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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: life

Child-Like? Or, Childish?

12 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

child, childish, childlike, dance, essasy, joy, life, sociopathy

Aren’t they synonyms? Aren’t both these words applied to adults who have some of the characteristics of a child?

No. And … yes.

Both words are typically applied to adults. And both words are typically applied to indicate that the adult in question has some characteristic(s) in common with a child.

But the sense of these words is quite different.

I spent two wonderful summers in my mid-teens working as a counselor at a camp for kids with special needs. Many of these kids had been paralyzed from polio. Some were confined to a wheelchair. But polio was not the only cause of issues. One week was dedicated to kids who were severely hearing impaired. One of the great joys of that particular week was a camp tradition that the cook would “chase” the senior counselor while clanking a cow bell very loudly through the mess hall. Only two of the group of 50-60 kids were totally unable to hear. (Who knows? Maybe even those two have been since able to hear a little with cochlear implants). Anyway, although the rest couldn’t hear well enough to understand spoken speech, they could hear that very loud bell. People differ in all sorts of capabilities; most often the kids at the camp — and adults as well — have some mobility, or some hearing, or some coordination. The so-called “deaf kids” squealed with delighted laughter at the antic.

Photo by Helena Lopes on Pexels.com



Generally speaking, the weeks that the kids came were not organized by their particular special needs but by age range. The first campers to appear were young; perhaps 5-7. The next group were 8-10. There was a huge difference in the way these two groups approached things. The younger kids had a kind of … openness. A light burned behind their eyes. They were fully there. The second group were already wary. Instead of plunging ahead to answer a question based on what they themselves thought and felt, they would look at my face, or the face of another authority figure and try to read what they were supposed to think and feel. They had, it seemed, surrendered some of their soul to schools, and rules, and requirements. They knew how to be cagey. The light behind their eyes had dimmed.

Inside every adult however, that wild well-lit child still lingers and sometimes he or she will come out to play. For some folks, that requires drugs or alcohol. Others save it for special occasions like Mardi Gras or having their team win the World (sic) Series. And some adults are lucky (or unlucky) enough to be in a profession that actually rewards creativity — at least up to a point. Painters, writers, actors, therapists, scientists, dancers — often need to draw on that inner child to see afresh; to play; to dance; to interact with the world while minimizing preconceptions. That is being child-like. And, it is generally thought to be a good thing. Some adults find any hint of play annoying in other adults. Children almost universally like it — although they want the adults to be adult when a real danger is afoot.

Once, when my daughter was about four, she and I and my wife all sat on the floor listening to Leonard Bernstein’s introduction to the orchestra. We “adults” mimicked playing all of the various instruments. After a few minutes of this, my daughter looked back and forth between the two of us and said, “Oh! I get it! You two are really just little kids!” My wife and I burst out laughing. We took it as a great compliment.

Photo by David Trounce on Pexels.com

In graduate school at Michigan, one of my favorite courses was “Complex Adaptive Systems” taught by Professor John Holland. Most of the course consisted of his showing various mathematical models of complex adaptive systems. One modeling effort in particular I found interesting. It explored this question:

“If you are a complex adaptive systems (we humans are one example; so are cows, crayfish, corporations, and clans) how much of your resources should you spend on optimizing based on how much you already know and learning more about the environment (and then you can use that knowledge to optimize even more effectively later).”

Under a wide range of assumptions, it turns out that it is just about 50-50. That is, you should spend roughly half of your resources learning more about the world around you and half using what you already know to get more of what you need to survive and thrive; e.g., in the case of a person, food, water, love, etc.

Half.

How many organizations do this? How many adults do this? And, if an adult does learn, is it really open learning? In my experience, even when most adults do try to learn new skills, they are their own worst enemies. They have a highly evolved network of constraints, rules, assumptions and — yes, they do try to improve their skills — but only so long as it does not require a change in those constraints, rules, and assumptions.



To take a trivial example, people will go on to the tennis court and attempt to improve their game. But they often do it by making the same mistakes over and over. For fundamental improvement at tennis (or almost anything else), you will need to be open to fundamental change. By the way, making a fundamental change means that your performance will get slightly worse before it gets better. For instance, one of the people I sometimes play with exhibits a common error. He doesn’t bring his racquet back soon enough. He runs to hit a shot and only brings the racquet back after the ball bounces. As a result, he often rushes the shot, does not have any power, or mis-hits the ball. He’s trying to improve his skill, but he won’t improve much until he changes his approach.

For fundamental change, we need to dig deep and find that way of being in the world in which we are open to what is happening. Unfortunately, if a player does manage to “remember” to bring the racquet back father, his or her first few attempts will likely be worse than the way he or she usually hits the ball. Why? Because the timing of the shot will be quite different. The positioning and the weight transfer will also be different. A child seems to enjoy the movement itself and they seem to grasp intuitively that bringing the racquet back farther will naturally result in more powerful ground strokes. If you can be or become child-like while you learn, you will free yourself to learn at a deeper level.

To be childish is a quite different thing altogether. Someone who is childish is often not interested in learning or adapting or changing at all. They insist that they are already perfect and if they didn’t win the Monopoly game or the Chess Game or the Tic-Tac-Toe game, it’s not their fault (and therefore, there is no reason to learn to do better).

(one of my cats, Shadow, arranging the used dish towels she stole from the kitchen)

While I ran an AI lab at NYNEX, for a time, I had a pretty long commute. I listened to many “Books on Tape” during the commute including the autobiographies of many CEO’s of companies. Many of them were childish rather than child-like. Perhaps because they were rich and powerful, people told them what they wanted to hear all too often. As a result, these CEO’s often blamed their failures on factors beyond their control: the weather, government regulation, foreign competition, bad luck, fickle customers, etc. When they had successes, that was because they were smart enough to hire good people, make excellent decisions, provide superb leadership. That attitude of taking all credit for success and zero responsibility for failure is being childish — not child-like.

