. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I didn’t feel any burning until yesterday and I began working with it almost immediately. I was very curious. And hopeful. But so far — nothing. It just sits there and looks pretty. I guess I did — play with it a lot the first two days. I can’t say work, but turning, trying. And, here’s another thing. It’s no big deal, but you see this place where my hand has grown hard on the side of my thumb? But next to it…that is not from working stone. And it doesn’t look like these other spots. Could that be from the same thing?” 

Many Paths looked over at She Who Saves Many Lives and said, “Have you seen such things, Oh, Wise One of the Shaman of She, She Who Saves Many Lives? Who were the others?”

person beside bare tree at night

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

“No. I have not. I will, of course, search all my memories, in case one of them has fallen asleep behind the hut, but — as I am old and have many memories, that will take some time. Dreams may bring answers as well. My advice would be not to go anywhere near that glass. What do you think, Many Paths?”

Many Paths looked at She Who Saves Many Lives carefully. Ever since Many Paths had been declared the successor, She Who Saves Many Lives always deferred to Many Paths before giving advice. It still seems good advice though. And that was the important thing. “Yes, I concur. Where is it now?” 

“My son decided to see whether he could — you think this is dangerous! I shouldn’t let him touch it either!” Stone Chipper turned and started running toward the spot where he kept his tools near the bend in the river where many stones collected. This is where He Who Sees Horses, his son, was probably working. 

She Who Saves Many Lives walked forward and took the face of Many Paths in her hands. “Many Paths. You are not well. Not at all. And, I think you know it. Am I right?” 

Many Paths nodded. “Yes. Though I do not know what is wrong. I haven’t touched the glass at all. I was curious but — I just had a very creepy feeling about those Z-Lotz who came here. I had a little of that feeling when they first got here. But once they said I was supposed to go alone to the Z-Lotz City? Really creepy. Something…not good. They brought a gift that they knew was poison? What kind of a person would do such a thing?”

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She Who Saves Many Lives tilted her head. “Many Paths. Listen. We must get you well. I need to cool you down. You have a high-summer-noon fever. We will then have time to discuss anything you like. But with a clearer head. You are not thinking quite clearly, but I will cool you down and then we can talk.”

Many Paths arose, unsure which way to turn. Tu-Swift looked at She Who Saves Many Lives and saw her gesture for them to enter her cabin. Together they laid Many Paths down. Many Paths took several deep breaths and fell asleep. 

She Who Saves Many Lives looked at Tu-Swift and clapped him on both shoulders. “Tu-Swift, go to the Spring by the Lonely Tulip Tree and bring me a large skin of cold water. Hurry. I have to bring her fever down to early-summer-noon.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives sat down on the edge of the sleeping pallet where Many Paths lay sleeping. She looked her over more thoroughly. Taking off these warming clothes will be good anyway. These tiny red dots are everywhere, she thought to herself.

“Foolish!” the old shaman muttered to herself in reproof. She shook her head and thought, I knew something was wicked about those visitors. We fell for it twice. Our scouts thought they came to trade the first time and they snuck up and killed them. And then stole Tu-Swift. And, now they obviously want to get Many Paths there alone in order to kill her. But even knowing all that, it didn’t occur to me that they would give a so-called gift that would burn a person’s hands. “Despicable!” she hissed aloud between her teeth. 

“I swear,” she muttered, “if it’s the last thing I do, these people will pay for their so-called gift.” She breathed out. She breathed in. “Or gifts?” She began to wonder whether these red dots could be from some other so-called ‘gift’ of theirs? How can —? That is a great mystery. POND MUD and ALT-R and then they corrupted KAVA-NUT as well. NUT-PI. Killing Sticks. Why not be a loving part of life instead of being like them?

worms eyeview of green trees

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

She Who Saves Many Lives looked down at Many Paths. The truth is, she thought, I do love her like a daughter. She seems to be resting. Where is Tu-Swift? She walked to the entrance and stood on the threshold, taking in the harmony around her. The trees, the birds, the squirrels, and the Veritas. It was all in harmony. Of course, there is hunger and satiation; there is birth and there is death. But there is not … anywhere I can see … the evil that is in some human hearts to make everything like them or under their control … from where does such an evil arise … that what is said to be a gift is actually something horrible … against the harmony of life itself. She sighed. She looked around and filled her heart with the certain knowledge that all of this harmony was far more powerful than the evil in the very darkest of hearts. Evil can only destroy. And when enough is destroyed, the evil itself must die because — lacking love, it cannot create. It cannot create anything. Those who take such a path as that have already died inside. And they want all the world to be like they are.

She Who Saves Many Lives heard Many Paths stir and turned back inside to tend her. With Love.

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———————————————————-

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Essays on America: The Game

Create Peace

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Author Page on Amazon

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