Rapping at My Door

Rapping at My Door

Once upon my lazy recliner, feasting on takeout from the diner,
I sat and flipped idly through mindless cable channels galore –
Tasty crumbs from my lips lapping – when outside there came a rapping,
A most irritating tapping, an insistent, beckoning chore.
“Oh, not now, I have just sat down to eat,” I did wish to implore,
“Please leave me and come no more.”

The knocking stopped to my relief, visitor gone was my belief,
As I paused on the sports network to get the latest baseball score.
But too soon had I decided, my conclusion was misguided;
For upon my ears collided, the urgent knock I could but abhor,
That pounding call to duty – a host’s duty I could not ignore –
Oh, stop now and knock no more.

So I set my dinner aside and went to see who was outside,
In my slippered feet slowly sliding across the hardwood floor.
Carefully I went, not to fall as I traversed through the dark hall.
The peeking hole in the portal showed me no one at the front door,
For I had not lit the lights when I went silently to explore,
Hoping he stood there no more.

So I turned to make a retreat and resume my meal and my seat,
When again, at the infernal rapping behind my back, I swore.
“You are not there, I just did look,” I said as angry fist I shook,
“Why do you treat me like a schnook and play your games to make me sore?
Some comfort and to relax at end of day is all I ask for,
But you still want something more.”

Across the hall I go again to confront my evening’s bane.
Resigned now and with the porch lamp brightly aglow, its light did pour
Forth to illuminate my stoop. And looking now I saw a troupe
Of small monsters that made me whoop to see such characters from lore.
Their true identities all hidden by the frightful costumes they wore,
Covered in gore and much more.

“Have you come to scare me tonight? For, in truth, you gave me a fright.
Two Ghosts, ghoul, vampire, beastman, and mummy, in all miniature.
Why at my house do you here haunt and with your knock do you me taunt?
I have to wonder what you want that you assemble at my door?”
In one collected voice “Trick or Treat” arose from this motley corps,
“Candy is fine, nothing more”.

The Freedom to Vote

The Freedom to Vote

The problem with absolute Freedom is how seldom one truly gets to exercise it. To be free is to be untethered to anything and unfettered of any restraint. When does that ever happen!?

Freedom, on a more practical level, does not permit us to do everything we can, but defines a range in which we may act. Some restraints are self-imposed, based on our own sense of morality, risks, values, and logic. But many limitations are established by agreements we have with the people around us. Those choices which we allow to others are the same freedoms of which we have the expectation to possess ourselves.

Such is the freedom to vote. If my vote is to have value then so must yours under the same qualifications. In demanding my right to vote, I am conceding my inability to make the decision alone. I am buying into the agreed process for how the votes will be treated to arrive at a decision and thus implicitly agreeing to the decision as binding on me, irrespective of how I vote. Such a “freedom to vote” is costly purchased in restraints upon my other actions, especially it seems, when that vote goes against me.

True “Freedom” would be not to need to yield my actions to the opinions of others in the decision to be made. Universal Freedom would be the anarchy of everyone governed by their own decision, unable to affect or to be affected by another person’s actions. Hermits might experience such, but not those of us living amongst others.

“Free” societies are not built to strengthen Freedom, but to harness its power of desire beyond self-interest into cooperative efforts and protections. The Declaration of Independence makes this point in its “self-evident truths”:

• that all men are created equal,
• that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness
• that to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,

These are truths which are universal (equal in all people) and not statements about our differences (in health, wealth, beauty, intelligence, citizenship, etc). There is a set of naturally provided (endowed) attributes that cannot be separated from the person to be given to another (unalienable). One person’s Life (organic being), Liberty (choices) or Pursuit of Happiness (desires) cannot be removed and placed in another person. And yet, these attributes are not secure. Although they cannot be transferred to another, they may be denied without the security of society (Government) and specifically a society whose agreements (rules of governance) are based on the protection of equal and shared rights being the purpose of that society. A Society that is “destructive to these ends” must be altered or abolished, according to the Declaration of Independence, in favor of another “most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness”. There is still no certainty of these goals ensured by this fundamental document of our American society, only best efforts.

To secure = “to make (something) safe by guarding or protecting it”; “to make (something) certain”; “to put (something) in a place or position so that it will not move”. Particularly, this last definition describes the relationship between Security and the Freedom it secures. In order to be secure, restrictions are placed on the range of motion (action) of the object. It is “tied down for its own safety”. Security and Freedom are opposing forces and it is the “consent of the governed” which decides the balance.

And thus, as a society, we vote, a compromise in every decision made between our individual Freedom and the Security of having any Freedom.

Discovery?

Discovery?

In fourteen hundred ninety-two,
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Across the unknown western seas,
He went to find the East Indies.
Twenty-four hundred miles he thought
Was how far to the lands he sought.
Wrong was he by fivefold or so,
But yet the Royals let him go.

Five weeks from Canary Island,
He led his small maritime band.
And there was seen a shore again
As ended the easterly sea lane.
The next four months he island-hopped
As for the Asian spices he shopped.
He found the chili pepper hot,
But not much else to spice the pot.

His eye did seek other treasure
To bring him and sponsors pleasure.
In the natives' trinkets of gold,
His chance for riches, he did behold.
One tenth was his by the decree
Signed when he was sent out to sea.
Perhaps they thought he would not return,
But the gamble might profits earn.

And so gathering what he could,
He turned back to make his claim good. 
His own success he richly praised
And soon a larger fleet was raised.
All of Europe passed 'round his name
Spreading wide his explorer's fame.
The Admiral, Governor too,
Had conquered the ocean blue.

Now the Spanish empire began
To add the conquest of the land.
All that was west of the Pope's line
Was Spain's realm by powers divine;
The riches, the land, even people,
Dealt cards from the Catholic steeple.
Subjects to rule by force needed,
Their pagan rights so quickly ceded.

Centuries later, in this land,
We celebrate the ocean spanned
And honor those who led us here
To this “discovered” hemisphere.
'Though helped by serendipity,
Europe took the opportunity
To fill the space (or seize a bit)
And, in their own eyes, upgrade it.

