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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Category Archives: family

Essays on America: Happy Talk Lies

28 Sunday Jun 2020

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

≈ 38 Comments

Tags

America, Dictatorship, essay, fascism, Feedback, Happy Talk, Impeachment, lies, politics, science, testing, truth, USA

 

woman in black tank top blindfolded

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You do not actually have a generic right to impinge on the rights of others. 

If someone is trying to convince you that you do — they are peddling you Happy Talk Lies and trying either:

  1. to make a buck or gain power by playing to your “angels” — and not the better ones — or, 
  2. trying to destroy our civil society.

    Let’s consider just a few common examples. You can go into your house and play music. And you can play music not at all, or you can play it 24 x 7. You can listen only to Mozart or only to Philip Glass or leave the radio on all day or play CD’s. You have a huge range of freedoms. This huge range of freedoms that you enjoy, by the way, depends partly on government; it also depends on science. Without science, you would, as a practical matter be far more limited in your freedom.

What you cannot do is play your music so loud that it disturbs others. How loud is too loud? It depends on context. If you are living in a thin-walled apartment complex, you might start to disturb others even when the music is played softly. On the other hand, if you live in the middle of nowhere, you can crank your amps up so far you’ll destroy your own hearing. In some cases, there may be some objective standard about noise levels, but generally it’s a question of having people complain. If one person complains about the noise, the police generally don’t do anything. But if several people complain, they will come and tell people to stop partying so loud. This isn’t “communism” or “socialism” or “Big Bad Government” — this is just people getting along with each other. You don’t have the freedom to impinge on others just because you feel like it. 

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That may seem like a pain in the neck. But you have to realize that other people don’t have the right to impinge on your rights either. And, that is much more valuable to you than whatever inconvenience you have from not being able to impinge on the rights of others. Why? Because there are many more others than there are of you. And, regardless of laws, regulations, customs, power, eventually, if you try to impinge on the rights of others, they will eventually get together and impinge on yours — big time. Guillotine sized big time.

The area of what you can do without infringing on the rights of others typically gets smaller as population becomes more dense. I suspect this may be one reason why people from the wide open spaces feel more as though wearing a mask is an unnecessary inconvenience as compared to city dwellers. City dwellers are much more used to curtailing their rights so as not to infringe on the rights of others than are people in the rural areas. You literally cannot even walk down the sidewalk in a busy city without “negotiating space” with all those around you. 

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I believe there is also a difference in the quality of how people in rural and urban areas see rights interacting and potentially infringing. To city folks, it makes a lot of sense to enforce speed limits, noise ordinances and mandatory mask wearing. On the other hand, it generally makes no sense to urbanites to try to enforce restrictions on other people’s sexual preferences. Why would you want to massively restrict the freedom of others to avoid a temporary feeling of discomfort in yourself? Who cares whether Bob Jones in Des Moines marries Maria Santos or Mario Santos? That’s the sentiment I agree with. I think people from small towns view it much more personally.

Let’s posit that any hint of homosexuality in certain communities has always been viewed with shame and suspicion. Of course, a large part of this probably stems from people repressing the complexity of their own feelings. They feel safe when homosexuality is criminalized because that way they know they themselves won’t be tempted (or at least, as tempted). Now, if the Federal Government mandates that you cannot any longer be wantonly cruel to people or fire them because they’re gay, what do such people think? 

Some of them are in a real panic. Felix thinks, maybe my male friend Oscar, whom I dearly love, secretly has a crush on me and wants to have sex?  Worse, what if I … the government shouldn’t be forcing us to adopt this gay lifestyle! That’s what I think! Have them mind their own business and if they want to fill up New York and San Francisco and DC with gays, let them have at it. But not out here in our town. Since gays have always been ostracized here, they believe, in a strange way, that it doesn’t exist because they don’t see it! The government, is in effect, forcing them to face the fact that homosexuality actually does exist.

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Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

Looked at from this perspective, there’s a commonality with the dangerous idea that testing causes COVID19 rather than reveals it. Not testing is a close cousin to the Happy Talk Lies that Trump has peddled since day one of the pandemic. He doesn’t care whether he actually kills Americans. What he wants is for his base to feel better because he talks to them and gives a lame excuse for his actions which are actually killing them. They don’t want to think about the economic devastation or the likelihood that they or someone they love is going to die. Trump acts, for them, as a kind of “anti-therapist.” Instead of attempting to show someone the benefits of taking a more honest look at life, the Anti-Therapist colludes in the fantasies of the Id. Since he talks to the infant in the base, it isn’t necessary to provide an adult rationale. In fact, doing so would be counter-productive. Such a move would “wake up” the adult in the heads of his audience and they might start asking themselves questions such as —

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Is this guy telling the truth? Is there any evidence for that? Does that really correspond with what I already know about the world? Doesn’t this directly contradict what he just said ten minutes ago? Is this making any sense at all?

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Why would Trump want his audience to ask any of those questions? He wouldn’t. Instead, he wants to keep their inner infant enthralled. He will play “Patty-Cake” with his audience. (Trump is not the first politician to do this). Leading them in hate chants is essentially playing Patty-Cake. The words can’t be complex. And they don’t have to relate to reality. When he says, “Who’s going to pay for the wall?” and the audience all chants, “Mexico!” it doesn’t mean that they are going to keep tabs on whether that turns out to be true. But the infant does want reassurance. So, Trump will give some idiotic lie or excuse that no rational person would buy. But he’s not talking to the adult in these people. He’s talking to the infant. And the infant (or Id, or inner child) in all of us is superficial and hungry for something right now! 

Similarly, when Trump tells his base that COVID19 is a liberal hoax or that it’s all going away in the warm weather, it makes the base feel good for a moment. But, there’s a catch. They can only feel better if they believe his lies. If they hear his pronouncement that the virus is going away in the warm weather and think:

“Really? That’s weird. Because all the scientists are saying they don’t know. And some places where it is already warm weather, the pandemic is growing uncontrollably.” 

No. That’s no good. That doesn’t make the person feel better at that moment. Indeed, it makes them feel worse. Not only is COVID19 possibly going to kill them, the President of the United States is lying! So, we must understand, it’s much more comfortable to believe everything he says. His lies are always designed to make his audience feel better at that moment if and only if they believe his lies. Like many other drugs — heroine, cocaine, alcohol — it will take more and more over time to get the same high.

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Believing the Happy Talk Lies is addictive. And, from Trump’s point of view, it’s much better than telling the truth. Telling the truth would take work and he feels work is beneath him. So, there’s that. In addition, he can always say something that will make the base feel better — not just when there actually is good news. And — understand — when the actual news is bad news — a pandemic that’s killed 125,000 Americans, most of them needlessly; or the worst economic downturn in history; or Trump’s own evident treason — guess what? When the actual news is bad news, his lies are even more effective as an addictive drug.

Imagine for a moment that you are a Trump fan. You have believed almost everything he’s said up to this point. Robert Mueller comes out with a report that shows how the Russians interfered with our election to help Donald Trump. How does it make you feel to think that Donald Trump is a traitor and that our country is now beholden to Putin!? Good? I think not! You will feel terrible! You voted for the man, for God’s sake! Now it turns out he’s a traitor! That’s a horrible thing to bear. But wait — Trump himself — or Bilious Barr can provide a Happy  Talk Lie instead. “The report shows there was no collusion. It’s no big deal.” Whew! Thank you! That was close! For a moment there, it looked as though I was going to be extremely uncomfortable. Thank goodness Trump and his spokes-liars gave an alternative view. Now I feel better again. 

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The reason for Trump’s tweeting is not so much the chance to spew forth fear and hate and best of all — redemption for the believers in the lies — though, that is useful and fun. More importantly, it seeds a community of like-minded believers. Heroine alleys, opium dens, local bars where the cheap drinks are plentiful share the same purpose as on-line groups based on reinforcing each other for addictive behavior. If you’re high all the time, “ordinary people” begin to give you grief. “Have you thought about what this is doing to your life and the lives of those around you?” If everyone in your life said that, you might well have to confront the fact that the addiction was not good for you. Instead, it’s so much nicer to have a group who understands; that is to say, they’ve made the same decision to forgo their life and responsibilities in order to satisfy their momentary pleasures that you have. So, you agree not to challenge them. And, they agree not to challenge you. Instead, you will work together to repeat and spread the lies of  the addicted. In the case of support groups for Trump, people repeat and spread the lies of “Der Fooler” and doing so gives another nice little hit of endorphins.

Now, in June of 2020, these little hits of endorphins are not just coming from hearing “Happy Talk” lies, or repeating them. Now, the base are all being encouraged to go out and spread the coronavirus. And they are. And, I have to guess that they feel good doing it even though they themselves could sicken and die; even though they could be the cause of their best friend dying, or their child, or their parent. Because they feel as though they are part of a “feel good” movement and everyone else is just a party pooper. Everyone who thinks 125,000 dead Americans is a horrible tragedy is just trying to rain on the parade, a real Debbie Downer, Eeyore, Sad Sack, a wallflower.

