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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: war

Fire & Ice

23 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fable, fire, ice, peace, story, war

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Fire: “What are you doing here? Fool. I’m god here. You’re neither wanted nor needed. It’s over. Have an ice day!”

Ice: “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Fire: “Bah. In war, it is I who kills. Flame-throwers, the gunpowder propelling bullets, bombs, and best of all, but rarely used, atomic fire. Oh, it warms my heart to see.” 

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Ice: “Yes, but I am your best partner, though you know it not.”

Fire: “You? Hah. Okay, I grant you, frostbite and cold have destroyed the bodies of many. Napolean and Hitler and Lord knows who else’s armies. But still.”

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Ice: “No, you’re foolish and rambling as ever. I’m not talking about how I can help you kill. I’m talking about how I prepare the ground for you. Make people not care. Encourage the turning of a cold shoulder, a blind eye. Without me, people might never turn to you.”

Fire: “I doubt it. Fire begets fire. Hate begets hate. What does your little chill of indifference have to do with it? Be gone or I’ll melt you to water.” 

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Ice: “Perhaps. But I might douse you to smoldering embers. I suggest you think about it. We can work as partners. Each making the other stronger. Actually, we have been partnering, but I’ve never gotten the credit I deserve. You’ve ignored me too long.”

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Fire: “Hah! Not nearly so much as you have ignored me! You’re useless without me!”

Ice: “Fine, if that’s the way you feel, then this is goodbye. Forever.”

God smiled. Humanity prospered.

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: Ice

Take a glance Join the Dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

What about the butter dish?

Essays on America: The stopping rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Happy Talk Lies

Where does your Loyalty Lie?

My Cousin Bobby

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

It’s not your fault; send me money

Absolute is not just a vodka

Brick By Brick

12 Sunday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

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Tags

bunker, CivilWar, Defense, hermit, hope, poem, poetry, war

Brick by brick.

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Brick by brick, brick by brick.

I built my plastic kevlar house.

I knew I had to insulate myself.

Photo by Thang Cao on Pexels.com

To make it strong, impenetrable, 

I avoided windows, glass of any kind.

No way to break in; no way in at all. 

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I painted blue each and every room.
Uniformity is cost-effective, after all.
I knit an outer shell for camouflage. 

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In my attic: electronics spread galore!
To warn of approaching enemies.
I spent my days staring at orange LCDs.

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Ever vigilant for each and every breach, 

“Safe at last; safe at last,” I told myself. 

This is how I spent those endless days.

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“Safe at last; safe at last,” I muttered.
I thought at last, I’d venture out
I tried to usher courage to my heart.

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I had misplaced the key; destroyed Feng Sui.
I couldn’t find the slightest hint of door.
Doors can so easily get unhinged … like me.

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I had — had I— forgotten to carve one?
So, now I must begin again. I must unbuild.
Brick by brick. But I cannot find the tools. 

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I’ve built a prison meant for fools.

Designed by excellent, redundant rules.

My tears, my tears, begin to lake in pools. 

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Brick by brick. 


How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Watershed Virus

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Bubble People

Ah Wilderness

Author Page on Amazon

Fish Have No Word for “Water”

11 Saturday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

pantoum, poem, poetry, war

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They had long lost the word for war.
Along with so much more.
The reptile brain (alive and well)
Transformed green Eden into orange hell.

Along with so much more:
Libraries, friends, gardens and such.
Green Eden charred to fiery hell.
It had seemed so easy once upon a time.



Survival. Now. Seeds they sow, row on row.
Along with so much more.
Bullets spent; home-made tent.
Green Eden charred to orange hell.

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So much mud! A desperate thud.
Survival now: “Reality Show.”

They had long ago lost the word for war.
Bullets spent. A home of tent. 

Every day it seemed to rain.
So much mud! A desperate thug
Had reigned: ineptitude on full parade.
They had lost the word; they had lost the word for war. 


Absolute is not just a vodka

Trumpism is a new religion

Happy Talk Lies

Try the Truth

A lot is not a little

Author page on Amazon

Death-Cultery on Parade

18 Wednesday Aug 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

America, coronavirus, COVID, essay, pandemic, peace, truth, USA, war

Should we really be all that surprised? 

