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Process Re-engineering Moves to Baseball 

25 Saturday Apr 2020

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

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

baseball, Business, Consulting, Design, efficiency, process, Process Re-engineering, sports, Trumpism, truth, work

[I wrote this satire when I was Executive Director of the AI lab at NYNEX back in the 1990’s. At that time, “Business Process Re-engineering” was a huge management fad. Here’s how it worked, in short. Consultants would ask top executives how their part of the organization worked. Then, the consultants would make a map of one of the processes of the organization. This was called the “As Is” map. Then, the consultants would simplify that to produce the map of the ideal (and supposedly more efficient) process. Then, the executives would pay the consultants a bunch of money and insist that their organizations stop using the “As Is” map and instead do things according to the “Should Be” map. In a few cases, there were some inefficient processes that were replaced with better ones. But in many cases, the “As Is” map was made based on a fantasy of what was going on in the organization. Unless the executive had “worked their way up the ranks” by actually doing the jobs, these “As Is” maps were almost certain to be ridiculous over-simplifications. Even if the executives had worked their way up, they could still be way off because markets change, technology changes, and workers change. Despite the fact that I wrote this about 25 years ago, to me, it seems much like the kind of ignorant and egomaniacal over-simplified mis-thinking that is rampant in the Trumputin Misadministration. So, I thought it appropriate to publish. (And, I miss baseball).] 

 

person holding baseball bat

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In a surprise move today, the take-over executive known affectionately as B. S. announced a take-over of the New York Yankees. 

INTERVIEW ONE 

B.S.: “The Yankees are facing new competitive pressures, and we will be bringing our management skills to the team to help them deal with those pressures and increase shareholder value while maintaining player morale and improving customer service.” 

Reporter: “So, what exactly will you be doing?” 

B.S.: “First, we brought in an outside Management Consulting Firm. Just between you and me, we paid them big bucks! But it was worth it.” 

Reporter:”Worth it how? What will you be doing?” 

B.S.:”Well, for starters, we’re downsizing the on-the-field team from nine to six players.” 

Reporter:”Uh….did these management consultants actually know how to play baseball?” 

B.S.”Probably. Maybe. I don’t really know. But that’s not the point. They are top-notch accountants. We plan to increase our operating efficiency 33%.” 

Reporter:”Fascinating. Any other plans.” 

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B.S.:”We have to be willing to change, you know, flow with the times. Once, spring training made sense. But in today’s highly competitive economy, we won’t be able to afford frills like that.” 

Reporter: “Cool. No training. That should save some bucks!” 

B.S.:”You said it! We have to pay for our big executive bonuses somehow. After all, we deserve to make more money for … well … for being rich.” 

Reporter: “Any other productivity measures?” 

B.S.: “Well, this inventory of bats, balls, mitts — I mean that has just gotten completely out of hand. Sure, I suppose we should keep a bat for the team, but having all those individual bats? Nonsense. And, don’t get me started on mitts!” 

Reporter:”No mitts? Won’t that decrease your fielding effectiveness?” 

B.S.:”No, we have a Quality Process to improve our fielding effectiveness. Besides our management consultants pointed out that cricket fielders don’t use mitts.” 

baseball glove and ball

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Reporter: “Well, Mr. B.S., I think the Yankee fans are in for a real — a really different experience this season.” 

B.S.: “Thanks! And, believe me, Wall Street has already taken notice. The Market to Book value is up 10% already. Just wait till we move into the football market.” 

Reporter: “Football?” 

B.S.:”Sure. There’s no reason at all these ball-players can’t make themselves useful in the off-season by playing football.” 

Reporter:”Well, with a few exceptions, it takes a different set of skills — and a different body type even to —“ 

B.S.:”B*** S***! That’s what those nambly-pambly unions would like you to believe. Didn’t you play football and baseball when you were a kid? Huh?” 

Reporter: “Well, yes, but not at a professional level. I mean….” 

B.S.”Well, we’re going to increase shareholder value. Period. End of discussion.” 

football game

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INTERVIEW TWO 

Reporter: “So, B.S., how is your plan going?” 

B.S.: “Great! Fantastic!” 

Reporter: “So, you’re winning ball games then?” 

B.S. “We are meeting all our financial targets for cost-containment. In fact, our top-notch accounting team has uncovered another big cost savings.” 

Reporter: “Really? What?” 

B.S.:”We’re going to outsource our pitching. No more high-paid prima donnas! Nope. We’ve found a vendor who can provide pitching for 1/10 of our current costs!” 

Reporter: “Hmmm. I don’t know. They say, pitching is 80% of baseball.” 

B.S.: “Exactly, my point, boy!” 

Reporter: “Well, are you actually winning games?” 

B. S. “I already told you, our costs are down significantly!” 

Reporter: “Yes, but when you actually get out on the field, do you score more points than your opponents?” 

B.S. “There are some temporary performance anomalies — mostly due to bad weather — and the lack of cooperation on the part of the Umpire’s Union.” 

Reporter: “Lack of cooperation?” 

B.S. “Yes, the Umpire’s haven’t quite adjusted to the new realities of competition. Once they make the proper adjustments to the strike zone, I have every confidence that we will be fully compatible run-wise with others in our segment of the league.” 

tilt shift photography of a baseball referee

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Reporter: “I see….” 

B.S.:”Meanwhile, we’re also improving and upgrading our capital infrastructure.” 

Reporter: “You mean…the stadium?” 

B.S.”Exactly. We’re replacing the concrete with much newer high-tech polypropylene glycol embedded styrene.” 

Reporter: “Oh. Will you be replacing those hard seats?” 

B.S. “Seats? Don’t be ridiculous. That would be way too expensive.” 

Reporter: “Well, how will the stadium be different — from the fan’s perspective?” 

B.S.: “Fans? Oh, fans. It will be a much more modern, more high-tech stadium.” 