Incidentally, other animals can be stubborn (like a mule) and refuse to try something new — or they can be child-like and explore, play, and innovate. Play is not something that humans invented. We’ve all seen dogs play, but so do cats, otters, crows, ravens, horses, foxes, etc. In a very real sense, life itself is play. The replication and reproduction of life always allows for some variance. Life is always exploring the new and well as sticking with the old. Life itself is a balance between work (using what we already know to defend or acquire) and play (exploring new places, new ways of doing things). It is a balance between being an adult and letting that inner child continue to play. That is being child-like.

Photo by Rolandas Augutis on Pexels.com



Being childish is however quite different. That refers to a situation in which an adult (by chronological age) refuses to consider alternatives or the consider consequences; they refuse to think about the impact of their actions on others and even on themselves. Wearing a mask that has a Star Trek emblem or the likeness of a Skull or that’s colored like a rainbow — these are examples of being child-like. Refusing to wear a mask at all because someone doesn’t “feel like it”? That is being childish.

Wearing a condom that has a rocket ship on it is being child-like but not wearing one at all might be childish (unless you know you’re disease free and willing and able to raise a child). Putting on some of your favorite music and dancing while you’re doing the dishes is child-like; smashing the dishes on the floor because you’re fed up with washing them every day — that is childish. Making up a song so your students can learn math better is being child-like while being adult in taking your responsibilities seriously. Telling your students not to bother learning math — that is abdicating your responsibility to be an adult and being childish. Making up a funny protest sign and voting for the candidate whose policies you honestly think are good for the country is being an adult and being child-like. Refusing to learn about both candidates and voting for the one who makes absurd promises is being childish. Stubbornly refusing to learn the truth about your candidates failures and lies is being childish.



Life is a dance. Joining the dance and being child-like — that’s a really good thing for an adult’s health and well-being. It’s also good for society. Without any adults being child-like, there would be little or no math, science, art, music, or innovation. Of course, not all situations lend themselves to being child-like. You might have a job where the culture is so damned serious that any levity or joy will get you fired. If you have a family to feed, you might have to put on hold your desire to be child-like. If you give in to it and get fired, you’re being childish. First, get yourself a new job — hopefully one where you can be more child-like. Then, dance at the bank. If you are driving your car in bad weather, it’s not the time to “see what this baby can really do!”

Most people exhibit a mix of serious adult behavior, being child-like, and being childish. If a responsible adult “loses it” and smashes all the dishes, they will apologize; clean up the mess; buy new dishes. Rarely, we find a person who acts in a purely childish fashion. They will break the dishes and then, instead of apologizing, cleaning up the mess and buying new dishes, they will deny that they broke the dishes, blame others, and refuse to take any responsibility. Abusive parents and spouses fit into this category. But so do politicians who take a solemn oath of office to uphold the Constitution and then seek to overturn that Constitution that they swore to uphold. That is not being child-like. That is being childish.

And so is supporting such a person. To do so is to reject your own adult responsibilities.

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com



———————————–

Purely fictional stories about a child sociopath named “Donnie Boy”

Ramming Your Head Into a Brick Wall Does Not Make You a “Hero”

Donnie Boy attends a Veteran’s Day parade

Donnie Boy lets his brother take the blame

Donnie Boy plays Sailor Man

Donnie Boy plays Soldier Man

Donnie Boy visits Granny

Donnie Boy Gets a Hamster

Donnie Boy Takes a Blue Ribbon in Spelling

Donnie Boy Gets his Name on a Tennis Trophy

Donnie Boy plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Poem: Life is a Dance

Poem: Serious Play

Essays on America: Rejecting Adulthood

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Index to Catalog of ‘Best Practices’ in Teamwork and Collaboration

Author Page on Amazon



The Tree of Life

19 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

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

Life is not rigid. 

Life is flexible. 

Life does not pretend it knows all the answers. 

Life builds on what has worked before and

Forever changes just to see what will happen next. 

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


Life has an open mind. 

Photo by Elina Sazonova on Pexels.com


Life will always find a way. 

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

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

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

Life is full of love. 

Or, love, perhaps is full of life. 

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

Life is choice. 

Life pushes and pulls and tries and strives. 

We learn:

“Two berries are better than one.” 

We learn:

“Red berry taste better than green berry.” 

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

Eventually, life learns that it needs to change

In order to survive. 

In order to keep being part of Life

In order to be and to become. 

Humanity, my personal favorite on the Great Tree of Life

Has lately morphed into a cancerous growth upon the Tree.

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

We want to become The Great Tree of Life. 

We want all of it to be like us. 

Just like us.
Exactly like us. 

Only…

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

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

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

With cement & Soylent green…

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

Ninety per cent of their genes with us,

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

When a part of Life begins to think like that, 

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

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

And seen a thing or two.


And the Tree of Life, you know, is 4.5 

Billion

Years old. 

And survived asteroids! And volcanoes! And ice ages! 

And its immune system will destroy any cancers 

Any cancers that threaten the integrity of the whole.

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com


You see: 

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

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


A maniacal macho monoculture is not really Life. 

Something would occur


And since all remaining life would be forced to concur

POOF!

Photo by Mike Krejci on Pexels.com


Out it would go. 

Only a momentary waft of smoked ruins.

The death of all life and none left to 

Remember or to mourn. 

Photo by u041fu0430u0432u0435u043b u0421u043eu0440u043eu043au0438u043d on Pexels.com

Just as cancer untreated kills the patient, 

So too does unrelenting greed kill the planet. 

