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Tag Archives: fascism

Essays on America: Happy Talk Lies

28 Sunday Jun 2020

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

≈ 45 Comments

Tags

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

 

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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 Gets his Name on Tennis Trophy! 

18 Thursday Jun 2020

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

≈ 17 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

 

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/

ANTIFA?

06 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

America, ANTIFA, Democracy, fascism, life, politics, racism, relationships, truth, USA, work

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/twitter-fake-antifa-acount-white-supremacists-removal/

The content of the article corresponds to the URL. This got me to thinking: why has no-one ever asked me to be in ANTIFA or at least send them money?

usa flag waving on white metal pole

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

I’ve had junk email from all sorts of organizations asking me to join and send them money. Most of them are on the left but I get such stuff from the right as well. I get spam for products and services I’ve never asked for and have no interest in. Spam-friendly e-mail tells me about conferences and journals completely outside my field. 

In all this sea of e-mail, I have never once had anyone ask me to join ANTIFA or send them money. I didn’t think we needed an organization dedicated to being against Nazis. I thought our country is anti-fascist. Or, at least it was from 1941 through 2016. 

We fought a war. Millions died. We won. The Nazis lost. As well they should.  And, in the end, as they surely must. Like cancer, they are incapable of life on their own. The body’s immune system rejects the cancer — usually. If so, then the cancer dies. Sometimes, however, the cancer kills the host. And then it dies anyway. Cancer always loses though sometimes it destroys innocent life along the way. 

Cancer always loses in the end.

If you put power as a higher value than truth; if you think “might makes right,” then all you are is a parasite on the cooperation, hard work, good will, and creativity of others — the country around you now, the inventions and productivity increases of those who contributed before you — people inclined to do the best job they could. 

You also owe a hell of a lot to the moral position of America in the world. And by “owe” I mean you literally would not have a lot of the stuff you love about your life if it hadn’t been for those people who worked to make American products and services world class. 

If fascism replaces democracy in America, many of those good things will disappear. It’s cancer, pure and simple. Such a philosophy of “might makes right” makes nothing. All they can do is steal effectively. 

Yeah. Fine. You may hold a gun to a baker’s head and get him to bake you bread. But the quality of that bread will deteriorate over time and the first chance the baker gets, they’ll poison the damned bread.

bread food fresh hands

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Even if you’re one of the thieves, you’ll have to look over your shoulder every minute of your pathetic life. You never know who is going to betray you or who made a side deal with whom. You are going to put way more energy into making sure you know who is on whose side and how the winds are shifting and how to kiss your boss’s a$$ most lovingly, and you’ll have almost no energy left over to improve your craft or care for your family. And, whenever the choice comes between explaining to your boss why his idea won’t work and simply keeping your mouth shut, you’ll keep your mouth shut and as a result, productivity will go down, or service will suck, or lives will be lost. Over time, if you value compliance over effectiveness, then eventually, you will have a very ineffective, very compliant workforce. Less and less will get done. Don’t you remember the pictures of East and West Berlin before the wall came down? We don’t have to guess what happens in dictatorial regimes. We know what happens. A very few people live very well and everyone else is much more miserable. It’s no accident. It’s designed that way. You will suffer from fascism. Your family will suffer from fascism. 

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Speaking of family, since power trumps love at work, you will find yourself being more short-tempered and crueler to your kids and your spouse. At first, you might even think this is cool because you get your own way now by screaming and pounding your fist and if that doesn’t work by pounding the people in your family. And when those kids grow up, they are predisposed toward cruelty, and violence, and a$$-ki$$ery. But you won’t care because torn-apart families that hate each other is just fine with a totalitarian regime. Parents turn in their kids and vice versa. Spouses turn in each other. The fascist state loves that. 

Fascism doesn’t want sufficient power in order to get things done. It wants all power because all it wants is power. 

Cruelty is the point. 

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

There is no reason Trump needs to be cruel to people in order to accomplish things. Whether it’s attacking his opponents or chastising his lackeys, he doesn’t name call and attack dead war heroes because he thinks it’s necessary to accomplish something for America. He does it because he loves to be cruel himself and he loves to evoke cruelty in his fans.