Reporter: “So, how will the actual experience of the fans be different?” 

B.S. “Did I mention that our stock price has risen 5%? Wall Street knows what’s best for baseball!” 

Reporter: “Perhaps, but according to our wire service, you lost last night to Cleveland, 26-0. That’s….” 

arena athletes audience ball

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B.S.:”That’s a temporary aberration! I told you! The Umpires have got to get on board here. We’re only asking a proportional shrinkage in the strike zone to match our cost-containment figures. Our new policies are a success. We don’t need to be questioned by nay-sayers spouting statistics. This interview is over!” 

 

 

INTERVIEW THREE 

Reporter: “So, BS, I hear your team has surpassed the opening losing streak record of the Pittsburg….” 

BS:”Bah! Our expenses are down! Our stock price is UP!” 

Reporter: “How about the fans? How’s the attendance?” 

BS: “Attendance? It takes time for our end users to adjust to the interface changes, but they will. After all, what are they going to do, take a ride to Seattle just to watch a live ballgame?” 

Reporter: “Well — or, maybe across town.” 

BS: “Get serious. It takes less time to get to Seattle. Anyway, we have taken some of the surplus and hired some systems analysts to help us out. We should be on a winning streak in no time!” 

Reporter: “Wouldn’t it maybe make more sense to hire some — you know, outfielders, say?” 

BS: “You obviously don’t know anything about business. That’s why they hired me. Ever hear of the expression ‘a level playing field’?” 

Reporter: “Yes, but what … ?” 

BS: “Well, we are not going to have one! Not much longer! Our system analysts have designed a system to tilt the entire stadium on command. So — in short, our ball-players will be hitting DOWNSLOPE while the opposition will be hitting UPHILL! Come on. Tell me I’m brilliant! And, we are moving the stadium to a place where the tax rate is less and the real estate is cheaper! Go ahead! Tell me I’m brilliant!”

scenic view of mountains

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Reporter: “Uh, you’re brilliant, but — ah — won’t your opponents object?” 

BS: “Who cares? Our lawyers have combed the rule book and the UCC and NOWHERE does it mention anything about not tilting the earth!” 

Reporter: “Well, maybe not specifically, but surely on the basic principles of fair play….” 

BS: “Ha hah hahahahhh! Oh, you really crack me up! ‘Basic Principles of Fair Play!’ Oh, that’s rich. That’s realllllly rich. Yes. Good one. Listen, sucker, if you can get away with it, it’s what you do! Have you been asleep? Ever hear of tobacco companies? How about the Ford Pinto? Billionaire Milliken? Get real!” 

Reporter: “Still….somehow, I always thought of baseball as a sport.” 

BS: “Oh, right. And, I always thought of Howard Stern as Marilyn Monroe. Geez. Our profits will soar! Our profits will soar! Oh, so many plans. Fewer squares! Fewer innings! Fines for foul balls! Fines for run homes! Fines….” 

Reporter: “Excuse me, did you say ‘run homes’?” 

BS: “Yeah, those things — don’t you call them run homes — where the guy loses the baseball? Talk about waste!” 

Reporter: “Those are Home Runs. That’s one good way to win ball games.” 

close up photography of four baseballs on green lawn grasses

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BS: “Yeah, whatever. Maybe to you. To me, they are an unnecessary waste. Just like second square.” 

Reporter: “Second square? You mean, ‘second base’?” 

BS: “Whatever. That little square bag out there in the middle of the sandyfield.” 

Reporter: “Have you ever actually played baseball?” 

BS: “Me? I was too busy for frills, my friend. Too busy making my first million. And I did it through hard work and ingenuity. I did it in high school. It wasn’t easy either. Do you know how many of those little first grade brats you have to shake down for lunch money just to get a thousand bucks?” 

toddler with red adidas sweat shirt

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Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Donnie Learns Golf! 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier!

Donnie Visits Granny!

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Truth Train

Winning by Cheating is Losing

Trumpism is a New Religion

 

 

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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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.

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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.

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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

A Mere House of Mirror

19 Sunday Apr 2020

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bias, Carnival, COVID19, empathy, fiction, Fun House, insight, Mirrors, prejudice, racism, relationships, religion, short story, truth

Chapter One: Mere Mirror

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The hot, humid, cloudless August day offered not the slightest breeze of comfort. The girls had finished their snow cones only three minutes ago, and they already felt the stifling heat. They looked around for some shade. Jean jumped up and down and pointed excitedly at the large wooden structure ahead of them. 

“Jean, I don’t want to go in there. I hate Fun Houses.”

“This one’s cool, Wilm. Totally! Outstanding mirrors.”

The sun shimmered on the Rye Playland sidewalks. Sweat beaded on Willamette’s forehead. “Some old pervert’s always trying to grab at you in there.”  

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Jean nodded and then laughed. “Maybe some cute young guys too. Ever think of that? Come on!” 

“I don’t want to be groped by anybody, Jean!”

“No, me either. But, you know we might meet some cute guys. What say, Wilm?” 

Willamette half-smiled in surrender. They sauntered over, trying to time their arrival to coincide with any nearby hunks. Sure enough, a couple cute guys were about to get in line behind them when two white trash hillbillies slid in first. 

Willamette rolled her eyes, knowing that some stupid skeleton would flash in front of her and make her scream and she told herself she wouldn’t but she always did anyway. She wondered why she had let Jean talk her into this.

This time was no different. She screamed when the skeleton jumped out,  just as she knew she would. She cursed at herself for it. Then, she nearly fell flat on her face when they stepped onto the stupid steel rollers. She was about to protest to Jean that she still hated these places. But Jean had disappeared.  Willamette could see the house of mirrors around the corner. At least, she thought, this part won’t be scary.  

Willamette looked in the first mirror. Her eyes Zombied. In the mirror in front of her stared a horrified old man with pasty white skin and unkempt dirty black hair.  What an illusion! She laughed. But the laugh that came out was an old man’s whisky-roughened laugh. Her eyes slowly gazed down at her hands.  

