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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: politics

ANTIFA?

06 Saturday Jun 2020

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

≈ 3 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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie?

28 Thursday May 2020

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

≈ 127 Comments

Tags

Corruption, crime, Democrat, GOP, graft, JFK, loyalty, Nixon, politics, Republican, treason, Trump, truth

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usa flag waving on white metal pole

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

Remember the days when you flew a lot for your organization?

Do you remember getting bonus miles from an airline? 

Do you recall that many them (and companies in other industries) called this a “Loyalty Program”?

Why do you suppose some of them called it a “Loyalty Program” instead of a “Frequent Flyer” program? 

Did you ever work for a manager or supervisor or boss whom you felt loyalty toward? 

Why did you feel that loyalty? 

What would you do if you caught your boss stealing from the company? 

Was your relationship to your boss more personal than your loyalty to the company?

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Artwork by Pierce Morgan

I had many part time jobs working my way through college. One of those jobs was as a projectionist (1964). It did not pay much (less than $2/hour), but it was a fun job in many ways. I got to stride all over the large university campus, mainly to show slides or movies to classes in the School of Architecture, Law School, Medical School, etc. I had a direct supervisor, Ted, who taught me the facts of life — at least, when it came to male & female plugs, the value of looping your cords, and of carrying with you at all times on the job, a spare projection lamp, a spare sound drum lamp, and a small film-splicing kit. He happened to be a Democrat. 

Another man, tall and bald Mr. “Cramer”, served as boss for the whole A/V department. He was a Republican, like me. I liked both of the people in my “management chain.” Neither one played any stupid “power games.” So far as I could see, we all just wanted to do a good job. That applied to my co-workers as well though I only interacted with them rarely. The nature of being a projectionist then led almost exclusively to solo gigs. 

That was okay with me. If there had been two of us in a projection both hidden away from fellow students and faculty, by sight and sound, being Sophomores, we probably would have acted sophomoronically and made fun of the material being presented or ignored it entirely and played cards or solved the world’s problems in a BS session. Working alone, I listened to every single lecture on topics that I would never get to in my paid classes; e.g., American 20th Century Architects including my favorite, Frank Lloyd Wright (awesome!); Collagen as a possible cause of aging (it isn’t); Alcohol and Driving. (Spoiler alert on that last one — not a good idea). 

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In order to get paid (for attending these free lectures), I had to fill out a time card every day and sign it at the end of the week. My direct supervisor hinted that I could put down a few more hours than I actually worked. I didn’t do that. He hinted again. I still didn’t do it. Eventually, Mr. Cramer spoke to me. He explained that if the department didn’t bill for their allotted hours, the departmental budget for the next year would be cut to match the hours that were billed for the current year. I still didn’t pad my hours, though I certainly could have used the money. It did seem a bit unfair to me that the department would have their budget cut because they were efficient. On the other hand, from the perspective of the entire university, it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous system. I didn’t feel as though I was being “disloyal” to my direct supervisor or the department boss to write down my true hours. Nor, did I feel particularly virtuous in putting my hours down accurately. It was just what I felt was the right thing to do. I don’t think it actually occurred to me to try to “rat on” my boss about the policy of padding the hours. I’m not sure whether that thought ever crossed my mind, but I didn’t do it. 

It should be noted that at that point in my life, I considered myself a Republican, though I was not yet old enough to vote. My parents had both been Republican. My mother’s entire family was Republican. I was enthusiastic about Eisenhower and  went to see Nixon talk at a nearby shopping center. I was likely only about 20-30 feet away. I have zero recollection of what he said, but he had seemed wonderful at the time. 

That same year, I also went to see Kennedy in an open car motorcade down Triplett Boulevard in Akron. He didn’t give a speech; he just waved to the crowd. I was curious because I had heard that he was super handsome. To me, he looked awful and not the least bit handsome. I could not understand why women thought he was attractive. His face looked like wrinkled leather to me. I grew up Republican and was “rooting for” Nixon. (Even my mother thought JFK was handsome, though she still voted for Nixon). 

Nonetheless, like nearly everyone I knew, I was fairly well devastated by John F. Kennedy’s assassination the year before I began working in the university A/V department. I was deeply saddened by his death and wondered seriously about the “conspiracy theories” about Johnson (among other possible criminal masterminds) having engineered the assassination. I didn’t believe any of them, but I did consider many of them as real possibilities. 

But even if it had turned out that Johnson had engineered he whole thing, I wouldn’t have believed that every Democrat was a crook or an evil person. I knew people who were Democrats and they weren’t any more or less ethical than Republicans. They had a different agenda. And a different espoused philosophy. 

woman with face paint with pumpkin

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Ayn Rand had written two of my favorite books (then), The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. Great stuff, I thought at the time. I felt like I could be one of the heroes in her books. I see now that people are much more interdependent than I realized back then (although, the degree of interdependence has also increased over the last half century — a lot!). Her work, at that time, gave me a philosophy somewhat in line with what the Republican Party said it was about — a high degree of individual freedom coupled with a high degree of individual responsibility, focused on, but not limited to yourself. 