One quarter of the country is prepared to die and have their loved ones die for the sake of what they know or should know to be lies. 

But what happens in war? 

At least one side, and more typically both sides are willing to die and put their families at risk for what they know or should know to be lies. They don’t typically go into combat for their own benefit! They do it for country. They do it for their religion. They do it to protect their families. They do it in reprisal for some real or imagined actions in the past. But very few would willingly walk into combat hoping to “get more out of it” than they put into it! That would be like running through a rich neighborhood during a heavy lightening storm. Sure, you might be struck by lightening or hit by a falling tree and die or be permanently injured. But — hey! — there’s also a chance you might be able to sue one of these rich suckers and make millions! Yeah. That could happen. But, as I say, that’s not why most people put themselves in harm’s way.

So, to recapitulate, war itself is based, at least partly, on lies. 

Are we doomed to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over and over and over again? 

IDK

But consider this: 

Suppose there are two teams Purple and Green. These two teams have a competition in something. It doesn’t much matter whether it’s soccer, baseball, debate, ice hockey, figure skating, cheerleading or anything else. What matters is that each side wants to “win.” But it also matters, and more than a little bit, that each side also wants to enjoy themselves. They value other things in addition to winning or losing. Some enjoy the companionship. Some enjoy the challenge. Some enjoy improving. Some enjoy the sunshine. It doesn’t have to be the same value for everyone. 

The point is that tennis is not a zero sum game. It’s true that a particular match has one and only one winning team. But there are other benefits. Everyone is a “winner” in the sense of the challenge or the emotional ups & downs or the sheer joy of movement. The score is only one part of the value of the game. The same is true for all sports and for almost all human endeavors in the real world. It is very seldom a zero sum game. We can almost always find some state of affairs as being bad (all out atomic war destroys the entire human species) 

Similarly, both the Purple and the Green team want to keep the game going. In most cases, they also want to have cordial social relations with all the other players. So, in the vast majority of cases, people “handle” disagreements about the score, the line calls, etc. within the bounds of civility. Let’s suppose that one person of the four is a narcissistic sociopath who thinks he’s always right and insists he’s always right no matter how egregious his line calls. Eventually, such a person would destroy the game. It wouldn’t take a majority. A single sociopathic teammate could spoil it for everyone. But only if everyone else lets them get away with it. 

Have you ever watched an all-out bench-clearing brawl between to baseball teams or two hockey teams? Every time I’ve seen it, it’s really only triggered by one person and accepted by one person. So, two, among those whole teams, are sometimes enough to ignite a kind of “war.” While a brawl isn’t the most pleasant experience I can imagine, it’s even worse among professional athletes. It’s potentially career-ending. For most, it’s a potential financial hit from the world of brand endorsements. There could be legal trouble. For a few, there might be regret. Similarly, guess what? Most people do not benefit from war! It’s so obvious that I hesitate to say it, but it seems as though people do not see it as obvious. A very few people get very very rich. Many people die; many are seriously and permanently injured; many people’s homes are destroyed; families are separated; possessions are destroyed; plans are accomplishments are destroyed; peace of mind is destroyed; forests and wild places are destroyed; innocent animals are destroyed; friendships are destroyed; trust is destroyed…I mean, are you starting to see a pattern here?

War is about destruction. War does not create beauty. War does not feed the hungry. War does not heal the sick. War does not comfort the soul. War benefits the few; never the many. 

At the extreme, there is dictatorship which will always be much more incentivized to war than will a democracy. The dictator will use the fact that there’s no free press to whip up hatred against an enemy. Then, he’ll attack (but pretend the other side started it), etc. Now, if attacked, the democracy has little choice but to respond. Encouraging a bully is a losing strategy. Going to war is also losing. War is never about winning. It’s about losing less. And going to war is better than giving in to a bully. If you succumb to the bully, you have no life any more. The bully is a parasite on you; one that you cannot get rid of while he sucks your blood and everyone else’s in the nation. Parasite is just another name for dictator.

In any case, a small number of people can start a war which, in turn, benefits only a small number of people, at most.