Her hands were gone.  

In their place were the gnarled fingers of an old man, white skin, blue veins, dirty fingernails.  

She screamed. 

And, then she screamed at the gravely sound of her own voice. 

—————————————-

Chapter Two: Mirror, Mere

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“Come on, y’all’ll enjoy it.”

“Sounds stupid. Ain’t been in a ‘Scare Houses’ since I was twelve.”

“This here one’s great!” Jay-Bob snickered and winked at his buddy, Willard. “’Sides, you can cop a feel.”

Willard’s pale skinny finger fluttered toward the facade. “Looks like the same stupid grinnin’ clown and the same ugly witch as back in ‘Bama.’  What’s so special about this’n?”

“These New York dudes got themselves some whiskey cool mirrors.”

“One’s thang’s for danged sure. These here Ryeland tickets costs ’bout ten times our state fair for the same danged rides.”

“Come on, Willard, give it a go.”

“Fine.” Willard spied two teenage girls joining the line, and sidled in behind them. One had tight slacks but the other wore a loose cotton dress. Didn’t she know about that blast of air? Or, maybe she did. Liked, in fact, showing off her panties. Pink? Black? He wondered to himself.

The dark, the pop-ups, the rollers. Willard’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The youngsters eyes adapted much faster and they immediately sped ahead out of groping range. What’s next? Stupid House of Mirrors. Willard turned the corner. Where the hell was Gene?

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“Screw him,” he muttered aloud and wondered whether he’d be a beanpole or a midget.

 He looked in the mirror.

Willard didn’t want anyone else to hear his question so he used a stage whisper — though he had no idea what that term meant. 

“What the — !  Gene, how they do that?” 

But Gene had disappeared.

Willard blinked again at the cute, black teenage girl gaping at him in the

mirror; blinked; stared down to see skinny black hairless arms and the bluely

sparkled fingernails; screamed in that high girly voice; watched the ample

heaving breasts.

Then he screamed even louder at the sound of his thin soprano voice. 

————————————————-

Chapter Three: Mirror, Mirror

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“So, how’d we do, Gene?”

“Mmmm. The conditions were there, but no insight. No change. No enlightenment. Frankly, I think we’re in trouble, Will.”

“Drat.”

“Maybe the thing with human beings is…. I don’t know. If they’re too freaked out, they can’t reflect on their own prejudices. In fact, I don’t think they can reflect on anything. They just become scared bunnies.”

“But if they are too comfortable, they never change. They just sit and — whoa!  — Gene? What was that kind of trumpet blast sort of noise?”

“What do you think? We’re being called into judgment.”

“Already? Where? Over there? It’s so damned bright!”

“God is light. No surprise there. Hey, we gave it our all.”

“Small comfort, Gene, when we both fry to embers. I can’t see a thing.” 

“It’s too bright. There are brilliant lights omnipresently. All places seem to be light, bathed in light, reflecting light. I can’t see where I’m going.”

“All paths lead to the one path.”

“What? Oh, great, we’re about to be fried and you’re waxing philosophical. Not to mention Zen. Wrong religion. What is it about you people?”

“We what people? Black people? Is that what you mean? People of color?”

“Christ, Will, how many millennia have you known me? No, of course I don’t mean because you’re black! I mean, ‘you people’ as in you intuitive types. You have to learn to think things through logically.”

“Excuse me, Gene, but you have to learn to listen to your intuitions! God IS ZEN.” 

“COME HITHER!” trumpeted God.

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———————————

Chapter Four: Mere, Mere

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“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re the real black.”

“You’re the real whitey.”

“You’re just a youngster.”

“You’re old.”

“You’re a thievin’ female wench. Give me my body back!”

“You pervert dirty old man! Your body disgusts me!”

“You stole my body!”

“Man! What?! Why on God’s green earth would I covet this ancient body? Why? I had my whole life ahead of me. I hate crappy wrinkled fingers — fatty yucky sides!” 

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“Yeah, well I miss my –.  Never mind. I liked bein’ a man.”

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They sat on very separate stumps in an unending forest of stumps. Overhead, the sky shone pale blue. No crows cawed in the distance. No planes vapor-trailed. No faraway cars hummed along the Interstate. They stared into the infinite horizon of flat waveless ocean. They sat silent for a long, long time.

Finally, s/he spoke. “Does it really matter? I mean, here, does it matter?”

“Maybe it don’t. You might have a point.”

They sat for a moment looking out silently at the endless sea.

“Did it ever really matter? Really?”

“Dunno. But we need water. Fer sher. Not sea water. Fresh water.”

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“Check. I’ll search that-away. Yell if you find anything. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Willamette and Willard took ten steps apart; turned back simultaneously, stared, shook their heads in unison and laughed. It can’t be truly said that it was a hearty laugh, or even a pure laugh, but it was a laugh. It was a beginning. 

How to find water? If water reflects sky, might not sky reflect water to those with open eyes and open hearts …when human survival depends upon it?

One may hope. One may hope. 

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—————————

Essays on America: Labelism

Pattern for Collaboration: Find and Utilize Diversity

America

Author Page on Amazon

You Must Remember This

19 Sunday Apr 2020

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

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

Climate change, COVID19, ecology, environment, greed, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, truth

worms eyeview of green trees

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A breeze flutters the leaves of the tulip tree
It seems to me
They wave, they warn,
“Remember us. Remember, that we may come again.
That once again forests of greenery will come to be.”

 

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Under this clear blue sky,
Under this bright yellow sun,
In this verdant surround, I see, nonetheless,
Long lines of grieving skeletons
Wandering the gray-brown dessert
Searching for food, for water,
For the lost way,
The fallen times.
Someone has lost the memo,
Broken the schedule,
Failed the test,
Not met the ROI.