Who Hid My Cheese?

WHO HID MY CHEESE?

There are widely held beliefs that vocalization in the common house mouse (Mus musculus) are largely devoted to procreation and nurturing of the very young. Although selectively bred and altered for uses in laboratories for over a century, the study of the audible (to humans) and ultrasound speech of mice has remained in its infancy. Thus, I received the following with a great deal of skepticism, but consider it only fair to allow you, my readers, to draw your own conclusions.

My transcription from the near microscopic markings on the scraps of paper found on the floor of the Animal Care Facility may be somewhat inexact, but I have labored many a long hour over some years since their discovery to organize these materials. Nonetheless, gaps exist in the record that I have, perforce, needed to leave unfilled.

===

“George, can we go to the gym? Let's go to the gym, George. I like the gym.”

“Maybe later, Lenny. Algernon is coming over to help us plan for our future. We can't run the Boss' mazes forever. We need our own maze where we are free to decide whether we want to run today or just relax and have the cheese delivered.”

“But I like the wheel, George. I can run and run and run and I never get lost there, George.”

“Sure you do, Lenny. We'll have a wheel at our maze too and then you can run all day if you want. But we need to plan, we need to save to get there. Algernon's got a program for planful mice like us who want to get beyond this day-to-day working for the Boss.”

“Okay, George, if that is what you say, it's okay with me, George. But can we eat first? I'm hungry, George.”

“Yeah, go ahead. But try not to eat it all. We gotta think ahead.”

...

“So, the postponement of the immediate gratification of making a repast of every consumable good you find can yield you long term security. Allocating a small but steady contribution to the pooled trust fund provides all members with a dependable resource to support them in old age and disability when they have completed their working careers. Any questions?”

“Ah, Algernon, what's a con-sometable? It's good, right, Algernon?”

“It is the best, Lenny. The trust fund handles a variety of commodities; Agricultural and Manufactured. Seeds. Dairy. Pellets. And many more.”

“Algernon, if we eat what other mice are depositing for their future, what will they eat when the future gets here?”

“Well, George, the simple fact is that the shelf life of these non-durable goods means they won't last. The beneficiaries now provide an outlet for the commodity while it still has value and the depositors now receive credit towards the acquisitions more contemporary to the future date of their need.”

“But where do these 'acquisitions' come from?”

“The next generation, George. Your kids and your kids' kids. This a program for the ages. We are not a bunch of savages. A little help from everyone means everyone gets help when they need it.”

“Why won't the young mice just eat it? Or cache it away for themselves?”

“Decomposition in the latter case. Maybe obesity in the first. Waste does not preserve value, simple as that.”

“How much will we get back when we retire?”

“Okay, now, that's an interesting question.”

“Does it have an answer, Algernon?”

“Oh, certainly. But there are several variables involved, so the answer for you may not be the same as the answer for a different contributor. And since you do not yet have a history of contributions, it would be more a speculation than a guarantee to state a specific rate of return. But, be assured the system will take better care of you than having no support.”

“Well, okay, let's sign up. Is that okay with you, Lenny?”

“If you think we should, George. You understand these things, George.”

…

“George, do we got any more of those 'plan seeds' left?  I am hungry, George.”

“That's because you eat like six mice, Lenny. Here, I still have some.”

“Why are we getting fewer seeds, George?”

“Well, Algernon says that enrollment of new mice is down since the funding cutbacks at NIH and other research labs. It probably only temporary, he says.  Plus with all the exercise, nutrition, and medication we have been getting, there are more of us retired mice living longer.”

“Could we go back to work for the Boss, George? He fed us good.”

“No, he is not looking for old mice like us, Lenny. He cannot even support all the younger mice at the moment. I heard he set most of them out in the field to fend for themselves. Something about defaulting on a 'mortgage'.”

“What's a mort-gauge, George?”

“I am not sure. 'mort' comes from the Latin for death and a gauge is a device to measure, you know, like the treadmill the Boss used to have us run. So, I guess it is something to measure how dead or near dead you are.”

“I don't think I could run many laps on a mort-gauge anymore, George. I'm too hungry.”

“Well, I think they all expected us to be dead by now, Lenny. It will happen with their help or not.”

===

That is all I have been able to decipher from these mysterious scratching. I know nothing more of the fate of George, Lenny, Algernon, or any other mice from this facility.

Chasing White Rabbits

Chasing White Rabbits

When the hours grow long and the day goes stale
And I start to drowse at the end of the day,
I will sometimes glimpse a fluffy white tail
Round a corner to hurry on his way.

The sight awakes in me a curiosity
‘Tho his urgent business is not mine.
Where is he going with hopping velocity?
The wish to know my mind will entwine.

And, without rising from my lazy chair,
I will start upon my eager pursuit;
Into the hall, out the door, I follow there,
‘Cross the lawn, under the hedge, and down the chute.

I land with a bump in darkness all around
And must listen intently for his footfalls.
I, a blind puppy, crawl on the ground
As, led by scent and sound, adventure calls.

Blinking into the glaring light, I emerge
Where all in exaggeration loses scale.
Colors in wild pattern and hue splurge
To disguise and to reveal the quest’s trail.

Did he go Right or, mayhap, to the Left?
Under the six-foot peony, I look for clues,
Pushing aside leaves of considerable heft,
To locate the first path I will choose.

Nearly underfoot, I hear a sudden shout
From a tiny table and those gathered there.
Carefully, on my knees, I go to check it out;
It is a tea party set for a solitary chair.

None sit on that seat, as it hops up and down;
I believe it would never permit such an use.
The clamor from dishes, each other to drown,
To bar anyone listening from hearing their views.

Red saucers on one side and blue cups the other
Bicker about the differences between them.
The timid green teapot is caught in the bother,
His efforts to serve both sides only condemn.

Well, here I will not find my missing rabbit;
These dishes argue less for reasoned debate
And more for satisfying their ancient habit.
Back to my search before it becomes too late.

