Daring to let go of past illusions

Are nation-states an illusion to you?  If so, read on…

[from the NY Times]

Garry Davis, Man of No Nation Who Saw One World of No War, Dies at 91

By
Published: July 28, 2013

On May 25, 1948, a former United States Army flier entered the American Embassy in Paris, renounced his American citizenship and, as astonished officials looked on, declared himself a citizen of the world.

Carl Gossett/The New York Times

Garry Davis, dean of the One World movement, in 1956. He had his own flag and passport, and often his own jail cell.

The New York Times

In 1948, five years before starting an agency to issue passports, Garry Davis distributed handbills in Paris. A stateless man, he was a relentless force behind a movement to erase national borders.

Associated Press

Mr. Davis ran for the United States presidency in 1988.

In the decades that followed, until the end of his long life last week, he remained by choice a stateless man — entering, leaving, being regularly expelled from and frequently arrested in a spate of countries, carrying a passport of his own devising, as the international news media chronicled his every move.

His rationale was simple, his aim immense: if there were no nation-states, he believed, there would be no wars.

Garry Davis, a longtime peace advocate, former Broadway song-and-dance man and self-declared World Citizen No. 1, who is widely regarded as the dean of the One World movement, a quest to erase national boundaries that today has nearly a million adherents worldwide, died on Wednesday in Williston, Vt. He was 91, and though in recent years he had largely ceased his wanderings and settled in South Burlington, Vt., he continued to occupy the singular limbo between citizen and alien that he had cheerfully inhabited for 65 years.

“I am not a man without a country,” Mr. Davis told Newsweek in 1978, “merely a man without nationality.”

Mr. Davis was not the first person to declare himself a world citizen, but he was inarguably the most visible, most vocal and most indefatigable.

The One World model has had its share of prominent adherents, among them Albert Schweitzer, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Einstein and E. B. White.

But where most advocates have been content to write and lecture, Mr. Davis was no armchair theorist: 60 years ago, he established the World Government of World Citizens, a self-proclaimed international governmental body that has issued documents — passports, identity cards, birth and marriage certificates — and occasional postage stamps and currency.

He periodically ran for president of the world, always unopposed.

To date, more than 2.5 million World Government documents have been issued, according to the World Service Authority, the group’s administrative arm.

Whether Mr. Davis was a visionary utopian or a quixotic naïf was long debated by press and public. His supporters argued that the documents he issued had genuine value for refugees and other stateless people.

His detractors countered that by issuing them — and charging a fee — Mr. Davis was selling false hope to people who spent what little they had on papers that are legally recognized almost nowhere in the world.

What is beyond dispute is that Mr. Davis’s long insistence on the inalienable right of anyone to travel anywhere prefigures the present-day immigration debate by decades. It likewise anticipates the current stateless conditions of Julian Assange and Edward J. Snowden.

Mr. Davis, who spoke about the One World movement on college campuses and wrote books on the subject, seemed impervious to his critics. In a voice trained to be heard in the last balcony (he was once a Broadway understudy to Danny Kaye), he would segue with obvious relish into a series of minutely reasoned arguments concerning the need for a world without nationalism.

“The nation-state is a political fiction which perpetuates anarchy and is the breeding ground of war,” he told The Daily Yomiuri, an English-language newspaper in Japan, in 1990. “Allegiance to a nation is a collective suicide pact.”

The quest for a unified earth was an objective on which Mr. Davis had trained his sights very early. It was born of his discomfort with a childhood of great privilege, his grief at the loss of a brother in World War II and his horror at his own wartime experience as a bomber pilot.

Sol Gareth Davis was born in Bar Harbor, Me., on July 27, 1921, a son of Meyer Davis and the former Hilda Emery.

Meyer Davis was a renowned society orchestra leader known as the “millionaire maestro”: at his height, he presided over an empire of 80 ensembles — employing more than a thousand musicians — which played at debutante balls, national political conventions and White House inaugurations.

Garry was reared in Philadelphia in a glittering milieu in which the family car was a chauffeured Rolls-Royce and family friends included Bob Hope and Ethel Merman. As a young man he was considered unserious, he later said, known for roguish wit but lacking direction.

After studying theater at the Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh, Mr. Davis made his Broadway debut in October 1941 in a small role in “Let’s Face It!,” the musical comedy. He was also the understudy for its star, Mr. Kaye.

Then the United States entered the war. Mr. Davis and his older brother, Meyer Jr., known as Bud, went overseas — Bud with the Navy and Garry with the Army Air Forces, flying B-17 bombers. Bud Davis did not return: he was killed in 1943, when his ship, the destroyer Buck, was sunk off the coast of Italy by a German submarine.