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What do you do in a society when perhaps one third of the voting age population is addicted to Happy Talk Lies? Maybe a few of them will spontaneously quit. Perhaps some will take up tennis and become addicted to that instead. What else? An addiction is always hard to break — and that’s even if the person wants to. 

It may seem hopeless, but I don’t think it is. As a society, we used to have many more people addicted to nicotine than we do today. And the tobacco companies fought like a wounded warthog to keep enough people addicted to keep the tobacco barons rolling in dough. So, I”m still hopeful that we can evolve beyond Happy Talk Addiction. If we do, then, we have a real shot at keeping the American death total below a million, not to mention keeping us away from the abyss of Nazism. People will be willing to not only look at the truth but take actions that are consistent with the truth such as only going out when necessary and using a mask. People will reject the notion that they have and should exercise unlimited license to do what they feel like regardless of the impact on others. In other words, people will grow up and fulfill their responsibility to vote as an adult, not as a small child might. 

But it won’t be easy. Because it means giving up the addiction to Happy Talk Lies.

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————————-

Trumpism is a New Religion 

You Bet Your Life

Rejecting Adulthood

Wednesday (Cognitive Dissonance discussion)

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Author Page on Amazon

 

Donnie Lets his Brother take the Fall.

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

con man, criminal, crook, fiction, narcissistic personality disorder, politics, satire, sociopathy, story, truth

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“Good God you’re stupid, Donnie. I thought I was a bad student. Look at these grades? What’s wrong with you!” The longer Donnie Boy’s dad Fred screamed, the purpler his face became. His voice grew steadily louder and less intelligible; his gestures grew wilder and more erratic.

Donnie held his head appropriately low and his eyes were on the floor. He pretended to be mortified, but let’s take a peek inside Donnie Boy’s head and see what kinds of semi-thoughts slither around in there.

Donnie Boy gritted his teeth and thought: Like I really give a flying fruck what you think. He squeezed his hand extra hard to put a grim and sorrowful look on his face, but not enough to cause real pain. If he showed a tear, he would bet a righteous beating. “Yes, Daddy” said Donnie boy as he thought silently, Some day I’m going to bury you. Bury you. Bury you. Like Khrushcheat Hah. So there!

Now, Fred had reached the dangerous stage of throwing random crap around the kitchen. On he ranted, “I told you Idiot Boy, [an ash tray shattered against the fridge; Donnie Boy flinched] the more you learn, the easier it is to fool other people! [a crystal wine goblet shattered against the floor; Donnie Boy flinched] Who the hell are you going to be able to con, if you can’t sound educated when you need to? You going to be stuck all your life with two-bit cons? [To prove his point, Fred flung a frying pan through the kitchen window; Donnie Boy flinched}.  

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The front door swung open and Mommy twittered into the kitchen. One look at the expression on her husband’s face told her that it was going to be one of those nights. “Hello, dear. Would you like me to make your dinner now? I got some nice —- “

“Where the F### have you been, B####? Why isn’t my dinner on the table NOW? This piece of crap apparently got your genes in the smarts department! Look! Look at his report card! If you know how to read it. Can you read a report card, dummy? He’s hardly worth the trouble to even whip. Here. You do it for once. I’m going out.” At this point, Fred slipped his belt out from the loops of his pants and doubled it up. He sprang at his wife and drew his arm back. He saw his wife flinch and that made him laugh. “Don’t worry, idiot. I’m not going to hit you. Not now. But when I get back, I’d better see 20 lashes on that boy’s butt or you or going to get double. And those other two as well. And, beat some sense into him while you’re at it.” 

Fred slammed his way out the door. Mary walked over to her son shaking her head, “I’m sorry Donnie Boy, but you know what I have to do. You heard him. I’m not going to beat Maryann and Junior because of your laziness. Turn around now, like a good boy and drop your drawers.”

Donnie Boy flinched, “But Mommy! I didn’t do anything bad! The teacher just doesn’t like me! I know it all! Ask me anything. I know everything! I deserved all A’s but she failed me because I wouldn’t show her my thingie.” 

“Donald, I think you’re just trying to get out of a beating. Now let your pants down.” 

“But Mommy! It wasn’t me! It was Fred! It was Fred. I didn’t want to say. I was trying to protect him!” 

“What are you talking about? You failed and got a D. It doesn’t have anything to do with Fred.” 

“Well, it is Mommy it is. But please don’t make me tell you. Please. Fred will kill me if he finds out I told you.” Even at his tender age, Donnie had learned delaying tactics that gave him time to make up a lie. He thought: This will be better. It’s one kid against another. They would believe the teacher, but whether it’s me or Fred? Who knows? I’ll just keep lying and at least they will doubt whether it’s true.

“Donald, you’d better explain and explain good or I’ll whip you twice as hard. You know I don’t want to, but I get tired of your lies! Now how is it your brother’s fault that you have bad grades.” 

“OK, Mommy, I’ll tell you but please, please, don’t let Fred find out I told you. He’ll kill me. Well, maybe he won’t, but those bad friends of his will.” 

“What bad friends? What are you talking about?” 

“Well, Mommy, I had to skip so many classes because I had to go earn money to help Fred pay back all those gambling loans to those bad people and I was afraid — well, Fred said not to tell anybody because both of us could go to jail and I didn’t do anything illegal. I was just trying to help my brother! Fred said if we didn’t get the money and we didn’t want to ask Daddy or you because really that wouldn’t be fair. Even Fred and I agreed on that. We wanted to solve our own problem. Isn’t that what you said we should do? Isn’t it Mommy?” 

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“Of course, Donald, but what gambling? What friends? What are you talking about? Where is your brother? It’s dinner time.”

“I know. I mean, I know he should be here. I hope he’s okay. I think tomorrow was the day he really needed the money for. But those bad people…they might not wait. I don’t know. Maybe we should go try to find him? I mean, before it’s too late. Anyway, I know if we solve this problem of the money for Fred, I can easily get my grades up! It’s not like I don’t know the material. I know it! Oh, I know it! But I missed some test. If Fred just had like $500, we could pay them off — he swears he’ll never gamble again! But I — all that time I worked I only made $5.”

“Donald, are you making this up? Tell me honestly.”

“Oh, Mommy, it’s true. And, you know I love to talk with you but … I’m worried about Fred. He should be home. You’d better let me take him the money. I can run faster and you … Mommy … so beautiful a young lady would … the only women who are there after dark … well, I know it like the back of my gigantic hands. I think it’s the only thing we can do — and then we won’t have to tell Daddy. He would kill Fred! You know he would! Let’s keep it to ourselves. Okay?” 

“All right, Donald. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, Mommy! Don’t you worry. But let’s just never talk about it again. Okay?” 

“All right, Donald. I’ll be right back. You stay there.” 

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Mary went into the bedroom and went to her side of her closet, knelt down and pulled out a shoe box. In the shoe box was the money she had saved for herself — for a rainy day — sometimes, she fantasized about using the money to skip town. But then, she thought about Fred Senior tracking her down. It would be worse — much worse — than the usual beatings and rapes. So. What better way to use it than to save my son’s life.”

Meanwhile, Donnie Boy peered through the crack of the door and saw the secret hiding place for Mommy’s Cash. He had long suspected that she had such a treasure and now he knew for sure and he knew where. He slowly shuffled back to where he had been. 

Donald stood with a pleasant but serious look on his face as his mother handed him the envelope. 

“Be careful, Donald. Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

“I swear, Mommy, I won’t put myself in any danger. I should go!” 

Donald tucked the envelope into his pocket, turned on his heel and shuffled to the door and closed it behind him. He walked to the corner, turned right and went about half a block were there was a bus stop. He knew Fred would soon pass by here on his way home from the library. He had asked Donald to tell their folks that he’d be home at 7pm sharp. Of course, Donald said no such thing and had not planned on it, even if he hadn’t gotten in trouble for his report card.

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Donald shivered slightly in the damp air and pounded his shoulders with his teeny hands. A few moments later, he recognized the form of his older brother. “Hey Fred! How’s it going?”

“Hey, Shrimp. What are you doing here?” 

“I thought I’d come give you a heads up about what’s going on at home.” 

“Oh? Why, Shrimp, is anything wrong.” 

“Well, Fred, Mommy didn’t have dinner ready and you weren’t there and Dad got all made and stomped out. He broke some stuff and we need to clean it up. Meanwhile, Mommy’s not in a very good mood, as you might imagine. Probably best not to say much to her tonight. Then, we should go to bed early and pretend to be asleep. Maybe Daddy will be too drunk to beat anybody. I don’t know. We can hope. Just don’t say much to Mom.” 

“All right. Thanks, Donald. You’re all right. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Sure thing, Fred. That’s what brothers are for!”

No-one in the family ever mentioned the $500 ever again. Donnie Boy used it for his own purposes — purposes that are beyond the boundaries of the sensibilities of the vast majority of people to even wish to read about. 