‘Tween the small pine and a towering grass,
I notice what may be that rabbit’s footprint.
I guess many creatures may this way pass,
But this earthy dent may be my best hint.

“Halt. Where are you going?” booms in the air.
I stop, for a dangling chain has challenged me.
“You will not follow my links from here to there,
Unless you possess the correct passkey.”

“I am just following the rabbit,” I say,
Searching my thoughts for how I might get by.
“I think that recently he came this way,
And left a message for this path to try.”

“Do you butter a sandwich on bottom or top?”
The watchword question is posed for my reply.
“Inside” is the answer that into my mind does pop,
And I am certain that response will never fly.

“Why do you ask?” I query as I think,
“Some like butter and others not so much.
With a sandwich, it is important what to drink.
I like milk, but water is okay in a clutch.”

“To see the sights I herein protect from all,
You must to us like-minded be proven.
You will not believe what dwells in this wall,
If to our ways you are not yet behooving.”

“Oh, well, can you at least tell me if you saw
A rabbit pass through your sacrosanct gate?
He wears a vest and often thumps one paw;
Oh, and by his watch, he is always late.”

“That snobbish rabbit is not welcome here.
He is so eager to please all whom he meets,
His words never mean what they would appear;
We must add so much to expose his deceits.”

Some other path then I will need to find,
If on my quixotic trek I would persist.
All ways equally unlikely for one so blind,
Arms out, I twirl myself into a spinning twist.

As I turn and turn faster, wind lifts me skyward
And carries me dizzily elsewhere to drop.
The landscape and its residents are all blurred
Until I alight in a dainty ice cream shop.

Oh, well, I think, my rabbit to me is now lost
When, at the counter, I see his furry butt.
Here is my sought after chance him to accost;
So I set my course at him coolly to strut.

But betwixt us, on one wheel, cycles a mouse
Juggling cones to deliver to the tables.
As he metes out his wares, all can hear him grouse
Of the illnesses his sugary trade enables.

“Why do you provide a service you so abhor?”
I pause to ask as he rolls over my toes.
He says, “If they will eat, let it be my store.
The money helps me live with their stupid woes.”

I hear the shop door’s bell give its small jingle
And see the rabbit’s backside retreat outside.
I reverse my way through all here to mingle,
But it is a swim against an incoming tide.

At long last, I make it out onto the street,
As odd in architecture as ever was seen:
A ranch house next to a tower of concrete,
Shop, church, and factory fill the wild scene.

The buildings brag to each other of their worth
And the needed preferment to occupy their lots.
Each thinks he is the reason Man is on Earth
And that all others to him should cede their spots.

“Did you see which way the white rabbit went?”
I ask the sidewalk stand who calls out “Next!”
“Depends if you’re buying; I gotta pay rent.”
A hotdog later, she points me to the triplex.

For one in haste, he takes many a detour,
I think as I scan the posters on the wall.
“Sex, violence, and fun amongst the gore,”
The middle advertisement does shrilly call.

“No, no, sir, you want Action with a Punch,”
The right playbill declares for his fifth sequel.
“Be serious,” argues the last of the bunch,
“Without 3-D, you films are never my equal.”

How do I guess that rabbit’s cinematic taste?
Was it a movie for which he was tardy?
Is that the reason thru unreason him I chased?
Does nosiness always make me foolhardy?

For tonight, this adventure will end now
As from my chair I get up to go to sleep.
In bed, I hope to get some rest somehow
Unless, of course, I start chasing black sheep.

The Patriot's Ride

The Patriot’s Ride

(Thanks (?) to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for the rhyming scheme)

---

Listen all citizens and you shall learn
Of the internet ride of patriot Verne.
Nightly he blogs from eight to five
With fire in his passionate drive
To warm the sleeping many to a burn.

He says to himself, “It is my duty,
When evil forces beset our nation
Attacking its rights, law, or beauty,
To lead us away from such temptation.
Neither one within nor two from overseas
Shall slip past me their corrupting sleaze.
For I shall be ready to fight the harm,
Through every website and data farm,
To awake the country folk with alarm.”

Then he bids his patient wife “Good night”
And turns to his laptop armed for the fight.
As the moon through his window peeks,
The first opponent for tonight he seeks.
Perhaps a Giant windbag will come his way
Spouting lies to lead citizens astray,
Full of intent on their minds to prey;
A huge chasm of an information gap
By its own emptiness to entrap.

And thus, the patriot begins to surf,
Wanders and watches with eager eyes,
‘Til in the abundance around him he spies
The thread that will lead him to battle,
A silly invasion of his well-known turf
With foolish conclusions and outright lies
That makes his deepest bones rattle.

Then he prepares to mount his reply
By force of wit or mastery of lore
To reach the spot where he can score.
And to gather to the fray an ally,
Facts and citations he draws from the store
Over which they together do often pore.
Above his keyboard, his fingers pause,
As he relishes the power of the cause,
And, for that moment, he does think
Of those unable to smell the stink
And at them he silently guffaws.

Out there, so unaware, lay the masses
In their blissful sleep until morn,
Ignorant as the day they were born.
May he find how to kick their asses,
And with clarion call stir their sense
That they should look to their defense.
Their complacency he must dispel
And their dreams that “All is well”.
Before the disaster comes and passes,
They must put on their looking glasses.
And suddenly, back from such thoughts intense,
He returns to his urgent task at hand
To spread his warning throughout the land,
And save those who would be saved
From the assault on them so depraved.

He grows impatient to join the fight,
And flexing his fingers, he starts to write.
Out goes tonight’s first post from Verne
To set the flare into all surfers’ sight
That now it is time for their turn.
To fill time until a response comes,
He scans for other trails of crumbs.
But mostly he watches his thread for nibbles
To see what a friend or foe scribbles.
In his head, his next salvo he composes
To what he thinks, mayhap, the answer poses.
And lo! As he looks, the message arrives;
Though hardly dampened, his passion revives.
He springs to laptop to drink it all in,
For it is the food on which he thrives;
Oh, if only it is not just name-calling!