That, and a dark epiphany during a bombing run over Brandenburg, Germany, Garry Davis later wrote, would alter his life’s course.

“Ever since my first mission over Brandenburg, I had felt pangs of conscience,” Mr. Davis wrote in a 1961 memoir, “The World Is My Country.” (The volume was later reissued as “My Country Is the World.”) “How many bombs had I dropped? How many men, women and children had I murdered? Wasn’t there another way, I kept asking myself.”

The other way, he came to believe, was to eradicate conflict by eradicating borders.

In November 1948, six months after renouncing his citizenship in Paris, Mr. Davis stormed a session of the United Nations General Assembly there.

“We, the people, want the peace which only a world government can give,” he proclaimed. “The sovereign states you represent divide us and lead us to the abyss of total war.”

His act, reported worldwide, earned the support of the intelligentsia, including Albert Camus, and of the French public, so recently racked by war. Less than two weeks later, speaking at a Paris auditorium, Mr. Davis drew a crowd of 20,000.

In 1949, Mr. Davis founded the International Registry of World Citizens and was soon inundated with requests to join from around the globe. “We’re bigger than Andorra,” he told The Boston Globe in 1981, when the registry was a quarter-million strong.

Today, more than 950,000 people are registered world citizens, according to the World Service Authority, based in Washington.

Mr. Davis, who lived for long periods in France, appeared on Broadway a few more times in the early 1950s, including in a revue called “Bless You All” and “Stalag 17,” the prisoner-of-war drama. But the One World imperative occupied him increasingly.

In 1953, he founded the World Government of World Citizens. The demand for its documents proved so brisk that he established the service authority the next year.

More than half a million world passports have been issued, though there are no statistics on the number of people who have successfully crossed borders with them. A half-dozen countries — Burkina Faso, Ecuador, Mauritania, Tanzania, Togo, Zambia — have formally recognized the passport. More than 150 others have honored it on occasion, according to the service authority.

Fees for the passport range from $45 (valid for three years) to $400 (for 15 years). The passport has text in seven languages, including Esperanto, the artificial international language.

Carrying world passport No. 1, Mr. Davis spent decades spreading his message, slipping across borders, stowing away on ships, sweet-talking officials, or wearing them down, until they let him in. The newspapers charted his comings and goings:

1949: “Garry Davis Arrested in Paris”; 1953: “Garry Davis Held Again: Arrested When He Camps Out Near Buckingham Palace”; 1957: “France Expels Garry Davis”; 1979: U.S. Court Rules ‘World Citizen’ Davis Is an Alien and Rejects His Passport; 1984: “Japan Expels American ‘World Citizen’ ”; 1987: “ ‘World Citizen’ Announces Presidential Bid.” (It was the United States presidency this time.)

In 1986, Mr. Davis ran for mayor of Washington, receiving 585 votes.

Mr. Davis was arrested dozens of times, usually for attempting to enter a country without official papers. He had canny ways of circumventing authority.

In the 1950s, when France was trying to deport him, he conspicuously shoplifted items from a Paris department store. (His haul, United Press reported, was “$47 worth of peach-colored lace panties, black-silk brassieres, black garter belts, lace petticoats and pink slips.”) He made certain he was arrested.

As a result of his arrest, Mr. Davis was legally enjoined from leaving the country.

Mr. Davis was married two or three times, depending on how one counts. His first marriage, to Audrey Peters, an American whom he courted by mail while detained in France and whom he met for the first time two weeks before their wedding in 1950, ended in divorce. In 1954, the newspapers reported his “marriage” at sea to Gloria Sandler in a ceremony he performed himself; that union, too, was dissolved. His marriage to Esther Peter in 1963 also ended in divorce.

Survivors include a daughter, Kristina Starr Davis, from his marriage to Ms. Peters; two sons, Troy and Kim, and a daughter, Athena Davis, who confirmed her father’s death, from his marriage to Ms. Peter; a sister, Ginia Davis Wexler; a brother, Emery; and a granddaughter.

His other books include “World Government, Ready or Not!” (1984) and “Dear World: A Global Odyssey” (2000). He was the subject of a short documentary, “One! The Garry Davis Story,” released in 2007.

In old age, Mr. Davis was far from idle. Last year, he had a world passport delivered to Mr. Assange, the founder of WikiLeaks, who has been holed up in the Ecuadorean embassy in London.

Just weeks before he died, Mr. Davis had a world passport sent, via Russian authorities, to Mr. Snowden, the fugitive former national security contractor accused of violating espionage laws, whose United States passport was revoked in June.

Mr. Snowden could not be reached for comment.

Stacks of bound wood fibre

[notes to self stored here for posterity]

If nothing is guaranteed, when even death and taxes are illusions, then what’s next for me?