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I have drawers of papers,
But what do they mean?
And why are they there?
They seemed so important once.
I have closets of clothes
That no longer fit.
I have machines that would buzz and whirr delightfully
If I could find a place to plug them in.

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And, in these dead days of gray on gray,
I must remember, I must tell,
Though few believe,
“Once there were forests here,
Trunk on trunk of thick tall tree,
Leaf and flower, flower and leaf,
Green, green, under a clear blue sky.
We can make it live again.”

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Now, so the story goes, the Devil tempted us with knowledge
And we were exiled from Eden into this world.
But, really, who is this Devil, anyway, I wonder?
What if, drunk on half-knowledge, we left voluntarily?
Greedy for the shiniest bauble,
The sparkliest stone,
We forgot that sunset on lake,
Icy creeks, and snow-laden trees,
Are more beautiful than jewelry.

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I see them marching, line on line,
Mindlessly miming a pattern, a template,
Aimlessly roaming, but all in formation,
With no information, but under orders, all the same.
The cadence of the stepping,
The drubbling of the drums,
Makes it all seem okay somehow
As row on endless row,
Over the cliff they go.
Blind are they to the leaves of the tulip trees, still green,
Waving their warning; warning with their waving,
Bending, sighing, singing, in the breeze:
“Remember such as these,
When there are no more trees.
Remember such as these,
After the fire and the freeze.”

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Author Page on Amazon

Index to a Pattern Language on Cooperation and Teamwork. 

Myths of the Veritas – Explorations of Leadership, Empathy, & Ethics in times of crisis. 

Gifts that Keep on Giving

18 Saturday Apr 2020

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

disease, empathy, ethics, fever, fiction, illness, leadership, legends, life, medicine, myth, pandemic, stories, truth

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Many Paths woke with a start. She felt unusually cold for a summer morning. It felt as though a cool breeze was slicing through the wall of their cabin. She turned toward Shadow Walker’s side of the bed to tease him again about not sufficiently caulking the spaces between the logs. Then, she sighed, recalling that he was gone. Again. 

Ah, well, she thought, I can do it myself later today. Perhaps I can get Tu-Swift to help. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her sleeping pallet. The room swam before her eyes. She wondered what was going on. She had heard about so-called “Dances of the Earth” but had never felt one. Fear for her people tugged at her heart. She put her eye close to one of the large openings between the logs and peered outside. The bright light of day seemed to stab her eye and she recoiled quickly. The room seemed to spin again. “I am not myself” she said aloud.

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She put her hands on her knees and stood slowly. She noticed that her hands were sweating. But she was freezing cold. She staggered toward the door and felt as though she needed to begin her nights sleep — not the usual energy of morning. She drew back the deerskin covering of the cabin and once again, the  bright morning sunlight seemed to stab at her eyes. She jerked her head back and again felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. 

The light was too bright. For one thing….

“Good morning, Many Paths! You slept well, I see!” He chuckled. “But you’re not alone. It seems everyone slept late today! Too much of a feast last night, I guess.”

The image of Tu-Swift swung into view. “Good morning. No, actually, I didn’t … I don’t know. I don’t feel right.” 

Tu-Swift took a few steps toward her and peered more closely. He’s smile fell to pieces like a dropped vase. “Sister, you do not look good. And… and your face is covered with red dots. What is that?”

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Many Paths put her hands to her face. She could feel that the skin was bubbled with teeny mountains of skin. “I don’t feel good. I’m hot and cold at the same time.” She began to shiver. 

“Come on!” said Tu-Swift. “Let me help you over to see She Who Saves Many Lives. Maybe she has seen this before. I wanted to talk with you any way.” He reached up and took her hand. She was so unsteady, he decided to take her by the arm instead. As he did so, her robe slipped up her arm and they both stared at her bare forearm which also was covered with tiny red dots. “What is that?!” he repeated with more urgency in his voice.

Many Paths felt weak and shaky. She couldn’t make herself think straight. She notice that Tu-Swift’s grip was powerful. He was growing up fast. Too fast. Too swift. She chuckled. 

“What’s so funny, Many Paths? What are laughing about?”

“What?” she replied. “I don’t know. Where is everyone?” 

“I don’t know, Sister. As I said, everyone felt lazy I guess. Too much food?”

“Food?” asked Many Paths. “No, thank you. I’m not really hungry. Not hungry exactly. Our guests? They are gone, right?” 

“Yes, they left four days ago. Are you all right? And then Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes went to track them back and try to discover more about the Z-Lotz. Remember?” 

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“Of course. Yes. That’s right. Why are you here? I thought you wanted to go with Suze … or Cat Eyes.” 

“No, sister. You are definitely not well. I would like to have gone with Cat Eyes to see those Veritas over the twin peaks, but I am still not able to walk far or even ride. Sorry. It still bothers my knee. Anyway, I was coming to see you — I’ll tell you later. Here we are at the home of She Who Saves Many Lives. Ah, but I see we are not the first.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives came to door of her cabin. “Welcome. I am glad you are here, Many Paths. I have a puzzle here and no solution. Can you show Many Paths your hands?”

Stone Chipper appeared in the doorway and nodded to Many Paths. “I am most glad to see you, Many Paths. I was scared. I came and spoke from your cabin door, but you did not answer. With the sun so high in the sky already, I assumed you had already gone out. I have had cuts and bruises of course but nothing like this. And my hands are quite tough normally.”

Many Paths seemed to forget for a moment her own malady and took too large a step forward, falling into the arms of Stone Chipper. “Are you all right, Many Paths?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes. What happened to your hands? They … boiling water? What…?” Many Paths suddenly sat on the edge of a bench near the door. She took the hands of Stone Chipper in her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. And another. And another. 

At last, she asked, quite calmly and coherently, “What did you do to your hands? You don’t know?” 

Stone Chipper shook his head. “No.”

