Is civility civil in “civil war”? Does it matter if it’s Spanish or Syrian by nature?

                                                                                                                                                            
Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;
Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.

Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;
Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;

The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;
Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
“O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor.”

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
“But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire.”

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: “Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river.”

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
“Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

“Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin’s plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend.”

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
“O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I’m the

“Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

“What’s your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision. Yes, I am Spain.”

Many have heard it on remote peninsulas,
On sleepy plains, in the aberrant fishermen’s islands
Or the corrupt heart of the city.
Have heard and migrated like gulls or the seeds of a flower.

They clung like burrs to the long expresses that lurch
Through the unjust lands, through the night, through the alpine tunnel;
They floated over the oceans;
They walked the passes. All presented their lives.

On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot
Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe;
On that tableland scored by rivers,
Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever

Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond
To the medicine ad, and the brochure of winter cruises
Have become invading battalions;
And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin

Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb.
Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom
As the ambulance and the sandbag;
Our hours of friendship into a people’s army.

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty’s masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,

The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.

To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The consious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.

To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette,
The cards in the candlelit barn, and the scraping concert,
The masculine jokes; to-day the
Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.

Lesson for the day

If there’s only one thing you take away from this blog today, it’s this:

When giving a presentation to the military about new technological advances, make sure you first show how you’re protecting the lives of military personnel on the ground, in the air and/or on/under the water — technology is replaceable stuff, expendable, but people are not.

The future never happens the way we imagine

Looking back at this 2045 conference in 2045 is about as entertaining a picosecond as it gets in the futurists’ party lounge these days.

In other words, would you say that your email and texts are as unable to interpret and respond to emotional social context as a person on the autism spectrum?  In what situation are they identical and thus the avatar of one is the same as the other?

Tolerance for pain

Bai jumped across the colony’s esplanade with Shadowgrass.

“Mom told me that you’re one of the main reasons I’m here.”

“She did?”

“Something about your grandfather and a war?”

“She remembered!  That’s great.  Yes, my grandfather was a soldier a long time, during the period many on Earth call World War II.  He was a radio operator.”

“Dad told me about those.  Specialists who were responsible for sending signals between groups of people because they didn’t have a love/hate relationship with the ISSA Net yet.”

“Hmm…hahaha.  True.  But my grandfather is famous back home in the Philippines.  He was the man who first contacted General MacArthur, an American soldier in charge of many troops.”

Shadowgrass nodded, mentally scanning the information about World War II as they skipped and hopped.  “So how does that account for me?”

“Oh, yeah, it doesn’t make sense, does it?  Well, you see, my grandfather was a strict soldier which led to my father’s interest in discipline but for a totally different reason.  You’ve probably never heard of ‘Star Trek,’ have you?”  She watched his eyes flicker slightly.  “Well, I guess you know about it now?”

“Yes, Bai.”

“My father fell in love with the TV show.  It was like having his grandfather and all of his grandfather’s friends and uncles live the life of space soldiers.  When I was old enough, he made me watch every episode of the original TV series, all the spinoffs such as ‘Next Generation,’ up to ‘Enterprise,’ and, of course, the films as they were released.  Inside of you is a little bit of Data with a little bit of Wesley Crusher and Jake Sisko.”

“Mom said you were able to infuse my genetic material with the propensity for personality traits of fictional characters.  How did you do it?”

Bai ran her gloved hand across her faceplate, intending to but unable to rub her eyes.  “Did Guin tell you I used to date Brannon Braga?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Yes.  He was the one who inspired me.  I hope I inspired him some, too.  His place in Melrose, not far from the film studios, was amazing.  I remember one party he had, it was a food bar from front to back.  You walked from his kitchen to the backyard, which opened onto an English garden, and then the pool…the pool…”  She stopped and looked up at the Martian sky.

“What is it, Bai?”

“He said he put me in one of his scripts.  I never asked him which one.”

Shadowgrass flipped a few times in the air, bounced up and down like a kangaroo and landed in a three-legged stance.  “Did he write about me?”

“No.  You are my creation.  I mean, it was me who gave your parents the idea to call you their son.”

Shadowgrass flipped up in the air and landed in a standard bipedal configuration.  “That’s what Mom said.  But I thought you might know something else.”

Bai heard a note of disappointment in Shadowgrass’ intonation of curiosity.

“Shadowgrass, you are a part of everyone’s life, don’t you know?  You are the culmination of our species’ achievements.  Do you know how many kids on Earth dream of being you, able to change out body parts on a whim, with superstrength and superspeed?”

“Yeah, but…”

Bai nodded.  She knew where Shadowgrass was taking his thoughts.  His mother, Guin, had been a competitive boxer from an early age, trained by her father, a former member of the U.S. Marines, with assistance from his military and boxing buddies.  Growing up on a farm, she had been kicked and stomped on by calves and cows, raising her pain tolerance above normal levels.  She had later become a ballerina before switching to a career in rocket science.