In the current days, there are still people who label themselves as “Republican” who claim to subscribe to Ayn Rand’s philosophy. As someone who used to be very simpatico to her ideas, I cry “Bullshit!” The character of folks like Mitch McConnell, Donald Trump, and Rand Paul are much like some of the villains in her fiction — nothing like the heroes. The heroes of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged are the people who get paid a lot of money for actually producing something worthwhile; e.g., amazing buildings or a new and extremely cheap energy source. The villains are the cheats and the con men and the people who call in political favors and give contracts to people for kickbacks. The villains are the people who try to subvert the cheap new energy source to keep their oil profits!

Moreover, though it’s risky business to speak on behalf of a dead person, let me put it this way. I cannot imagine Ayn Rand agreeing to the kind of shenanigans that the GOP is trying to pull off now. She would have no doubt been against social security and for privatization. But she would not have thought it ethical to steal the money from the social security taxes and give it out to billionaires. In fact, she was for a progressive income tax. Her rationale was that the rich benefit so much more than do the poor from all the legitimate functions of government: police, fire, roads, post office, armed forces, courts of law, education(?). I’m not sure any more of her precise list, but it’s very short. It certainly doesn’t include having the government take on the job of dictating religious beliefs, or restricting a person’s sexual behavior among consenting adults, or of subverting elections, or of taking on the role of Crime Family in Chief. 

Trumputinists are not in any way shape or form taking their values or agenda from Ayn Rand. Some of them are absurdly accurate real-life portraits of her villains. None are anything like her heroes. All her heroes provided actual value. Trading money and favors and telling lies and making false promises and being a con man and a child molester — these are not value-creating activities. Not heroes. Villains. 

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Of course, there’s nothing sacred about Ayn Rand’s (mislabelled) system of “Objectivism.” There’s no particular reason why the Republican Party, or any other party, should base it’s own philosophy on “Objectivism” but it has made me suspicious about what the Republicans are really are up. They have claimed to be about individual freedom, but have increasingly been for taking freedoms away — the Second Amendment being the singular exception. Instead of being for real freedoms that actually matter such as — very importantly — Freedom of Religion and Freedom of Speech, they now generate and promulgate made up freedoms such as “The Freedom to Infect Others” or “The Freedom to be an Asshole” and the “Freedom to Call the Police when POC Exists Somewhere I Can See Them.” These are not freedoms. And they are certainly not in line with responsibility. 

So, as you might now guess, I have come a long way politically from being an Ayn Rand fan and a Republican to being a Democrat. Some of that is because I have changed. As I said, it’s far clearer to me now that we really don’t earn our money independently of each other. We don’t live our lives independently. All of us are in this together whether we admit it or not. 

It hasn’t just been me who has been changing though. When I was first forming my opinions about the two major US political parties, it was more often the Southern Democrats who were promoting racism than it was Republicans. And, it was Democrats, not Republicans, who seemed more instrumental in getting us into dubious wars, dubiously led.

police army commando special task force

Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

                                   

Some of the Republican values seemed to have completely reversed from before. For instance, at this point, the Republican Party is far more ready to embrace racism and racists. No serious Democratic political entity would do that — at least not intentionally. That, to me, is sufficiently evil to put the GOP out of the running for my votes.

On the other hand, until recently at least, the GOP had some quite reasonable positions. I didn’t agree with them all, but they were reasonable. How much should America put time, energy, dollars, and the lives of our citizens at risk to make the world a more democratic place? You can’t look up the answer to a question like that in a trig table. It’s a complex issue requiring a balance of long-term direction and short-term flexibility so you can do the right thing even though the “right thing” is a choice between the lesser of two evils.

How fiscally conservative should the US Government be? How much should the government try to regulate different industries and companies? How much of our tax dollars should go to research various topics in science and medicine? What do we do about climate change? There are a host of issues where it’s actually useful to get input from a variety of different sources and where working together makes sense. 

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Lately, however, the so-called “Republican Party” has made such a sweeping change, that it seems absurd to me to even call it the “Republican” Party any longer. 

For example, “How fiscally conservative should the US Government be?” is not a question that the so-called Republican party even deigns to consider. They have new position which is: “Make the economy look good and do whatever it takes to make the DOW go up all the while funneling as much money as possible to us and a few of our friends.” That is not a political position! That is a criminal position.