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Hopefully, on some other whirling Eden 

Orbiting some other far-flung and lucky

Solar System another Tree of Life 

Even now is playing, dancing, singing, choosing

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

Even now, it is thriving and this Other Earth, 

That Earth has smart species a plenty 

But they enjoy each other’s company. 

I like to imagine that earth, 

You know, just in case.

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com



But… 

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

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

And change course. 

Before it’s too late. 

I like to think we will.

How about you? 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

—————————-

Author page on Amazon

Index for a Pattern Language for Cooperation 

A Short Brutal Life in the Slammer

09 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

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

Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

“So…what are you in for?” 

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

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

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

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

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

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

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

Artwork by Pierce Morgan



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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds good!” 

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

Photo by Daisa TJ on Pexels.com

—————————————

Author’s page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas 

Index for a Pattern Language for Collaboration 

Tools for Thinking

Skirting the Turtle

05 Saturday Sep 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

conflict, consideration, GoldenRule, life

Sunday, after our two-hour tennis lesson, we had occasion to walk by our nearby pond. Nine turtles bordered themselves (socially distanced, by the way) around the rock perimeter. The most direct path home led within 18 inches of one of the turtles. Of course, I knew I bore no ill-will toward the turtle. But what would the turtle think about the situation? 

Two basic alternatives presented themselves. 

First, we could take a longer path around the pond and never approach closer than ten feet. We could let the turtles be.

Second, we could simply walk right by which would be the most “efficient” method of getting home. This would certainly have sent all the turtles along the path scurrying into the water.  

Naturally, we took the third option. We crept carefully and slowly along the path. I have found that nearly every species of animal gets less spooked if I talk to them gently and calmly so I did that. 

As we approached, the turtle tensed, swiveling its little reptile eye to see whether we were predator, prey, or simply curious co-inhabitant of this precious world. His rear right leg braced for a plunge into the nearby murky water where he would be safe. 

It’s worth remembering that I am much more massive that the turtle.

Suppose an alien species, as tall as a thirty story building went lumbering by you and passed within a foot and a half. Would your curiosity outweigh your concerns for your safety? Would you dive into a nearby haven of safety? Or, would you hold your ground — ready to bolt, but watchfully waiting? Would it help if the smallish skyscraper murmured while they ambled by? 

Everyone experiences some fear. And everyone experiences some curiosity. Often these two tendencies stretch us in different directions. Do we dare to try sushi? Do we worry more about the weirdness of raw fish? Or are we more curious about what it will be like? 

I don’t think that this tension is something that only exists in humans. In fact, it’s reflective of one of the fundamental dances of life. On the one hand, life repeat what works — what is “known” to be safe. On the other hand, life keeps trying new things — recombinant genes, mutations, adaptations, explorations. Too much randomness and it is not life. Too much rigidity and it is not life. 

Life, like the turtles, and like you and I, lives on the edge. 

This particular turtle, on this particular day, allowed his curiosity to overcome his fear. We passed quite close. We praised him for his courage.

It’s important for turtles — and for people like you and I — to realize that not every encounter between two sentient living beings need necessarily be a life and death struggle. Sometimes, peaceful people travel intersecting paths. Kindness and mutual respect allow people to learn about each other without the need for deadly force. 

———————

Ripples

The Forgotten Field 

Build from Common Ground

Life is a Dance

Author Page on Amazon

A Tight Flock Unified by Division

18 Tuesday Aug 2020

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

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

#Cult, America, cognitive dissonance, conformism, cowardice, cruelty, Democracy, division, fascism, Feedback, GOP, life, MAGA, politics, Trumpism, truth, unity, USA

herd of sheep

Photo by Jose Lorenzo on Pexels.com

Does it seem odd to anyone else that — no wait. Hold on. I was about to say: “Does it seem odd to anyone else that the Trump death cult is only united by their devotion to Trump and the only common value in their “platform” is that they value hate and dividing people, not uniting people — and yet, they are completely unified. They are unified about division.”

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 
But then, I realized, in a twisted sort of way, this is actually logical. *Because* they are united in hatred and dismissing anyone different, they are terrified to stray from the pack. But what if they do it by accident? What if they see something that looks interesting or useful and head toward it? NO NO NO! They might be culled from the herd! (A fate that could literally be worse than death if they & Trump continue to destroy the rule of law). No-one in America will be safe. Neither red hats nor assault weapons will keep you safe from Trump’s predations which will include the same horrors that other cruel dictators have employed because they think it helps keep them in power and because they simply enjoy making others feel pain. 

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

 
How can such a tight pack keep from disintegrating? By listening to Trump. To them, he is the ultimate authority on every single topic. In precisely this way, the entire flock knows exactly what to say (at least today; yes, it could change tomorrow, but they’ll be watching for his tweets again tomorrow or listening to Fox News to tell them what is real). They listen to the Oraclown and his reflection. 
IMG_9198————————-
For some reason, the real-world evil and treachery of Putin’s puppet always makes me think of these *purely fictional* stories about a child sociopath.
(Not suitable for children or people without a well-developed sense of values. To reiterate, these are pure fiction meant to illustrate how a sociopath “thinks.” For details about Donnie’s actual life, try his niece’s book:
https://www.amazon.com/Too-Much-Never-Enough-Dangerous/dp/1982141468
Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man
Donnie Boy Plays Captain Man
Donnie Boy Plays Soldier Man
Donnie Lets His Brother Take the Fall
Donnie Visits Granny
Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon in Spelling
Donnie Gets his Name on a Tennis Trophy
Donnie Gets a Hamster
Donnie Learns Golf!