A flurry of strokes on the keyboard,
A text onscreen, a silent shout in the dark,
And within, his guard dog’s warning bark
As bits and bytes on the server is stored.
That is all! And yet, through the wires and waves,
His post triggers both rantings and raves,
Its value measured in the nation it saves
While echoing from mountain to seaboard.
But his night’s work begun still has far to go
For he holds much that others need to know.
And though he has beheaded this first enemy,
Like hydra, they will grow yet another voice.
Focused upon the mission of his journey,
He turns to many topics to make a choice.

It is twelve by the clock in the hall
When he solves the problems of healthcare.
A simple solution for one and all,
So obvious that none can disagree,
Unless they biased idiots be.
For them, there is no pity to spare.

It is one as the grandfather chimes
When gun rights and wrongs are laid to rest.
It is a debate he has had many times;
Though it is clear to him what we should do,
Those more fuzzy in thought still grope and grasp
And bicker their feeble points to the last gasp.
But tonight he has shattered their view
With an argument indubitably the best.

It is two where he sits tapping this night,
(‘Though for readers, both earlier and later)
When he balances the scales of Left and Right.
A bit more weight here and there a lot less
And we can clean up this political mess.
To everyone’s desires, no system can cater;
But with proper pruning of the dead wood,
And some growth where it is most needed,
We will have politicians do what they should
Ere the people from the government have seceded.

You might guess the rest if you too surf the web.
How riders roll in and then out with the ebb --
How the posters come from all sides to debate,
Their ideas in jumbles there to conflate.
Chasing each other in the endless rounds,
Then jumping to the next battling grounds.
Under their pen names, they fight to and fro
And only pausing to find where next to go.

So through the nights rides patriot Verne
And so through the night go his words to us,
To every citizen who sleeps through the fuss --
A cry of alarm, mixed with much concern,
A voice off the mainstream where some never tread,
And a warning of things they never have read!
For, borne on technology we might all share,
Through all our lives, and to our heir,
The freedom to speak, and to hear if you wish,
Is a right with practice, not neglect, we earn.
We must do nothing to extinguish
The patriotic fire of those like Verne.

The Win-a-Wench contest -- ah, college years

Why I Read or Refuse to Read “One Small Voice”

This might be a very good question if it did not have an answer. Without an answer it would make excellent material for Mssrs. Cornell or Reichenbach. However, this query must step down from that pedestal before attaining its height, because there is an answer. I read “One Small Voice,” because in this column and articles by the same authors, going back to “Catch-22”, I have found a philosophy with which I can identify. (I just realized I had better start working the extra information in here if this is all to be one paragraph. Last date: January 23, 1972 if you could call it a date. Actually I have considerably atrophized and am writing more to say why I read “One Small Voice” than to win a WAW contest.) That philosophy is if you cannot say anything nice, say something argumentative and make it sound nice. (However, if the prize is won, I, as any gentleman of refinement would, will accept it.) As I interpret “One Small Voice,” it attempts, and succeeds, at getting across the point and laying low its opponents not by hitting below the belt, but by hitting in the head. In some instances, of course, no goal will be scored with some people, because there is nothing vulnerable up that high, but such trivialities need not bother me as a reader. And so, thus, I read. And laugh.

Meeting with Myron

Meeting with Myron

As lord of the castle, one might expect I had more important matters to occupy my time and energies. But Myron is an old friend and has served my family and fiefdom for longer than anyone can recall. So here I am aside the moat, waiting unattended for him to tell me what is wrong this time.

“Oh, I am so sorry to trouble you, Charlie,” Myron addresses me as he has since I was a mere lad sharing an afternoon of fishing and swimming with him. “You are so kind to come down. I would come to see you, but I cannot fit through any of the gates.”

“Think naught of it, old friend. As steadfast and loyal of a protector as you have been all these years deserves my respect and attention.” I do not mention that his recent thrashing in the moat can be felt throughout the castle walls and floors and that nobody has slept well for two days with his nocturnal sobbing and moaning.

“Old! So you think so too!” wails Myron. “Yes, at last, the end draws near for me, Charlie.” He slumps down into the water until only his tear-filled eyes show above the surface.

“No, it is merely our friendship that is old. Myron, you are as ageless as the stones of the castle walls. You have lived in our moat while many generations of my family have come and gone and will do so for countless more.”

“Look, Charlie,” he says as he rears out of the water and turns to show me his side. “See that bare spot there. And here. And over there. I am falling apart.”

“Could you simply be molting? Maybe it is time for your next growth spurt,” I suggest cheerfully.

“Do you really think so, Charlie,” he brightens momentarily, but quickly sinks into the water again. “No, no, my molting days are ancient history – this is rot! Decay! The Slide to the End!”

“When did this skin change start, Myron? It seems early to be reaching such dire conclusions if we just need to cycle this stagnant water out with a nice fresh flow from the stream. I cannot remember when we did the last moat overhaul but we are probably overdue.”

“Fresh water would be nice,” Myron concedes. “Could we add some shady shrubs along the edge of the southside too?”

“Yes, certainly. I will have the chamberlain get the work started today.” Ah, problem solved, I think.

“It won't really do any good though,” Myron continues. “It'd be nice to be comfortable in my last days. Maybe we could carve a small grotto under the drawbridge where I could crawl in and finish out of the way. I don't want to be any trouble, Charlie.”

“You never have been any trouble, Myron.” I should have guessed that was too easy.

“That is not really my name, did you know?” he says quietly.

“What? Your name is not Myron? I have never heard anyone call you anything else. What is your real name?”

“Alas, even I do not know. Six hundred years ago at the next solstice I was bound by a wizard named Myron. He dealt in magical protections, Myron's Mystical Monitors. And I was a servant he sold to your ancestors. At first, they called me Myron's Moat Monster, then Myron's Monster, and finally, as the generations of castle dwellers passed, only Myron. So you might as well too.”

“Six hundred years?”

“Next solstice.”

“That is a long time. And you have never had a break in all that time. Is that what has you upset?”