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“How much should the government try to regulate different industries and companies?” is not a question that the so-called Republican party wants to consider. Their position is, “How can we make Americans sick by rolling back EPA and OSHA regulations while simultaneously getting kickbacks and making the economy look better.” That is what they are about. Again, it is not a political compromise about where to be on some tradeoff function between economics and health. No. It’s a strategy for crime; for graft; for stealing your tax dollars and making the planet worse for your children and grandchildren — not better — worse. 

“How much of your tax dollars should go to various topics in science and medicine?” This no longer interests the So-Called Republican Party (SCRAP). What does interest them is to funnel as much of your tax dollars as they can to their friends and family and donors. Scientific peer review? So experts will determine what should be funded? Ridiculous! We’ll fund whomever we damned well please. Again, that is not a political tradeoff that should be debated; e.g., how much research money should go to long term versus short term research. No, it is a criminal agenda. That is what SCRAP is up to.

“What do we do about climate change?” This is an issue that everyone in every party should care about. It is about the quality of the world that we leave for our children, our grand-children, our great grand-children and all the living being son this planet! And what is the SCRAP position on how we should go about this? It isn’t a problem! It doesn’t exist! It’s all a hoax! 

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What? Seriously? 

Not so long ago, Republicans and Democrats differed in their philosophies about Judges. The Republicans generally preferred “Strict Constitutionalists” while Democrats preferred judges who would take into account the current situation in interpreting the Constitution. This is nothing like what current SCRAP are doing. They want to select as many judges as possible who will swear loyalty to them. This is tough to carry out because people often, but not always, get into the law because they respect the Law. So, “conservatives” and “strict constitutionalists” may refuse to render opinions just to please the people who got them confirmed. But the fact that SCRAP is trying to execute an ineffective criminal plan doesn’t make it any less criminal. 

Political parties evolve. They change. They will continue to change. 

Evolution takes time though. The Republican and Democratic Parties changed their positions on racism over the course of decades.

The changes I am talking about above are massive changes. And, they have taken place only since Donald Trump took office and they have accelerated after the GOP Senate refused (save Mitt Romney) to convict Trump on his impeachment charges. Perhaps even more important than the fact that they failed to convict Trump is that Mitch McConnell swore, along with all the other Senators, to hold a fair and impartial trial. And, then, Mitch McConnell, in full view of everyone, smiled and laughed and promised that Trump would be found Not Guilty and that he would coordinate his running of the trial with Trump’s defense team. He promised Trump that they would subpoena no documents and call no witnesses. 

This goes way beyond being loyal to “your team” or “your party” — this is putting the Party above the Country. This is SCRAP, not the GOP, not the traditional Republican Party. If anything, my expectations are that actual Republicans might be faulted too much for sticking to the rules and might do so even when common sense demanded a slight bending of the rules. But this is not “bending the rules.” This is throwing the whole idea that rules matter completely out the window. You may think that’s just swell. I don’t. And maybe we can debate that later. But the point here is that it is a massive change in SCRAP. 

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If you think of yourself as a Republican, you have to do some real soul searching here. Are you being loyal to the “Republican Party” that you’ve been a part of for awhile? Or are you being loyal to SCRAP? Old Time Republican Party — believed in the rule of law; believed in playing fair; believed American power in international affairs was important; believed in individual responsibility. SCRAP – believes in dictatorship; believes in cheating; believes in letting Russia dictate foreign policy; believes in magic and crime not data-based management of government. 

And, there are consequences. In the rush to fulfill Trump’s agenda (make the Trump Crime Family Rich and stay in power as dictator), people have died who did not need to die from COVID19. More people — many more than have died so far — are also likely going to die — also people who did not need to die. Is that really what you signed up for? Is that really the Republican Party? I don’t think it is. But I’m no longer a Republican. I’m looking at this from the outside. The Republicans I have known throughout my life would not support most of this SCRAP. Mr. Cramer, my old A/V boss would not have supported this SCRAP. My grandfather would not have supported this SCRAP. My three uncles who fought in World War II would not have supported this SCRAP. My mother would not have supported this SCRAP. My father, who also fought in WWII would not have supported this SCRAP.

How about you? 

Where does your loyalty lie? 

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Author Page on Amazon

Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

What about the Butter Dish?

08 Friday May 2020

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

≈ 88 Comments

Tags

cognitive dissonance, coronavirus, COVID19, epidemic, pandemic, politics, psychology, Putin, science, treason, USA

What about the Butter Dish?

cooked pie

Photo by kelvin carris on Pexels.com

So, here we are, staying relatively safe by staying home. One of the impacts of never eating out is doing more dishes. We end up washing dishes nearly every day now rather than a couple times a week. 

Today, it’s my wife washing the dishes while I gather dishes and dry them. She likes to wash the dishes for the cats nearly every day while I generally wait till they obtain the proper patina of dried food. I think about how tigers drag their dead prey around for a week or more in the hot tropical sun. I think about how the cats eat bugs, plastic, lizards, and each other’s puke so — I’m thinking they’re likely not into the same exact aesthetic as I am. But — hey — if she wants to do cat dishes, fine with me. I go around the house and collect cat dishes. 