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———————————

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man
Donnie Gets a Hamster

Donnie Visits Granny

Donnie Learns Golf

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling

Donnie Boy Plays Doctor

Donnie Boy Plays Soldier Man

Donnie Boy Plays Captain Man

Donnie Gets his Name on a Tennis Trophy

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Author Page on Amazon

The Watershed Virus

20 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 40 Comments

Tags

America, cooperation, diversity, life, love, poem, poetry, teamwork, truth, USA

view of city street

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The virus splits us

How many tears are left?

One from another. Every day bereft.

Divides us. Stable genius.

One from another. Teeny tiny 

They may call it: Pity party for the party

“Social Distancing” Of the absurd & no true word

But we already — We’ve been flipped; chipped

Distanced ourselves from others.

In the evil oil dipped — baptized anew.

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We divided the world into countries,

How do we distribute goods?

Countries into regions,

Who deserves another raise? 

Regions into cities,

Those who own the town? 

Cities into neighborhoods.

Whom to blame & whom, to praise? 

We speak different languages.

We all meet & greet; hate defeat.

We wear different clothes.

We all have garb for different moods.

We eat different foods.

We eat & dance & move our feet.

We hear different stories.

So we believe differently.

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But when we die,

How does that turn out?

As it turns out,

The same for everyone?

We are all dead when we die.

When did we start to doubt?

Not breathing kills us all.

As sure as a gun (but not as much fun).

In every land, I see tears.

For the ungrateful dead.

In every land, I feel fears;

For the future tense, unsaid.

Heroes fight to save each other;

Thank you, sister; Thank you, brother. 

Heroes work to keep it together.

Sibling by another mother.

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Worldwide we face a hidden killer

It hides beneath falsehood & lies

And nearly all of us are trying

Greedy people make us fear.

To find a way to keep us all from dying.

Greedy people in a gentle guise —

Our days grow quieter and stiller.

Tell us only to like those just like us dear. 

Bravery is everywhere; in every land

Even if not-leader leads the band.

We zoom a virtual meeting,

Even if he cowers from his role. 

We play a virtual band

Even as his cruelty is his only lonely goal.  

We wave a heartfelt greeting.

He snivels, swivels in this land. 

And in this time of utmost need,

The time of hating passes and we

A very few show outsized greed

Can see once more our unity.

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They lie and cheat and steal each dime;

We know again we will one. 

Use the crisis to spread their slime.

All we’ve been since we’ve begun.

Yet there is nothing worth that snort of power

They get from what could have been their finest hour; 

Instead, letting every opportunity turn sick and sour;

They sneak & hide and lie and glower and cower. 

 

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Heel spurs would never ever brave a bullet. 

Not even a grown chicken; he’s just a pullet.

Afraid to fire people face to face. 

Afraid to run a fair, untainted race.

At last, the vast majority will see their worth

We all will know the very roundness of this earth.

We all at last will laugh at tyranny’s yoke,

And shrug it off like a tired orange joke. 

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We’ll work together you and me and all of all 

We’ll mend life’s spinning precious ball.

We’ll only let true leaders head our bands.

We’ll only let the truthful lead our lands. 

Seven billion souls will not be slaves, 

However loud the loveless liar raves.

Life is for the living and we will find

Ways to grow our vast collective mind.

Heart to heart, we’ll dance new ways

To show our love and show our care. 

Heart to heart, we’ll green our days;

We’ll build a world for all to share.

A world where fair is fair is fair.

Liars lie in muck and mire;

If you care, put out the fire.

Raise your voice in loving song.

Love, you see, is strongest strong,

Will conquer all this sickly wrong;

You and I can get along

Just fine without a tyrant king.

It’s love — just love — of which we sing.

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Trumpism is a New Religion

Essays on America: Labelism

Use Diversity as Resource

Myth of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Math Class: Who are you?

Parametric Recipes and American Democracy.

Index of Pattern Language for Cooperation

Author Page on Amazon

  

   

 

Donnie Gets his Name on Tennis Trophy! 

18 Thursday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, family, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

criminal mind, crook, fascism, felon, fiction, IMPOTUS, psychopath, sociopath, story, traitor

 

 

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Fred slammed the black phone down onto its cradle and swore. “Damn, damn, damn!!” 

Fred looked up and glared at his three children. His face wore that dangerous mottled red and yellow pallor that often foretold that someone would get a beating. The kids dare not walk away, but none of them wanted to be the one to incur his wrath. They stared down at the floor, avoiding his eyes and each other’s.

“F###ing doctors! F###ing hospitals! They’re keeping your mother for more tests! Well?! Do you have anything to say for yourselves?! Dolts!” 

At last, Junior chanced a response, “I’m sorry, Dad, will she be okay?” 

Fred stared at Junior as though he had spinach caught between his ears. “Who the hell knows? But it means she won’t be here to take care of you! I’m no f###ing babysitter! What the hell does she think I’m going to do with you for another damned day? F###! I’ve got marks to make. Patsies to take. All right, look, Mary, go to your room and read till dinner time. Junior, take Donnie Boy to the club and have him pick up balls while you have a tennis lesson. I’ll pay for all day, so long as he keeps you two out of trouble. GO!! Get your stuff and go! GO!!” 

The three children obediently went off. Mary liked to read but she wondered vaguely as she climbed the stairs what was wrong with her mom.  Fred Junior was silent but inwardly grumbled because his younger brother always spoiled his fun. Donnie Boy was wondering how he could horn in on Junior’s lesson.

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While the boys gathered their tennis clothes, shoes, and racquets, Fred Senior made a quick call to the club. “Listen, Joe, Junior’s coming down for a lesson. Donny’s tagging along. Clear your calendar. I want you to keep them out there all day. Kind of a family emergency. Mom’s in the hospital. I need you to keep those two out of trouble till dinner time. I’ve got a big deal coming up. So, I don’t want to see or hear from them till after 6 pm tonight. Got it? Okay, good. They’ll be there in about half an hour. What? What other commitment? I just told you! It’s an emergency! Cancel the lesson for Missy Fancy Panties. She can come another time. What? I don’t care! Jesus. You’re a smart man. Just make something up. Tell her your hemorrhoids are bothering you. Tell her your cousin from Florida just came to visit. Tell her you broke your arm. I don’t care. Just lie. It’s not rocket science!” 

The boys arrived and soon enough went to court one where Joe had a large basket of balls. The sun shone through a hazy August sky. It was hot and humid and the three of them were all sweating even before the lesson began. “Okay, Fred, go to the service line and let’s warm up a little — like we need to warm up today. He chuckled at his own joke.

Donnie Boy said, “What about me? Where should I go?” 

Joe, who was quite familiar with the whole family, and especially tiny-handed Donnie Boy, thought to himself that a visit in hell might do him good. But he had been promised a substantial tip from Fred Senior if he kept them occupied the whole day, so he bit his tongue and said, “You stand over there Donnie and just watch the ball and watch how I hit it for a while. Pick up the balls that go astray and put them in the basket. Keep it filled. Then, when your brother gets tired, we’ll see whether we can teach you something.” 

“I already know how to play! I just want to get better! I want my name on a trophy! Today!” 

Joe laughed in spite of himself. “Donnie, no-one gets a trophy the first day they play. You need to earn it.”

Donnie Boy thought to himself: Oh yeah? We’ll see about that. Aloud, he said, “I told you. I already know how to play. I watched it on TV one time. It’s really easy.”

 

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Joe shook his head, glared a little more fiercely than he meant to at the scrawny awkward kid. He decided not to pursue that line of thought and instead concentrated on Junior.  “Here you go. Yes. Nice.” Fred Junior proved to be half-way decent, with good form. “No, bend your knees on those low ones. Don’t bend over. Get your butt down.”

Donnie shouted, “If I don’t get to play, I’m going to tell Daddy you said the word ‘butt’!” 

Donnie wondered whether it would rain later. He didn’t think so. Not till they got home. He didn’t want it to rain, so it probably wouldn’t rain. He practiced making it not rain. It didn’t always work, but sometimes it did. It’s because I’m a genius, Donnie Boy thought to himself. He became vaguely aware that play had stopped. Why? 

Joe spoke loudly but did not yell. “See anything missing from our tennis game, Donnie Boy?” 

Donnie Boy blinked. “Well, when I watched tennis on TV, there were lots of fans screaming. Nobody’s watching us play tennis. Nobody at all.” 

Joe shook his head. “Donnie Boy. What do you need to play tennis?” 

Donnie Boy brightened. “Rackets! My dad loves rackets!” 

Joe sighed. “Right, but what else do you need?” 

Donnie frowned. “A court?” 

Joe continued, “Right. A court. And what else do you need to play tennis?” 

Donnie stared at Joe. He glanced at his brother who seemed to mouth the word, ‘Paul’s’ but he didn’t know which ‘Paul’ his brother was talking about. He said, “Paul’s! You need Paul’s!” 

“Paul’s? What are you talking about Donnie Boy? Who’s Paul?” Joe was visibly annoyed now despite his attempts not to let it show. “What were you supposed to be doing while you were watching your brother, Donnie Boy?”

Donnie stared at Joe. “Watching.” He glanced at his big brother again but Junior was just shaking his head. “Donnie Boy, you were supposed to be fetching the balls for us and putting them back in the basket!” 