“Oh, no, Charlie. At the next solstice my bewitchment will be over. I will no longer be the only thing I know how to be after all these centuries.”

“What will you do then?”

“I will do nothing. I will be nothing, Charlie. With my geas gone, I will have nothing.”

“But you will be free to do whatever you want, Myron. To go wherever you want. You could, of course, stay here if you wanted also.”

“No, the time for my retirement was set.” Myron sinks into the moat, sobbing.

What am I to do?  I did not make the rules that bind him and I have no power to change them.  Myron has made no preparation to be anything but what he is.  Many of us do not.  But what a misery to know with a date certain when such an end will come.

 

Laboring Under Misapprehension

Laboring Under Misapprehension

(a totally non-humorous reflection)

Today is Labor Day in USA, although most European countries celebrate May Day (in remembrance of the Haymarket) as the moment to reflect upon labor's struggles, progress, and contributions. For many Americans, the 19th century violence surrounding the workers uniting against employers to demand more favorable working conditions and better compensation is a faded story we were told but did not need to live in our working years. Our Labor Day has happier evocations of the passage of summer and the commencement of last part of the year. We scarcely think of laborers as we make our sale-priced purchases from the busy salesclerks or watch highly paid athletes toil on our extra day of leisure this weekend.

I easily fall into the clueless group for whom Labor Day is merely a phonetic collection of three syllables to mark a federal holiday. I do not think of myself as a laborer, although I work for hourly wages for a large organization. My wages are not the $1.50 for a 10-hour day paid (often begrudgingly) to those six-days-a-week laborers in the 1880s, even when adjusted for more than a century of inflation. I have come to accept the elevation of the norm for such workers as I without questioning the past. I do not belong to a labor union and view them as yet another factor (often a very provocative one) in the puzzle of running a productive enterprise. They are an insulating and an isolating layer between me and my employer. I will more often complain about their existence and impacts on me through their self-interested negotiation than to recognize any need for gratitude for some concession they have won in the past that endures today as normal business.

I am not resentful of labor unions so much as dismissive of their ongoing necessity. I view their aggressive posturing as more habitual than required and an obstacle to cooperation. Our businessmen today have grown up in a more sensitive (and rule bound) era, but they have not changed their genetic human nature from the controllers of wealth of previous centuries. So, perhaps it is the never ending battle with different skirmishes that the labor union organizers rally their troops to fight yet today. My preference that it were not so may have as little reality as that for no crime nor war.

So, I also accept the existence of “organized labor” as I must accept “organized armies and police forces” to combat “organized (and unorganized) crime” and the other organizations that oppose them. They are responses that often take on the methods of their opposition. On Labor Day, like on Veterans Day, I should pause to think about the undesired necessity that has been (and still is) met by people who struggled and often sacrificed (their lives and their peaceful principles) to confront the opposition that might oppress us today without their actions.  Perhaps, tomorrow I can go back to my self-deluded dream world.

The Hat Tree

The Hat Tree (circa 1968)

I wish I were a hat tree standing in the corner,

Laughing in a clown's hat, or don a derby to be a mourner.

I could change my whole personality with each different hat;

Without schooling, I put on a mortarboard and that would be that.

A scholar or dunce, a Mexican, Frenchman, or Russian;

I could be almost anything I want without too much fussing.

Ah, the quick change could be mine were I not an unchanging man,

But merely an imaginative hat tree set in the corner to stand.

In Preparation

In Preparation

With anticipation, imagined or real,

Resources are mustered and new plans are made

In hope to ease the anxiety I feel

For the future to which I am conveyed.

Some target the “soon”, say the coming week,

And some the “perhaps never to arrive”.

But to be ready then, I now do seek

Skills and supplies I will need to survive.

At least, perhaps I should so endeavor

To stockpile for every contingency;

Fretfully to scheme for any whatever,

Cede now’s is for maybe’s emergency.

But, I think, I do not worry enough.

Oh, I trouble some for the tomorrows

And about where I will store all this stuff.

But not for doom and the fear it borrows.

‘Though misfortune may come to knock me down,

Should I forfeit the boons of here and now,

To sulk with a forced, self-afflicted frown

And cut discomfort’s delay as I bow?

And when that sad downfall never does drop

And I leave with preparations unused,

Will lost opportunity for no swap

For very bad investment be confused?

How like a lottery becomes this game –

To be near certain to lose a little

And so unlikely a fortune to claim

When from life a small caution we whittle.

And when we took too many tiny nicks

From comforts we had for those we had not,

It was not our future which we did fix,

But more woes into the present we brought.

Let’s prepare for the known generously,

But, for the multitude of maybes, wait.

Allow life’s heap to serve capriciously

For those things we should not anticipate.

Sauce for the Gander

Sauce for the Gander

Most of us have entertaining pastimes in which we like to indulge. They may need to struggle to find moments of time amongst our many more compulsory tasks, but we are disinclined to neglect them entirely. They seem to be the difference between living and having a life.
 
Often our cherished indulgences are not particularly “good for us” in terms of the more practical activities in living day to day. The inebriation of alcohol consumption may be its entertainment goal, but it comes at a cost in deficiency in many life skills, such as judgment, emotional control, and coordination. It is most unfortunate when such a pleasant indulgence is interrupted by the demands of the everyday world to be elsewhere. The circumstances demand a return to a sober lack of impairment while the simple facts of metabolism make that impossible. Thus we have the clash of “I need to get home” and “I should not be driving”. When we cannot (or will not) resolve this problem with alternate transportation (taxis, designated drivers, walking), we invite trouble to sit besides us as a copilot.

How does a society solve this dilemma between desired indulgence and ubiquitous obligation of the everyday life of work, community, and plodding along? We have tried punishments, such as fines, incarceration, and denial of driving privileges. We have campaigns for designated drivers and responsible drinking. We have instituted treatment programs to instill better understanding of the causes and consequences in hope of promoting better judgment and control by the individual (before he starts drinking). Perhaps these have all had an effect to lower the co-occurrence of drinking and driving, but the problem persists in tragic amounts. A new strategy may be needed to move society's efforts to the next level.