You may think that I would “know” where the cat dishes are because we only have six white cat dishes for wet food and six aluminum ones for dry food “snacks.” And mainly I do know because the cats generally eat in the same places every day. Tally however, likes to lead me on a bit of a game before she decides exactly where she wants to eat on any give day. 

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Luna also likes to switch it up. On the one hand, she likes to socialize with her best (and only) feline friend, Charles Wallace. So, often times, she wants her food put down right beside him. But Charles Wallace, being younger, male, and more aggressive, sometimes steals Luna’s food — sometimes, even before he’s done with his own. Sometimes, Luna therefore prefers me to place the food farther away so she can have more of her meal in peace before Charles Wallace swoops in and starts chomping on it. 

I explain to you these details to illustrate that even though gathering the cat dishes is easy, it does require some attentional resources. 

What about the butter dish? What does that have to do with anything? 

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Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

Patience. 

We keep a small human dish with butter in the cupboard so that it’s soft enough to spread on bread, waffles, potatoes, pancakes, or vegetables. When the butter gets used up, I put the butter dish down by some of the cat dishes and let them lick the plate clean. Yes. I do. Once the cats have licked it clean, one of us still washes it by hand and then puts it into a dishwasher whereupon the scalding water will kill any cat germs that might be on the plate. 

I leave the butter dish out for two reasons: first, the cats like the butter. 

Their tongues are able to lick it very much cleaner than I can manage with, say, a butter knife. So, the second reason is that putting it out for the cats is that it also works for my benefit. It makes the dishes significantly easier to clean. Not just the butter dishes, but all the dishes.

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When I do the dishes, olive oil on a plate easily washes off with soap and water. Butter? No. — It’s like glue, not oil. If a plate has butter on it, it will “contaminate” every other dish that such a plate comes in contact with. It’s amazing how persistent butter is. Even honey and maple syrup come off a plate fairly easily with warm water and soap. But not butter. So, partly I put out the  “empty” butter dish for the cats because they will manage to lick nearly every butter molecule — less contamination for the other dishes. And, by the way, it isn’t only the other dishes which are subject to butter contamination. The same goes for my hands. Olive oil washes off easily and if a little stays on my hands, it seems to be absorbed into my skin and help make up for the endless hand washing. Butter, on the other hand, does not feel good on my hands. Your mileage may differ. I don’t like it. It does not feel “clean.” 

Anyway, here I am thinking of various things, listening to the news, and gathering up cat dishes. I am mentally counting them as I do so. I don’t want to miss one. Who knows what psychological harm could come to a cat who might be “singled out” by having their dinner presented on a dirty plate when the other five are clean. I come to the last three dishes where Shadow, Molly, and Blaze typically eat and I hand these and the other three to my wife. She takes the six dishes and says, “What about the Butter Dish?” 

A seemingly innocent question. 

I look down, and I see that indeed, there is a butter dish and that it’s within inches of the spot from whence — just two seconds ago — I had picked up three “cat dishes.” 

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Photo by Sayantan Kundu on Pexels.com

I am certainly aware that our collective goal is to wash all the dishes. Indeed, most have already been done or loaded into the dishwasher. I well recall that I put the butter dish down there to be licked just a few short hours ago. 

I did not, so far as I can recall, look down at the four dishes and think, “Well, let’s see — one butter dish and three cat dishes. But she only asked for cat dishes so I’ll just leave the butter dish alone. No. I did not even see the Butter Dish! It entered no more into my consciousness than the tile floor, the Christmas-themed place matts, or the faux panel behind them. I was looking for — and counting cat dishes. That was how I thought of my tasks. 

I recalled a video which was popular for awhile. Perhaps you’ve seen it? It asks you to count the number of basketball passes made by the people in white shirts. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJG698U2Mvo

How did you do? 

In a previous essay, I talked about how our habits can virtually blind us to what is right in front of us. 

https://petersironwood.wordpress.com/2017/02/25/the-invisibility-cloak-of-habit/

In the case of the cat dishes, it wasn’t habit so much as task focus that made me blind to seeing the butter dish. I was busy gathering the cat dishes, listening to the newscast, and — importantly, I think — counting the cat dishes. The butter dish was irrelevant to the task as I had defined it.

Since I was also listening to the newscast, I began to think that this is related to why 40% of Americans don’t seem to care that the mishandling of the pandemic is resulting in tens of thousands of Americans needlessly dying from COVID19. It isn’t that they are doing a bad job of evaluating the behavior of #45. Evaluating his behavior and its effect on America is not viewed as a task. 