Shadowgrass wished he had his mother’s natural abilities, and didn’t have his enhanced abilities that made him so much more capable than his parents.

At age two, he had completed his space exploration vehicle.  When his parents were two, they were barely walking and talking.

That’s why Bai had asked to spend the afternoon with him.  He needed encouragement to take Martian society to places he couldn’t believe possible when he’ll look back in a few marsyears.

She couldn’t believe she was with him herself, remembering the nights decades earlier, alone with her thoughts when she was at her lowest, torn between her French lover and being near her children on the North American continent.

She wanted to teach Shadowgrass to embrace his emotional side and use the energy he generated to plant seeds in his thoughts that would sprout into giant oaks in no time.

She had done that for so many other people.  She knew she could get Shadowgrass to, too.

Sometimes, it’s the shock factor that’s mild enough to offend

To address the concept of freedom, one asks oneself what is the attitude one adopts to question “the concept of freedom.”

Tonight, the one who addresses the question is the one who writes the words, thinking in broader scopes outside of one’s inner circle yet operating within one’s circle of influence.

One is.

Yet, one is not.

There is no “one” that exists outside of space and time, separate from the universe.

One chooses, therefore, to write upon subjects of personal interest to answer the question, “Who am I in this moment that constitutes who I was and who I was not a moment before?”

What are decisions I make or made that move me out of one swimming lane and into another?

What are the masks, the walls, the false identities that divide the bigger concept of me seen by myself in a mirror and seen by those sets of states of energy that clearly are not me within the timeframe of seconds/months/decades?

To be sure, a breath from another person can be inhaled by me — to whom do the molecules “belong”?

Why would someone be nice to me for no other reason than to share a moment when two male whitetail deer should be walking closeby, eating apples under a line of apple trees near the creek the same as any other dusk in the past few weeks?

I am not a complex person.  I do not compose symphonies or design planetary socioeconomic systems from scratch.

I am a person who loves the person who has been a constant part of his life for 40 years but who loves a lot of other people, too.

I test social situations, then report what I observe.

I am what some people call devious.

I am helpful, courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty and friendly but not always obedient, trustworthy, loyal, brave, clean and reverent.

I listen in order to learn.

If people don’t mind me being devious, then I don’t mind using our connections and our friendships for good stories.

There are many new characters to introduce to our main story and I have the better part of this week to get them written down, their lives painted on this canvas for posterity, giving them a place in our Martian colony, our Moon base and our Earth support network.

Some of them coincide with the lives of people I’ve met, some people more like acquaintances I’ve bumped into and other people I’ve gotten to know better than I know myself.

I remind myself in this blog entry that writing about people I know, putting their words and actions into my thoughts so I can imagine what they’ll do in imaginary situations is not the same as my living their lives, although it might be.

I have to see how much I can stretch my imagination and how much I choose to look at the limits I’ve placed on my thoughts and actions, deciding which limits were set arbitrarily at one point in my life and no longer apply.

Is it “art” above all else, including my subcultural expectations?

What am I doing here in this blog?

As a person fully aware of his surroundings, what am I willing to say is background noise and ignore?  What of the background noise is worth my attention?  What is in my face that is masking something more important?  What needs to be in my face that isn’t?

These questions set my thought patterns in motion for this week’s stories.

The answers may or may not involve me, but they will certainly involve the characters who appear in future blog entries.

Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we blast off toward new horizons!

Sayeth the Bitter Road to Freedom

“This was a foreshadowing of things to come: UNRRA staff across Europe would soon find that refugees, especially when gathered in national groupings, tended to guard their autonomy jealously and to view relief workers as interfering do-gooders with insufficient respect for the struggles and sacrifices their peoples had made in the war.” Page 226

Choosing to be a nonchoosy beggar

“Who will go first?”  Lee heard the question as if the train engines rumbling past, playing hide-and-seek through the treed hedges at the edge of the grocery store carpark, had blasted the words with warning horns at the road crossing next to the neighbourhood recycling centre.

Word-by-word, phrase-by-prepositional-phrase, his thoughts followed in unison.

At what level of explanation did he need to understand the recent crossroad of decisions concerning a group of people intent on fighting each other over philosophical differences, yet another internal squabble that had little to do with Lee directly but much to do with his understanding of human suffering and politically-centred international commerce.

What of his species had been accomplished without military involvement?  What of his species had been sustained with military involvement?

What did the word “military” mean, exactly, another dictionary definition that barely had anything to do with complicated interaction between sets of states of energy that had convinced themselves they were separate from the universe, independently able to make their way above, across and under the earth?

For some, the ironic battle cry was “War is not the answer.”

For others, the rallying quote was “Evangelism is one beggar telling another where to find bread.” [Credited to D. T. Niles]

In this cultural rewind, forgotten from generation to generation, ad infinitum, of the popular (and not so popular) definitions of gender roles, what constituted the aggressive “testosterone” version of international aid and what constituted the sympathetic “estrogen” version?

In a situation like this, Lee was not confused.