And that folks, is a Trumputinistic AmeriKKKa in a nutshell. Nut’s Hell? Needless (?) to say, racism fits right into the Nazi world view. It doesn’t matter what people do, or contribute. All that matters is how much they are “in favor” with the “powers that be.” It fits right in with mistaking a hat slogan such as “Make America Great Again” with — you know — actually making America great again.

Labelism

Meanwhile, in the civilized world, where one’s word still means something (and people value truth, love and contribution more than hatred, death, and power), people are curing diseases; inventing new sources of energy; having fun; loving each other; creating new recipes and dances and games; planting trees and building bridges. 

scenic view of waterfalls

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

Alas, we don’t want any part of that party! We’re going to stay over here in our dark little corner of the basement and do whatever master says we should do and feed on whatever scraps he throws us. 

I don’t think so. 

The vast majority of us are still anti-fascist. 

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

———————————————

Trumpism is a new religion. Now turned to suicide pact/death cult.

You Bet Your Life  Are some so enthralled with the entertainment value of the drama, they fail to act in their own interests?

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

A Profound and Utter Failure

Rejecting Adulthood

What about the butter dish? (Think *whether* to defend before thinking *how* to defend)

The Truth Train

Absolute is not just a vodka

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

The Temperature Gauge (on transparency in government)

Where does your loyalty lie?

You Know (which wolf do you feed)

America

Life is a Dance

Author Page on Amazon

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration

Screaming out a Warning

30 Saturday May 2020

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

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

America, coronavirus, COVID19, Democracy, Dictatorship, fascism, life, pandemic, truth, tyranny, USA

selective photography of flying black falcon

Photo by Nigam Machchhar on Pexels.com

I have been screaming all my life
For you to wake up.
I see the train coming
And you lie there on the tracks
Arguing in your drunken stupor
Over this and that
Tit and Tat
While the mammoth Midnight Express
Barrels toward you full tilt
A million pounds of steel
Headed toward your soft
Mammalian bodies
And your huge but fragile egos.

group of people walking beside train rail

Photo by Guduru Ajay bhargav on Pexels.com

Do you think that if you win the argument
Somehow your flesh
Will withstand the razor wheels?
Somehow, the sheer logic of your position
Will harden you to titanium?
Or that the diamond sparkling clarity
Of your almighty rightness
Will armor that sweet soft skin?

medieval armor

Photo by Ott Maidre on Pexels.com

What kind of drug are you on?
That you don’t hear the roar
That you don’t see the lights
That you don’t feel the track vibrate?

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And I always marvelled at the squirrels
Darting into the road, zigzag,
Throwing themselves stupidly under squealing tires
When peace and safety were so close
And so, so straight ahead.
Congratulations!
We make them look like mammalian geniuses.

brown squirrel on ground

Photo by Irina Wildlife Photographer on Pexels.com

Clickity-clack down the track
We’ll all be sliced in two
And never even have eyes to look back
Never even

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Where does your Loyalty Lie? 

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Truth Train

A Profound and Utter Failure

Rejecting Adulthood

You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: Wednesday

Trumpism is a New Religion

Creativity in Issue Resolution

Build from Common Ground

Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

 

Sports Fans Only

17 Sunday May 2020

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

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Corruption, Democracy, fairness, fascism, games, life, relationships, sports

Sports Fans Only

football game

Photo by football wife on Pexels.com

 

Many people in America, as well as many other parts of the world, miss watching sports during the pandemic, or participating. In many places, it is okay to play tennis and golf with special procedures in place. (e.g., no rakes in the golf bunkers; don’t take out the flagstick). Other, more full contact sports pose problems. But the biggest problem is the in-person audience when it comes to professional sports. 