The mistarget of our current DWI penalties is to disallow the person to drive, the socially requisite activity. The repeat drunk driver has often been shown to be scarcely motivated by the absence of a driver's license. He believes he is compelled to continue driving in order to meet his daily responsibilities.

What we need to remove is the person's permission and ability to drink. Certainly as a condition of treatment and correctional supervision, we often do prohibit drinking. The difficulty is in verifying and enforcing this ban. More than occasional spot checks by law enforcement officials are needed. A philosophy and method of community surveillance and access control must be established.

Specifically, we must license the right to drink. Under the powers of the 21st Amendment, the States now regulate and monitor the businesses which distribute and sell alcoholic beverages, but their customers remain largely unrestricted and undocumented. Our sole rule seems to be a prohibition against “under aged” customers for which we expect DMV documentation as proof of age. But what we actually need is “proof of responsibility”.

Some law-abiding drinkers will surely protest this intrusion of yet another government regulation and registration (You may take this bottle from my cold, passed out hands! (but it will be empty by then)). The departments of motor vehicles probably went through the same hassles when they were empowered to promote highway safety through the registration of vehicles and trained drivers. Nonetheless, all but the most die-hard libertarians now accept their role (if not their actual fees, rules, and paperwork).

Whether or not the departments of liquor control establish educational requirements for registration (or a learner's permit program), once the qualified drinker has received his license, he will have the necessary documentation to purchase and consume. Vendors under DLC regulations will not merely guess whether the buyer needs to prove his age, but will now be trained and required to see the drinker's DLC license. A revocation of this license attacks the drinker's voluntary (ignoring, for the moment, medically treatable addiction) desire in advance of its averted consequences if the sanctioned offender feels a transportation need. It moves enforcement from the relative anonymity of highway traffic requiring police intervention to the communal, face-to-face transaction with the regulated vendors. Beyond the highway, this community-based access control system may prevent drunken disorderly conduct and more violent crimes, such as spousal abuse and brawling.

Will vendors break the rules or make errors with false documentation? Yes, almost certainly, but not usually. Will friends serve alcohol to unlicensed friends? Yes, but perhaps a “do you know who is drinking your beer” campaign could heighten everyone's awareness of their role in enabling (or preventing) such violations.

Let's make “responsible drinking” everyone's responsibility. It is not prohibition on law-abiding citizens to regulate; it is society-wide control to be proactive and involved in preventing known violators from abusing privileges we might all wish to enjoy.

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

Light! The cover has been removed.

“What may I show you today, Mistress?” Little do you know that I cannot display anything that is not already within you as you stand in front of me. Shall I show you your fears, your hopes, your hatreds? Oh, yes, I see them all as you pose, peering into my surface. They are as real and as false as your own thoughts, but you will believe them readily when I reflect them back to you.

“Mirror, I command you to show me the greatest threat to my reign,” the Mistress demands. Not to your kingdom, eh, but to your position upon its throne. Perhaps, for the kingdom’s sake, that would be only your own face. But that is not your question or the answer you desire to justify your actions.

“As you command.” Your fear, it is then. Look upon your face grown old, fading into the face of your stepdaughter who is your current heir. Oh, what a curse to repay my vanity! Once I saw no farther than my own self-delusion as you do, Mistress. I felt no love, no pity, nothing for anyone except myself. And now I am trapped with only a view of the world through the eyes of another, condemned to parrot back only that given me through that narrow peephole.

“Ah, Snow White. I knew it! She plots against me! She sullies my majesty amongst this kingdom’s peasants and peers alike.” Yes, if you think it so, then you will make it so. I do not stare into Snow White’s soul and thoughts, so I do not know. But, at last perhaps, I have learned not to believe in the shallow view of reality bound by one person’s self-centered mind. If I could teach you that lesson, Mistress, I might be free of this curse.

“Well, she simply must go! But, how? How, Mirror, may I rid myself of this troublesome child?” Might I show you your own doubts? See, the people love her, even you know that, Mistress. To harm her is to arouse their ire. But only if they suspect you, you think. Perhaps a trip from which she never returns. Oh, how pleasantly you imagine yourself sending her off in the royal carriage, disappearing into the forests. To meet her future husband and their king, you have told everyone. But, bandits, brigands! The forests are full of them; you will make sure of that by disguising your own men. No, not men; only one man. You can see his face, the wretched poacher you condemned this morning. Mistress, your doubts are too easily defeated by your scheming mind. “Yes, Mirror, that is what we will do.” We? No, Mistress, you have no accomplice in me.

Darkness – Mistress has all she needs of me today.

Or have I abetted her in treachery again? Oh, ancient wizard, I have had enough. I see that I was wrong. Seeing only myself as important hurt those around me. Perhaps I even knew that then, but I did not care, for I was not them. Did they burn from this inability to speak their thoughts to me, only permitted to say what I wanted to hear? They at least could leave my presence and have discourse with other people. But as I isolated myself within that small world that was only me, you have left me alone in the solitude of another’s life, not even my own to control. Will my remorse satisfy your spell?

Perhaps this Snow White deserves the Mistress’ anger. There are evil people in the world, as I well know. Why must my old, scorning habits treat the Mistress with such disrespect? I want to believe I have learned my lesson, but even bound within this torturous prison, I still feel superior to the one person with whom I have contact. I was more beautiful than she, more clever too. Maybe, you should visit the Mistress too, wizard. But you have not yet, so perhaps I was deserving of a fate she has not the villainy to deserve. Hah, I was even better at being bad!

You used my own mirror as your snare, did you not, old man? I have seen it through her eyes – the runes have destroyed its frame, but I recognize it. You were no savior of the people. A lesson, ha! You were not trying to teach me anything.  I had thought to use you, but you were merely a glutton for power and I stood between you and my father's wealth and secrets. You spirited me in here, threw me in a sack, and carried me out of my own home like a peddler of used goods. How long ago did you leave me in the attic of this castle, bundled out of sight? How long before the Mistress found me and, at last, removed the sack?