“Have you eaten anything unusual lately? Something not shared with the tribe because it was too small to bother with?” 

Stone Chipper thought back over the last few days. “No. Nothing. Nothing unusual or unshared.”

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Many Paths tried to look into the heart and mind of Stone Chipper. He was clearly quite worried. Surely, he had burned his hands before. It hurt…but… “Does it feel burned?”

Stone Chipper nodded vigorously. “Yes. A bit different. But very much like a burn. But I haven’t burned myself! Not recently. And not like this. My hands. All over my hands? I would have noticed. Right? That’s what is scaring me. Not the burn. But how could I be burned like this and not even notice?” 

Many Paths took another deep breath. “What have you had in your hands?”

“Just the usual, Many Paths. My tools. My stones. My food. And, that glass. You know, that the Z-Lotz gave us.” 

Many Paths said, “You’ve been working with that gift? That stuff they called glass?” 

Stone Chipper said, “Yes. Trying to. But it isn’t that good. Shiny. But rather useless. At least so far, I have not figured out how to shape it and it breaks so easily. I guess it’s just supposed to look pretty. It feels extremely smooth and slightly warm, come to think of it. But not hot enough to burn me, if that’s what it is.”

Many Paths looked at him more intently, “You said that it felt almost like a burn. How does it feel different?” 

Stone Chipper. “I am not sure. But, usually, when you get burned, it is from the outside in. This feels almost like I am burned from the inside out. And, my hands feel just slightly less strong, as well. It’s very odd.”

Many Paths, “Do you think that somehow this glass caused these — burns?” 

Stone Chipper thought for awhile. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I didn’t feel any burning until yesterday and I began working with it almost immediately. I was very curious. And hopeful. But so far — nothing. It just sits there and looks pretty. I guess I did — play with it a lot the first two days. I can’t say work, but turning, trying. And, here’s another thing. It’s no big deal, but you see this place where my hand has grown hard on the side of my thumb? But next to it…that is not from working stone. And it doesn’t look like these other spots. Could that be from the same thing?” 

Many Paths looked over at She Who Saves Many Lives and said, “Have you seen such things, Oh, Wise One of the Shaman of She, She Who Saves Many Lives? Who were the others?”

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“No. I have not. I will, of course, search all my memories, in case one of them has fallen asleep behind the hut, but — as I am old and have many memories, that will take some time. Dreams may bring answers as well. My advice would be not to go anywhere near that glass. What do you think, Many Paths?”

Many Paths looked at She Who Saves Many Lives carefully. Ever since Many Paths had been declared the successor, She Who Saves Many Lives always deferred to Many Paths before giving advice. It still seems good advice though. And that was the important thing. “Yes, I concur. Where is it now?” 

“My son decided to see whether he could — you think this is dangerous! I shouldn’t let him touch it either!” Stone Chipper turned and started running toward the spot where he kept his tools near the bend in the river where many stones collected. This is where He Who Sees Horses, his son, was probably working. 

She Who Saves Many Lives walked forward and took the face of Many Paths in her hands. “Many Paths. You are not well. Not at all. And, I think you know it. Am I right?” 

Many Paths nodded. “Yes. Though I do not know what is wrong. I haven’t touched the glass at all. I was curious but — I just had a very creepy feeling about those Z-Lotz who came here. I had a little of that feeling when they first got here. But once they said I was supposed to go alone to the Z-Lotz City? Really creepy. Something…not good. They brought a gift that they knew was poison? What kind of a person would do such a thing?”

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She Who Saves Many Lives tilted her head. “Many Paths. Listen. We must get you well. I need to cool you down. You have a high-summer-noon fever. We will then have time to discuss anything you like. But with a clearer head. You are not thinking quite clearly, but I will cool you down and then we can talk.”

Many Paths arose, unsure which way to turn. Tu-Swift looked at She Who Saves Many Lives and saw her gesture for them to enter her cabin. Together they laid Many Paths down. Many Paths took several deep breaths and fell asleep. 

She Who Saves Many Lives looked at Tu-Swift and clapped him on both shoulders. “Tu-Swift, go to the Spring by the Lonely Tulip Tree and bring me a large skin of cold water. Hurry. I have to bring her fever down to early-summer-noon.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives sat down on the edge of the sleeping pallet where Many Paths lay sleeping. She looked her over more thoroughly. Taking off these warming clothes will be good anyway. These tiny red dots are everywhere, she thought to herself.

“Foolish!” the old shaman muttered to herself in reproof. She shook her head and thought, I knew something was wicked about those visitors. We fell for it twice. Our scouts thought they came to trade the first time and they snuck up and killed them. And then stole Tu-Swift. And, now they obviously want to get Many Paths there alone in order to kill her. But even knowing all that, it didn’t occur to me that they would give a so-called gift that would burn a person’s hands. “Despicable!” she hissed aloud between her teeth. 

“I swear,” she muttered, “if it’s the last thing I do, these people will pay for their so-called gift.” She breathed out. She breathed in. “Or gifts?” She began to wonder whether these red dots could be from some other so-called ‘gift’ of theirs? How can —? That is a great mystery. POND MUD and ALT-R and then they corrupted KAVA-NUT as well. NUT-PI. Killing Sticks. Why not be a loving part of life instead of being like them?

worms eyeview of green trees

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She Who Saves Many Lives looked down at Many Paths. The truth is, she thought, I do love her like a daughter. She seems to be resting. Where is Tu-Swift? She walked to the entrance and stood on the threshold, taking in the harmony around her. The trees, the birds, the squirrels, and the Veritas. It was all in harmony. Of course, there is hunger and satiation; there is birth and there is death. But there is not … anywhere I can see … the evil that is in some human hearts to make everything like them or under their control … from where does such an evil arise … that what is said to be a gift is actually something horrible … against the harmony of life itself. She sighed. She looked around and filled her heart with the certain knowledge that all of this harmony was far more powerful than the evil in the very darkest of hearts. Evil can only destroy. And when enough is destroyed, the evil itself must die because — lacking love, it cannot create. It cannot create anything. Those who take such a path as that have already died inside. And they want all the world to be like they are.

