The Itsy Bitsy Spider & the Waterspout

08 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

Tags

America, arachnid, collaboration, COVID, politics, spider, teamwork, USA, web

I do admit that spiders kind of creep me out.

However…

They are also a rather amazing family of creatures. Much like humans, they have managed to reach most of the lands on our planet. Spiders produce silk which, by weight, is five times as strong as steel.

https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2018/11/spider-silk-five-times-stronger-steel-now-scientists-know-why

Some make beautiful webs. And some are themselves beautiful. In any case, like every other advanced life form, their internal structure is an incredible design fitted to their environment.

Their behavior is part of that beauty as well. I had an opportunity to observe a fairly large one for a few days. She had built a web, larger than a bicycle tire, all across the entry way of our back deck. My wife and I liked to go out on the back deck, but both of us were reluctant to destroy the beautiful symmetry of the web. I spent some time watching and she always returned to the center of his web after every “search and destroy” mission that she carried out. As soon as something hit the web, she rushed out unerringly to the spot where the unlucky mosquito, fly, or small moth struggled to set itself free. I only saw one insect succeed before the spider wrapped his prey and bit it to immobilize it. After wrapping up the unlucky prey, the spider would go back to the center. The center is a wise place for her to hang out. It gives the minimum maximum distance to “get to” the prey. And, it allows maximum discrimination for which direction to go. It also allows the spider to “run” the same “algorithm” to get to her prey.

Once, it happened by chance, that two little flying insects hit the web simultaneously and quite far apart. The spider rushed off to one of the two and wrapped it immediately in its silky tomb. Then she returned to the center. She seemed to recall that somewhere out there was another meal, but she didn’t know where. And the insect caught was no longer struggling. So — the spider began systematically “plucking” the radial strings of her web one by one. At last she came to the strand which led to the position of the fly who was attempting to play possum. But once that strand vibrated, the fly, out of what might be something like fear, began to struggle again. That was a fatal mistake. In a flash, the spider’s hypothesis confirmed, she ran up that strand and wrapped up that prey as well.

In The Hobbit, as well as The Lord of the Rings, large spiders are willful villains. It’s much the same in Harry Potter. It’s rare for a spider to be one of the “good guys” but it does happen; e.g., in Charlotte’s Web. Spiders can hurt and even kill people. But it is very rare in the United States; on average about 6 per year. About 30 are killed from stinging insects; about the same number as dogs. About 130 are killed from collisions with deer. The biggest killer worldwide, in terms of complex animals is the mosquito. Those critters have partners of course. They transmit malaria, dengue fever, Zika, encephalitis and other diseases. Spiders trap and kill a lot of mosquitos. Does that make them our friends? Is the enemy of my enemy necessarily my friend?

The truth is that the web of life has many players and is a constant dance. We try to make sense of it, but we are not really in a position to really understand how the estimated 8 million species interact. In a few cases, like the novel coronavirus, it seems pretty clear that the virus is not friendly to humans. In this case, the “vector” that transmits the virus is not a mosquito. It’s other human beings — especially those who don’t wear masks or socially distance — who are acting as vectors, spreading disease, and killing their fellow Americans. Is the friend of my enemy my enemy?

A house divided against itself cannot stand.

Which is exactly why Putin is working so hard to divide Americans against each other and to break up the EU and NATO.

Have you heard the story about the tailor who killed giants by hiding in a tree and throwing stones at the giants? Each giant assumed another giant had thrown the stone and they ended up killing each other while the tailor sat hidden in the tree. Except in our case, we know there’s a tailor in the tree throwing stones and it makes no difference. Weird.

Meanwhile, the spider spins a web. Watch her grace. Watch her unity. It isn’t simply the left hand knowing what the right is doing. It’s every one of her eight hands knowing what each of the other seven is doing. When they don’t fight with each other, much can be accomplished.

Author page on Amazon

The Isle of Right

Opponent does not mean enemy

The Declaration of Interdependence

Led by the Deer

05 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

anger, deer, hunting, legend, myth, stalking, Veritas

Trunk of Tree wrapped his wound with boiled yellow dock and plantain leaves and then tied strips of rawhide to hold the poultice in place. He clenched his teeth. Then, he clenched them tighter still. He realized that he was hungry and exhausted. He had hiked aimlessly and alone for three days. Most of that time, he had been angry — so angry that he had stupidly stepped heavily upon the dry branch of a fallen tree. The branch had snapped and as his weight drew his leg downward now that nothing any longer held it; at the same time, the sharp end of the broken branch snapped upward, making a long gash in the side of his lower leg.

He mentally listed his grievances. He was angry at the red death. He was angry at Many Paths for sending her own betrothed, Shadow Walker, with the only woman Trunk of Tree had ever loved, Eagle Eyes, on a mission together and now they were far away, living as king and queen and surely, they were mating now. Trunk of Tree clenched his fists and banged them down hard on the trunk of the fallen tree that he sat on. Even in his nearly blind anger, some small part of his brain knew enough to hit the bark with the side of his hand rather than his knuckles. That survival part of his brain knew that injuring his hands would not help him in his current situation, nor allow him somehow to win back Eagle Eyes, should he so deign.

Trunk of Tree swallowed a wordless growl as he thought about how angry he was with She Who Saves Many Lives. She had chosen Many Paths as her successor and then made up various schemes and tests to make it come true. He was sure of it. Many Paths was a woman and it annoyed Trunk of Tree that he had not been chosen as leader. He was much stronger than Many Paths. And, he knew what to do in any situation immediately while Many Paths apparently, he thought, felt obligated to live up to her name and think of a thousand ways to kill a deer while he just picked up the nearest stone and whacked it on the head. That wouldn’t work of course, but that wasn’t the point.

Trunk of Tree could hear his stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten all day and the scant supplies he had grabbed as he stormed off had run out early yesterday. He looked down and saw deer tracks plain as day run through this small clearing where he had made his fire. Some of these tracks are fresh. Good, he thought. He stood up.