Donnie gritted his teeth. He hated the word “fetch.” That was for dogs and dark-skinned people, not for the likes of him. “Okay, okay. But when do I get a turn?” 

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“You’ll get a turn when I say you do, and that will happen much sooner if you help by picking up the stray balls and putting them back in the basket! Just like I asked you to.” 

“Okay, Joe. I’ll get them.” Donnie Boy ran to one spot and picked up a ball and carried it back to the basket and put it in. Then, he went to gather another ball and put that in. Finally, when there were five balls in the basket, Joe asked Junior to go to the baseline and practice backhands. Fred had progressed a lot this summer, but the five balls were gone just as Donnie Boy put a sixth one in the basket.

Fred yelled to his younger brother. “Donnie Boy! For God’s sake, don’t just put the balls in one at a time. You should be able to hold five or six — even in your teeny hands. Take the basket with you so you can put them in quickly. Are you thinking?” 

Oh, I’m thinking brother, he thought. Count on it. Aloud, Donnie said, “Yes, Fred. I’ll get them all. Thank you for your suggestion.” Don’t want him to be on guard here.

Donald put his mouth into the shape of a smile and said to Joe, “I’m going to watch from back here, Joe. I want to see how to hit from the back.” Donnie Boy found that he could only hold three in teeny hands, but he could jam a few more into his shorts.

Joe ignored Donnie Boy but shouted to Junior. “Recover! Hit and recover. That’s it! If you are way over there you need to move back quickly to cover the cross-court shot. There you go. Faster next time.”

Junior was hitting pretty well now and watching the ball intently. He was executing a pattern so obvious that even Donnie Boy could see it. And when the coach hit to Junior way out near the alley, Donnie put four balls in his teeny hands and slid all four onto Junior’s path just as he was sprinting back to just past the middle of the court. 

Fred Junior stepped directly onto one of the stray balls and his right ankle rolled and he fell on his elbow and shoulder. “CRAP!” he screamed.

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Joe sprinted directly to Junior, easily hurdling the net in the process. Crap indeed, thought Joe. Now I have to fill out a frigging report and maybe Fred Senior won’t give me that promised tip after all. Crap. Although, half the time, he doesn’t keep his promises anyway. He’ll just deny he ever made the promise. What proof do I have. Anyway, injuries are crap for the club.” 

Joe helped Fred over to the stands and had him sit down. He could see that the ankle was already swelling. He got an ice pack and put it on Fred’s swollen ankle. He looked at Donnie Boy and wondered how someone could be so inept.

Still hoping for the promised tip, Joe kept his face neutral as he said, “Okay, Donnie Boy. Your turn. Show me your stroke.” 

“What?! I’m not doing that in front of you! You pervert!” Donnie put his face into a look of horror and revulsion. 

“What? What the — what are you talking about? Show me your tennis stroke, Donny.” 

Donnie pretended to gain some insight. “Oh, okay. Like this!” As he said the word ‘this’ Donnie slapped the racquet through the air as hard as he could.

Joe sighed. “This is going to be a long afternoon”, he mumbled under his breath. “More slowly, Donnie. Ac-cele-rate through the shot. Never mind. Just don’t try to kill it.” Joe hit an easy shot over the net to where he thought Donnie’s racquet head might go. Donnie swung with all his might and hit the tennis ball onto an adjoining court. 

“I win!” shouted Donnie Boy. 

“Donnie,” explained Joe patiently, “it’s not a contest to see how far you can hit it. You have to make it land inside these white lines. That’s the court. It has to land in the court or it’s my point.”

Joe fed another easy ball to Donnie who swung as hard as he could and this time hit the ball onto a nearby fairway. “I WIN!” shouted Donnie.

“No, Donnie Boy. I told you. It has to land in the court. Inside these lines. Or on the line. But not over the fence.” 

“My shot was IN!” shouted Donne Boy. 

“It wasn’t even close! You have to think about where you want the ball to go, Donnie.” 

“MY SHOT WAS IN!!” shouted Donnie. 

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“It was not in. We not even playing for points, Donnie. I’m just trying to get you to hit a better stroke.” 

“It was too in! You just don’t like me! That’s why you said it was out. You don’t want me to win! You won’t let me win! You don’t like me!” 

The pain in Fred’s ankle was still increasing despite the ice. “Donnie, the ball was way out! Surely you can see that. Anyway, it’s not a match! He’s a professional! You’re a beginner! We’re here to learn!” 

“It was IN! insisted Donnie Boy. “You say it wasn’t in, Junior, because you don’t like me either!” 

“Of course I like you, Donnie. You’re my brother.” Fred Junior tried to make this sound sincere, but he really couldn’t quite muster it. It sounded thin and hollow as though he were reading it off a teleprompter without understanding any of the words. “The ball is either in or out. It has nothing to do with whether we like you.” 

“So people’s eyes never play tricks on them? People always see just perfectly, I suppose?”

Joe said, “Of course, when it’s close, sometimes people are mistaken. Your shots were not close. Not even close to close. They were way out, Donnie.” 

“No, you don’t like me. Anyway, show me how to play tennis. That’s what Daddy’s paying you for.” 

Joe sighed. He amazed himself by suddenly picturing himself sprinting over to Donnie and smashing that thick skull of his with Donny’s own racquet. He shook his head and dismissed the image. At long last, the worst hour of Joe’s teaching career was over and it was time for a short break and lunch. Joe helped Fred Junior hobble inside while Donnie got his bag from the locker room and then stood in front of the club trophy case; stared longingly at the display of cups, plates, and statues. At last, he walked over to Joe and said, “Hey, Joe, I think it would help motivate me better if I could see what one of those trophies really looks like up close. So close, I could grab it by the pedestal! Do you think I could see one?” 

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Joe frowned. It was definitely an unusual request, but hell, why not. If it would keep Donnie off his back for a moment. “Okay, sure.” He took out his keys and opened the trophy case and took out one of the large shiny trophies and handed it to Donnie, saying, “This is the Club Championship Trophy. Be careful, by the way.”

“Oh, I will, Joe. I will be very careful!” Donnie Boy made his face look sincere. 

Soon, the three had ordered. “Joe and Fred Junior talked about some tennis people Donnie had never heard of. Suddenly he leapt to his feet! “Uh-oh! Can you guys watch my trophy for a second? I’ll be right back.” Without waiting, Donnie strode into the kitchen. Joe glanced after him, but turned back to the conversation. In a few moments, Donnie returned and sat. Joe and Fred Junior stared at him. “Oh, I had to change my order. I forgot I want a cheeseburger, not just a hamberder.” 

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They talked for a few moments when Donnie called out, “LOOK!” He leapt up, pointing toward the kitchen. Thick white smoke was coming out. The fire alarm shrieked at them mercilessly. The sprinklers soaked them. The quiet chatter of the dining room shattered into cacophony like a dropped stack of dishes. No-one noticed Donnie Boy slip the Trophy into his gym bag. 

The fire damage to the Club was only a few thousand dollars. No-one in the kitchen had any idea how the fire had started. The Head Chef was, nonetheless handed a pink slip. Joe was reprimanded for Junior’s injury. He never received the promised tip. Indeed, Fred Senior had instead threatened to sue the instructor “for every f###ing penny he had” unless he agreed to give a summer’s worth of free lessons to both boys. He rumbled and grumbled before he crumbled.

A few weeks later, Donnie Boy came by to practice his putting and chipping on the practice green. When he checked in, he opened up a pocket in his golf bag and handed a large trophy to what’s his face — the freckled guy with red hair — who often checked people in. Luckily, he had a name tag: WALLACE. “Wally, could you please do me a favor and get this trophy back into the trophy case. Joe was showing it to me when the kitchen caught fire. Wanting to protect it, I shoved it into my gym bag. Well, of course, here it is now, safe and sound.” 

“Oh, you were here when they had that fire! Wow! That was something.” 

“Yes, Wally! It was scary. Nobody knows how it started, right?” 

“No sir. Weird. The cook said someone had apparently spilled cooking oil all over one of the stovetops. No-one remembers doing it or seeing it. Anyway, I’ll make sure it gets back where it belongs.” 

“Thank you so much, Wally.” 

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Neither Wallace nor the receptionist noticed that the name of last year’s club champion had been replaced. Donny Boy had scratched the original tag beyond recognition and then had taken it to a jeweler. Donny explained that he had been mad at his Dad and scratched his Dad’s name off of the trophy plaque. Donny clenched his nails into his fist until tears appeared. He explained that Dad would black and blue him if he found out. The jeweler swore it as a low price for the new engraving, but Donny Boy had to pay ten dollars of his own money that he had stolen from his sister’s purse. But it was worth it. Every time he walked through the club lobby, he glanced over at the Club Championship Trophy and it made him feel how special he was. 

Months later, the actual champion, who had since moved to California, returned to play a match with an old buddy of his. He wanted to remind his buddy about his skill and on the way out to court six, pointed to the Trophy in the display case. “Oh, look. What do you know. There I am,” he drawled jokingly. 

His friend glanced in. “Yeah, yeah. Well today…What the—?” He couldn’t believe his eyes. He pointed at the Trophy Case wordlessly.