She Who Saves Many Lives heard Many Paths stir and turned back inside to tend her. With Love.

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———————————————————-

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Essays on America: The Game

Create Peace

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Author Page on Amazon

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

16 Thursday Apr 2020

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

≈ 68 Comments

Tags

base, comfort, COVID19, magic, pandemic, poem, poetry, science, superstition, truth

baked cookies and glass of milk

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Sure, I get it. 

Fresh-baked from the oven: 

Momma’s chocolate chip cookies.

(Beloved of veterans and also rookies).

Whole, fresh milk to wash them down. 

You were safe. 

Safe with Mommy and Daddy. 

Sure, I get it. 

You had plans. 

Such Big plans. 

But then she moved away. 

Then the factory closed.

Then a politician lied.

And then your parents died. 

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And PRESTO!

A self-proclaimed business whiz appears!

He tells you that your spoiled plans 

Are God’s punishment for queers!

He tells you that he grabs pussies 

With impunity and gains more fans! 

You should hate all liberal wussies!

He tells you armies are massing on the border!

Not to worry! He’s issued another illegal order!

Tearing babes from mothers is all okay.

They shouldn’t have ever come this way.

grey steel grill

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Just you believe everything he’ll ever say;

He says he says the truth — every single day.

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Sure, I get it. 

So much easier when you get yourself bossed. 

No matter how many dollars and lives are lost. 

Don’t be worried! 

COVID’s no match at all

For the one you worship on pedestal. 

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But please feel hurried!

Get back to work really soon!

You’ll be safe ‘cause: Phase of Moon!

And Eye of Newt, Thread of Jute!

Eschew all science and listen instead

To the steady drone of an empty head. 

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He failed at business and blew all his cash, 

But it’s fun when he starts to insult and to bash! 

So why should we care if it’s Putin in charge?

Why should we care if his soul isn’t large? 

We get to pretend that we’re children once more!

He knows how to win by cheating galore!

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Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

If we fall down dead, it’s a small price to pay, 

When Trumputin at last wins that glorious day! 

Warm cookies and milk once more will be doled, 

Or, at least — that’s what you’ll be told:

The cheapest way yet to kill innocent folk,

Is simply do nothing while pounding his chest.

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“Responsibility — oh, that’s a joke! 

When it comes to credit? I’m the best!”

Enjoy the milk. Enjoy the cookies. If they ever actually come. 

Nostalgia is fun but the day is won by dealing with fact. 

You’ve fallen into a vat of gum; no wonder you’re glum! 

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You find yourself lost in a tesseract 

An endless web of lies and deceit. 

All he does is cheat! 

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Sure, I get it: 

If you keep wearing the muzzle

And do his deadly bidding, 

Or, think he’s only kidding,

You’ll never solve the puzzle

Of how to: 

Change 

Your 

Mind

Rather than 

Stay blind

And let a million die. 

Find the key. 

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Or, this will be your legacy, your epitaph: 

RIP: 

“I saluted Der Fooler! 

And…

Never even got

My promised milk and cookies.” 

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————————————————

 Trumpism is a New Religion.

You Bet Your Life!

The Truth Train!

A Profound and Utter Failure 

Essays on America: Wednesday 

A Tale of Two Nannies

 

Life is a Dance

13 Monday Apr 2020

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

≈ 72 Comments

Tags

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

woman raising her hands

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All life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

silhouette people on beach at sunset

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There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge:

Honor the Truth — or Live out the Lie.

blur close up focus ground

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You might fight for the right

And still end up dead. 

You could turn from the luminous light

You can slink and surrender instead. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

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You can wrap a leash around your neck

And hand the lead to a feckless wreck.

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

Train me how to bow and kowtow.” 

IMG_8483

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

“I want you to do me a favor though.

You see those people; they look so odd.

I want you to shoot them row by row.”

094B8A3E-B81C-4362-B83E-89FA50F9646B

Having leashed your soul to the Worst of the Worst, 

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

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

Bow to the will of the First of the Cursed. 

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

You’ll force a false-faced smarmy smile, 

As you shout out your shoddy sickening “Heil!” 

Millions may die but you care not a jot.

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

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

Life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

Of rigid and chance.

people dancing on dance floor

Photo by Prime Cinematics on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off the ledge: 

Honor the Truth — or, Live out the Lie.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You may fashion a last and desperate try

To derail the Failure that many see wrapped

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

Unable to move — in his own web trapped. 

IMG_3277

Think and link in a world-wide win.

Throw off the shackles of such shadowy sin.

Refuse to play for the Clown at the Helm 

Or his shadowy puppets all over the realm.

IMG_9198

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

Their only bonds are their hatred and cash. 

You’ll join with others across this vast land;

You’ll sing together your fairness demand. 

7194539D-C488-4A68-A467-B27456B7A37D

Those who shrugged and laughed at need?

Protections fall from those slaves of greed.

Even the cruelest of the cruel can bleed.

Fertile fields will fill with thorn and weed.

606141EF-A185-4D60-A8ED-FEBE898DEBA2

If no-one will drive, none will survive. 

If no-one will pick — none left alive.

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

Those cruelest are building their own Karma pyre. 

orange flame

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

Life is a dance

On that thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

pile of stones

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge: 

Honor the Truth or Live out the Lie.

84700569-5EEE-4028-A4C8-AD1D62D20320

The dealers of death want to close all the blinds

Shutter out light; squelch questioning minds. 

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

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

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

And me. 

And you.

And you. 

And you.


Author Page on Amazon

Ripples: How Actions Today Determine Our Future

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

Rejecting Adulthood. It’s Easy to Pass on Responsibility 

The Truth Train: What went so Wrong? 