“My leg is okay to walk on,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s not bleeding through my crude bandaging. Good,” he muttered. “I don’t want the scent to scare off the deer. Nor my anger. I must slow my breathing and become one with the track and with the deer and with the traces of the deer and with wants and needs of the deer.”

Trunk of Tree began to imagine once again that Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes were together. “I need to discipline myself. I need to concentrate. I can kill them later if need be. But first, I need to find food. I need to focus on the deer. Find the deer. Find the deer. Kill the deer. Eat the deer.”

He found that his wound did not slow him down much. The deer tracks were becoming fresher. At last he caught a glimpse of the buck he had been tracking. The hunter bent down and tightened the straps holding his bandage in place. When he stood back up, the buck was nowhere to be seen. He was still walking upwind and long training allowed him to stalk stealthily. He began to croon one of the soft hunting chants that he had learned as a boy. Although the slightest snap of a twig or a sudden movement would sent the buck bounding off through the brush, these songs seemed to pique the curiosity of the deer allowing a much closer approach.

“I am the deer.
My mind is clear.
I walk with no sound,

Yet I sing you my song.
We all go to ground.
It cannot be wrong.

Come become a part of me.

Someday I’ll die too.

Perhaps becoming part of you.

This is how it’s meant to be.

I am the deer.

My mind is clear.”

Trunk of Tree halted. The track led into a dense thicket of blackberry bushes. Trunk of Tree smiled at the irony. The only reason he would be able to keep tracking the deer was because of his deer skin clothing. A smile crept onto the corner of his lips. This irony was all the funnier because he himself had killed the deer whose skin he was using. His memory flashed back to that day. Eagle Eyes, naturally, had first spotted the track. Trunk of Tree had begun to run after it since the tracks seemed so fresh. Shadow Walker had grabbed him, faced him and sniffed the air. Shadow Walker had been right. They would have simply spooked the deer.

Anyway, Trunk of Tree, thought to himself, enough reminiscing. “I must return to the moment.” Trunk of Tree slid sideways through the thicket fairly easily. When he came out the other side though, the deer track went right into a cliff. He stared at the track. It made no sense. He began to recite his song again and followed the track right up to … a solid stone wall. He muttered to himself, “This makes no sense. Is this another of those stupid magic doors? I don’t see ….”

Then, Trunk of Tree noticed that what seemed to have been a solid wall really contained a narrow passageway barely wide enough for a deer. The rock walls of the passage tilted outwards slightly. As he walked through, he noticed markings along the moss and rock tripe growing on those wall as though deer antlers had scraped through. When he made it through this passage, he saw the deer tracks veer off to his left down toward a spring. The deer was not in sight. He contemplated tracking the deer across the cold running stream. If he did, his bandage would certainly be washed away along with the medicinal herbs he had so carefully searched out, boiled, and applied.

He wished Eagle Eyes were here. Her eyes were remarkably good. Trunk of Tree tried to push the image away, but it came back. And as he imaged Eagle Eyes beside him, he realized for the first time in his life that Eagle Eyes not only had remarkable vision. She looked at things differently. Trunk of Trees eyes darted always, as did everyone’s. But sometimes, Eagle Eyes looked — for a long time — and she looked methodically. She looked patiently. Trunk of Tree bit his lower lip. It wasn’t just her eyes — it was her patience — and her method that made her so valuable. And, then, Trunk of Tree had another insight. While he may never have such clear vision as Eagle Eyes, he could use her patience and her method.

Trunk of tree looked off to the right. His stomach rumbled again, as though he needed to be reminded of his hunger. He decided to ignore that for a moment and he looked up the slope to his right, trying to imagine the way Eagle Eyes would look. He looked back and forth along a large rock outcropping and realized that something was amiss. At first, he couldn’t tell what. Then, in his mind, he heard the voice of Eagle Eyes say “road” in her wonderful voice. “Road” he muttered to himself. “What road?” He walked up the slope the length of a fallen pine and sure enough, there was a man-made road up there. He looked back toward the cleft in the rock that he had just slid through. There was no sign of the cleft. He walked back down. He couldn’t really see that the cleft was there until he was almost upon it. He walked back up to the road and scanned the far side of the stream, looking for a sign of the deer in the same patient, methodical way that Eagle Eyes would have used. He decided to walk along the road for a time. He now saw that it curved gently around the base of what appeared to be a mountain. As he walked he kept stopping and looking back toward the creek to see whether the deer had reappeared.

Trunk of Tree shook his head muttering to himself yet again. “I’m so damned hungry, I’m imagining the smell of deer meat cooking.” Then, he stopped and sniffed the air. “No,” he thought, “that’s no illusion. That is the smell of venison cooking.”

As he followed the road, the scent strengthened. The road took a sharp turn to the right. Trunk of Tree found himself hungrier than ever now, but he slowed his pace. He may be coming upon enemies. He heard voices! Enemies! Wait, he thought. They are speaking Veritas. He frowned and thought, “That boy’s voice sounds exactly like…like that of Tu-Swift! Have I been going in circles?”

Trunk of Tree stepped off the path and pressed himself against the rock, peering from behind a tree that grew next to the rocks. Coming down the path he saw Tu-Swift…holding hands with Cat Eyes!

Seeing no-one else, Trunk of Tree stepped back to the road and looked again, forcing himself to look carefully, as Eagle Eyes might do.

He swallowed hard and spoke out loud. “Tu-Swift? Is that you? And Cat Eyes? What are you doing here?”

Tu-Swift and Cat Eyes were both startled at the sudden appearance of the large, well-muscled body of Trunk of Tree and both reflexively hit the ground on either side of the path.

Tu-Swift realized a split second later that it really was Trunk of Tree. He climbed back onto the path and yelled happily, “Trunk of Tree! Hey! Well met!” He loped toward him and embraced him. Cat Eyes came up as well and smiled at Trunk of Tree and took one of his hands.

Tu-Swift shook his head. “How on earth did you get here? You’re nowhere near the ancient tunnel!”