That doesn’t seem like a good system to me.

It sounds like “an accident waiting to happen.” And, it has. Over and over and over and over again. 

When will we ever learn?

And, while three fourths of America has battled their butts off for over a year and a half — socially distancing, wearing masks, making masks, getting vaccinated, staying healthy — in some cases working heroically — quite literally — heroically to fight the war against COVID. While that’s what’s been happening with about 3/4 of Americans….

One fourth of America has decided to join in the War on COVID — on the side of the virus! They refuse to get vaccinated; refuse to wear a mask; refuse to socially distance. Why? Because they’ve been ordered to by the leaders of a death cult. Make no mistake. This has nothing to do with personal freedom. If it were about personal freedom, there might be as many as seventeen people nationwide who would prefer to be intubated for weeks than to wear a mask for minutes. If it were really about personal freedom, the vast vast majority would choose a few moments of discomfort rather than dying or being permanently disabled. Ironically, most of  the cult leaders have been vaccinated, and when they’ve fallen ill, they’ve received expensive top notch care that you or I or the COVIDites will not be likely to receive.


Something there is that doesn’t love a war, not even a war on truth.

——————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Masklessness is not Manliness

Plans for us some gruesome 

Imagine all the people

Author page on Amazon 

Little Grandma

25 Monday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, family, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

death, family, life, Memorial Day, relationships, truth, war


 

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“Little Grandma” (as we all called her) was 86 when last I saw her alive on what was to be her deathbed. She smiled and asked about my broken arm. She was old, bent, wrinkled — and tired — so she said. I guess it was from her Native American bones that I inherited my love of nature, my peace with all of it; all that is natural and beautiful on this tiny jewel of a planet — the wild iris, the rose, the caterpillar, the crimson sunset and the rain.

The rain. But of course, there are a thousand kinds of rain. They come in so many colors, moods, and sounds. Tall sheets of rain seen from miles across the “Big Sky” country; cold, drizzly little fall rains; sudden laughing summer showers; lashing hurricanes that flood and kill and toss trees like broken toys.

When we buried you, “Little Grandma,” it was a gray day steel steady rain of tears from a sky that held unseen clouds. It was the rain, I guess, that drowned out the meaningless words of the poor man in the black robes babbling uselessly to comfort me. The grass was very green in your little spot beneath the black, dripping elm.

burial cemetery countryside cross

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On the rain fell, on the ancient little church, on the little crowd of black umbrellas, on the stones of the graveyard, gradually, gradually, fading out even the words carved in stone — but not the words carved in my heart, “Little Grandma.”

We don’t think of “Little Grandma” as a fallen soldier. In her longish life, however, she saw her children and then her grandchildren go off to war. Seldom even a heavily redacted post card. Never a call on the satellite phone. And her grand-daughter’s husband was killed in a war. So, I thought of her on Memorial Day — and all the other millions of women who kept life going — and all the while never knowing whether their sons and husbands would ever return whole — or return at all. Now, of course, women are also war-fighters. But haven’t they always been?

flight sky sunset men

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Author Page on Amazon

Citizen Soldiers: Part 1

 

Blood-Red Blood

24 Sunday May 2020

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

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, green, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, war

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Those tortured in the name of Our Dear God,
Racked, burned or sawed, bleed blood-red blood.

Sailing to Freedom, they slaughter
Their trusting brothers with reddish skin
And all their blood is blood-red, blood-red.

The black skin of slaves under the lash
Bleeding the blood-red blood.
Soldiers North in marching blue,
Soldiers South in riding gray,
Bleed their blood-red blood.

person s hands covered with blood

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The white skin of soldiers entrenched
Breathing the deadly golden mustard gas,
Coughing their lungs, their blood-red blood,
Coughing on their uniforms of blue or gold.

The Cambodian Killing Fields flow bright
With blood-red blood spurting from under yellow skin.

Genocide in Tamil —
Drunken driving in Toledo —
Bombs in Northern Ireland —
Whether the children wear green
Or orange, blood-red is their blood.

woman in black tank top blindfolded

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Only that is clear. Blood is blood.
That, and the tears.
The tears are clear.
But what of hearts and thoughts?