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Photo by JJ Jordan on Pexels.com

Their task as they see it, is to defend the President and his actions against his “enemies.” He declares people who disagree with him “enemies of the people.” The task of the base, as they see it, is not to question whether the other 60% are “really” enemies. He says they are and so their job is to defend POUTUS against those enemies. 

For that task, it doesn’t matter whether he said this would all go away. It doesn’t matter that he said there was plenty of equipment, testing, masks, etc. when it was a lie. Whether it’s 1 American dead or 75,000 dead is irrelevant to defending him. You might see it as quite relevant to whether or not you should be defending him. I think it is. But they don’t. Their task is to defend him no matter what happens.

He says that it will be over soon — and 10,000 people die — the question for them is:
“How can I defend the President?” 

He says that we will open back up soon — but there are 25,000 dead — the question for them is: “How can I defend the President?” 

If a million Americans die, the question for them will still be: “How can I defend the President?” 

The number of dead Americans just keeps going up so thinking about how many dead isn’t only irrelevant to defending #45; it’s counter-productive.

They (the people who still defend him) don’t scan the news or his tweets to evaluate whether they should be defending #45. They listen to the news or his tweets to look for things to say or retweet that will defend #45. Thinking about how many dead Americans there are is completely beside the point! 

If it’s early March and there are only a few cases and he says it will go away, they hear that it will go away. Good sound bite! I can use that to defend, they think to themselves. 

If it’s mid-March and he says everything will be back to normal by Easter, they hear that and use it to defend #45. 

If it’s May and 75,000 Americans are dead, they don’t pay any attention. But if he claims that he’s done a great job, they do pay attention because that is something that they can repeat as a defense. 

If he claims that China misled us, they do pay attention because that is something that they can repeat as a defense. If he says we’ll have a vaccine in a few months, they do pay attention because that is something that they can repeat as a defense. It is not their task to decide whether what #45 says is true before they repeat it. They repeat it because it’s pro-45. 

If they end up repeating defenses that are inconsistent with each other, what difference does it make? Who cares? They aren’t trying to be consistent or coherent. That’s not their task. 

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

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Their task is to defend. 

Unfortunately, lies and corruption are a bit like butter. Put butter it in the sink with all the dishes that you wanted to clean and instead, everything gets coated with corruption butter. It is so heavy with corruption that it’s easy to drop plates onto the floor where they smash to bits. 

But who cares? 

They defenders judge their performance and each other on how well they are repeating the messages of Fox News — not on how many Americans are needlessly dying. 

And once you evaluate yourself in terms of how vigorously you defend #45 for a few years, the worse he actually does as POUTUS and the more Americans he kills, it does not become less important for you to defend #45. It becomes even more important. 

Now, having killed tens of thousands of Americans needlessly, he has even more enemies and the press is going after him even harder, and liberals think he’s even worse than he was when he was simply stealing taxpayer dollars to funnel them illegally toward the Trump Crime Family or ripping babies away from their mothers.

The rest of America keeps showing them the butter dish. “See? It’s right here. How can you miss it?” 

And the base answers: “So? I don’t care. Why are you showing me the stupid butter dish? My job is to gather up and count the cat dishes.” 

woman with face paint with pumpkin

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——————————————

The Truth Train

At Least he’s our Monster

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

You Bet Your Life

Trumpism is a New Religion

Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: Wednesday

A Profound and Utter Failure 

Comes the Reign

29 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

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

photo of water drops on glass

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

No. 

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

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

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

man holding umbrella

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

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

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

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

police army commando special task force

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

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

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

Distracts us from what we know; the arctic blow.

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

two soldiers standing on road

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The twisted cross of hate

Raised like a toast to celebrate

Our own lobotomy

Courtesy of the false dichotomy.

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

action aim armed army

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

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

silhouette and grayscale photography of man standing under the rain

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 Citizen Soldiers, Part One

Citizen Soldiers, Part Two

Citizen Soldiers, Part Three

Claude, the Radioman

Trumpism is a new Religion

You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: The Game

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-academic 

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: OOPS!

29 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

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

 

sunset skyline boston dusk

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OOPS!  

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

OOPS! 

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

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

OOPS! 

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

OOPS! 

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

OOPS! 

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

OOPS! 

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

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

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

 

Bang!! 

OOPS!

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

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

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

OOPS! 

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

OOPS! 

Suddenly you are being sprayed with ice water! 

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

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

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

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

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

OOPS! 

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

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

Spread of contagious diseases is nothing like that! 

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

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

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

You might find this paragraph of particular interest: 

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

 

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

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

OOPS!

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

OOPS!

——————————————-

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life!

Citizen Soldiers. 