The champion stepped slowly toward the glass case. He stopped only when his nose touched the glass. His mouth fell open. His name was gone. Donny Boy had instead had his own name engraved. “Who the hell is this?” He seemed to be addressing the question to the universe, but if he was, the universe didn’t answer. 

At least not in so many words.

———————————————

Author Page on Amazon

Other stories of the mythical and completely fictional child sociopath, Donny Boy. 

Donnie Boy Plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Donnie Learns Golf

Donnie Visits Granny!

Donnie Gets a Hamster

Donnie Boy Plays Soldier Man

Donnie Plays Captain Man

Donnie takes a Blue Ribbon in Spelling

 

Answers to Your Many Questions

15 Monday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, family, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Democracy, equality, poem, poetry, truth

Answers to Your Many Questions

The light was green?
The light was red?
The road was dry?
The road was wet?

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Isa black?
Isa white?
Isa yellow?
Isa red?

Hasa lotta money?
Hasa lotta nothing?
Hasa lotta plastic?

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Isa patient.
Isa headtrauma?
Isa kidney?
Isa quad?

Hasa lotta care?
Hasa lotta not?
Hasa lotta hair?

Hasa correct diagnosis?
Hasa good prognosis?
Hasa signed release?
Will the screaming ever cease?

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Wasa person?
Wasa wreck?
Severed spine?
Broken neck?

The room was white?
The room was green?
The uniforms were white?
The uniforms were green?
The forms were black and white.
And read all over?

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The glass was sharp.
The road was hard.
The graph was flat.
The spark was gone.

What else mattered?

A life was shattered.

 

 

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Blood Red Blood 

Mirror, Mirror

Author page on Amazon

Overheard Conversations of Fiction

13 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

cheat, collution, con man, conversation, fiction, graft, GRU, KGB, Putin, story, treason

“Nyet, nyet, Puppy. I told you. Polls mean nothing. You just stick to your strength: Cruelty.”

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“If you say so, Poppa Putey Bear. But it’s hard. You know? Everyone’s out to get me.”

“I told you before. Don’t listen to anyone who disagrees with you.” 

“I know. I know. But it’s so hard to be Dick-tater. Maybe, I should have more rallies. But we still have the damned CHINA virus. If I have a rally, a rally it might kill some of the people who’d vote for me. Maybe none. Maybe all. Maybe some. Who knows? We’ll see.” 

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“Da! Da! Hold a rally! Great idea. Just have them sign a waiver. They won’t read it! They’ll just sign it. Make a joke about it. Blame it on the lawyers. They’ll laugh with you. And, you’ll be safe from lawsuits. A few hundred of your followers dying is a good thing. Powerful. It shows how much you value their lives — not at all. And that will make all the others realize that you are super-powerful because you can get folks to kill themselves! Another day, another step toward Dictator.”

“I hate being President. I want to be Dick-Tater!”

“You will be. Just be patient.”

“But what if they wake up and realize I haven’t actually done anything to make their life better. Not in three years.”

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“They don’t care! They only care about what you tell them to care about. Tell them — this is a good one — tell them you would have made their world perfect but you just don’t have enough power. Tell them you need absolute power to make their world perfect. Just keep telling them how great it’s going to be and how great they have it now. Just keep telling them there is no virus. And even if they do get sick, tell them they can take a bogus drug or drink bleach.”

“But what if one of them dies from taking the drug?” 

“Now, Puppy, we’ve talked about this before. What do you always say?” 

“It’s not my fault. It’s Obama. It’s China. It’s WHO. It’s a liberal hoax. It’s the fake media. It’s Hillary’s fault. It’s the CDC’s fault. It’s George Soros’s fault. It’s Muslims. It’s Black People. It’s NATO’s fault. It’s the UN’s fault. It’s the governor’s fault. It’s the mayor’s fault. It’s the ANTIFA! It’s the Mexicans. It’s the immigrants. It’s the Deep State. It’s the anti-conspiracy theory conspiracy!”

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“Okay, okay, Puppy. I can only stand so much of your BS. I have things to do, Puppy. Don’t call until you have something important to say. Understand?”

“Yes, Poppy Putey Bear.” 

“Good boy. Now go kick Billious Barr or Missy Lindsey to make yourself feel better.” 

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Series of Fictional Stories that are meant to illustrate how the mind of a fictional child sociopath works.

Donnie Plays Bull-dazzle Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Learns Golf!

Donnie Visits Granny!

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

Donnie Boy Plays Captain Man

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling

 

 

Such Sweet Sorrow

11 Thursday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, creativity, family, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

civilization, ethics, fiction, greed, innovation, leadership, legend, myth, stories, tales, truth, Veritas

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“Let’s go! It’s time to go!” The impatient voice of Trunk of Tree rung out too harshly in the soft glow of sunrise which reflected off the glaciers atop the Twin Peaks and suffused the village in a soft pink glow. 

“Patience, friend,” said Fleet of Foot. “I want to try one more time to convince Cat Eyes to come with us. And, since you’re in a hurry, have you chosen a book yet?” 

“I don’t want one. Just extra weight. They are mostly nonsense and lies anyway. Huh! Animals with necks as long as their bodies? Go have your conversation and then let’s go!” 

Fleet of Foot shook his head and stared at Trunk of Tree. He sighed. “How can you … can’t you see how important these books are? You can at least see that they are important to this entire tribe. You know that many of the Veritas of the Center Place…” Fleet of Foot shook his head and broke off. He could see by the look on the face of his friend that he would not be convinced. At least not this way, he thought to himself. “Never mind. I’ll go talk with Cat Eyes one last time. I won’t be long.” 

Cat Eyes was not difficult to find. Ever since they had arrived she had been an object of attention and now, all of these Veritas of the Twin Peaks treated her with a reverence beyond her years. Fleet of Foot stood quietly amid a small circle of people of all ages. Now, this particular group was dialoging about something called “logic.” When a decent cesura in the flow of conversation appeared, Fleet of Foot stepped forward and said, “Cat Eyes, I am sorry to interrupt you but may I please have a word with you in private?” 

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Several of the Twin Peaks Veritas glanced at Fleet of Foot. The group walked a few yards away and continued their dialogue. It seemed that the treasure that they had uncovered included books on almost every topic imaginable. Once Cat Eyes had brought the secret of decoding to her tribe, they had spent much time on these artifacts. The knowledge of how to decode them had spread quickly through the entire tribe, though decoding was still a slow process. Gentle Talons, the leader of the Twin Peaks Veritas, had gifted each of the Veritas one book of their choice to take back with them to the Center Place.  All had eagerly and thankfully accepted.

Jaccim had chosen a book about training horses. Hudah Salah picked a book that promised to show how to use water on a desert to make it a field. She remained skeptical that such a thing could be done, but if it were possible, it would mean something wonderful for her tribe. Lion Slayer had opted for a book about lions and their close kin. Fleet of Foot had found a book with many pictures that claimed it showed how to run faster. Only Trunk of Tree had eschewed choosing any book at all. 

“Cat Eyes, I think you know what I wish to speak about.” 

“Indeed, Fleet of Foot. You want to persuade me to come with you. I suspect you do this mainly on behalf of Tu-Swift.” 

Fleet of Foot blushed. “He does … he does hold you in high regard.” 

Cat Eyes reached into her shoulder pack and brought out two books and a small piece of bark. “I wish you to give him these.” She handed him books as she said, “These are two books about training birds. I hope he will find these useful. One is my choice and one is Trunk of Tree’s though he doesn’t know that.” She smiled, “I know Tu-Swift is working with Suze to train Eagles to attack NUT-PI. Maybe these will help. I think they will. And…” Cat Eyes, who had always seemed confident, but even more so since returning to her home, especially so. Now, however, she hesitated, unsure whether to go on.

Fleet of Foot looked at her. “And…?” he prompted.

“And, although I tried to express how I feel in what I wrote for Tu-Swift, please convey to him my feeling which is hard to put into marks on paper birch. I feel split in two. I really loved my time with the Center Place Veritas, and I especially loved Tu-Swift. He will always have a special place in my heart of hearts. Look at my eyes. You must tell him this so that he believes it. I know that in some way he fancies me as well. But he and Suze have something special as well. To me, the two of them seem better matched to each other. I am an oddball. I was a child here. Then, I was a slave. Then, I was a stranger in your Center Place. But now — now, I am home. I not only belong here. I can do something important for my people. I am teaching all of them about the wisdom of these books and — I think Tu-Swift will understand how important that is. But you must make him also understand how I love him.”

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“I will do that.” Fleet of Foot again reddened as he said it. “Why not come back though and tell him yourself. We have the tunnel. It is only a few days journey. You can come back and describe what is here and then when you feel like it, you can come back again.” 