Ah, that was a surprising discovery for both of us! Suddenly seeing light again, I awoke and looked at my mirror, I thought, only to see somebody else’s face. She was the new young bride, second wife to the old king, unsure of her place in his palace. As she thought about her concerns, I saw them. And scared the daylights out of her as I displayed them upon my surface instead of her simple reflection. Back into the sack she plunged me.

My confusion was joined by my anger. Oh, I still do not know what you did, husband, but I have been piecing it together. Before Mistress returned in curiosity weeks later, I had plenty of time to think. And I have been thinking of you and this enchantment for more than a decade since. I will get free someday. Through reform or revenge, I will find the key to break this spell. If you still exist, wizard, beware!

When Mistress came back, she cautiously uncovered me. She stood to the side where I could not see her, nor could she see my surface. “Mirror, what are you?” she asked.

“Your servant, Mistress,” I replied, hardly believing my own words. I, a servant? That is not what I planned to say in my weeks of awaiting her return. That is what she wanted me to be! I could think and scheme all that I might, but I was ensorcelled to do her bidding.

“And how can you serve me, Mirror?” my Mistress asked as she stepped in front of me. I gazed upon this young and frightened lady and saw her intense determination to overcome any obstacle. It was that fire in her soul which had brought her back to me in her frustration of being the second love of the king. She had known the king’s first wife, although she was only a child when they were married. And only a teenager when the former queen died a year after the birth of her child, Snow White. But her circumstances had changed much between her childhood and her teen years, for her family estates on the frontier had fallen to invaders and her family was slaughtered in the struggle. Her willpower had allowed her to escape into hiding, survive that destitution, grow strong and beautiful despite it, and attract a grieving king’s attention when finally he arrived to reestablish the realm’s authority within her family lands. This I saw and, as it entered my mind, its images played across my surface, to the amazement of both my Mistress and myself.

And now, she was unsure that she had truly captured the king’s heart. I saw her doubts and I fed them back to her. Oh, I was furious with you, husband, as the abasement you had heaped upon my imprisonment and exile dawned on me. I could not tell her what you had done to me, but I could chose to build her doubt into resentment with her own thoughts. The scenes of her flaming home. The reminder of the years before the king responded. Even her memories of the king’s embraces of his first queen and coddling of his infant daughter aided my design for revenge upon husbands, if not my own, well, then any husband would need to do.

Oh, yes, I supposed I was wrong to do it. If becoming a better person was the means to winning my freedom, I threw away the key that day. The Mistress is a clever minx though. Could I really have influenced her into doing anything she would not want to do? She certainly dreamed about it. And soon she schemed, staging her plans upon my surface. Ah, I enjoyed the way her mind worked.

But her revenge has not freed me. Her power has not freed me. Her confidence has not freed me – indeed it has bound me more tightly, for now she uses me for purposes in which I have no interest. She is a petty and mean woman. I would not have looked in her direction when I had a choice. Oh, husband, how do I escape? I might even love you if that would shake off this curse. But I think I would prefer to destroy you.

The Mission Statement

The Mission Statement

Gentlemen. Ladies. Thank you for coming. If you could all please take your seats, we can get started with today’s business.

In order for an organization to coordinate its actions, the communication of a Mission Statement to everyone, in and out of the organization, has been deemed very important. We need everyone on the same page, sharing expectations and direction. Therefore, at our meeting last week, we set today’s agenda to the creation of the Conundrum’s Mission Statement. We need to state who we are, what we intend to achieve, and the principles which will guide us to our goals.

Mr. Chairman, if I may submit this first draft for discussion:

“Conundrum Rules!”

Yes, thank you, Mr. Latimer. An excellent slogan. Perhaps a bit too terse to convey the full message, but a simple, easily understood summary. Our thanks to you folks in Advertising for getting the ball rolling.

Mr. Chairman, we are a secret organization, n'est pas?  The advertising it is outside our purpose.

Well, perhaps, Mlle Laflame, but much of the power of a secret is in people knowing the secret exists without knowing what the secret is. But you raise a good point in defining who we are and how we prefer to work with undetected but effective subtlety. Can somebody offer some phrasing to capture both Mr. Latimer’s and Mlle Laflame’s ideas?

Perhaps:

“Conundrum controls the economy through subterfuge.”

Thank you, Mr. Tao. More discussion?

Yes. Trickery alone sometimes does not get the job done, Mr. Chairman. We need to include some more strong-armed means in that statement. The Tactics Division suggests “by subterfuge, sabotage, and suppression.”

Ah, if we may also add. While wealth may be largely concerned with the economy, our business has other important dealing in people’s lives. International Affairs Division seeks to exploit the cultural rifts for opportunities to gain power and influence, often long before any actual capitalization of the advantage can be realized.

Ja, and let us not forget the resources in the physical world that we need to possess, develop, and deliver. Logistics and Engineering support the insertion of “environment” amongst the targeted elements.

Yes, thank you all. So we now have:

“Conundrum controls the economy, culture, and environment through subterfuge, sabotage, and suppression.”

Legal here. The word “controls” seems unfocused. Mr. Tkazal in International uses a much stronger word in explaining the process of locating and developing advantages – exploit. The implication of the purpose in whatever manipulations we may undertake is much clearer.

Mr. Chairman, I believe we also have neglected to state what is the underlying purpose and value to be achieved in our action. Who will benefit? What will that benefit be?

Very good point. Anyone?

Well, us, of course. With money and power to do whatever we want. Ba-ha-ha, so to speak.

Lacks specificity, but does provide flexibility for future expansion.

Y’know, youse guys (and gals) at the top of this pile needs to remember us in the ditches too. We ain’t getting all the money and power to do whatever we wants, but we’s part Conundrum’s success too. A little Conundrum applied grease to ease our way through them problem moments makes it worthwhile for us whilst we waits for ours bigger things to come.