If Trumputin is re-elected, we won’t have to worry about that — because there will be no sports — not in the true sense of the word. There may be acted-out charades of sports. But instead of actual competitions among people who are mainly on the “up and up” rather than “on the take.” At first, the replacement of honest sports with charades of sports, will only be sporadic and limited to the sports Trump happens to care about. But eventually, everyone in the administration will join in to wield their power and influence — not for the good of America — but for their own petty interests. The best athletes will simply quit. I can’t imagine the top tennis stars would participate in a scripted simulation of sports with the outcome known in advance so that money would flow from other people’s pockets, yet again, into the coffers of the Trump Crime Family. 

male bugs illness disease

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’m reminded somehow of Lyme Disease and deer ticks. Deer ticks are the vector for spreading this disease to humans. It’s a nasty disease, and in some cases even crippling, but you don’t notice the worst effects for a long time. You get this little tick, barely visible, and it burrows into your skin. Then, it starts sucking your blood. You would think that if something started sucking your frigging blood out of your frigging body, you would bloody well notice! But the tick has a little trick. A tick trick. It squirts out a local sedative. Isn’t that sweet? You don’t feel the pincers pierce your skin. You don’t feel the barbed mouth parts drilling in to lap up your blood. You don’t feel a thing. You’ve been sedated. 

Getting back to organized but predetermined “sports,” when people realize that all of professional sports is simply a charade — a show put on for the rich and powerful and that it has nothing to do with skill, or experience, or tactics. It’s all about who already has the most wealth. It’s a table with no bet limit. It’s a table with no bet limit. Now — what does that mean? It means that whoever has the most wealth and power can determine the outcome every single time. Everyone else will lose on average.  

colosseum rome italy

Photo by Davi Pimentel on Pexels.com

At some point, the deer tick becomes completely engorged with your blood. Her body swells up grotesquely, but apart from looking gross and losing a bit of blood, she has likely left behind a little gift for you as well. That gift is a packet of bacteria that will now proceed to infect your entire body. As I said, it’s nasty for most people, and some never fully recover. 

At first, the corruption due to any infection is somewhat localized. But soon, sports at every level will be corrupt. And why shouldn’t it be? Isn’t school to prepare people for life? What kind of school would prepare children for a fair world when the actual world is completely unfair? So, the incentives will be for school to teach children — not actual physical skills and fair play — but instead, teach how to cheat, what to do when caught, how to bully, how to kiss ass. These are the skills they will need in sports or in any other endeavor.

I hope we do fully recover. The Class of 2020 gives me hope.

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————————————————————-

Trumpism is a New Religion.

The Truth Train

The Anti-Academic Pandemic

You Bet Your Life!

 

 

Snowflake

08 Friday May 2020

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

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

brotherhood, Democracy, fascism, globalism, love, pandemic, peace, plague, poem, poetry, snow, snowflake, truth, UN, USA, world

Snow. 

Made of Snowflakes.

Snowflakes. 

close up photography of snowflake

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

Everyone comments: “Every snowflake’s different.”

It’s a cliché.

However amazing that may be, 

Amazing still is every snowflake’s sixfold symmetry.

“What’s so special about that,” you say. 

How does the three millionth molecule out near northeast

Know what the three millionth molecule out near southwest

Is doing?  

person holding snowflakes decor

Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

I’ve a story to explain: 

Once upon a time,

Everything was One.

If truth be told, 

It was a boring too much One of Oneness.

So, 

As matter is wont, 

We Big-Banged Ourselves into this far-flung Universe:

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A multi-colored, 

Multi-facetted 

Extravaganza of galaxies. 

And yet, 

We (not just you and me)

We (meaning all of existence)

Seek that underlying, undying, 

Unification.

silhouette people on beach at sunset

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

Hence, 

The mystery of gravity. 

(Why else would everything 

In the universe be attracted to everything else?)

In between the ting and tang of bells;

In between the yin and yang of all;

In between the sweetness of the notes of song;

In between this moment and the

Next… 

In all those in-betweens we glimpse:

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Reality.

Universality.

We are all One.

And always shall be. 

So quell your fears of Worst.

Slake your thirst.  

Let the snowflakes, 

Fall, fall, and melt upon your tongue.