“Perhaps I will one day visit. I have no faith right now that the tunnel will keep working. Based on what I have read so far, no-one alive really understand how those tunnels — and especially the doors — really work. Jaccim certainly doesn’t — and what disturbs me even more is that he doesn’t care that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t seem to care that he has always just done what he has been told to do — what he was expected to do — even if it was to steal children. He isn’t even cruel. He seems like a nice man; fundamentally kind. Yet — he stole children. And he uses things with no idea how they work and he’s never made any attempt to learn. The people who made the tunnel, and I now think the city of the Z-Lotz, are long dead. They were killed in some horrendous wars. If you get back to the Center Place and many people explore the tunnels and we read more in the books about how they work, maybe I will some day visit — visit — the Center Place Veritas and Tu-Swift. And perhaps I will hold the children of Tu-Swift and Suze and tell the stories about my birthplace. But for now, this is my place. You see that yourself. I know you do.” 

Cat Eyes sighed and continued. “Tell Tu-Swift that someday I hope we shall meet again. Meanwhile, I wish him well in his endeavor to teach the eagles to hunt for NUT-PI. And, when we hopefully are done with that monster, I have another request. I am hoping he can train the eagles as well to hunt for, but not attack, my parents. No, don’t make that face. I realize that they are probably dead. But one never knows. They may have journeyed out to find me and ended up in a place by themselves. I know. I know. You need not put such a look upon your face. It’s been many years. I realize that. But I myself was lost from here for many years. Yet I am alive. And here. These are some likenesses of my parents from my memory and from the memories of two others who can make good likenesses and knew my parents well. It’s hope, Fleet of Foot. It’s hope. You must understand. I was hoping that they would be here. I need the hope. Even if they are never found or never return, I can still hope. It is a way to keep them alive in some small way.”

Fleet of Foot nodded. “I do understand. I will give Tu-Swift your messages — and your feelings.” 

“There is something else. I feel … the Eagles have their own life. To use them as a weapon… I would be glad if something came of training them besides murder. Tu-Swift wondered about turning the Eagles into weapons as well. Is that any better than Killing Sticks? It bothered him but he resolved it. He overcame it. But I wonder how different that is from whatever went on in Jaccim’s mind to allow him to steal children from their parents.”

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Fleet of Foot nodded. “Yes. As you say, Eagles do have their own lives. Many in the great web of life use others in the web. But the Eagles are free to attack or not attack, however you trained them. A Killing Stick however is not alive. It has no use I can see except to kill. It is not part of the web of life. It is not like the Eagles. At least I don’t think so. Tu-Swift, and Eagle Eyes before him, love the Eagles. If the Eagles choose to kill, it is partly due to that love returned. I don’t think of it as I do the Killing Sticks.” 

“Nor I. But I think all of us would feel better if the Eagles were also trained to find people and lead us to them. Imagine. Wolves can also be trained for such a purpose. But for that…wolves do not see well like Eagles. They can smell the scent of animals though. I don’t have any artifacts from my parents left. After they had been gone for years, people began to use the things they left behind. But I suspect that my scent must be like their combined scents. So, perhaps you can use this scrap of my tunic to have wolves find them too. It’s not likely. But it’s possible.”

Fleet of Foot blinked. “That is an amazing idea! To use the wolves to find people by scent!” 

The cat eyes of Cat Eyes twinkled. “Yes,” she chuckled, “though it isn’t mine. I read about it in a book. It can be done. Or, at least the book claims that it can be done.” Now Cat Eyes laughed aloud. “I can see your friend Trunk of Tree over there pacing and glowering, impatient as ever to get going. You had better begin your journey. I do wish you luck. I hope the tunnel still works and all of you return to the Veritas of the Center Place. And I hope… I wish Tu-Swift luck. That sounds cold. Just tell him I love him. But my life is here. And his life is with Suze. And with his sister. And you. And Shadow Walker.” 

“He’s … young,” said Fleet of Foot.

Cat Eyes laughed. “Yes, he is younger than I, but he has … you must understand … it is not just years. He and I, of all the Veritas I have met were the only ones who were stolen from their parents. We share that. And… if you can survive it, it ages you. He is older than he seems. Or, let me say instead that he seems older than he is. Of course, you’re right. He should be with someone of his own age, like Suze. Farewell. Leave now or Trunk of Tree will shed all his bark!” 

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Fleet of Foot glanced at his friend and could see that Cat Eyes was right. He laughed and Cat Eyes joined. Fleet of Foot took her hands gently in his. “You are a remarkable young woman Cat Eyes. I do believe we will meet again. I hope so. On behalf of Tu-Swift, I thank you for the gifts.” 

The small group of Center Place Veritas stood at the entrance to the path toward the tunnel and said goodbye one more time. Cat Eyes stood far off and waved to them. Even from a distance, Fleet of Foot could see the tears on her cheeks. Among the group returning through the tunnel was one from the Twin Peaks Veritas. Gentle Talons had chosen one from among his tribe to accompany them on their journey and to return in due course. This young woman’s name was “Flowing Waters.” She had artistic talent and, although quite bright and articulate, had been unable to master the decoding of books. Gentle Talons was hoping she could bring some drawings of the Center Place and its inhabitants back to Gentle Talons and his tribe some day.

A small number of Twin Peaks Veritas accompanied them on their journey back up to the door of the tunnel. Cat Eyes was not among them. She was already busy decoding more books and teaching others to do the same. Those who had come stood well back from the tunnel door acting for all the world as though some dark evil monster might emerge.

Hudah Salah noticed this wariness among the onlookers and considered. The only thing that had ever come out of that tunnel prior to the small Veritas delegation were child stealers. So! That really was a dark evil monster. No wonder they looked nervously toward the entrance, ready to bolt at the slightest urging. 

Hudah turned and watched carefully as Jaccim opened the tunnel door. It opened and though no obvious monsters emerged, the Veritas from beyond the Twin Peaks drew no closer. They continued to stare as their visitors, now including one of their own — Flowing Waters —entered into the oddly lit corridor that stretched beyond sight. They continued to stare as the doors closed. The onlookers collectively sighed. It seemed as though the entire party had been swallowed by a gigantic monster of rock. They turned and walked back home, eager to learn more of this wonderful world through the magic that The Chosen One had revealed to them all. 

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Inside, the returning Veritas, along with their guest, again gaped at the odd lighting and high ceilings. They strode along the smooth path confidently. Only Fleet of Foot found himself wondering whether this tunnel might collapse. On the way in, though he had been awed, the didn’t imagine the tunnel would “stop working” any more than a tree would stop growing or a bee would stop buzzing. Now, thanks (or no thanks) to Cat Eyes, he realized that this tunnel was not something to be taken for granted. It did not just spring into being. It had been built. And the people who had known how to build such things were gone, if the books were correct. Fleet of Foot thought about some of the many gifts the Veritas had received from their ancestors. How to start a fire, bow and arrow, which plants could be used for which diseases. Why had he always accepted these as part of the world? They were part of his world, but each meant his ancestors for thousands of generations had worked to make these devices better. Everyone he had known his entire life had experimented to make things better. 

Almost everyone, he realized. What if the likes of ALT-R and POND MUD had made these tunnels? They might have constructed them to appear an easy path — and then, they could collapse thus trapping and crushing an entire party under a mountain of hard rock. Did the books lie? Could there really have been a people so blind that they knew the story of the Orange Man and yet made the same mistakes again destroying in the process not just a single tribe but an entire civilization? No point in dwelling on a danger he had no idea how to defend against. He may as well walk to the end with as much happiness and joy in his heart as he could muster. If these were to be his last few moments on earth, he may as well enjoy them. 

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He smiled and caught up with Flowing Waters. 

“Thanks for traveling with us, Flowing Waters. I saw some of your drawings. Excellent! I especially liked the sunset on the Twin Peaks.”

“Thank you, Fleet of Foot. I like to draw. Do you?”  

snow capped mountain

Photo by Life of Wu on Pexels.com

—————————————

Author page on Amazon

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Forgotten Field — A Myth about the Importance of Finding Common Ground

The Orange Man — a Myth about the Importance of Truth

The First Ring of Empathy — The Beginning of Book One of the Myths of the Veritas

The Beginning of Book Two of the Myths of the Veritas

The Beginning of Book Three of the Myths of the Veritas

Hauntings Across the Time Zones – A Poem

Camelot – A Poem

Myths of the Veritas: Many Paths Awakes

09 Tuesday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, creativity, family, health, management, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, empathy, ethics, fascism, fiction, leadership, legend, myth, politics, science, truth, Veritas

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For three days and three nights, Tu-Swift and She Who Saves Many Lives slept little and ate less. They worked hard to keep Many Paths cool in the hot summer days. That was far from their only labor however. Among the Veritas, a large number fell ill with the mysterious plague of red dots. Fever and delirium were common as well as almost constant sleep. One had died.

It fell upon the few who somehow stayed well, including Tu-Swift and the elder Shaman to prepare food as well as to care for the sick. No-one worked on decoding what the Z-Lotz had called “books.” No-one hunted or gathered food. Only the well were hungry. The sick had no appetite and little energy. It was difficult even to convince them to drink a little of the tea that the Elder Leader prepared with rose hips, honey, black elderberry and willow bark. Usually, after some coaxing, they could only manage a few sips and then, they fell back into a restless sleep. 

island during golden hour and upcoming storm

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

On the third night, just as Tu-Swift began to nod off for a well-deserved nap, Many Paths sat bolt upright. She cried out, “Shadow Walker!! Shadow Walker!!” Tu-Swift and She Who Saves Many Lives both went to Many Paths to reassure her. 