The Ailing King of Agitate

05 Wednesday Aug 2020

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

≈ 90 Comments

Tags

ANTIFA, COVID19, Democracy, fascism, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, politics, Putin, traitor, treachery, treason, truth

IMG_1442

 

A lonely lackey claims a throne:

A peasant traitor to the bone;

A peasant who’s impressed with gold;

A coward who pretends he’s bold. 

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

 

The teeniest hands in all the lands;

The teeniest glands among the bands. 

The frailest ego ever found.

The smallest heart to ever pound.

 

male bugs illness disease

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

A shroom: Ka-boom! An ort of sorts.

The base proclaim his magic warts.

Eschews a fight that’s not a fix. 

The courts are clogged with crappy tricks.

 

woman with face paint with pumpkin

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

 

Now watch him crumble; watch him fold;

He’s frail and his tricks are old.

He’s flat and rancid as a toad

He’s stupidly squashed upon the road.

 

sign slippery wet caution

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

 

He cannot think from A to B; 

Betrays his country easily.

Now Weenie’s caught; he can’t be taught.

He does not do coherent thought. 

 

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

 

He’s too inept to fairly race.

Instead he hides behind his face,

A mango face with wobbly head

He whimpers; cries of “foul!” Instead.

 

baby child close up crying

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

It’s he himself who’s truly rank

A Fraud as big as Deutsche Bank.

He sucks the wealth of everyone.

But now at last his time is done.

 

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

 

He’s needless slain a host of lives

To compensate, he feints and dives.

He rants and raves; corrupts; depraves.

He likes to rape the younger slaves.

 

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

 

His daddy never showed him love;

Kowtows to every Putin shove.

He felt a quiver and a thrill.

When Putin ordered him to kill. 

 

flight sky sunset men

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

But soon the people will arise

Vote out the Vichy Putinate!

The People all with open eyes

Will oust the King of Agitate.

 

usa flag waving on white metal pole

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

 


 

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Trumpism is a New Religion

Essays on America: Wednesday

Winning by Cheating is Losing

Unmasked

Index of Patterns — Best Practices in Collaboration

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

(A myth about what happens when insatiable greed is combined with lying).

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

(A series of tales that features ethical, empathic, & effective leadership in times of crisis and uncertainty. Our tale begins as the leader of the Veritas seeks an eventual successor so she devises a series of seven trials that mainly test empathy.)

 

 

She Who Saves Many Lives

23 Thursday Jul 2020

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

death, fiction, legends, life, myths, parable, stories, tales, tree, Veritas

wood light vacation picnic

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

She Who Saves Many Lives heard a familiar voice, as though from far away. I am dreaming, she realized. It is Tu-Swift. I wonder what he wants. Oh, of course. He wants me to bring Suze back to life. But I cannot do that. He knows that. Such a lovely dream. I must return. Such peace. So many flowers. There is a field of flowers. Wild roses, pink and white form hedges around the perimeter. And such lovely blue lupins. The happy white daisies. The bright sunflowers. You must see how beautiful it all is, Tu-Swift. But of course, he sees no such thing. His friend just died. I must rise from the dream now and give him my love. It seems so … difficult … to awaken. It’s the fever. The red plague. Now Many Paths is talking too. What is she saying though? I must return to the dream. There, everything was easy…and beautiful. Understanding words is hard. Too hard. And understanding the meaning is harder still. And listening to the heart behind the meaning — the hope, the love, the fears — that is harder still. It is nearly time. Nearly time. But I must tell Many Paths something. And I must tell Tu-Swift something as well. Lids are such heavy things to lift. I never noticed that before. 

“Hello, Many Paths. Hello, Tu-Swift.” The old shaman sighed and thought: My voice sounds so weak. Just a few hours ago, or possibly a few days ago, I sounded strong. And, look at my old lady’s skin. A covering of tiny red mountains. That is not so pretty. 

Tu-Swift bent over her and said, “You’re awake! Good! Suze needs you! Many Paths cannot wake her! She needs a tonic from you or some magic or — I don’t know what! You must save her! Please!” 

clouds dark dramatic heaven

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She Who Saves Many Lives looked at the face of Many Paths. The eyes of Many Paths held the answer that she already knew. She looked back to Tu-Swift. He knew as well. “I am so sorry, Tu-Swift. This red plague is not a good thing for us. Please back away from me. Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I still love you. While I was asleep, I recalled a story my mother told me long ago when I was a child much younger than you. Another plague came and people had to leave our village and go camp by themselves for a full moon. Those who stayed in the village almost all died, like Suze. Those who camped by themselves mostly lived. We must do the same. Stay back from the sick people. Even well people! Or you will get sick too. If two or three of us must talk, we must talk with a fire between us. Now, please, Tu-Swift, do not come close to me again, but you can go and make more of the healing tea for me. Leave it at the threshold and I’ll get it…or Many Paths may bring it to me. She’s just recovered. She won’t get sick again.” 

Many Paths looked down at She Who Saves Many Lives and gently murmured, “Rest, Mother. Save your energy.” 

The old Shaman smiled and spoke, “Yes, I will, but I may — I may soon join back with the soil from which the Great Tree of Life draws nourishment. There is something you must know. I need to … I had a dream. Perhaps I dreamt of the Forgotten Field of Flowers. Perhaps Not. But it was very beautiful and varied. And, it occurred to me that just as we who are among the Veritas all have something unique to contribute to the tribe, so too the various tribes have learned to adapt to various circumstances and therefore become expert in various things. This is the teaching of The Forgotten Field of Flowers, of course. That teaching is about people who may argue among the Veritas. But why limit it? Why not have all the Tribes come together and learn from each other?” 

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“Yes, as shown in The Battle of the Three Paths. In small. But are you saying include other tribes, even The ROI and the Z-Lotz? The Z-Lotz are treacherous! They steal children! That’s not even — that’s against life itself. And, they came — they may have brought the disease of red sores intentionally!”