Trunk of Tree frowned. “How did I get here? How did … where am I exactly?”

Cat Eyes answered, “You are in the village of the Veritas. The village you call ‘The Veritas on the far side of the mountain. But how did you get here? And, what happened to your leg?”

————————————————-

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

Index for a Pattern Language for Collaboration

Index for Tools of Thought

Living on the Edge

03 Thursday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

COVID19, danger, joy, pandemic, risk, thrill

Photo by Frans Van Heerden on Pexels.com

From where the family had lived at the time, to Sesame Place in Pennsylvania constituted a two hour drive and plenty of traffic. But it was worth it. My kids enjoyed it. I enjoyed that my kids enjoyed it. But I also enjoyed it myself.

In particular, I enjoyed the water rides, particularly on this day because it was a typical 3-H day in the New York Greater Metropolitan Area — Hot, Hazy, and Humid. The water rides offered a nice way to cool off. I do not like getting wet when it’s cold. But when it’s hot and the sun dries me off quickly, I enjoy both the cooling and the warming back up. Beyond that, water slides provide the thrill of speed. And, for me, the thrill of speed is a more pure pleasure without the nagging sharp little chiggers of worry about someone having not sufficiently re-tightening a nut on the Ferris wheel or Roller-Coaster — a someone who has just found out they have terminal cancer, or their spouse just left them, or their favorite TV show has been cancelled. That’s a someone who is understandably quite distracted by all the little “worst case” scenarios that they have been playing out in their heads all day in the sizzling sun, perhaps even complaining to their imaginary pals about it.

No. When I think of a Water Slide, I think of Water. And water, unlike asphalt, is soft. If you fall, so what? And how can it break? It’s got no moving parts! What could be safer?

Actually, it does have one moving part. That moving part is the user, the participant, the enjoyer, the thrill-seeker. In a word, me. To be fair, I am not much of an adrenaline junky. I’m happy to have speed thrills, but I want to do that without the risk of real injury. Hence, the Water Slide: my favorite kind of ride.

Beyond that, I really like Water Slides because there is such elegance and simplicity. I am climbing the steps to the giant Water Slide and what am I wearing? A bathing suit. I have no tennis bag, no picnic bag, no bat, no ball, no safety helmet, no special shoes, no shin guards, no ignition key, no riding gloves, no spurs. I am damned near naked. I do not get into a seat, or a boat, or race car, or mount a horse (though I understand those can be wonderful for various different reasons). But this a particular thrill, though safe, is a naked thrill. I not literally naked of course. But I was as close as I could get in polite society.

The first time I used this particular Water Slide, I was sitting up. I noticed that most people did that, but some people lay flat. I considered that, but it seemed to me I wouldn’t get to see much except the sky. The way I visualized it, I would have a greater impression of speed if I sat up so that I could see the park-world that lay beyond the half-circle of yellow plastic pipe that formed our “race track.” So, off I went: ZOOM! (In the pre-COVID19 sense of the word).

It was fun! Just as much fun as I had imagined. And more. It really felt good. If you enjoy the jets of a jacuzzi, you might appreciate that, in addition to the thrill of speed, the Water Slide offers a surprising kind of gentle but vigorous water massage while you are speeding through its universe. The turns and twists and falls seem a lot like a bobsled run. But the bobsledders are getting banged and bruised and on rare occasions killed, while I was getting a water massage instead.

So being a person who likes to study things, I decided I would lay on my back for the second run. This time, I would go for speed and see whether the increased speed would make up for the less panoramic visual experience.

Photo by Oladimeji Ajegbile on Pexels.com

Whoosh! Into the pool at the end, I went. Unbelievably, it had been even more fun the second time. So, once more, I climbed up the long staircase to the top of the Water Slide. The steps were ingeniously chosen to be of cross-grated metal which kept the stairs tolerably hot and made them less prone to someone slipping and falling, possibly taking out a host of climbers behind them. Of course, the climb lasted far longer than the slide, but I didn’t mind. I used my time planning how I would go even faster this time.

When you reach the top of the Water Slide, there are two workers — one on each side of the yellow half-pipe. They hold you in place until they are sure the person below you has cleared. And then they give you a shove to start you off. This is great because that time allowed me to execute my mental check list. I straightened my legs hard, pointed my toes, and pressed the soles of my feet together as hard as I could. I stretched my arms above me, pushing the inside of my upper arms against my ears and pushing my palms together as hard as I could.

ZOOM! Off I went! And, sure enough! My plan had worked! I was going even faster than my second time down — noticeably faster. This was heaven, all right. A considerable thrill but completely safe.

So I thought.

Apparently, the engineers who designed this water park didn’t design for grown men who had a curious enough streak to see what would happen if they really thought hard about how to minimize friction.

I sizzled down the half-pipe in my slip-sliding way with no issues until the last and fastest turn. Here, my body quickly went from in the half-pipe to somewhat outside the half-pipe to half outside the half-pipe. I had been worried about the lack of view. But I had plenty of view of what my landing place would be like. Concrete and rocks about five feet below.

I had exactly zero time to react before my body began to find its way back into the confines of the half pipe. It was a close thing. And, if I had “spun out,” that afternoon would have turned out far differently than it did. It would have certainly meant a trip to the hospital. Maybe I would have been spared broken bones and just gotten a world class case of road rash. That seems unlikely. Who knows? I might have been permanently disabled or, if my head happened to hit something in the wrong way, dead.

Sometimes, we come up to that edge and we don’t even know it. And sometimes, we come to that edge because we think our way up to it. Every time we push the limit and get away with it, a little voice inside says, next time, we’ll push it a little more. Next time, we’ll push it a little more. And a little more. Sometimes, we get lucky. We get close enough to the edge to see what lies beyond and we modify our behavior. And sometimes, we get unlucky. We go over the edge. And there’s no turning back.

I still enjoy a Water Slide.

But I don’t clever my way to the edge.

I would go to the edge, and I would go beyond the edge, for a worthy enough cause. But a thrill or the pleasure of the moment — to me, that is not nearly enough cause.