Many Paths frowned in the dark room. “Old Mother? Honored Shaman? Why are you in my cabin? Where is Shadow Walker?”

She Who Saves Many Lives patted Many Paths on the shoulder and said, “You are in my cabin, not yours, Sweet Daughter. You came in her quite ill and somewhat delirious. Tu-Swift is here too. He was tending to you. Your fever has broken and perhaps you will now be on the mend. You should continue to rest though.” 

Many Paths persisted. “Where is Shadow Walker though? Is he well?” 

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Tu-Swift took his sister’s hand, “Many Paths, I am glad you are getting stronger. Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes went to see what is happening with the Z-Lotz; perhaps steal some Killing Sticks so that we might better prepare to fight against such weapons. Do you remember?”

Many Paths looked around the room, lit only by a few moonbeams. Everything was out of place. Then, she remembered. She wasn’t in her cabin. But her mind, her memory, still seemed out of place. Shadow Walker had gone off with Eagle Eyes? Her friend? Why, she wondered, had Shadow Walker preferred Eagle Eyes? Hadn’t they…? Were not she and Shadow Walker connected forever by love? She said aloud, “Are we divorced?” 

Tu-Swift smiled. “No, sister. No, what do you mean? You and Shadow Walker are in love. Everyone knows that! It’s obvious.” 

“Then, where is Shadow Walker? Why did he go off with my friend Eagle Eyes? Where are the Rings of Empathy? Did Trunk of Tree take them? Where is he? Isn’t he supposed to be with Eagle Eyes? Did he go too?”

She Who Saves Many Lives sighed. She patted Many Paths. “All is well with you and Shadow Walker, my dear. We were visited by the Z-Lotz. A few days later, we discovered that one of their so-called gifts was a poison rock that they called glass. Stone Chipper and his son, Sees Horses, both have sick hands. We have kept everyone else far away from this glass. I am not sure, but it seems that these Z-Lotz …”

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Many Paths interrupted her in a panic (which was uncharacteristic of the Veritas in general and almost never happened when She Who Saves Many Lives spoke). “But where is Shadow Walker? Is he okay? Where are the rings?”

She Who Saves Many Lives put up her hand. “Many Paths. All will be well. Be patient. I will answer all your questions. There is much to tell. And all will be told to you. But you will learn more quickly if you do not ask so many questions.” 

Many Paths squeezed the hand of She Who Saves Many Lives. “I’m sorry. Please tell me in your own time.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives nodded her head and squeezed the hand of Many Paths. “Your well-earned Rings of Empathy are right with you in your pouch as always. Perhaps you should hold them and you might feel better.” 

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Many Paths reached for the soft leather pouch and took it into her hand. It did calm her. And, then, she remembered to breathe. And, to take inventory. She was alive. She could hear. She could feel. She could see. She could remember, but not very well, apparently.

She Who Saves Many Lives continued. “Many were involved in the tribe’s decision to send out two scouting parties. Shadow Walker, strong and smart, was chosen to visit the Z-Lotz. Eagle Eyes went with him because she has seen this great city before and knows a way in. Also, as you know, Eagle Eyes usually sees trouble before any trouble sees her. It is a dangerous mission. That, no one can doubt. But not finding out more about Killing Sticks could also be dangerous. The Z-Lotz are not to be trusted. If you recall, Cat Eyes, who lived among the ROI and the Z-Lotz, claims that the wealthy among the Z-Lotz do not even believe in their rigid belief system. They only use it to fool everyone else. When they visited us, they insisted that you believe as they believe — even though they couldn’t even tell you what that was! They wanted you to go visit them — alone! I do not trust them at all. And, of course, they are now led by our old “friend” NUT-PI. He is a terrible leader and lost almost his entire tribe. It is astounding that the Z-Lotz, or anyone else, would chose such a man as a leader.” 

The Older Leader paused. “Does any of this sound familiar? There is no rushing danger, Many Paths. If you need to go back to sleep awhile, that’s fine. You are better but by no means well. The people need you as a healthy leader.” 

Many Paths nodded. “You are helping me put my memory rooms back in order. I remember everything clearly except — maybe a week or so seems less clear than everything else. Isn’t that odd? Anyway, please tell me the rest. I am tired. But I cannot sleep until I hear the rest. How are the people?” 

She Who Saves Many Lives continued, “There are many who are sick just as you were. Luckily, not all of have gotten ill, but most have. It might be that the Z-Lotz intentionally brought this illness but … “

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“What!? No, surely, not even a people who steal children and make Killing Sticks would be so … low … so evil … so cowardly as to intentionally bring a plague to us! I’m sorry Revered One; I interrupted again. I’m not quite myself yet. Please continue.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives got up to open some slats so that more moonlight could illustrate the rest of her tale. Then, she returned to sit on the edge of the bed. “You may recall that Cat Eyes told us of Veritas brothers and sisters who live over the Twin Peaks. So Fleet of Foot, Cat Eyes, Trunk of Tree, and our friends from the Nomads of the South accompanied them. Jaccim said he knew a different way and so he led them. We know they got there safely. But they have not yet returned.”

Many Paths nodded and felt her eyelids begin to droop. “Perhaps I will rest now.” She closed her eyes and began to relax. Then, she sat bolt upright again. “Wait! What do you mean you know that they made it over the twin mountains when they haven’t returned? How?”

She Who Saves Many Lives smiled, “Ah, for that, Dear One, you must thank your brother Tu-Swift, Sooz, and your friend Eagle Eyes! They have been training the Eagles and Hawks to deliver messages. And, Cat Eyes sent such a message back here.”

Many Paths smiled at her brother. “That’s amazing!”

selective photography of flying black falcon

Photo by Nigam Machchhar on Pexels.com

Tu-Swift returned the smile and said, “Thanks! And, Cat Eyes didn’t just send a pre-arranged signal. She wrote to me! She wrote to me! She said: ‘All safe. Kin here. Much wisdom.’ She fit all that in small marks and attached it to Smart One.”

Many Paths tilted her head and said, “Smart One? Oh, that’s the name of the eagle?” 

Tu-Swift smiled. “Yes, and it seems your brain has emerged from the fog. Now, go back to sleep. All will be well.”

“Knowing I have such a clever brother,” said Many Paths. “That should help me sleep. More Veritas. It’s true. Hmm.” Many Paths, the Rings of Empathy still grasped in her hand, began to imagine the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks and how that first recent meeting must have gone. She wondered how joyous Cat Eyes had felt. Had she met her parents? What would that be like?

The musings of Many Paths soon became images and the images soon became dreams. 

Tu-Swift glanced at She Who Saves Many Lives and spoke. “She seems better at last! Sooz was supposed to come see me here at moonrise. And, the last time I saw her, she felt a little ill. I’m going to check on her.” Tu-Swift exited the cabin of She Who Saves Many Lives and she watched his silhouette in the moonlight. He still walked with a slight limp, but, thought the Elder, to my old eyes, it seems that his limp continues to lessen over time. Perhaps, she thought, we should try spicebush and witch hazel hot poultice on that knee.

The inner eye of She Who Saves Many Lives began to swirl like the darkest of storms. Killing Sticks. My dream of Killing Sticks even before we knew of them. People as evil as NUT-PI. The corruption of ALT-R and POND MUD. Of course, the world has always had death, she thought, but this is something different. Have none of these people heard “The Myth of the Orange Man”? How could they think the same horrible consequences would be avoided. If you subvert language in order to mislead people and steal from them, it destroys trust. It destroys real communication. It destroys pleasure and love. It destroys everything. We then are just single individuals mistrusting and fearful of everyone else and have no real way to survive as such. And, even if we did… what kind of life would that be?

And yet, thought the Tribe Elder, there are these amazing young people who will be here after me. Many Paths, Cat Eyes, Eagle Eyes, Tu-Swift and so many others. The heart of the Veritas still values love and truth and honor. Plague or no plague. Evil or no evil. We who are on the side of life will prevail. Anyone can die any time. Everyone will die eventually. But life? Life is safe. Life is huge. Life is diverse. Life is endlessly creative and inventive. Life listens to the sounds of the truth. Life looks at reality so that the truth is revealed. Life feels and learns and thinks and cooperates and loves. Of course, life will survive. 

And then, despite her dark prophetic dream; despite the threat of the Z-Lotz and the remnants of the ROI with their Killing Sticks; despite the disease that was spreading among the Z-Lotz, the elder leader smiled because she knew in her heart; she knew with absolute certainty of logic that Life itself was well beyond the clutches of one such as NUT-PI. And as she smiled, knowing the final outcome regardless of the inevitable pain along the way, She Who Saves Many Lives fell into one of the most restful and peaceful sleeps of her long and loving life.