“Yes. You cannot trust them. Not yet. But perhaps they will learn the value of truth from us and they could change. And, perhaps we can learn something from them. It doesn’t mean we have to steal children, or spread disease as they do.”

A silence grew between them. Many Paths held the old shaman’s hand. She could see that the Old One was drifting off to sleep so she held her hand and lay down beside her. Many Paths took deep calming breaths. She herself was not back to her full energy level so she let herself be lulled by the warm day into drowsiness. She listened to the sounds of her people at work outside. So many sick and unnecessarily so. It was hard to feel anything but contempt for the Z-Lotz who had brought them this disease. She wondered about Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes. What if they never returned? Perhaps they had been killed or taken captive. Maybe it was a mistake to even go there. As she usually did when she worried about Shadow Walker, she began to fiddle with the Sixth Ring of Empathy — the one that she alone shared with Shadow Walker. She turned it this way and that. She put it on her finger and her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. 

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She glanced over at She Who Saves Many Lives. She could see the many lines in her wrinkled visage. There was history there, Many Paths realized. And in her form was written, not just her personal history, but the history of the people. And in her form was written, not just the history of the Veritas, but the history of all people, for surely they all did form one small branch of the great Tree of Life. Many Paths contemplated this branch. Most of her friends were on this small branch — She Who Saves Many Lives, Shadow Walker, Tu-Swift, Eagle Eyes, Fleet of Foot. But every daisy, every oak, every butterfly, they were all on and constituted that great Tree of Life. 

Many Paths listened to the beautiful haunting cooing of a mourning dove from somewhere outside. She wondered whether the dove also realized that they were from the same tree. If we are all of and make up the same tree, was it then possible, as She Who Saves Many Lives had hinted, for different tribes to get along? Many Paths closed her eyes and pictured Shadow Walker. Having him away — that was hard — especially when there was no guarantee that he would return. She touched the Sixth Ring of Empathy and traced the circle of metal around her finger. It calmed her and made her realize that the Tree itself was safe. So long as people of character like Shadow Walker did what they could, not only for themselves, but also for the Great Tree of Life itself, all would be well. Many Paths smiled. She knew in her heart that her friends would do what they could. Everyone’s path ended in this life. And yet, every path also led to other paths. A stream might dry up — even a lake — but water — water itself was plentiful. The path of paths went on forever. The water circled itself back into life. And the tree of life will be here long outlasting our individual lives, Many Paths realized. But this Tree of Life is not something separate from me, or from Shadow Walker or from Tu-Swift. We are all part of that Tree. In a way, dying was only an illusion. A tree doesn’t die, even in winter. It may lose all its leaves and look dead, but it is only dormant and waiting for another spring. None of us really dies. Still, I prefer him here, warm, in the pleasurable press of our warm bodies together. I will always have the memory, and there is that vast tree, The Tree of Life. That lasts forever. He is one of my favorite parts though. Yet, I feel as though he is alive. It could be illusion.

Many Paths jerked as her head began to fall with sleep and then she chuckled as an image flickered for a moment behind her eyes — an image of Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes sitting together on the throne of the Z-Lotz. She shook her head at that silliness then returned her mind back to the challenge that She Who Saves Many Lives had set for her: to bring all the tribes together. Was that possible? Or even desirable? A tree branches ever outwards. The branches don’t try to impale each other with thorns! Yet, Tu-Swift now feels as though he has been impaled. She Who Saves Many Lives sleeps. I will go and I will find Tu-Swift and comfort him. Can the Z-Lotz really have brought this plague here intentionally? And can I meet with them; dialogue with them if they have? But if I cannot meet with them, are we doomed yet again to war and killing and hatred? Then, her thoughts returned to Tu-Swift. Tu-Swift is alive and hurting. I must go see him. I just need to rest my eyes for a moment, then, I will find him. 

Having concluded that, Many Paths fell into a deep sleep. 

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———————————————-

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon.

Wake Up!

24 Wednesday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fiction, hope, innovation, legend, life, memory, myth, prison, story, truth, Veritas

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Shadow Walker couldn’t understand where the bright light was. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. The noise overwhelmed him, seemed to jar his bones and make his teeth chatter.  Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Disgusting. Sour. Rotten. He was spinning. The bright lights changed to blue and then red and back to blue. “I can’t think straight,” he mumbled aloud. Shadow Walker slowed his breathing. The word “inventory” came to mind. He slowly and carefully took stock of his body, part by part. It was all there; sore, but no broken bones. He moved his hand to his head. Apparently, a tree burl had grown on his head. But that cannot be, he thought. I must have fallen. I’m in a hole. He blinked and listened to the roar. 

Not a roar. Those are voices. Whose voices? Many voices. They were speaking gibberish. Gibberish he had heard before. ROI and Z-Lotz. Why were people speaking those languages? A picture came to mind — a beautiful young woman bathing. Then, she was speaking. They were pointing to some vines high up in a tree. Another image: crawling through the grass. He drew close to the beautiful woman. Her scent was nice. Not like now. Who was she? She was not the only woman though. There was another. If only the pain were less, I could think better. 

The light at least had grown dimmer. He could now make out mountains and in this vast landscape, no plants grew. He closed his eyes and saw the image of another beautiful woman with eyes like those of a cougar. He mumbled aloud, “I wish Cougar Eyes were here. She could translate this sea of words into something I could understand. Where the hell am I?”

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He stared back onto the giant landscape. Something was very wrong with it. He blinked a few times and suddenly realized that he was not staring at a giant landscape at all. He stared at a dirt floor a few inches in front of his face. He was lying on his side. He tilted his head to take in the room. 