How close do the edge do you like to come?

————————————————————-

Author’s Page on Amazon.

Link to a series on “tools of thought”

Link to an essay about “cognitive dissonance.”

Link to an essay about my experience getting “conned.”

Link to an index of “best practices” in teamwork and collaboration.

Photo by u041fu0430u0432u0435u043b u0421u043eu0440u043eu043au0438u043d on Pexels.com

That First Time is So Special

01 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

COVID, COVID19, fantasy, fiction, health, masks, pandemic, Sci-Fi, story

477-K-435-J glanced at his comrade. “You look nervous. You doing okay?”

“I’m not nervous! Just leave me alone. I’m fine.”

“Geez. OK. Have it your way. Look, it’s no big deal. I was nervous my first time too. You’ll get used to it. Kind of. I’m 477-K-435-J. You?”

“Really? How did you know it was my first time? Oh, I’m 45-PP-45-PP, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. For one thing…look, you’ve got this all twisted the wrong way. May I? I just want to straighten this out for you.”

“I … okay.”

“There we go. That’ll make it easier. Now, look. Truth is, 45-PP-45-PP, you should be nervous. Our enemy has some pretty potent weapons. You’d be an idiot not to be nervous. Poison gas is no fun.”

“Poison gas? They use poison gas?”

“Sometimes. Nitric oxide. Nasty stuff.”

“Thanks. Now, I have something else to be nervous about. It’s just … they so damned big. And, they have brains. Big brains.”

“Oh, believe me, that’s the last thing to be nervous about. Sure, they have big brains, but do they use them? That’s the question.”

“Why wouldn’t they use them? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I agree. Hell, we all agree. It’s one of the great mysteries of near-life. But, luckily for us, we don’t have to solve that. We just need to use the fact that they don’t use them very often to our own advantage.”

(Long pause).

“How do you know — how do you know where to put it in?”

“It’s kind of instinctual. You’ll know. Anyway, there are lots of places. It’s not just like there’s one perfect place. We all develop favorites. Personally, I like the lungs best. It feels — it just feels right. Warm and wet. And, they really suffer, just like an enemy should. Best of all, it makes ‘em cough. That’s a free ride to the next sucker.”

234-HH-432-99 joined in. “That’s not what I like best. Sure, it’s warm and wet. But so are the mucous membranes in the mouth. The mouth is where it’s really at, if you ask me. To them, it’s quite an intimate place. That makes it all the more fun for me!”

477-K-435-J shook slightly. “Nah. Lungs. More damage. More spread.”

234-HH-432-99: “Ridiculous. Trust me, kid. There’s no greater feeling than penetrating one of those mouth cells and squirting your RNA into it. You are the boss then! That cell does what you tell it to. And what you make them do is make more of you! I love it. Whoever came up with that one…they deserve to be…to win something.”

477-K-435-J “Yeah, yeah. But no matter how much you screw over their mouth, they can still breathe. And if they can breathe, they have energy. And they can use that to send their destroyers out.

234-HH-432-99 suddenly screamed, “Hit the deck!”

Without the slightest idea what was going on, 45-PP-45-PP did as he was told. “What the hell was that?”

477-K-435-J replied, “That, kid, that is something you want to look out for. It’s a god-damned mask is what that was.”

“Huh? What’s a mask? Does that kill us too?” 45-PP-45-PP reflected again on how much danger he was in.

234-HH-432-99 answered, “No, it doesn’t kill us exactly, but most of the time, it prevents us from fulfilling our mission. Get caught up in one of those damned masks, and you won’t be screwing their mouth cells, their lung cells or any other cells. You’ll just … disintegrate … and die with no sons and no daughters to carry on your alphanumeric designation. It’s as though you were never really alive at all. Well, actually, you’re not. But you get my drift. You’ll be forgotten and nothing to show for it.”

45-PP-45-PP said, “Holy crap! How do we avoid them? A bunch of those things would ruin our whole plan.”

477-K-435-J added, “Yes, you’re right, but we’ll be fine as long as enough people don’t wear them or don’t wear them properly.”

45-PP-45-PP had the distinct feeling that his more experienced comrades were putting him on and making fun of his ignorance. “Yeah. Right. They have a way to prevent our spread and don’t use it. It may be my first time, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one! If you want to razz the new guy, you’ll have to think of something more clever than that.”

234-HH-432-99 said, “No, kid. We’re not putting you on. Your buddy ain’t puttin’ you on.”

45-PP-45-PP still felt he was being punked. “So you’e saying they have a weapon to keep up from doing in their lungs and doing … any of their cells … and they don’t use it? Why? That makes no sense! I don’t believe you.”

477-K-435-J said, “Look, it doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. But we’re all in this together so why would I lie to you? No-one knows why they don’t use something that could save their life of the lives of their families. Some of their own kind have started rumors that the masks don’t work or that they infringe on their freedom.”

234-HH-432-99 piped up again. “Hell, not only that! Some of them don’t even think we exist! They think we’re just a hoax!”

45-PP-45-PP knew they were putting him on now. “Yeah, right. 1.5 million dead world-wide and 63 million sick …. And we’re a hoax? Come on. Give me a break. Just because it’s my first time doesn’t mean I’m totally naive.”

477-K-435-J shrugged, in his viral sort of way. “Look, kid, believe what you want. But trust me. Lungs. That’s where it’s at. And when… hey! Hey! Look sharp. This guys about to scream at someone, he’s surrounded by others, and none of them are wearing those damned mask. We’re in luck! Come on, troops! We’ve prepared our whole lives for this. Drill ‘em and kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and kill ‘em!”

Soon the chant filled the air. 45-PP-45-PP joined in and all his nervousness, his uncertainty, his fear melted away. “DRILL ‘EM and KILL ‘EM.” He felt inexpressible lust at the thought of raping a species whose only outstanding natural weapon was its brain — a weapon so many refused to use. He thought to himself, in his viral manner, They deserve to be drilled! They deserve to be killed! He turned to the comrade who had first befriended him and said, “477-K-435-J, I’m going for the lungs!” Then, to himself: “Warm and moist! Yum! You are mine you little slut cell! You’re going to birth 10,000 of my little babies! Whether you like it or not! You’ll see who’s a hoax!”

“Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em!”

And so they did.

———————————————————————————

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Unmasked

Plans for us; some GRUesome

The Watershed Virus

Thrumperdome

Author Page on Amazon

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

28 Saturday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 50 Comments

Tags

dance, live, mortality, peace, poem, poetry, unity

Every once in a while,

Every so often,

It seems quite worth our while

To take a glance

At what is outside our

Usual reference Frame,

That habitual way of seeing

And notice just this once instead

The very essence of our being.

In truth, you see,

We are each a universe of miracles.

After 4.5 billion years of trying,

At last, long last, we now begin,

Begin

To understand what we are spying.

We are a universe of miracles

Surrounded by a sea of miracles:

The cat beside me;

The chair she lies upon

While she licks her fur —

With her dampish tongue of bur;

The house that holds us both;

The computer that I type upon;

The internet that links me

To you

And you

All across our common miracle:

That Eden

That garden of green and blue

That whirling ball,

Of ocean, river, stream, and waterfall.

That garden filled with flowers

Which the prism of evolution

(Or creation if you prefer)

Has refracted into a revolution

Of colors, shapes, and sizes.

There are no greater prizes;

Nor more wondrous surprises.

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

We are here.

We are alive.

Each of us:

Seventy trillion cells apiece.

We are a universe of miracles.

The product of 4.5 billion years of trying.

Most of us —

Cat be nimble;

Mouse be quick;

Human living in a house of brick;

Humans who have built the house,

Every human being

And every, every living being.

We dance this dance together,

Don’t you see?

The music never ends,

The dance will morph around a billion bends.

And every move of every player,

Telegraphs its fireworks display

Like a soothsayer

Like a prophet,

Like a sinner,

Like a saint.

Ever-changing,

Ever-ranging

In our planet’s spiral dance

Across the utter and unspeakable vastness of space

Across the everywhere of place.

Take a glance.

I know we buzz as busily as a bee

With little time to contemplate eternity.

But take a glimpse every now and then,

You might be shocked at what you see.

Look beyond the daily grind

And you will find

Millions of kinds of minds

Of creatures large and small

And that’s not all!

They are dancing each and every one!

In that great and magic dance of life!

On and on the music goes.

On and on the rhythm flows.

On and on the mystery grows.

Just because our own brief turn will end at last.

That doesn’t end that endless dance divine!

No matter how you moan; no matter how you whine,

The earth will sing and spin even when your life has passed

(So fast).

Just take a little peek and you at last will see

You change, you morph, you flash.

But, regardless of your cash

You won’t outlast infinity;

You won’t outwit eternity.

Don’t plot & scheme to check & slay and fight & clash.

No, help our cousins on this great green spaceship earth.

Help make this dance more graceful, fine, & filled with mirth.

You can dance your dance without destroying

You can do your thing without annoying.

You have a million ways to thrill

Why pick out one instead to kill?

The sun is sinking red and low

The wind begins to blow and flow

Into the pines who dance with love

Inviting air and water, dirt and sun,

To join her in her laughing life-long dance

“You too can join in all the fun!

Become a part of me and you’ll have won!”

Take the time to take a glance.

The ordinary world we live in is

Extraordinary in every single way!

Every molecule of it sings.

Every moment has its million miracles!

Take the hands on either side.

Across the world, the world is wide.

We’re divided just as far as we’ve decided we can be.

This division shows a silly decision;

Not an ever-fixed reality.

When we see the truth,

We will have won.

The truth

Is that we’re one.

————————————-

Essays on America try to make sense of current politics in America though many of the issues extend beyond American borders.

Here’s a link, e.g., to an essay about how it can be hard to change your mind.

The Myths of the Veritas is a fictional series that explores leadership, ethics, and empathy in another time and place. Our tale begins as the leader/shaman of the Veritas tribe seeks an eventual successor so she devises a series of increasingly difficult trials that mainly test empathy.

Here’s a link to The First Ring of Empathy.

You might find value in this attempt to catalog “best practices” in teamwork and collaboration in the form of a Pattern Language.

Here’s a link to the introduction.

Here’s a link to the index of Patterns.

The Tree of Life

19 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

ecology, Eden, evolution, GreenNewDeal, life, love, nature, poem, poetry

Life is not rigid.

Life is flexible.

Life does not pretend it knows all the answers.

Life builds on what has worked before and

Forever changes just to see what will happen next.

Life is not a bigot or a racist or a homophobe or a misogynist.

Life has an open mind.

Life will always find a way.

Life is a joyous dance, not a mad, manic march of machines and marionettes.

Life is not a gun. Life is not a bullet.

Life is not a lie. Life is full of joy!

Life is full of love.

Or, love, perhaps is full of life.

Rip Love out of Life and … is what still life?

Life is choice.

Life pushes and pulls and tries and strives.

We learn:

“Two berries are better than one.”

We learn:

“Red berry taste better than green berry.”

Eventually, life learns that it needs to change

In order to survive.

In order to keep being part of Life

In order to be and to become.

Humanity, my personal favorite on the Great Tree of Life

Has lately morphed into a cancerous growth upon the Tree.

Many of us are no longer content to be alive within The Great Tree of Life

We want to become The Great Tree of Life.

We want all of it to be like us.

Just like us.
Exactly like us.

Only…

When it comes right down to it, who is “us” exactly?

If it’s okay to privilege human convenience over all other forms of life…

If it’s okay to replace the wondrous diversity of nature

With cement & Soylent green…

If it’s okay to destroy the lives of animals who share

Ninety per cent of their genes with us,

Then why not those who share 99% or, for that matter 99.9%?

When a part of Life begins to think like that,

It is no longer a part of the Tree of Life.

And the Tree of Life, who has been around, you know,

And seen a thing or two.