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The beginning of the Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

https://petersironwood.wordpress.com/2017/03/09/math-class-who-are-you/

Essays on America: Poker Chips

02 Tuesday Jun 2020

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

≈ Comments Off on Essays on America: Poker Chips

Tags

America, Democracy, Dictatorship, life, poem, poetry, prejudice, racism, solidarity, truth, USA

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Oh, the pride, the swelling swell of pride

To be a chosen for the window side

On this long and deadly suicide ride, 

This pact of humanity’s genocide!

ace of spade and multi colored chips

Photo by j.mt_photography on Pexels.com

Thank God you’re white! You’re white!

It proves you’re bright! You’re bright!

A Poker Chip of Whitest White! 

That shows that you will win the fight.

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

 

Poker Chips of Red and Blue

Have nothing whatever to do with you!

You were born perfect – a White Chip too!

And Male to boot! How clever of you!

man in muscle back view

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And, if you’re straight, that’s really great!

All will cheer when you find your mate!

If you can’t find, just buy your play date.

If you can’t afford that, just masturbate.

woman with face paint with pumpkin

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

If you’re dumb enough to say what’s true,

We may shoot out your eye, your orb of blue.

Turn it into gooey goo. You can’t sue, 

Just ‘cause you did as you’re free to do.

cold freezing frost frosty

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

Be glad you’re a White Chip; they’re the best!

Till the game is over and then, like the rest.

You’ll also be subject to false arrest.

Swept away and put back in the chest. 

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

How do you like being a Poker Chip, friend? 

Red, White, or Blue — all killed in the end. 

Our bus careens round another tight bend!

An exciting plunge is what will send

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Us to our cliffside fall of fabulous fame.

At last to extinguish the last of our flame. 

There’s no-one left but ourselves to blame.

Do you like “Poker Chip” now for your only name? 

tombstone on cemetery during daytime

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Poker Chip” —  doesn’t it have such a nice ring!

We must be grateful for our chance to sing!

The praises of our mad, inept, & orange king!

Putin’s Puppet, Mini-Hitler, Russian quisling!

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He’s out to kill us all, don’t you see?

He’s putting an end to democracy.

Poker Chips: we’ve now no rights nor any dignity. 

Regardless of our skin’s chromaticity. 

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Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

We were just toys to move and check and slay.

He told us so from his very first day. 

But you only heard he’d put them away.

You thought Poker Chips White could stay up and play. 

man wearing blue suit

Photo by Minervastudio on Pexels.com

That’s not the way it works, dear Poker Chip buddy, 

Your thinking’s been muddied by Fuddy-Duddy.

And soon you’ll see we’ll all be sick and bloody,

Look around you! It isn’t Great. It’s cruddy!

person s hands covered with blood

Photo by NEOSiAM 2020 on Pexels.com

Take my hand; let’s break boxed greed. 

Regardless of color; regardless of creed.

It’s everyone’s time of greatest need. 

Stand together. At least, it’s a seed, 

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Of what we can do with Red, White, and Blue.

Working as one to get everyone’s due. 

Working as one to grow out of this goo,

It’s up to me. And up to you. It’s what we do. 

  IMG_9802

  

Author Page on Amazon

Trumpism is a New Religion

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Where does your loyalty lie?

Rejecting Adulthood

My Cousin Bobby

Labelism 

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

02 Tuesday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, family, management, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 90 Comments

Tags

authoritarianism, biography, Dictatorship, life, propaganda, story, truth, USA

boys hugging each other

Photo by Eileen lamb on Pexels.com

First, he was three years older than I was. I was only seven years old. 

The difference between a seven year old and a ten year old is a huge. My cousin Bobby was, I think, basically as smart as I was. But he knew a lot more, not just in terms of book learning, but also about the ways of the world and about sports. He was also bigger and stronger, but he knew details about throwing, hitting, catching, running, karate, etc. So, there was that. His dad was a psychiatrist who worked with the criminally insane. So. There’s that. 

Because Bobby was older, he got to do more things. I was allowed to do things with Bobby that I was not allowed to do on my own, so when he came to town, that was something of a thrill for me. And, going to visit him was also a thrill because it was someplace exotic (Indiana or Pennsylvania) I had never seen before that had sand dunes (!) or carnivals (!) or collies (!) and Bobby’s houses invariably had more rooms than our five room house in industrialized NE Ohio. Since most people’s attitude toward the places that hold the criminally insane is “not in my backyard”, the places Bobby lived were very much out in the country which was infinitely better than being 5 feet from your neighbors. Bobby and I flew his gas-powered model airplane; we built bonfires; we played with sparklers. 

person holding sparkler

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

So, there were reasons for me to like Bobby — a bit like an older brother, but one you only see on special occasions. That’s apt to be important in understanding how I was manipulated into doing something against my own interests and desires. As to why Bobby did these things, I don’t really know for certain. He, like me, became a psychologist and his father was a psychiatrist, so seeing how the mind works is pretty interesting. While I thought of Bobby as a kind of older brother, Bobby may well have viewed me as something like a younger brother who sometimes got more attention. We were especially rivals for the attention of our grandparents. 

Whenever Bobby and I got together in our neck of the woods, Mom’s parents hosted. Two of my Mom’s brothers lived nearby and almost always attended special dinners such as hams and yams on Easter, hamburgers and hot dogs on July 4th, Turkey with all the trimmings on Thanksgiving and Christmas, etc. But, since Bobby’s dad worked and lived 3-6 hours drive away, his appearances were much rarer. When they did come visit, they typically got to stay overnight at our grandparent’s house. Because of this mere tele-inquity, Bobby’s family had an aura of specialness about them when they did deign a visit. I think that added to his caché in my mind and might also explain the gullibility I exhibited when it came to my cousin — and it went beyond merely believing something that was distorted and at least partially false; I acted on those absurd and harmful beliefs.

In one instance, Bobby and I were playing outside after a Sunday dinner. He began to tell me about a lot of things that bugged him about Granny. As he told these stories, a few of which might even have been true, he gradually encouraged me to add my experiences with Granny to the list of grievances. At first it was hard to come up with any. I loved Granny. And, she was very cool! She baked pies and always made some cinnamon roll-ups out of the dough too, made popcorn from scratch, listened to the radio with me and best of all, told me “Old Pete” stories. 

baking bread breakfast bun

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

But after enough probing, Bobby got hold of something when he asked “But don’t you hate it when you are eating those warm, cinnamon rollups and then they’re gone and she won’t make you just the cinnamon roll ups which are better than the stupid pie anyway, right?” That’s just what I had been thinking! Or, more accurately, it seemed to be just what I’d been thinking. 

If I had been thinking at all about those cinnamon roll-ups, I can assure you that my overall feeling would have been (and still is!!) very warm and fuzzy. I loved those rollups. And, yes, I am sure that there were times when I would have enjoyed more than were left. He gradually got me to see a lot of things that could be improved about Granny. And, then, he managed to convince me that the best way to an improved Granny (which would be better for everyone) was for us to go in there right now in front of everyone in our extended family and tell her just how we felt. Bobby gave me the honor of going first. It did feel like an honor. My cousin and I were allies, by God, and we were going to set things right. And, he trusted me, his comrade in arms, to lead the charge. By the time I walked in I was angry! And, I did lead the charge! Everyone was looking at me horrified. Well. That wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to be horrified at Granny! Not us!

I looked over at Bobby. He looked horrified too! Not at Granny, but at me. Us? There was no “us.” I thought Bobby had just chickened out. I still did not realize that he had tricked me into doing it. I thought a bit less of my cousin for being a bit of a coward, but I didn’t realize that it was all a con job from beginning to end. 

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That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part? About he year later, he did exactly the same damned thing. This time, he made me “explode” at my Grandpa. And the worst part of these diatribes was that there always some elements of truth thrown in. Grandpa was old and he did have skinny legs and he did smoke and therefore reek of tobacco. So, not only did I have to suffer the immediate condemnation of everyone in the family. (Again!) Some of the things I said hurt these people I loved. Despite their years of accumulated wisdom, it took some time to repair those relationships. At the time, I didn’t figure out on my own, why Grandma seemed so unfriendly. My mother seemed stupefied that I hadn’t known. “Why because of all those terrible things you said to her!” I had already apologized. But was it real? Or, was it just an apology forced by my parents?

I learned to be a lot less trustful of Bobby. But, I also learned to be a bit less trustful of myself as well. 

You know perhaps of various versions of the story of the “two wolves” that live within us. I have heard it variously ascribed to Native Americans of the Dakota tribe as well as the Cherokees. Basically, a grandfather, or other such wise person tells his grandson that there are two wolves inside him: a good wolf who is kind and generous and a bad wolf who is mean, spiteful and selfish. These wolves are in a constant battle with each other. The grandson asks which wolf will win and the grandfather replies “whichever one you feed.”

I learned that I have a bad wolf inside — and — that if I were not careful, someone else could call to that bad wolf, that ugly spirit inside, and arouse it to anger and then turn that wolf — not to to my bidding but to do his.

Has anyone ever awakened the bad wolf in you? 

brown wolf

Photo by Steve on Pexels.com

———————————————————-

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Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

At Least He’s Our Monster

What about the Butter Dish?

The Truth Train 

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