Parametric Recipes and American Democracy

Essays on America: The Game

Author Page on Amazon

Myths of the Veritas: Books

26 Sunday Apr 2020

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

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

snow covered mountain under blue sky

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

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

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

MythofVeritas-2-1

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

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

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

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

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

selective focus photography of octopus

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

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

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

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

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

pile of stones

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

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

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

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

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

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

closeup photo of book filed on shelf

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

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

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

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

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

gray concrete building on top of hill

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

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

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

history ancient peru south america

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

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

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

5EA20EE6-6F23-4ACD-8831-58A93737B8F8

——————————————————-

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: A Lot is not a Little.

The Anti-Academic Pandemic 

The Truth Train

Essays on America: You Bet Your Life

Thrumperdome

22 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

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

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

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

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

Brain glanced over at Billy Bee. “You?” 

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

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

photo of person wearing face mask

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

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

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

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

road in between buildings

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

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

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

DCA8FC9A-F229-4538-9EA2-D9E13D4796EB_1_105_c

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

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

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

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

analog antique blur classic

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

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

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

person holding black and red hair brush

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But still. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

people cheering during soccer match

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

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

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

The crowd roared back “NO!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Total Number Killed: 255! Much better!

photo of fireworks display

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

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

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

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

After all, the proles were hungry. Very hungry. 

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

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

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

food steak meat raw

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——————————————-

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

A Horror Story of Karma.

At Least he’s our Monster.

Legends of the Veritas: The Orange Man
 

Choosing the Script

21 Tuesday Apr 2020

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

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

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

white travel trailer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cooked sausages in close up view

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMG_9198

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

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

gray industrial machine during golden hour

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

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

B371D710-826A-4E82-A9D3-369A53649234

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

snow capped mountain

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If Only…

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

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

The Truth Train

Tales that Explore Real Leadership

Author Page on Amazon

Wristwatch

23 Monday Mar 2020

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

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

celerity, ecology, environment, life, mindfulness, poem, poetry, politics, time, truth, virus

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

What is this?

A gift. 

A wristband watch.

How convenient.

For someone.

For me?

I wonder…

It’s a kind of a band

(A bit like a slave band)

A bit of a rift,

Between me and me

men s suit and accessories

Photo by malcolm garret on Pexels.com

If you see; 

Get my drift.

It’s kind of sand

In my shoe

Keeping me from other things

And it rings

In my ear

That a land

Where all that stands

Is the least pernicious example

Is but a silly sweet example

Of things to come.

“Hurry to the hippodrome!

Never mind the cost.”

Never mind what’s lost

Never mind what land

We conquer to expand

The land that … sorry….

Didn’t mean to mention that…

The land of the free…

I hope that is an okay phrase,

An acceptable phrase.

Because the thing that worries me

Is not forty-five per se, 

Oh, 

No.  

I know.

No.

What bothers me is this:

That a part of me says, “hiss”

On cue.

And then I say “Boo!”

And either way, 

It’s Putin’s day. 

men in black and red cade hats and military uniform

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Oh, yes.  We are quite the quintessential conquestadoro.

Les hommes mucho macho

Let’s salsify the nacho

Let’s wolf down some state or other.

Sorry, meant to say steak or other…

1DCFDDF6-6B3F-434F-97F5-4C6C090667DC 

Slyly, slyly, you may perceive

That I, 

Much like our current reality,

Make no sense.  

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

Granted, 

But I have no pretensions of being

Chiseled into Mount Rushtoomuchmore

Just because I gave away 

The U S A 

To those who hanker-danker for oil.

“Oil.”

Isn’t that a lovely word?

I like the sound.

Silky, deep, and dark. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Oil.”

I love the stuff. 

Titusville, Pennsylvania as I recall

Was the happening place to be.

Nearly, West Virginia and Ohio 

Came to blows over it.

But we got over it.

Clear over the rainbow.

All the way to where the sun don’t shine

To where instead monkeyshines

Rule the day,

And check 

And slay.

Say! 

My watch alarm now is screaming: 

woman holding burning newspaper

Photo by Jhefferson Santos on Pexels.com

“Way past time to play! 

All hands on deck! 

You’re making a wreck

Of every day! 

Your addictive greed

Grew a wicked weed!

Thoughts flash between sulcus and gyrus

Showing us how to beat the virus,

We must hunker down and work as one

For just this once until it’s done.

Then, we go and green this globe 

Let’s use once more that frontal lobe!”

IMG_3071


———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

Light at the End of the Tunnel?

19 Thursday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

failure, Feedback, leadership, legend, myth, politics, story, tale

C551763A-CB3C-4B5D-9BF4-813EB25AD310

Cat Eyes looked back at the entrance in time to see the door close out the last sliver of distant yellow daylight. She turned back toward the group, now bathed in dim silver-blue light. She cautiously approached one of the artificial “moons” (as she thought of them) that continued to light their path. She put her hand up toward the light but felt no heat whatsoever coming from the strange circular disk. She turned back toward the others. As she turned her head, she noticed that the light flickered slightly. 