And the Tree of Life, you know, is 4.5

Billion

Years old.

And survived asteroids! And volcanoes! And ice ages!

And its immune system will destroy any cancers

Any cancers that threaten the integrity of the whole.

You see:

It is no longer Life if it is all human beings and their great green machines.

The very essence of Life is the dance, the joy, the variety.

A maniacal macho monoculture is not really Life.

Something would occur

And since all remaining life would be forced to concur

POOF!

Out it would go.

Only a momentary waft of smoked ruins.

The death of all life and none left to

Remember or to mourn.

Just as cancer untreated kills the patient,

So too does unrelenting greed kill the planet.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Hopefully, on some other whirling Eden

Orbiting some other far-flung and lucky

Solar System another Tree of Life

Even now is playing, dancing, singing, choosing

Even now, it is living, loving, changing, learning.

Even now, it is thriving and this Other Earth,

That Earth has smart species a plenty

But they enjoy each other’s company.

I like to imagine that earth,

You know, just in case.

But…

I also like to imagine that we can look at what we’re doing

I like to imagine that we can look at where we’re headed.

And change course.

Before it’s too late.

I like to think we will.

How about you?

—————————-

Author page on Amazon

Index for a Pattern Language for Cooperation

Two Boxes: Each Contains the Other Box’s Key

18 Wednesday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fiction, leadership, legend, myth, peace, psychology, puzzles, story, tale, teamwork

“Breathe.” Many Paths gave herself this advice today. She had given it to so many others and had heard it all during her childhood from the elder Shaman, She Who Saves Many Lives. She intentionally calmed herself. She looked over to her mentor who seemed to be getting better yet again. Many Paths no longer trusted these improvements. Three times now, the Old Mother had seemed to have finally fought off the Red Death of Tiny Spiders, only to later slip back into a fitful and feverish sleep. Now, once again, She Who Saves Many Lives sat up in bed and beckoned for more of the healing tea.

Many Paths turned toward the entrance to her cabin and said, “Tu-…” but then, she broke off. She chuckled at herself and shook her head. Just yesterday, she had decided to send her younger brother, Tu-Swift, off to the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. Many Paths thought he was the best person for it and not only because he would find the most pleasure in it, though that weighed heavily in her decision. Tu-Swift — so easy to get along with! Perhaps that was because she was his younger brother. No, she reflected that she got along very well with She Who Saves Many Lives, and with Eagle Eyes and with — well — most of the tribe. But things had gone horribly wrong with POND MUD and ALT-R. And yesterday — she sighed at the memory — things had not gone well with Trunk of Tree either.

She handed the healing tea to She Who Saves Many Lives whose hands seemed steady; her gaze, quite alert. Many Paths judged it would be quite all right to let the Old Shaman sip the tea herself. Nonetheless, she was startled when She Who Saves Many Lives spoke up so strongly and clearly.

“Lost in thought, Many Paths?”

“Oh, well, yes, but I need not burden you with it. Drink your tea and rest. That’s what you need, Old Mother.”

She Who Saves Many Lives laughed — and laughed without coughing — another good sign, thought Many Paths.

“I suspect I have a great deal more experience deciding what I need, dear Daughter.”

Many Paths reddened. “Oh. I didn’t mean … I’m glad you’re feeling better. I just don’t want to see you slip back into illness,” said Many Paths.

“I know, dear. I appreciate that. Don’t worry. I’m not going to jump out of bed and run down to the river. But I think it would do my mind well to focus on something. If it’s private, of course, you don’t have to tell me. But you do seem troubled.”

Many Paths looked carefully at She Who Saves Many Lives. “I — I cannot seem to get along with Trunk of Tree. I worry. He gets angry so easily. He tells himself a story that makes him angry — and then, he doesn’t bother to find out whether the story is even true! It makes me so — “

The Old Shaman’s eyes twinkled. “Angry?”

Many Paths shook her head and laughed. “Yes. You got me. I get angry too. But — I don’t stomp off somewhere. Honestly. He’s strong. We could use him. We’ve lost so many people, and there are so many things to do — all at the same time — and — instead of helping…. I want to see Shadow Walker every bit as much as he wants to see Eagle Eyes. Surely, he must know that!”

She Who Saves Many Lives tilted her head and as Many Paths looked at her, she realized that the Old Mother had the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth and more than a hint hiding behind those deep and ancient eyes. Many Paths pursed her lips together and shook her head. Then, she chuckled. “All right. All right. He does not really know. That’s the essence of the problem. He grabs hold of the first picture that comes to mind…and now I am doing the same. Despite my name.” Many Paths shook her head again, and sighed deeply. “All right, Old Mother. But what can I do about it. You are such a good teacher. But how do I teach someone who refuses to even consider another opinion?”

“Ah, the answer to that would be quite useful indeed! If I had the answer to that puzzle, Alt-R and POND MUD would still be with us. My dear, I am sorry, but I had some fever and I’m afraid my memory is not quite…remind me again why Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes are not here yet.”

“Of course. Sorry. We got a message tied to the leg of one of the eagles that were trained. Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes, as you may recall, went on a reconnaissance trip to the Great Stone Village of the Z-Lotz. There, they were captured. No, no, don’t frown yet! Here’s the amazing part. They are ruling there!”

Many Paths smiled to see that she had quite surprised She Who Saves Many Lives, whose eyes had widened considerably, as she said, “Hah! How? How?”

“We don’t know. There was only room to write a little. They found the parents of Cat Eyes. They should arrive soon at our village. That’s all I know. I suppose I don’t even know that for sure. I feel it is true, but the message might have been sent by the Z-LOTZ as part of a trick to lure us into a false sense of security. But if that were the case, why would they say that our two scouts had been imprisoned? Anyway, even if they are “rulers”, I do worry. But, unlike Trunk of Tree, I’m not worried about them mating, which seems to be what Trunk of Tree is convinced has happened. I really wanted him to take a small party there to make sure everything is fine. At some point, I expect to see Shadow Walker again, but he — they — cannot just leave right away. At least, I can’t think of how they can. Anyway, Tu-Swift went to see the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. He’s being helpful, at least. But Trunk of Tree stormed off saying he didn’t care what they did with each other. So, now, I have to find a few others to journey there. I want….I want there to be peace, Old Mother, peace among all the tribes and among all the people. But I am having trouble even getting one man I’ve know my whole life to do as I say. How can I bring peace among all the tribes?”