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Wars? Scars? 

Hate? Fear? 

What chance do they have

In the longest run of all who run?

Division is but the ignorance of too    few    years

Brewed into flat, stale, tasteless beers.

Routed and touted as though it were a fine wine

Touched by Heaven’s Gate – a touch divine. 

photo of woman near wine glass

Photo by Elly Fairytale on Pexels.com

The Mad King shatters all of US

And all the US of US

He throws each one of us

Under his failing falling galling bus. 

The roads all darken with the dirt and blood and salt.

man in black jacket and blue denim jeans standing in front of yellow bus

Photo by Zichuan Han on Pexels.com

“It’s not my fault! It’s all your fault! 

And you and you and you and you — you all must lose. 

And I will lie and check and slay all day. 

I sing the electric assault. 

I sing it’s time to kill my foes. 

I sing it’s time to burn the world!”

And all the while, each snowflake shows, 

Each flag unfurled,

Each insult hurled,

Turns the earth a greener hue;

Turns the air a cleaner blue. 

In the stillness and the in between, 

We now begin to see 

That we are we. 

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

Bound thus together by our common scenes

And bound together by our common genes

We reject the clown’s inept inanity.

We see so clearly now that we are one humanity.

And all the screaming, scheming, double-dealing

Gets rightfully confined to back ward dreaming. 

All across the world, humanity is teaming. 

This is one large, deadly test 

To see if we could see

That we are we is manifest 

For all humanity.

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Let snow abound.

Our unity is found.

We very nearly drowned.

Our feet at last are touching ground.

Our voice: at last a singing sound.

Prometheus at last unbound!

Our truth at last is found!

Our world is very clearly round!

earth space universe globe

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

————————————————

The Impossible

Mother’s Day

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Author Page on Amazon

Index to Pattern Language for Cooperation

 

Drowning in the Obvious, Denied by the Oblivious

06 Wednesday May 2020

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

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, death, Dictatorship, fascism, leaderless, life, pandemic, truth, tyranny

person riding a bicycle during rainy day

Photo by Genaro Servín on Pexels.com

 

The rain has continued nearly unabated for an unknown interval — perhaps only days, probably weeks, possibly years. Even continuous rain might be more bearable. 

No. 

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

clouds dark dramatic heaven

Photo by Adam Kontor on Pexels.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMG_1442 


 

Fiction about real leadership in a series of crises. 

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-academic

Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life.

Rejecting Adulthood

A Lot is Not a Little

Author Page on Amazon

Timeline

03 Sunday May 2020

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

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, cruelty, despotism, Dictatorship, fascism, Feedback, life, pandemic, plague, Putin, testing, treason, truth

1/22/2020: 17

9C1B86DC-C7DA-4EE0-B688-A76C7678C58B

“…totally under control…

“It’s going to be just fine…”

And dandy, 

Like dynamite lit 

But under a bowl

You don’t see much 

If you are such 

That has no spine. 

Nor half a wit.

Death tastes like candy!

close up photo of woman holding lollipop

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

2/1/2020: 304

“…we pretty much shut it down…” 

No need to frown! 

We’re the best game in town! 

2E9EBFDF-8366-41E3-B9D1-47136A7D029B

2/8/2020: 813 

“…so we’re in very good shape…”

I like to rape, 

The younger the better!

Epstein, my buddy: quite the jet-setter! 

Jeffrey WHO? 

Him I barely knew! 

He mysteriously died

Before he could squeal 

‘Cause we had a deal. 

Billy Barr is the best!

He’s on my side! 

Kills on request. 

DCA8FC9A-F229-4538-9EA2-D9E13D4796EB_1_105_c

2/22/2020: 2460

“…stock market looking 

Very good to me…!”

And books, I’ve been cooking

Ever since I was wee!

Which reminds me of pee!

Which starts with a ’T’

Which stands for Trump

And kissing my rump.

coronavirus

Photo by CDC on Pexels.com

3/8/2020: 3826

“The risk is low!” 

And I oughta know!