Citizen Soldiers (1)

Citizen Soldiers (2)

Citizen Soldiers (3)

SHRUGS: Super-Hyper Really Ultra Greedy Swindlers 

Impossible

A Tale of Karma

Winning by Cheating is Losing 

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

  

 

 

Open Door Policy

31 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics, psychology, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

adventure, fiction, innovation, legend, myth, story, tales, truth, Veritas

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

At the grinding growling noise, the entire group jumped back from the door. Jaccim flinched — not at the slow movement of the door, but at the reaction of everyone else. He then reminded himself that they had never seen such a tunnel before. 

He stepped in front of Cat Eyes and said earnestly, “Such noise is normal. Louder than I remember but all right.” 

Cat Eyes nodded and translated the reassurance. 

The group squinted as the shaft of yellow sunlight began to trace across their faces. 

Cat Eyes turned back to Jaccim with a frown and a flash of anger in her eyes, “How did you open it though? How?!” 

Jaccim tilted his head and looked at her puzzled. “It — I just asked it to be opened. Surely, this magic is not new to you. Didn’t you see such things in the Z-Lotz village?” 

Trunk of Tree was jumping up and down and waving his hands. “What is he saying?! It could be a trap! I did it! I opened it!” 

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Cat Eyes glanced over at Salah Hudah and caught her eye. They smiled knowingly at each other while they shook their heads about Trunk of Tree. But to his credit, he was peering around the corner of the ever-widening entryway, looking for the trap that didn’t come. Once his eyes had adjusted a bit to the sunlight he scanned the nearby surroundings. As he did so, he looked up to orient to the twin peaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. 

“All clear!” he shouted back at the cave door. Soon, they were all outside. Trunk of Tree looked at Jaccim. “How did you open that?!” 

Jaccim looked at Cat Eyes and awaited her translation for a moment and then realized, he understood what Trunk of Tree must have said so answered her again in ROI. “I just asked it to open. It’s always worked that way.” 

Cat Eyes sighed. She realized that no-one in the group would accept her translation, but she went ahead anyway, “He says that he just asked it to open — in ROI — and it did. That it always works like that.” 

Salah Hudah frowned and said, “Why did we work so hard to open the first door then?” 

Cat Eyes nodded and replied, “Good question.” She translated for Jaccim, who shrugged “I don’t know why they make it such. Buttons to go in. Commands to leave. Wasn’t it this way among the Z-Lotz, Cat Eyes?” 

Cat Eyes reacted to him first with a simple “NO!” and then translated his answer to the group. Jaccim could see that his answer just caused more confusion. Cat Eyes began to suspect that maybe this was a trap after all. Jaccim’s face seemed stoical but honest. Still… 

Trunk of Tree looked around. “All right. Well, I got us out. That’s the main thing, but where are the twin peaks?” 

snow covered mountain under blue sky

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

Fleet of foot had walked back some ways from the entrance. He pointed up behind them. “Come over here. The peaks are back that way.” Lion Slayer went to join him and soon saw what appeared to be the twin peaks just visible over the edge of the cliff behind them. “There they are.” 

Cat Eyes walked over as well and soon everyone was pointing to them. Trunk of Tree was the last to join the group. He nodded. “Now,” he began, “we need to determine which way to go next.” The voice of Trunk of Tree was strong and echoed off the cliff. Halfway through his pronouncement, however, Jaccim began speaking in broken Veritas. “Close Door one first. Second two, visit Veritas. Three third, this way,” and he gestured toward a broad path that led up a steep, but walkable grade to the right. Then, he himself walked a bit off to the left, following a much more overgrown path. 

“Wait!” yelled Trunk of Tree. “Where are you going?!” 

Cat Eyes began, “He asks —- “

Jaccim, put up a hand, “Yes. I know. To close first one door one. To walk path second two To find Veritas third three.” 

Cat Eyes watched Jaccim as he walked over to a rock wall, and jab his hand downward several times. Then, the door began to close. 

“Wait! What are you doing! Keep it open! We want to come back this way.”

Cat Eyes saw Jaccim shrug and quickly translated. 

Jaccim tilted his head at Trunk of Tree, looking at him with curiosity. “Do you always leave the door to your house open to the rats?” he queried in ROI for Cat Eyes to translate. 

Cat Eyes decided to add a bit on her own: “Besides, since you are always concerned with traps, do you see how each it would be to have a large force inside ready to pounce on a small party?” 

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As she guessed, that seemed to hit home and Trunk of Tree grunted his assent. “Come on!” he said and began to stride up the hill. 

Fleet of Foot put out a hand as Trunk of Tree strode past, “Trunk! Hey! Do you know where you’re going?” 

Trunk of Tree stopped and turned. “There’s only one path. This is the one to take.” 

Fleet of Foot smiled, “True enough. But there may be choice points ahead, or hidden dangers that Jaccim knows about because he’s been here before. And, if we are really getting close, Cat Eyes may begin to recognize something as well. Besides, it’s easier if they’re together in case she needs to translate. 

Trunk of Tree added, “All right. I still don’t see why he doesn’t learn Veritas though. ‘To find Veritas third three.’ What is that? Gibberish! And I don’t like to be behind the horses.”

“Nor I,” replied Fleet of Foot. “You and I should lead the animals at the back. That way we can apply the most force where it is needed most in case of battle, rather than being ambushed and rendered useless.” 

“What?!” yelled Trunk of Tree, “I hate those things! Those beasts are powerful! Let Jaccim risk his life!”

horse near trees

Photo by KML on Pexels.com

 

Fleet of Foot clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on! Dah-Nah isn’t as scared of them as you are. They’re not dangerous if you know what you’re doing. I’ll show you. l would have sooner. I just learned myself though. Here. Let’s go back now.” 

Once the order of the group was settled, Cat Eyes began to converse with Jaccim in ROI. “I still do not understand how these doors work.”