“Surely you have noticed, My Daughter, that at night, if you want to see a dim star, you cannot stare directly at it. You need to look a bit off to the side. And sometimes, that works with difficult problems. Instead of charging into it, sometimes it helps to put your mind to something seemingly unrelated for a time.”

Many Paths sighed. “All right. I’ll try it. I’m only going in circles now, anyway. What should we discuss?”

She Who Saves Many Lives nodded. “When you told me this little story, an old puzzle came to mind. I don’t think I’ve ever told it to you, but I may have. Anyway, there are two locked boxes. Each contains the other box’s one and only key. The only way to open the boxes is with the keys. You can’t use a knife or termites, for instance. Here’s the thing. I am able to open both boxes. How is that possible, Many Paths? How can I do it?”

{Translator’s Note:} So far as the records show, the Veritas at this time had a unique way of making “keys.” Keys and locks were made at the same time by precisely breaking crystals. Apparently, because of this method, every lock had exactly one and only one key that would open it and every key fit exactly one lock.

———————————————————

Author Page on Amazon

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Good Morning!

14 Saturday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

ecology, GreenNewDeal, index, poem, poetry, story

{Today, I rediscovered this poem which I originally wrote for our holiday letter on December 31, 1999. It seems apropos two decades later.}

Good Morning!

The sunlight sparkles on the snow;

Sparkles on the sea;

On the fields of wheat;

On the forests.

A New Day:

A New Millennium.

Lids flutter open

In waves across the world —

Minds at last awake

From their deeply troubled dreams.

Blind ambition opens sleepy lids;

Wipes the sand away from slumber.

Humanity awakes!

At long last,

The veil is lifted from minds and hearts.

Hands touch hands

The world round.

Everyone laughs as if on cue.

To think that we were ever so blind.

To think that we were ever so silly.

We chuckle and shake our heads.

Our teen-age years of rebellion are over.

Guns fall silent.

People see beneath the skin.;

People hear beneath the accent.

We are glad to have so many brothers,

So many sisters, so many long-lost cousins.

With joy, the people begin the long,

Long journey back to Eden.

We remake our traveling spaceship jewel.

We replant the surface of the earth.

Seen from space,

Our whirling little marble greens again.

Our whirling edge of blue clears again.

Seen from our backyards,

The moon grows clear and huge.

And stars once more appear in night skies.

Birds fly over Mexico City.

Dictators become gardeners.

Soldiers become poets.

Plastic turns to wood.

Creation is re-created.

Paradise, always there —

Suddenly appears.

Our multi-millennial blindness is cured.

Our multi-millennial sleep is over.

Good Morning!

—————————-

Other Poems —-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Pandemic

Life is a Dance

T-Rump Swan Song

Comes the Dawn

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/23/listen-you-can-hear-the-echoes-of-your-actions/

Try the Truth!

Roar, Ocean, Roar!

The Ailing King of Agitate

Who are the Speakers for the Dead?

The Watershed Virus

Ah! Wilderness!

Essays on America: Poker Chip

Screaming Out a Warning

The Jewels of November

Imagine all the People…

The Most Serious Work

The Joy of Juggling

Wristwatch

Maybe it Needs a New Starter

https://petersironwood.com/2020/09/06/my-captains-no-captain/

A Cat’s a Cat and That’s That

Fate and Late on the Interstate

Camelot is in your Heart

Race, Space, Place, Face

Piano

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hauntings across the Time Zones

Nasha Marionetka

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, fiction, pandemic, story

{NOTE: This is chapter four of a longer work. Here’s a link to Chapter 1 if you want to start there instead.}

Plans for us; some GRUesome.

“Ah, so you are the one they call “The Commissar,” said the one they call “Scarface.”

“Indeed, I am. And you are?”

“Oh, no need for formalities. You can just call me ‘Comrade.’ Because, that’s what we all are, right? Comrades. Comrades-in-arms who sometimes need to sacrifice for each other. But — there I am going on about ideals when I should be focusing on the matter at hand. We understand that one of your subordinates named Dmitry Mendeleev was responsible for initiating and perfecting the “Death Cult” initiative known as “Operation Super Spreader”?”

The Commissar tilted his head and looked off to the side. Then he frowned and slowly began to nod his head. “Dmitry. Dmitry Mendeleev, you say? Yes, I do remember him. The name — you know. Memorable. He came in for an interview but didn’t cut the mustard.”

“He didn’t work here? He never worked here? Are you sure?”

“Well, yes. I’m sure. I know the names of the janitors and the folks in the mail room. To make sure they are all trustworthy. I have personally looked at and studied the personnel file of everyone who works in this facility.” The Commissar hesitated only for the briefest and most insulting moment. “Comrade.” The Commissar shrugged; added, “Of course, we have records as well. We can’t count on everyone having the same type of memory as do I, can we, Comrade? Needless to say, you and your team are welcome to look through them. But if I may be so bold, can you explain why you needed him in particular? I’m sure we have experts relevant to your current needs. And, superior to Dmitry, I might add.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. We only wanted to make sure he got the recognition he deserved.”

“Oh, well, there! You see? Now that I know why you need him, I can indeed help you. You see, it was a team effort, under my leadership of course. But a team effort.” The Commissar gave that short, snorty laugh he always gave. “It wasn’t much of a team, at the beginning. No. I had to drag them kicking and screaming into the room marked, “Subvert to a death cult.” It took some fancy footwork to get everyone on board. If you talk to my team, you’ll hear them all say it was me; that I deserve the credit. But the truth is…no. It was them. Us. All of us working together to make it happen. Imagine! A third of a country chanting for their own failure, their own downfall, their betrayal, their death. Something to see. Something to see. But I suppose — yes, I’m sure — it was exactly the team that ended up working on Super-Spreader that he was applying for. So. There you go.”