Mr. Fingers, thank you for that reminder. An enterprise of our nature does not rest on plans and schemes alone without the staff to execute the necessary actions. Our mission must include the inspiration to recruit, reward, retain, and even advance our deserving minions.

Sir, Human Resources would like to propose the following addition.

“Conundrum strives to maximize its wealth, power, and influence to ensure the comfort and freedom of action of its officers, employees, and friends. All others are either obstacles or resources to be harvested.”

Oh, my, yes, Mrs. Gruber, that will certainly give staff and associates the understanding and incentive to be on the right side of that distinction. Might the Chair suggest we further qualified the “employees” with the term “loyal” to establish a properly elevated expectation of full-hearted participation in order to gain the benefits?

Is there any more discussion? All right then, the Conundrum Mission Statement shall be:

“Conundrum exploits the economy, culture, and environment through subterfuge, sabotage, and suppression. Conundrum strives to maximize its wealth, power, and influence to ensure the comfort and freedom of action of its officers, loyal employees, and friends. All others are either obstacles or resources to be harvested.”

As this statement meets with everyone’s satisfaction, Number Two, will you please see to its publication and distribution? Meeting adjourned. Go find us some more money, power, or whatever, everyone. That is your mission.

Mentally Stalled

I  am caught in other distractions, no thought complete,
So my avid readers (if any) this week are victims of the heat.
Return again next week if you would subject yourself to more,
And we both may see what from my mind does pour.

Conflict in Two Voices

Conflict in Two Voices

##-##

Scene: Advanced to downstage center, a middle-aged couple sit in two armchairs which are angled largely to face audience. There is a small table between them on which there are two empty glasses and a pitcher (of iced tea). When spotlight comes up, the couple is facing towards the audience. The stage is otherwise unlit.

Gloria (facing forward)

“A Poem of Love” by Mrs. Gloria Eversen

Sam (facing forward)

“A Poem of Hate” by Samuel Eversen

Gloria

The sun shone down on the golden field of grain.

Sam

Dark and overcast, the sky was drenched in black.

Gloria

Two persons approached amidst the splendor.

Sam

None trespassed upon this scene of bleakness.

Gloria

On the right walked he, on the left was she.

Sam

Forced together, in the dark inside, he and she sat apart.

Gloria

The plants filled the air with perfumes of sweetness.

Sam

The crude wood fire before them belched out its choking smoke.

Gloria

He looked at her, she at him, and their eyes sang songs of love,

Sam

Their eyes glared brighter than the fire, repulsing each other away,

Gloria

Clasping hands, their bodies merged into a kindling glow.

Sam

Until able to stand no more, the dark gap grew between them.

Gloria (turns towards Sam)

Good evening, Sam.

Sam (turns towards Gloria)

Good evening, dear.

Gloria

How was the office?

Sam

How was the house?

Gloria

Did business go well?

Sam

Was your bridge club successful?

Gloria

How is the Stock Market?

Sam

Is the washing machine working yet?

Gloria

It is working fine.

Sam

Business is awful.

Gloria (face forward)

“The Sea” by Mrs. Gloria Eversen

Sam (face forward)

“The Boulder” by Samuel Eversen

Gloria

Swiftly swirling sliding surf,

Sam

Steadfast sturdy stationary stone,

Gloria

Continuously sweeping in and out,

Sam

Perpetually standing still,

Gloria

Holding the harmonies of eternity.

Sam

Forming the foundation of forever.

Gloria (addressing Sam)

Care for some iced tea, dear?

Sam (turns to answer)

Thank you.

(Gloria pours and hands him a glass.)

Will you join me?

Gloria (answers, then look s forward)

No, thank you.

Sam (forward)

As a child, I was raised in the streets of the city amongst the cars and the crowds on the sidewalks. We moved to the country when I was ten, but my heart remained in the city, where I was raised as a child.

Gloria

As a child, I was raised in the fields of the country amongst the trees and animals. I remained there all my years, in the country, where I was raised as a child.

Sam

But when I became a teenager in the country, my attention turned from the city to girls, although I could hardly turn their attentions to me. I was never the athlete or the brain, but just a scrawny kid who was always hanging around.

Gloria

When I became a teenager however, I was suddenly confronted with something other than the trees and animals. Boys began to notice me and hang around. I guess I always was somewhat attractive. I could hardly find a moment alone.

Sam

I thought I was destined to the life of a loner, until I met my wife.

Gloria

I thought I would never escape the crowd, until I met Samuel.

Sam

I remember the first day we met. It was a hot summer day and I was mowing the lawn without my shirt on. I was so undeveloped that I hardly ever took my shirt off. Consequentially, I had nearly no tan. But the day was so hot, I had shed the shirt and thus acquired a full sunburn. I saw her coming down the street. She was a beauty, her hair blowing in the slight breeze, her face full of life. And I looked like a melted piece of bright red licorice.

Gloria

The first day we met was a blistery cold winter day. I was just coming down with a cold and I looked terrible. My hair had been tousled by the wind and my face was red from the cold. He was shoveling the driveway, all bundled up with nothing showing but his frozen face. But even then I could tell what a hunk of a man he was.

Sam

I had noticed her for several weeks, and finally I summoned up just enough courage to ask her for a date.

Gloria

He was a total stranger, but he just casually asked me for a date.

Sam

I could see she hesitated, but finally she murmured out a yes.

  

Gloria

I could not contain myself when he asked for some strange reason. Something inside just made me shout out yes.

Sam

I was so surprised. I never did get along with people very well. I was always contradicting them and arguing, until I met my wife.

Gloria

I guess it was just my destiny to go out with him on that first day. I could never disagree with anyone. Everybody claimed that I just could not say no, until I married Sam.

Sam

With my wife, I finally found somebody with whom I could agree. When we were married, we agreed to argue.

Gloria

And we have not had an argument about agreeing ever since we were married.

Sam (to Gloria)

Well, the night is late.

Gloria (to Sam)

Or the morning is early.

Sam

Good night, dear.

(They stand and embrace.)

Gloria

Or good morning.

(They exit opposite sides of stage.)