He knew he depended on the whole species for answers that were never final, constantly re-evaluated and reworked as much as an individual’s set of states of energy fluctuated from moment to moment despite our willingness to give a set a name like Dick or Jane as if the name alone meant that a set of states of energy at seven years of age was in any way the same as the set at 70 years of age that collected more memories and changes in cell structures, organ health, etc.

The answers were not simple, Lee knew that.

He looked at his current set of friends, comparing them to friends from the past, friends he had met because of mandatory school attendance or by self-deception that having a job was mandatory to be a fully-responsible member of a hierarchical culture.

His personality determined the people with whom he connected best who changed his personality, thus changing the next types of people with whom he connected best — a cycle of change that did not complete a single revolution, leading to new loops that swooped in and out of each other like the drawing of a Celtic animal in a geometric pattern.

Lee looked back but he also looked forward.

What gave him hope?

Was it the moment his wife, Karen, finally told him, “Go on.  I know I’m slowing you down.  I’ll be all right.”, without lacing the words with guilt-inducing tones?

Did he call that a healing moment that gave both of them a freedom they had not willingly conceded due to a deep-seated uncertainty about the early days of their relationship, before they were married, when Lee dated many women at once, Karen often feeling ignored, he always focused on Karen as a stable part of his life who met much but not all of his gender-driven needs?

Hadn’t they survived the transition from platonic friends to trusting lovers without their relationship falling apart when they were tested later on by shocking deaths in the family and outside temptations including demanding work schedules that kept them apart for months at a time, halfway ’round the world, calling each other almost everyday, feeling guilty if they hadn’t, sharing every sordid details about their separate existence?

Trust and flexibility applied at macro levels, too, didn’t they?

What solution did his species find to resolve the military-based conflict between two groups of people in Syria?

How many medical discoveries were funded by governments that employed military-style bureaucracies?

How many social programs were initiated because of wartime conflict?

The only way to get two opponents together was to let them know they could.

“Who will go first?”  What did that mean — who would step forward first or who would be the first to die?

For Lee’s family and his subculture, the local issues at stake for Syrians seemed inconsequential.  Freedom from tyranny?  Access to better healthcare?  These were the same unanswered questions plaguing Americans: the cruel tyranny of international commerce that shone a blind eye toward un/underemployed Americans; healthcare costs spiraling upward out of control.

Lee’s subculture wanted its answers first before some small country full of people killing each other indiscriminately would seem worth unexplained government involvement, adding more military/international aid expenditures to the national debt accumulation.

How relieved Lee felt when Karen dropped the guilt complex from their relationship, aided by their recent friendships with Eoj, Bai and Guin, the latter at first a perceived threat to Karen and her marriage to Lee until she realised that Lee’s love for new friends willing to push Lee to become a better person did not diminish his longterm love for Karen, he ignoring her in the shortterm to become a closer friend for life.  Lee had not changed who he was before or after their marriage but Karen sometimes lost sight of the big picture.

The same could be said for international relationships.

The United States of America had often stepped up to be the responsible adult in the room, bullying its way into a crowded room full of countries with questionable agendas, bettering the world economy in the longterm.

History is an illusion but still useful for establishing goals that indicated consistent trends.

Syria was not a single person with simple needs.

Neither is freedom.

Listening to all sides of an argument takes patience and understanding that some people will be unhappy, no matter what, and others’ happiness will change for the better, relatively speaking, when asked to get involved improving the miserable life of people they may never to go know.

A part-time worker in a US retail store, living week-by-week, may just feel a little happier knowing that her country was able to help someone in worse shape even if both of them end up living week-by-week in the future.

How do we give people hope that international corporations competing for Syria’s marketplace potential is in their best interest?

Lee didn’t convince Karen that their separately and together going through a myriad of emotional uncertainty when Lee spent more time breaking down his personal space and getting rid of old thought patterns while practicing dance routines with Bai and Guin, spending hours alone with them, would strengthen their friendship that existed outside of labels like “marriage,” “husband,” “wife,” “military” and other arbitrary symbols imposed upon them by a subculture that grew and changed with them.

Karen had to see it for herself.

Sometimes, you don’t ask permission and you don’t ask for forgiveness, either — you let your actions speak for themselves when you choose to go first, knowing you’ve got the best interests of people in your thoughts through-and-through, even though circumstances will change people’s perception over time, good or bad in the short-term.

Integrity speaks for itself, not beholden to the whimsical interpretations of morals by subcultures distracted toward flavour-of-the-month scandals — it was right to help one group of people who called themselves Syrians with as much conviction as their opponents — sometimes we compete with bullets, sometimes we compete with love, and sometimes we compete for the best-looking PE ratio reflecting strong quarterly earnings and a growing stock price, public opinion and newspaper tests a forgotten afterthought, telling the people there’s a higher chance their fortunes will increase, a rising tide helping all of them, if we do something rather than sit by and watch, doing nothing to support a country’s defenseless citizens crying for help.