I am in a prison, he thought. But why? He pushed himself up to a sitting position. A single shaft of sunlight struck the floor near where he had just been lying. He closed his eyes and nearly fainted. He sat alone on one side of this prison room, he realized. The other three sides showed a few dozen others hunched against the other three sides. They reacted to him — his sitting up — by pointing and jabbering — but he only caught an occasional word that made any sense: “death” “NUT-PI” “ceremony” “yesterday” or “tomorrow” — he couldn’t be sure which. Again he said and said aloud, “If only Cougar Eyes were here.” Across the room, a thin, frail, long-bearded man arose and hobbled toward him slowly. He stood directly in front of Shadow Walker and then awkwardly sat down in front of him and began speaking — in Veritas!

“Excuse me, Sir. My name is Tree Vines. Did you say ‘Cougar Eyes’ just now?” 

“Tree Vines! You speak Veritas!” 

“I do. Yes. I am Veritas. But I don’t recognize you. I suppose you have grown quite a bit since I last saw you. But did you say ‘Cougar Eyes.’?” 

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“Yes. I don’t recognize you either. I am Shadow Walker. Cougar… that’s not right. Tiger Eyes. No. Something. Her name escapes me. I have been struck hard on the head. I don’t know how I got here. Where are we?” 

“You are in a place called Hopeless because all who come here, die here, or — or out in the public square. NUT-PI mostly lets us die of slow starvation, but sometimes, he likes to put on a show. I am afraid that is likely your fate. According to what I overheard from the guards, you came here two days ago with a woman. Was this woman by any chance called ‘Cat Eyes’?”

“Cat Eyes! Yes. No. I mean, I do know a woman named Cat Eyes. But that is not the woman I came here with. She’s — her name is — also something to do with cats or eyes or fish. But no. Cat Eyes — not Cougar Eyes — she — I found her in the village of the ROI. Like you, she speaks Veritas, but she also — but I cannot recall how I came to be here. I cannot…my mind is not working properly. I’m sorry. But you speak Veritas. Yet, I don’t recognize you.”

“Nor do I recognize you. Though I have been among the Z-Lotz for a long time now. I set out long ago on a journey to find my daughter, Cat Eyes, and was captured and used as a slave here in their city. My master became deathly ill ….”

Shadow Walker interrupted, “What? Wait. Cat Eyes is your daughter?” 

“Yes. Yes. Her irises are shaped like those of a cat. And you know her? Is she well?” 

“Tree Vines, the last time I saw her, she was well. She led … several of my tribe went to try to reach the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks. She went with them. She said that’s where she was from.” 

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“That’s right! But how — I don’t think they could get there. She was stolen from us when she was young. She was taken by these people who steal children. My wife and I set out to follow the trail and try to find her. Several of our tribe accompanied us. But we came to a sheer cliff. No-one could find a way in or around. The others turned back, convinced there was no way over the mountain. My wife and I stayed and at last, a huge hole appeared in the side of the mountain itself…a kind of giant door. We could see nothing but we were desperate and slowly approached this hole hoping it might lead to her. Before our eyes had adjusted to the strange dim light inside, a troop of horsemen came riding out. They struck us with clubs and I woke up in the City of the Z-Lotz. I was chained and beaten and made to understand that I was their slave. They made me change my name to Tree Vines to make fun of my thin muscular limbs. I used to called “Of The Night” but I seldom think of that now. I was never allowed outside my master’s house. I am not sure whether my wife…sometimes other slaves came and I tried to ask about my wife, but we could never talk long. I gave up on life. I poisoned my master, not to kill, but to make him ill, and they found out or rather guessed — and put me in here. But only the ROI and the Z-Lotz know the secret of the giant hole in the mountain. I don’t think she could get through. But why are you here?” 

“Tree Vines, it is good to hear someone speak Veritas again. And, hearing your words has helped me recall some things, but I am still not — I don’t know why I am here or — we came — there is something here that we need. I came with — a different woman because she was here before and she sees — yes! She is called ‘Eagle Eyes.’ She can see really well. But not well enough to keep us from being captured — or killed.”

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“I’m sorry to say so, Shadow Walker, but they are going to kill you. By the light on the floor, I see it is nigh on to the Summer Solstice and they have … festivities planned … in fact, I would do the mercy of killing you, but we must find a way to kill each other or they will have me take your place. They make everyone — even the slaves and prisoners — go and watch the torture death. It would be better to die here.” Tree Vines, shook his head slowly from side to side. “It’s very bad. I’m sorry.” 

“Everyone dies eventually. But I am going to kill as many as I can. Meanwhile, tell me as much as you can about this ceremonial death so I can find my best chance of escape, Tree Vines. Or, would you rather I call you Of The Night?” 

Tree Vines sighed. “No, that name will just confused me. Call me Tree Vines. I will tell you of the killing rituals, but what else can you say about my daughter? Please. Tell me. What sort of person is she?” 

“Your daughter is strong, beautiful, and very smart. I will give you the short version and if fortune looks favorably on us, I will tell you all you want to know later.” 

“Fair enough, Shadow Walker, but — this prison is called ‘Hopeless’ for a reason. NUT-PI uses a special rod to wound people and torture them. No-one has ever come close to escaping.” 

“Killing sticks! Yes! That is why we came here. To find out more about them and possibly steal one. My young brother in law, Tu-Swift, was also taken by the People Who Steal Children. We followed the trail and eventually I found him. He was living as a slave among the ROI and they were using him to train horses. We escaped with Tu-Swift, but the ROI followed us and used fire arrows to attack us, but the fire spread by the wind back to their own village and burned it to the ground. Most of them abandoned the wreckage of that village. But beneath the burned armory, we found a wounded ROI man named Jaccim. Your daughter was tending to him. She is a very good and kind person. And, as I said, very smart. She helped Tu-Swift learn to decode markings so that messages may be sent without the sender of the message being present.” 