In Flanders Field, so they say,
The poppies grow, red-blood red.
We know where hatred grows —
The fields of greed and fear.
But where on this green earth
Is there a space for love to grow;
For that magic drop of clearly know
That can save so many seas of blood?

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Waterloo and Gettysburg
We can quickly find on a map.
Battlefields, Killing Fields,
Killing Camps, Hiroshima —
These we can pinpoint oh so easily.

Harder to see are the loving fields.
They lay only hidden deep within
That uncharted country of our own hearts.

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I have a question for you.
I have a question for me.
Haven’t we shed enough of each other’s blood?
Are we really still surprised to see
Our enemy bleeds blood-red blood
Just like you and me?
Can we find something else to do now?
Some new game to play?
Are you not bored, like me,
With shoot and burn and slay?
How about a game that does not end in bloody red?
How about a game that ends in green, say?
How about working together to re-make Eden?
Let us make the woods and fields green again
Like a sparkling miracle of loving creation.
I think that might be more fun.
I am getting sick and tired of blood and red and dead.
How about you?

cascade creek environment fern

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Want to play for green instead?

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America

Essays on America: Wednesday

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Impossible

The Truth Train

Sunless Sunday of Faith

Author Page on Amazon

Camelot is in your Heart

09 Monday Mar 2020

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

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

America, Camelot, Democracy, legends, myths, peace, poem, poetry, revolution, story, USA, war

 

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The Knights are mostly scattered now;
And Arthur Pendragon long since dead;
A Kingdom ruled by shadows instead. 

The castle lies in broken rubble.
The fields, fallow, untended and bare.
Our Flag doesn’t ripple in cold blue air. 

The maimed, the stunned, stumble, grumble
Of what was once so full of grace,
And now is gone without a trace. 

A grain of wheat is blown by wind,
I seize and touch, and then I see,
Those fields and fields wave goldenly. 

Upon the ground, a hunk of brick —
Its one of hundreds, standing tall
And thickly building castle wall. 

Beside the fallen orchard trunks —
A rotten apple laced with bees;
Inside that core are apple trees! 

Not in warfare, not in plans,
Not in science, not in art,
Not in numbers, not in chart, 

Camelot, 

My friends, 

Is in your heart. 

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Peace

07 Saturday Mar 2020

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

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, green, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, truth, war

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All the guns are silent now;
Landmines, all defused, exhumed.
Warships, mothballed; warplanes, scuttled;
Missiles, bombs, and tanks, entombed. 

Across the world, hands are held
And faces face the clearing sky
In silent prayer, in wonderment.
No-one quite remembers why 

It once seemed great to shoot to kill.
No-one gets that deadly thrill.
No-one cares to take that hill.
No-one wishes others ill. 

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Instead, the people turn their mind
Inside to see what they can find
Of ignorance within their skin
And mine their souls to conquer sin. 

No-one throws the stones at others;
Hands are used to help instead;
Someone speaks and someone listens;
Around the world, each kid is fed. 

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Slowly now we heal the earth;
Slowly now we heal our soul;
Surely now we tend our hearth;
Finally now we have a goal 

Worthy of humanity:
Not to overcome each other —
We work together to save our Mother,
And never wake those Dogs of War. 

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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  

Essay on Peace, War, and Greed.

Wartime Playtime

21 Friday Feb 2020

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Feedback, games, innovation, learning, legends, myths, truth, vicious cycle, war, weapons

Tu-Swift laughed. 

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He had mastered juggling four sacks, or four rocks and had been working all morning on five, but with little success. Sooz shook her head and chuckled good-naturedly. “Don’t give up, Tu-Swift. You’ll get there.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Though you may be an old man with a long white beard.” 

“What? You’ll pay for that!” He began to chase her around the training space. Being lighter, Sooz could turn more quickly. After a few moments, Cat Eyes appeared. Tu-Swift called out, “Help me catch this fox! I can’t turn fast enough!” 

Cat Eyes laughed as well. With a serious note in her voice, she added, “You shouldn’t be trying to turn fast. Let your knee heal, would you?” 