Cat Eyes tried to speak. Only a short deep-throated cry emerged. 

Easy Tears asked her, “Are you all right, Cat Eyes?” 

Cat Eyes swallowed hard. She took a long slow breath to calm herself and found her voice again. “Yes. It’s nothing. Just — a memory. I’ll put it aside to explore later.” Indeed, she pushed away the memory, the terror she had felt. She had seen these odd lights before and she felt a bruising in her ribs as she had felt so many years ago when she was strapped on the back of a horse and stolen from her family. It took a hard push to submerge her memory, but it worked. 

“These lights have no heat. What … have you seen anything like this before?” 

Lion Slayer said, “They are like moonlight. Dim light but no heat.” 

illustration of moon showing during sunset

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Easy Tears added, “I’ve never seen anything like this entire … thing. It’s much like the tunnels of ants or moles. But I have never seen such a huge tunnel. As though the giant sloths made a tunnel like that of moles. But the lights? How can this be?” 

Trunk of Tree spoke. “We must go back at once and try to open the door before it’s too late!” 

Cat Eyes shook her head. “I think we should keep going. Jaccim said this tunnel leads to the Veritas. Leads to my original home. Let me confirm.” 

She spoke to Jaccim, who led the horses on leads, in ROI, “Are you sure there is another way out?” 

“Oh, yes. Quite sure. It’s been many years. I suppose it could be broken. But there is another exit. There should be, at least.” 

She nodded and spoke to the rest in Veritas. “He says there is another exit up ahead. We should be able to open it when we get there.” 

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Trunk of Tree glanced ahead and saw a seemingly endless stream of dim blue lights disappearing around a gentle curve. He could see the strange smooth floor. He glanced back the way they had come. More dim blue lights, but they ended in darkness at their entry door.

“I think we should go back. I am the leader. I say we should go back.”

Salah Hudah glanced at Cat Eyes and the others. She walked over to her husband and took his arm in her hands. She looked up into his strong, handsome face. She spoke quietly, still with an accent, though her command of Veritas still grew daily. 

“Trunk of Tree, you are our leader, right? Many Paths appointed you? Is that right?” 

Trunk of Tree seemed to grow an inch or two. He held his chin high and said, “That’s right! She did!.” 

“To do what?” asked Salah. 

“What? What do you mean?” asked Trunk of Tree.

Easy Tears said, “She means what were you asked to lead us to do?” 

“I am to … I am to lead us … to the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks.“ Trunk of Tree’s voice trailed off. He ground his teeth. He looked at the group. He hoped that they would not see his cheeks redden in the dim blue light. They were all staring at him. He felt as trapped in the logic as he was in this tunnel. The truth was that he was terrified to be trapped like this under the ground. It felt very wrong to him. But he could barely admit that to himself, let alone to the others. 

snow covered mountain under blue sky

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Cat Eyes swallowed hard. She didn’t want to speak of it or think of it, but she plunged ahead. “I have been through this tunnel myself. There are two ends. Of that I am certain. I came through here as a small child. I survived as a small child. We are all adults now. Surely, we are brave enough to stay a bit longer. We have provisions. If we get to the end, and we cannot open that door, we may have to retrace our steps and try the door we came through. We won’t starve so long as we can eventually get at least one door open.” 

Lion Slayer smiled at Trunk of Tree and pounded him on the shoulder. “Let’s go! We’re not going to be less brave than a small child, are we? How about you, Fleet of Foot?” 

Fleet of Foot answered eagerly. “I’m for it. But if you are too tired to go on, Trunk of Tree, I could run ahead and run back. I could just leave my pack here. I could report back on how it looks at the other end. This path is so smooth. Now that my eyes are adjusted, I can see enough to run up and back if that is the wish of the group.” 

Trunk of Tree sighed. In some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, control of the group was slipping away from him, but he couldn’t see how to stop it. Then, he had an inspiration and spoke. “Listen, we came her to find the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks. That’s what we’re going to do. Let’s all go to the end. We are plenty strong enough to walk back if need be. We have provisions. None of us in injured. Let’s explore and continue. No need to send Fleet of Foot on ahead. Let’s go together. Also, this could still be a trap. So we should stick together. Let’s go.” 

Easy Tears stifled a smile and said in a serious tone, “Good idea, Trunk of Tree. Let’s stick together. I am actually pretty eager to see what’s at the other end.” Easy Tears thought back to the time Many Paths had offered up the Seven Rings of Empathy for Trunk of Tree to borrow. They had saved his pride then too. What goes on inside Trunk of Tree, she wondered, that makes him so … unable to learn? He seems to think that being big and being able to bellow loudly means he should be a leader. She Who Saves Many Lives must have seen through to his underlying character.