“So, Cat Eyes was not hurt or injured or tortured?” 

Shadow Walker sighed. “The ROI…the Z-Lotz…I don’t know for certain. She looks to be unhurt on the outside. But her heart — that I cannot say. She avoids talking much about her time in captivity. But she was very excited to learn that Jaccim knew a way through the mountains. And, we sent a small party to try to connect with the Veritas who live beyond the Twin Peaks.” 

Tree Vines chewed nervously on his lips. “You let her go with one of the people who steals children?” 

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“Jaccim actually seems like a decent person. Your daughter cared for him and I brought him medicine. And, he spent a fair amount of time with us. Tu-Swift vouches for him. What we discovered — actually mostly Cat Eyes — is that the ROI do not seem to even question what they are asked to do. If it’s effective and efficient, they are happy even if it something like stealing children. I don’t think on his own, he is likely to do bad things. Anyway, it wasn’t just the two of them. One of our strongest warriors, Trunk of Tree went as well as Fleet of Foot and two of our friends from the Nomads of the South. Your daughter is very resourceful. She spoke once of poisoning her captors as well. But she didn’t get caught.” 

Here, Shadow Walker tried carefully to study the face of Tree Vines to see whether he regarded this as a reproach since he had been caught. There was a frown, but Shadow Walker didn’t think it was from reproach. 

“I am — I am glad to know she is alive. But now, I am worried all over again. You let her go with one from among The People Who Steal Children. She is still a child herself. She — you have no idea how she is. And, now, it seems unlikely either of us will ever find out.” 

Now, Shadow Walker frowned. “Your daughter is very much a young woman now. She definitely has a mind of her own. She insisted that she wanted to go. We dialogued about the pros and cons, but all of us, most especially your daughter insisted on going — she mainly wanted to see you — and her mother. But what do you mean, none of us will ever know?” 

“Shadow Walker of the Veritas Center Place, there is a reason that this prison is called Hopeless. No-one can escape.” 

“Tree Vines of the Veritas Beyond the Twin Peaks, I know well why they call the prison Hopeless. It is precisely so no-one will even try to escape. It is a label they chose. They mean to demoralize us. We will find a way out and you, I believe, will yet be reunited with your daughter. She is very resourceful. I told you she helped Tu-Swift decode the marks of the Z-Lotz.” 

Tree Vines tilted his head and tightened his lips. “You mentioned these marks before. Do you remember what any of them look like? I wonder…. No, it couldn’t be.” 

“Oh, I remember them all! Once Tu-Swift realized that each mark is like a stick figure drawing of someone making a sign, you see, and then your daughter and Tu-Swift together realized that each mark was only the initial sound of the word that the hand signs signify, we were able to decode the entire birchbark collection that Eagle Eyes … managed to take from here.” 

birch tree photography

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“Did my daughter, Cat Eyes, ever mention the work of the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks to understand the ancient artifacts we discovered?” 

“No. No. Not that I recall.” 

Shadow Walker glanced around the prison. He noted that none of the others were talking. Each seemed to be cocooned in their own private prison of hopelessness, they all sat, backs to the wall, arms wrapped around their knees, heads down. Perhaps they had sent their souls into another place since this one was so … filled with death. Each of them sees the others act hopeless so they do too. It’s perpetuated from one prisoner to the next. The name — hopelessness — and the expectation — those are better guards, I think, than any of the human ones out there. 

“Listen.” Shadow Walker drew closer and began whispering. “I intend to break out of this prison. But I may need the help of others. Do you know which of these men is to be trusted? Is it possible there is a spy?” 

Tree Vines inhaled deeply. He had become inured to the stench. “People in here don’t talk much. I’m not sure I’d really trust any of them. On the one hand, they are probably not great fans of NUT-PI. After all, they’re in prison. On the other hand, if they heard of your plans they might inform the guards in the hope of securing better treatment. That’s how NUT-PI operates. He betrays everyone but has everyone believing that they will he lucky exception. Anyway, plans are hopeless. You only have a day — perhaps two — before they will use you for entertainment.” 

“What sort of — entertainment?” 

Tree Vines drew still closer. “Are you sure you want to know?” 

Shadow Walker, despite his body still being wracked with pain, felt a small smile on the right side of his mouth. “Oh, yes. I definitely want to know.”

Tree Vines said, “If you want my advice, spend your last days thinking of something good, not dwelling on the horror that lies ahead.”

Shadow Walker’s smile spread. “I assure you that I will spend very little time dreading. I will spend my time planning, imagining, trying alternatives, imagining consequences, imagining alternative consequences, like a tree growing limbs from trunk, and twigs from limbs and leaves from twigs. I will find a way out as surely as I found a way in.” Shadow Walker paused for a moment and then looked into the eyes of the other man. “And you are coming with us.”

“You really think you can do it?”

“Either that or die trying. I’m not going to spend my days … underground. Now, tell me about how they imagine that they will use my death to provide entertainment?”

“All right. Well, the first thing is that it is always different. But variations on a theme. There will be some sort of sexual perversion involved. You can count on that. And there will be a lot of pain involved. And, the audience of — well, different people are in different positions but everyone is there — even the prisoners. It is our only entertainment — and — you will think me sick — a despicable man — but we all cheer, even though the person being tortured to death is one of us. Crazy when you think about it.”