I’m a genius who’s stable!

(I watch Fox on cable).

I go with my gut!

(Nearly as big as my butt!)

If they die in far places

Why should I care? 

Not even white races

Just people to spare. 

Here in ‘Merica, we’re still sitting pretty.

Only 22 deaths, it’s a drop in the bucket!

The snowflakes are getting amazingly petty!

But I don’t care and just say “#### it!” 

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

3/22/2020: 14,739

Thank goodness for ME!

My ratings are high! 

Among my slaves it’s 509

Do not whine!

Do not cry!

Plagues enrich the Crime Family!

E056DBCD-67B8-415B-9ECF-A7DE15F7164F_1_105_c

4/5/2020: 72,535

There’s plenty of testing as you can see!

For everyone willing to bow to ME!

American deaths are sitting quite pretty!

Though some will call for tears and pity.

It’s just a ten K.

It’s AOK!

64AC5B76-C6C3-40D5-A26D-9CB06754678A_4_5005_c

4/19/2020: 167,788

Let’s open up and re-elect!

We can’t have a down-ish DOW!

I’m the ONE the Russians select!

Letting everyone vote is a sacred cow.

Arm yourselves and demand to be free!

To do what I tell you fanatically! 

Americans dead? Only 41 thou! 

brown spider on spider web

Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com

5/3/2020: 246,943

I grade myself: with every A!

And who knows better than brilliant ME!

I dotted each ‘i’ and crossed every ’T’

And jumped at each opportunity

To watch Fox News on my TV

And Marrow-Lago’s? Golf’s place to play!

two man standing beside golf carts

Photo by Jopwell on Pexels.com

Go drink some bleach! 

And crowd on the beach!

We’re falling behind in the USA.

We’re only just now at 68K!

D202CABB-A6CF-4932-87E1-6F6A161730CE

Come on people! Show your master!

I need an even million dead — and so much faster!

Putin’s telling us all to hurry

Don’t stay home with your chin all furry.

Get those tattoos, massages, and cuts!

If you die it just shows that you had the guts!

To follow “Der Fooler” right over that cliff!

If you don’t like death’s smell, 

Then don’t take a whiff.

Stay under my spell

And before this year’s end, 

I’ll have met Putin’s quota!

You shouldn’t care even one iota

How many fell or now live in hell.

Family dead or perhaps a dear friend?

Who gives a damn when I’m having such fun!?

My race to dictatorship nearly won!

And when at last all power is mine,

I’ll rewrite history so you will learn, 

That it’s fine to torture and great to burn!

I can treat everyone just like swine!

My ego will swell! So all will be well!

Hitler’s reign: a mere thousand years!

More important: his tally of ten million dead!

86A389C7-4CD7-42E3-ABFA-A555A5BB24CB
D27C46AA-C37E-4AB7-8FE8-8DA937E31A91

Vlad and I have work to do, 

But our being happy depends on you!

We’ll only be happy when few are fed

And we can feast on trillions of tears!

Shut away your childish fears!

Believe our lies, however absurd.

I’ll abandon you as quick as a Kurd!

brown and white snake

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

But you’re not allowed to see what’s true!

Or look beyond my invisible hue!

Watch my glitter as you fall down and die

Give “Der Fooler” one last sigh

Love me tender and call me ‘great.’ 

As you fall and die — but don’t be late! 

tombstone on cemetery during daytime

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It’s all a hoax that’s been brought by the left

Who’d open the borders and make you all gay.

Just believe in me and you don’t have to think!

I’ll take your cash and leave you bereft. 

I’ll make you work for a dollar a day

While you wallow in filth and smell the sick stink.

IMG_8483

But that’s just Donald: me being me!

So know your role; increase that toll!

Help me reach that golden goal!

Let’s destroy democracy! 

Let’s fashion a world where I am supreme!

And everyone knows their proper place.

I’ll drink the milk and all of the cream. 

But you can be happy that I’ve lived my dream:

When I die — take the whole human race. 