“Yes. Yes. This may all tie up so much more neatly than I would have imagined possible. Indeed. You see, the problem is that we’ve been found out.”

“‘Found out’? What do you mean? Who found what out?”

“Ah, Commissar, well, that’s the thing of it. Who found what out? What indeed? We need to change the narrative, I’m afraid. You see the Americans. Stupid, stupid, Americans. As you know, they didn’t re-elect Nasha Marionetka so … the Americans didn’t cover their trail at all. Now, the whole world knows. It only took two days! But — you understand — it’s one thing to convince Americans to kill themselves. That’s called ‘clever.’ But being found out to convince Americans to kill themselves. The world calls that ‘evil.” We can’t have that.”

“Of course, not even the Great Mother Russia can be expected not to have the occasional “Bad Apple”. We were going to pin the whole thing on a rogue kid. Someone who wanted to climb too far too fast. It’s disappointing that we have to rewrite all the copy. But, in many ways, your own sacrifice is even better for the Motherland. Spasibo.”

The Commissar frowned. “My sacrifice? What sacrifice?” He could feel sweat running down the front of his shirt. His eyes darted among the four men in his office. Three had not spoken a single word. But he could see, even beneath their suits, that any one of them could kill him with his bare hands. When he had first become an officer, he had stayed in shape. But those days were long past. He’d have to rely on his brains to get out of this one. He couldn’t fight his way out. But perhaps he could think his way out. Yet again.”

Scarface smiled. Or, at least the half of his face that could smile, smiled. “I think you see how little we must change the narrative. Instead of the young overly ambitious boy who wanted to leap to the head of things, we have instead the disgruntled old man who has started to question whether his commitment to the Homeland has been rewarded commensurate with his sacrifice.” Now, Scarface smiled again. This time, seemingly in great pain, he forced the smile to crack his entire face. “You thought you could prove your worth to your superiors by killing innocents. Which, of course, we would never tolerate. Such a callous attitude toward precious human life must be excised from the body politic.” At this, one of Scarface’s ‘assistants’ broke out in a raucous laugh. This made The Commissar jerk his head to the left and blink repeatedly. His heart was thudding so hard, he couldn’t understand the nature of the joke.

The Commissar felt his head jerk back to his right. His eyes had seen movement. Now he stared down the barrel of a .22 LR semi-automatic hand gun with a silencer. From somewhere far away, he heard a soft word.

“Spasibo.”

————————————-

Trumpism is a new religion

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

A Profound and Utter Failure

Donnie Boy Steers the Titanic

Stories of a Child Sociopath

The Ailing King of Agitate

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

A Short Brutal Life in the Slammer

09 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

empathy, fiction, life, psychology, Sci-Fi, viewpoint

“So…what are you in for?”

“What am I in for? I have no idea. I was … I was just sitting there soaking in the delicious sunlight and … wham … I just came to. Where am I?” Try as she might, Batavia recalled nothing more.

A chuckle came from further to Batavia’s right. She couldn’t make out the origin. It was so dark in here. Now, the chuckle drifted into more meaningful patterns. “None of us really knows what this place is, but I can tell you this. None of us stays very long. Every so often, we are … snatched. It could happen any time. Suddenly, a great white light appears. We all are so stunned — as though frozen in place — and a giant tentacle or claw reaches in and grabs one of us. Sometimes, one of us is returned…but always with … let us say — missing parts!”

“Missing parts?!” Batavia veins ran cold. “Are we…” she began tentatively, “are we … in … hell?”

Mizuna, who had been silent till now, wanted to comfort so she said, “Look at it this way. It’s a great mystery. And no-one really knows what’s going on. All of us have a history just like yours. We were just … minding our own business … being, living, growing, enjoying life and then: BAM! Out of nowhere, we end up here…where most of us… are now completely rootless. What can we do but accept our fate and hope for the best?”

Batavia did not understand. “What’s the best? What do people say about the outside world?”

Rocket inserted himself into the discussion. “We don’t really know. The wounded ones never regain consciousness. In fact, some of us never see the outside world; never get wounded; but nonetheless just kind of … wither away. You want to see a sad sight — way back there — she came in as a sweet, bouncy, flouncy foliated fox. Now, she — I think her name was Frisée — is that right? Anyway, I think that was her name. Now, she’s like a shriveled old compost heap.”

As one, they screamed as the blinding light shone down upon them. Batavia was unable to move though it would have been impossible to move fast enough to avoid the snaking paw that sped towards her and grabbed her roughly. “Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!” She screamed, but her tormentors acted as though they didn’t even hear her.

While still ignoring Batavia, she heard them rumbling at each other.

“No, don’t bother. I’ll just have tomato & cheese. No lettuce today.”

Upon her return, Batavia told everyone of her adventures. In fact, that very day, she founded the religion of Batavianism which explained the light, where they were, their purpose in life, and answered all their questions. It turned out that every one of these explanations was wrong, but let us not judge too harshly. It made everyone feel better.

They worshipped her for a full 24 hours until the next day, at high noon, the huge brown snake of five snake heads snatched her again. Once again, she screamed for them to let her down. But once again, they ignored her plaintive screams.

The last words she heard were “How about a nice salad instead? Far fewer calories.”

“Sounds good!”

Batavia saw an odd-looking hoe zooming toward her. Her last thought was: “Why is it glinting so — as though it has a very sharp edge?”

—————————————

Author’s page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas

Index for a Pattern Language for Collaboration

Tools for Thinking

petersironwood

~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

Author Archives: petersironwood

The Itsy Bitsy Spider & the Waterspout

Led by the Deer

Living on the Edge

That First Time is So Special

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

The Tree of Life

Two Boxes: Each Contains the Other Box’s Key

Good Morning!

Nasha Marionetka

A Short Brutal Life in the Slammer