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“Okay, thank you Tree Vines. But I need you to be much, much more specific. What weapons of torture? Where is the person relative to the audience. Where are the prisoners?  I realize it may all be different, but there will be patterns and if I can understand those patterns, I can see the weaknesses, the cracks in those patterns, that will always be there regardless of specifics. I already know what some of the cracks are because they are flaws of NUT-PI himself and will always limit his thinking. For instance, he is a colossal coward. And, he assumes (without knowing that he does so) that everyone else is the same. So that colors his predictions. He rules largely through other cowards because he can use fear to manipulate them. But it also means that very few, if any, are truly loyal to him. Even if there are such people, he will never be able to trust anyone. He will not be able to tell who are the few who truly want what he wants or think he is a god from those who will simply act that way to curry temporary favor or avoid punishment. These are general patterns of weakness, but there are many more for a system such as NUT-PI and the Z-Lotz have set up. But I also need to understand their cruelty in great detail so I can see the weakness patterns there as well.”

Tree Vines had a grim look on his face. It was painful to reveal some of the many possible tortures, but guilt tripled his pain. He along with all his fellow prisoners had cheered and he kept asking himself why. “All right, Shadow Walker. First of all, they always have the person restrained in some way. Perhaps his hands will be tied behind his back. Perhaps he’ll be suspended from a pole. Perhaps he’ll have one leg in a chain with a heavy ball attached.”

Tree Vines paused. “Do you want me to go on?”

“Yes. But take yourself back. Instead of saying, ‘sometimes this, sometimes that’ tell me of one particular torture from beginning to end; everything you saw, you heard, you smelled, you felt. Everything. Just like I was watching right beside you.” 

Tree Vines paused. He actually found himself smiling. He had been taught this skill at a young age, but he hadn’t used it in years. For the first time in an endless string of gray days in Hopeless Prison, Tree Vines felt hope. 

——————————————————————

Author Page on Amazon

The Myth of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

 

 

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

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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.

gray industrial machine during golden hour

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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.

health workers wearing face mask

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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.

7551D277-6606-4C1B-9E06-5E4E44C81A64

 


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

  

   

 

Ah Wilderness!

13 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, Feedback, GreenNewDeal, life, poem, poetry, truth, wilderness

(I first published an earlier draft of Ah Wilderness in Peng Poets e-zine, summer 1997. I’m nearly finished with the highly recommended book, The Overstory, and so I decided to take another look at the poem and then extended it with the dissolution of form of the poem meant to mirror the dissolution of our society moving at last into prose but then, hopeful with the seed of form returning. I realize poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea. One reason I like it is that its dancing always on that same razor edge where life itself does its dance: chaos and regularity; change and stability).

scenic view of lake in forest

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Ah, Wilderness!

The words may well connote a false un-blurring
A fear, a chill — not from frozen stone alone
Or lake wind’s sweep; but from the urgent stirring
Of some soul still hiding restless in our bone.

Curse not the thorns of tasty blackish berry;
They keep fruit safe from claws less clever.
Curse not how swift the prey, how very wary;
They shaped our brain; & helped us know forever.

Curse not the winter’s churlish wind unkind
Or burning hot dry summer’s cinnamon sun.
They invented beautiful raiment through our mind
And taught us numbers soaring far beyond one.

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Curse not the change of season; or the suddenly sliding slope –
Unpredictable now and in the future as ever always
They make us search for patterns far beyond our scope of grope.
Ah Wilderness!

You are me as seen in Darwin’s mirror of minutes and hours,

And days of ways taken and untaken & lead us here at last.

We strive to take it all and make it all, all ours, all ours!

Churning every fragrant flower and pine to dust,

We must! We lust! We must! We lust!
We don’t have time for this and that.

We want everything now and that’s that!

air air pollution climate change dawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

And if in time all wilderness is bleak and dead,

Our bodies too shall wither and die and by and by

Our souls shall be but number: grey, unloved, unfed.

Asphalt, plastic, concrete & glass. None will die

Because in our endless war on nature, we are all “Undead.”

The Zombieland: machines gone mad; machines gone bad.

Swaths of humanity wishing to meld to macabre, merciless machinery!

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Life is what works! Life is constant change and innovation. But it’s been working for over four billion years! Look around you! It not only works! It’s marvelous! Machines don’t smell like that. Machines don’t look so beautiful as that. Machines don’t sound as melodious. Machines may be used to magnify malicious malignities if we let them.

Life is cooperative and interconnected and everywhere at once dancing on a razor’s edge between chaos and regularity. Machines are built to be efficient and effective and just tolerably presentable enough to be purchased — purchased by people who typically do not have to deal with the machine day in and day out. What do they care whether the machine is loud or smells bad or ruins your hands or explodes every so often or pollutes whole towns or scares away all the birds or kills every fish in the stream and every frog and that more trees will have to be cut down to feed it and more land raped to oil it?

Life is the invention of Love yet Love requires Life. (Maybe that’s why Love created Life; so it would have a way to express itself). Machines can be built to help save lives. Other machines are designed to kill lives. A machine that’s designed to kill lives never decides, “You know what? I never signed up to shoot peaceful protestors. That sucks and it’s anti-American. I quit.” At best, machines are amoral.

What to think of people who want to destroy life and replace it with a strict unmoving hierarchy with a life-hating king at the top? Don’t they see that they would not truly be alive in such an arrangement? They would not “decide” or “dream” or “change” or “love” or anything else without the permission of someone or some rule who knows nothing about how they really feel. And doesn’t care. Do you?

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

To destroy all wilderness means humanity would be signing its own death warrant.

The attempt to replace life, which we know works, with machine will eventually fail and fall and take damn near all of humanity with it over that cliff of ever-lasting greed.

Ah, Wilderness.

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Ah, Wilderness.

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Introduction to a Pattern Language of best practices in Teamwork & Collaboration

Index to Pattern Language for Teamwork & Collaboration.

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

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