Once you’ve given your all and all you have to give

When *I* die — why should anyone live? 

burial cemetery countryside cross

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Let’s go lackeys and strive for the best!

Make America Great and lead all the rest!

Make America end with a big loud BANG!

Help me sharpen COVID’s brutal FANG!

A million dead at the end of the year!

Me on my throne without shedding a tear!

IMG_9198

12/31/2020 (world): <2,000,000

12/31/2020 (USA): >1,000,000


Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

You Bet Your Life!

Trumpism is a New Religion

Abandoning Adulthood

Just Tommy being Tommy!

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic 

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

 

 

Life is a Dance

13 Monday Apr 2020

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

≈ 80 Comments

Tags

America, cheating, courage, cowardice, Democracy, fascism, globalism, poem, poetry, science, truth, USA

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

All life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

silhouette people on beach at sunset

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge:

Honor the Truth — or Live out the Lie.

blur close up focus ground

Photo by Gelgas on Pexels.com

You might fight for the right

And still end up dead. 

You could turn from the luminous light

You can slink and surrender instead. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You can wrap a leash around your neck

And hand the lead to a feckless wreck.

Say, “Here you go; I’m your slave now.

Train me how to bow and kowtow.” 

IMG_8483

He’ll wink and nod and blink, the old sod. 

“I want you to do me a favor though.

You see those people; they look so odd.

I want you to shoot them row by row.”

094B8A3E-B81C-4362-B83E-89FA50F9646B

Having leashed your soul to the Worst of the Worst, 

You’ll kill more lives in an endless shift-show.

You’ll lie to yourself; be an elf on the shelf. 

Bow to the will of the First of the Cursed. 

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

You’ll force a false-faced smarmy smile, 

As you shout out your shoddy sickening “Heil!” 

Millions may die but you care not a jot.

You’re already dead so you let the lot rot.  

89B1D15E-A1F6-4BC9-B704-6F78DFE2AD48

Life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

Of rigid and chance.

people dancing on dance floor

Photo by Prime Cinematics on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off the ledge: 

Honor the Truth — or, Live out the Lie.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You may fashion a last and desperate try

To derail the Failure that many see wrapped

In the “Finest of Finery” — armored with Lie,

Unable to move — in his own web trapped. 

IMG_3277

Think and link in a world-wide win.

Throw off the shackles of such shadowy sin.

Refuse to play for the Clown at the Helm 

Or his shadowy puppets all over the realm.

IMG_9198

They’ll stumble and fall and all turn to ash.

Their only bonds are their hatred and cash. 

You’ll join with others across this vast land;

You’ll sing together your fairness demand. 

7194539D-C488-4A68-A467-B27456B7A37D

Those who shrugged and laughed at need?

Protections fall from those slaves of greed.

Even the cruelest of the cruel can bleed.

Fertile fields will fill with thorn and weed.

606141EF-A185-4D60-A8ED-FEBE898DEBA2

If no-one will drive, none will survive. 

If no-one will pick — none left alive.

If no-one will cure, bake or douse fire?

Those cruelest are building their own Karma pyre. 

orange flame

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

Life is a dance

On that thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

pile of stones

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge: 

Honor the Truth or Live out the Lie.

84700569-5EEE-4028-A4C8-AD1D62D20320

The dealers of death want to close all the blinds

Shutter out light; squelch questioning minds. 

So, poke a small hole — let the light shine through!

The future of freedom? It’s all up to you. 

4F969AEC-A579-4A8B-9B35-F773A44B3E8B

And me. 

And you.

And you. 

And you.


Author Page on Amazon

Ripples: How Actions Today Determine Our Future

You Know: Do you Feed the Good Wolf or the Bad Wolf?

Rejecting Adulthood. It’s Easy to Pass on Responsibility 

The Truth Train: What went so Wrong? 

Citizen Soldiers (1)

Citizen Soldiers (2)

Citizen Soldiers (3)

SHRUGS: Super-Hyper Really Ultra Greedy Swindlers 

Impossible

A Tale of Karma

Winning by Cheating is Losing 

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

  

 

 

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