Trunk of Tree took the lead on their march since there was no need for Jaccim to “choose” the right path. Cat Eyes hung back in order to speak with Jaccim. First, she had to bring herself under control. She had put aside the fact that he was a stealer of children. But now, somehow the flashing moon-lights and the smell of horses had triggered a rage in her. She saw herself strangling him from behind. Such rage was not good. She might not ever be able to forgive and forget, but she wanted some answers. 

The group walked at a steady pace, marveling at the continuous stream of images and markings on the sides of the tunnel. She pushed her mind back to her village as she had often tried to do before, but this time, when her mind got to the white clouds that kept her from seeing more, she walked through. In her imagination or memory — she wasn’t sure which — she looked up at the giant warm and smiling face of her mother singing to her. It was only a single flash of memory, but it was more than she had ever been able to achieve before. It made her happy. It made her cry. She did it silently. 

Even in the dim blue light, Jaccim could see that something was wrong. He spoke softly in ROI, at least, to the extent that it was possible to speak softly in ROI. He asked her what was wrong. 

She stopped in her tracks and whirled about staring at him and pursing her lips tight together, not trusting herself to speak. 

Jaccim also stopped, staring at her. He frowned. He looked at the others who marched steadily onward. He began to speak in ROI. “I did steal children. You don’t like me. I did it. I was told to do it and I did it and ….” He balled up his fist and struck the side of his temple with the side of his fist. Then, he pointed to the steal-healing scabs on his face where he had been dragged. “It all hurts.” 

He hung his head and shook it. Then he said in a soft voice, using his broken Veritas, “Stealing is bad. Stealing you hurt here.” He thumped his chest. “Sorry me. So sorry me. Now you go home. I help.” 

Cat Eyes looked at him. Her fierce gaze began to soften. She turned and began to walk quickly to catch up with the others and to hide her face. After she had walked for a few minutes, it occurred to Cat Eyes that in all the time she had lived with the Z-Lotz and the ROI, she had never heard anyone say that they were sorry for something they did. The closest expression she recalled were someone saying, “Bad luck!” People sometimes would say that when someone they knew got hurt or failed at a task. But taking blame upon themselves? She couldn’t think of a single instance. How odd, she thought. 

After some minutes, she thought she had relinquished her anger enough to pose a question to Jaccim. “Do you recognize these moon colored lights?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Jaccim, in ROI, “they are here in the tunnel, but as you know, they used to be everywhere.” 

“What? What are you talking about? Everywhere? I have never seen lights like this anywhere else.” 

“Nor I, Cat Eyes. I am not that old! But in the stories you read about the olden times, there were many descriptions of such lights. You remember?” Jaccim glanced at her quizzically. 

Just then, she heard the deep voice of Trunk of Tree proudly bellow out, “I found the other door!” 

Cat Eyes left her conversation with Jaccim and began to run to get to the door. Even as she ran, she smiled. Just like Trunk of Tree! After being the only one in their tiny group who wanted to go back, he had been manipulated into going forward. He followed the only path to the end, and now claimed he had “found” the door. Oh, well, at least he brightened my mood. She glanced sidelong back at Jaccim, still a few paces behind. His grim look had been replaced with a smile. Perhaps, she thought, he is a good-hearted person who never learned to look beyond his “orders.” That is more or less what Tu-Swift had told her. 

This door looked very similar to the first one, but they saw no groove. Fleet of Foot and Trunk of Tree began running their hands over the surface, while the rest began searching the nearby walls and floor for more of those bright jewels. 

Jaccim said to Cat Eyes, “What is everyone doing? Don’t you want to go out the door?” 

“Yes, of course! They’re looking for a handle or … something to make the door open. The light is so dim, they can’t find the handle. Do you remember where it is, Jaccim?”

Jaccim frowned and tilted his head. “Handle? There is no handle on the inside of these doors. Why?” 

Now the entire group was looking at Jaccim. Even though they couldn’t follow the ROI conversation, they knew something was wrong. They all realized, he was the one who should have known where the handle was. 

Trunk of Tree spun around, “You led us in here and there’s no door handle of any kind!? It is a trap! I knew it!”

Jaccim knew something was amiss, but he didn’t know what. He looked at Cat Eyes and asked in ROI, “What is wrong?” 

Cat Eyes rolled her eyes and said in ROI, “What is wrong!? Jaccim, you led us in here with no way out!”

Jaccim stared at her for a moment. “There is a way out. Of course there is. This tunnel works like all those of the ancients.” Jaccim looked at her but she looked at him blankly. Then, he added, “Oh, but say it in ROI of course.” 

Cat Eyes stared at Jaccim as though he had gone completely mad. He shrugged his shoulders. He stepped forward a few steps and, in ROI, said, “Open the Door.” 

——————————————————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

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