“Nor I,” Cat Eyes. “I have no idea really. I was just told exactly what to do.” 

They walked on in silence for a time. The anger rose in Cat Eyes, but she breathed steadily and calmed herself. 

“You just do what you are told without even understanding it? How can you live like that?” 

Jaccim looked at her. “Do you know how your legs work? Or how we see?” 

Cat Eyes clicked her tongue. “Of course. I use things all the time because I know how to use them. I don’t know everything about how they work. But if someone says put these ten large rocks in this tiny basket, I wouldn’t just try to do it, because it would ruin the basket and nothing would be accomplished.” 

Jaccim nodded. “I am beginning to understand that about the Veritas.” After a pause, he added, “I never thought much about any other tribes, really. Just us and the Z-Lotz. The Z-Lotz are the ones that usually told us what to do. And, we, the ROI; we’re good at finding the clearest shortest path to doing those things.” 

Cat Eyes walked on a few more miles. At last she turned her head to Jaccim and said, “I told you I never saw such things but now I am not so sure. When I was very young, I learned how things were. Then, later, when I was a slave to the Z-Lotz, I … I saw things in those terms. But maybe I sometimes assumed that they opened doors the way I had always seen them being opened because….”

Jaccim put up his hand as they came to a fork in the road. He looked up to the right and down to the left and chose the gently descending path. 

Cat Eyes rolled her foot on a round stone and nearly lost her footing. Instinctively, Jaccim shot out his hand and she took it. She regained her balance and began speaking again, “Speaking of knowing how to do things, can you please tell me how to open those doors from the inside and the outside.” 

“Why? I’ll be there.”

“Jaccim,” began Cat Eyes, “has it never occurred to you that these people might realize from your speech and your manner that you are one of the people who steals children?” 

“No, no,” said Jaccim. “I’m Veritas now. I’m not ROI. I am friends with Dah-Nah. I am Veritas.” After a moment, he added, “but I can easily tell you how to make the doors work.”

“What is that smell? I recognize it! Spicebush! Someone is brewing spicebush tea. Just as my mother used to do!” 

Jaccim nodded and smiled. “Yes, I smell it too. I was just going to tell you — we are nearly there! Do you recognize …?” His voice trailed off. He could see that Cat Eyes no longer listened. She walked over to what seemed to be a cleft in the rock wall and began to go through. Jaccim said in a loud voice, “She here is! We here is!” 

“Wait.” said Fleet of Foot. “What is our strategy here? No-one there knows us and we know no-one there. I thought we agreed to let Cat Eyes in and that I, along with both Trunk of Tree, would accompany her. We will be more likely recognized as Veritas. We will be safer.”

Fleet of Foot didn’t wait for a response. He sprinted up to Cat Eyes, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Wait a moment. Let’s go in together with Trunk of Tree. He’ll catch up in just a moment. Are you feeling all right? Why are you crying?” 

brown deer

Photo by Jim Fawns on Pexels.com

————————————————————

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   

IS A DREAM?

30 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, creativity, poetry, psychology

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

dream, fantasy, imagination, innovation, poem, poetry, religion, REM, truth

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Is a dream
Is a dream
More than merely the sweet but senseless scream
Of the heat-oppresséd brain
Soundless
Groundless
From the drip drop drain
Of chemical overflow — I don’t know —
Random neurons on the go go go?

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Is a dream
Is a dream
Maybe something more —
Something from the core’s core
The inner inner being’s being’s store
That is the outer out of all of it and all
Closing the circle
From the very very small
To the universe’s universe and all?

3403641F-071C-4611-A35F-AF9A548C7577

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

Is a dream
Is a dream
Progress Reports from worlds we somewhere create
Building those great green meadows
Those roiling purple oceans and the wild fangéd beasts
Orgies and ogres and fencing and feasts
Shadow worlds where we fly and die and love and hate?
Somewhere across the galaxy a house stands
High on a rocky crest above the blue-green sands
And all the twists and turns of that strange place
Are but reflections of the flickers on our lids and face.

IMG_3191

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

Is a dream
Is a dream
A searching striving blindly groping for the One Great Light
The true Truth that will astound us; lay us flat
Knockout punch us with the crystal clear of its utter it-ness
So we lay paralyzed, helpless, beached in awe
Our whole life strange, deranged, and rearranged
Making sudden sense so simply put
Like a wild child’s smile
But only flashing for awhile…
On waking, the lamp extinguishes the Light
As artificial praise will do the wild child.

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Is a dream
Is a dream
Just the dumping of the shredder basket by the night crew
Our mighty triumphs of the day and defeats
Little more than last month’s memos
No-one any longer cares; yet no-one dares deny
The overwhelming importance of tomorrow’s report
Destined to be edited and commented upon and committeed
Re-issued, dated, filed, archived, and then all copies shredded.
So too, so too, the very paper fabric of our lives?

BBBC47A1-B5B7-48F3-A03D-A58102A13B91

Is a dream
Is a dream
Maybe — Perhaps — could it be a trifle more
A beacon lighthouse glowing guide to misty shore
Where you and I and all of us could be;
Put right our jade and sapphire spaceship earth at last
Scoff the troubles of a silly selfish past
Our eyes wink open and awake we’d finally see:
Shimmering, vibrant, the radiant rainbow of reality.

sky earth galaxy universe

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


 

Author Page on Amazon 

Fit in Bits suggests many ways to work more fun and exercise into daily activities — even if you are at home and have no special equipment.

Free videos illustrating some of the exercises.

Turing’s Nightmares describes possible futures of human-computer interaction in a world of Virtual Reality, Artificial Intelligence, Ubiquitous Computing, Big Data Analytics, and explores the social and ethical implications.

The Winning Weekend Warrior focuses on the mental game for all sports: strategy, tactics, and self-talk.

Tales from an American Childhood recounts early experiences and then relates them to contemporary issues and events.

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