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Tu-Swift’s face darkened for a moment. The ground around them also grew dark as a passing cloud momentarily blocked the sun. He wondered briefly whether he would ever really regain his speed and mobility. Then, just as the ground grew sunny again, so did his face. Time would tell. Meantime…

Just then, he heard the deep voice of Jaccim. He was trying, but largely failing, to speak Veritas. With the help of Cat Eyes, he eventually made himself clear. He had asked why they were playing when there was likely to be a war which they should all be preparing for. They had been “marked” for war. This was no time for juggling nonsense or for laughing. 

Tu-Swift replied, “Hello, Jaccim. I see you brought your own clouds with you.” 

Sooz and Cat Eyes both laughed, though in a friendly way. Tu-Swift continued, “Jaccim, this is the way of the Veritas. Don’t you ever play?” 

Jaccim’s head snapped back and he frowned. He spoke and Cat Eyes translated. “Me? Certainly not! Play is for small children. Not someone your age. All of you should be preparing for war. It is serious.” 

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Many Paths who strode into the training area overheard the last part of the translated conversation. She smiled at all of them and supplemented her Veritas with sign language so that Jaccim would directly understand as much as possible. “You are right. It is serious. This is why we play. We need weapons. New weapons. Weapons that no-one will suspect. That is why  we watch and listen to those whose minds are like water flooding over new plains. They will go ways that we cannot foresee. Nor can others. What shall we care who wins a war if life holds no joy? Every moment now is precious. This is what the Veritas always teach. But now that we may be on the brink of destruction, joy is more important than ever.” 

Jaccim frowned and answered with a mixture of sign language and broken Veritas. “What may be gained by juggling bags or rocks? It is foolish.”

Many Paths smiled at Tu-Swift. She put her hand into a fold of her tunic and brought out a knife and casually tossed it to Tu-Swift. She quickly threw him two more. He easily caught all three and began juggling the three knives. 

Jaccim opened his mouth to speak, but before he could formulate his answer in the tongue of the Veritas, he heard three odd sounds a little like a horse’s whinny and a little like a large rock hitting a tree trunk. He frowned and then his mouth dropped open farther as he saw all three knives sticking out of three nearby tree trunks. Tu-Swift had thrown all three underhand and hard into three targets. Jaccim tried to speak but nothing came out. It wasn’t that he did not know the Veritas words for what he wanted to say. There were no words. Even a sensible language like ROI could not help him. Tu-Swift, meanwhile, calmly walked over and wiggled each of the knives out and handed them back to Many Paths. 

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She smiled at Tu-Swift and continued out of the clearing. As she reached the edge she looked back over her shoulder and said, “Keep up the good work.” 

Jaccim understood her words but not her thinking. She was supposed to be the leader. Yet she spoke of joy and play even though they would likely soon be at war. It made no sense, thought Jaccim. It’s what comes, he thought, of having a woman as leader. We would not have a woman as leader. Not the ROI. Nor would the Z-Lotz. It’s all foolishness. As the Veritas will soon discover for themselves. How had these people defeated the ROI and destroyed his village? 

Tu-Swift called out, “Many Paths! Have you a moment? I wish to show you something else!” 

Many Paths turned back, “I am on my way to meet up with Shadow Walker but I can see what else you have first.” 

Tu-Swift glanced at Sooz and once he had caught her eye, gestured over toward a contraption they had constructed at the end of the training compound. Two vines were suspended from a strong overhanging branch. The vines looped through a thick wooden plank which lay parallel to the ground. Sooz lifted a leg over the plank coquettishly as she smiled at Tu-Swift. He walked around behind her and pushed. He found pushing her surprisingly pleasurable and his cheeks flushed. 

back view photo of woman swinging

Photo by Ahmad Fauzi on Pexels.com

Sooz swung forward and then arced back toward Tu-Swift. Just as she stopped, he pushed her again. Each time, he pushed at just the right time and she swung higher and higher. After a score of pushes, he changed the timing so that he pushed against her momentum and gradually slowed her to a stop. 

Jaccim shook his head. He could see no reason for such frivolity. 

Tu-Swift walked over to Many Paths. “We had been swinging on a single vine and Sooz thought this would work — and it did. But the thing we really wanted to show you is this. He walked over to a small pile of straps made of softened hide. He put a stone in a small, broad but shallow pit in the strap. He motioned for the others to stand behind a nearby tree and peek out. He put both ends of the strap in his hand and began whirling it around his head. He suddenly let go of one end and the stone went flying. It thunked loudly into one of the small, dead pine trunks that had been partly buried in the ground. Many Paths led the others over to see the result. The stone lay buried in the trunk. She nodded. “Nice,” she said. 

Many Paths nodded again. “Yes. This is good. You have an almost endless supply of stones. Imagine these flying into an army from many directions at once. It will be hard to defend against.” Many Paths smiled again at Tu-Swift and set off to meet up with Shadow Walker. 

As Many Paths left the clearing, she ducked under an overhanging branch of Witch Hazel and spoke aloud, “Thank you for your medicine.” She walked down a sweetly curving path toward a small spring. Three pink flowers, Lady Slippers, poked their heads through the dark greenery. She began thinking about the sedation caused by Lady Slippers and recalled what She Who Saves Many Lives had said. “After the sedation wears off, one may be nervous and high strung for a time.” Many Paths had only tried it twice and she experienced exactly what the elder had described both times. It had felt a lot like the way that the roots of Sweet Flag made her feel. But after the effects of Sweet Flag wore off, it made her feel tired and groggy. Odd, she thought. 

She chuckled at the swinging seat that Tu-Swift and Sooz had created though she couldn’t see how that led to the sling weapon he had shown her. It all had to do with the timings of the pushes, she reminded herself. Suddenly, many paths stopped. 

She thought of the swing, the pushes, the Lady Slippers, and the Sweet Flag. What if… what if I pushed with a little Lady Slipper and then… just when it began to wear off, I pulled with some Sweet Flag…a person might become very nervous and want more Lady Slipper… what would happen if they were pushed and pulled higher and higher? I wouldn’t poison the person exactly. Would it tear the body apart? Tearing the people apart with such pushes seemed to be what was indicated in the strange tales scribed into the sheaf of leaves that had been discovered by Lion Slayer and Eagle Eyes. Could that really happen? Was there a way to tear apart the Z-Lotz? Was there a way to tear apart the Veritas? And, if so, how could it be prevented? 

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———————————————-

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  

 

Wilbur’s Story

19 Wednesday Feb 2020

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

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

bravery, cowardice, Democracy, fascism, Resistance, tyranny, war

{Starting in the fifth grade, Wilbur was my next door neighbor. We are entering a time of great danger, as are the Veritas. It will be a great danger to do anything to thwart the Putin administration. Yet, not doing anything may be a greater danger. So, I thought this recounting would be apropos.)

flight sky sunset men

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Wilbur’s dead. Died in Nam. And, the question I keep asking him is: “Did it help you face the Danger? All those hours together we played soldier?”

Wilbur’s family moved next door from West Virginia when I was eleven. They were stupendously uneducated. Wilbur was my buddy though. We were rock-fighting the oaks of the forest when he tried to heave a huge boulder over my head. Endless waiting in the Emergency Room. Stitches. My hair still doesn’t grow straight there. “Friendly fire.”

More often, we used wooden swords to slash our way through the blackberry and wild rose jungle of The Enemy; parry the blows of the wildly swinging grapevines; hide out in the hollow tree; launch the sudden ambush.

cascade creek environment fern

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We matched strategy wits on the RISK board, on the chess board, plastic soldier set-ups. I always won. Still, Wilbur made me think — more than school ever did.

One day, for some stupid reason, he insisted on fighting me. I punched him once (truly lightly) on the nose. He bled. He fled crying home to mama. Wilbur couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

I guess you got your fill of that in Nam, Wilbur.

After years of dangerous jungle combat, he was finally to ship home, safe and sound, tour over — thank God!

He slipped on a bar of soap in the shower and killed himself.

Wilbur answers me across the years and miles: “So much for Danger, buddy,” he laughs, “Go for it!”

close up photo of lion

Photo by Gareth Davies on Pexels.com

Thanks, Wilbur.

Thanks.


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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