I use seven billion data points for references as to the types of behaviour I am capable of emulating.

What I don’t always have is the set of previous behaviours and environmental changes which led to the current behaviour that every one of the seven billion is exhibiting in this moment.

Am I or am I not a caged beast?

As a caged beast receiving food, clothing and shelter, what am I getting now that I wouldn’t get if uncaged?

And the opposite, what am I not getting now that I would get if uncaged?

All the objects in this room contribute to me and my set of memories, the result of previous behaviours and environmental changes which led to the current behaviour, writing here in this blog instead of something else like finishing a fence, sealing the crawlspace, going out for lunch with coworkers or reading a book bought at full retail price.

I use police/military/government/authority references as a form of self-flagellation, punishing myself for thoughts of actions I have not taken.

I do know who am I, sometimes in forethought, sometimes in hindsight, often as I am in the moment.

How many of us treat our lives like a Disneyland ride, pretending to be alive, teasing ourselves with the idea of dangerous adventure, looking at photos of ourselves pretending, and are completely satisfied?

I have the fortune of a good, working body, unfamiliar with the different levels of “caged beast” feelings like a quadriplegic, extreme schizophrenic or locked-in syndrome person would describe.

I, I, I.  When it’s not about me, it is about me.  Altruism is a guilt complex, not necessarily always a default position to take.

These words fall on the deaf ears of history, repeating the works of both the great and the famous, the insecure and the infamous.

Either I am going to break the stitches of bound stacks of wood fibre and get outside the books within which I hide myself or I am not.

It is not so much the risks I fear as it is overcoming the lazy habits of a caged beast that would require working more constantly to secure my uncaged state that keeps me here.

What is happiness and does it have anything to do with what I’ve written so far?

What about these musings from Lady J?:  [How much am I like her husband? I need not ask my wife.  I already know I am.]

We talked.  Yet again.  This time, however, we chatted casually in the kitchen.  It wasn’t intense.  This conversation needed to happen though, and I didn’t know how to have it without sounding like a nagging harpy.  I really want to believe the best about people,  and I make a point to look for what is good in others.  That was my starting point.

I don’t know how the conversation got started, but I do remember this:

“I have two choices.  I need your help in telling me what is true.  From where I’m standing it either looks like you don’t care, or it looks like you are forgetting to do what you said you would do.  I want to believe that you care, but I also want the truth.  So, I need you to be honest with me.”

He looked shocked.  “Of course I care! I love you!”

“Okay…So, you care.  Then, I want you to explain to me why you don’t keep your promises.  Are you forgetting?” I asked him this question very calmly in an almost friendly manner.  I had to feel almost as if I wasn’t invested in his answers so that he wouldn’t feel accused or cornered because I had a theory regarding his forgetfulness.

“What promises?”

“Well, have you read Dr. Amen’s book? Have you called your internist for a referral to a psychiatrist so that your medication could be changed? You said you would do that last December.  It’s July.”  He blanched.  “Have you taken care of the backyard?” I gently asked him.

“Well, I went to Home Depot today to look at some products…” he explained.

“We went to Home Depot almost three weeks ago and already bought something for the backyard.  Do you remember that? It’s out back.”  He looked mystified.  “It sat on the kitchen floor in the Home Depot plastic bag for a few days.  The cat started sniffing around it.  She got her head caught in the bag.  It scared her.  She thought the weed killer was chasing her so she ran around the house with the bag around her neck and hid under the couch.  Does any of this ring a bell?” He looked up in an effort to jog his memory.

“God, why can’t I remember these things?!” he exclaimed with frustration.

“Do you really want to know? I have an idea.”  I asked him.  He nodded.

“Well, I think you have a working memory problem much like three of our daughters do.  It’s often inherited.  I’ve watched you struggle for years when it comes to planning things.  I think your executive planning is impaired a bit.  I don’t think it’s anywhere near where Grace’s is, but I do think it’s a problem for you.  People with ADHD have executive planning problems.  You will function much better in your relationships if you acknowledge that this is an issue for you and make allowances for it.  You have more technology than you can shake a stick at.  Start using it.  Put reminders in your laptop or phone to remind you when you have something to do.  Don’t count on your memory to remind you.  It won’t.  If you really care about me, then you need to start putting an action plan together that will help you keep your promises.  As it stands, you are not able to do that.  It’s affecting your credibility.”

He made his thinking face.  “I’m sorry.  I got distracted by work, and I was working last weekend, you know.”

I planned for this response.  “You worked while we went to the movies on Saturday, but then you were done.  Am I correct?”  He nodded.  ”You remained on your laptop for hours after that.  You were reading Gizmodo and other sites.  This tells me that you had time to read Dr. Amen’s book.  You had time to close your laptop and engage your family.  You had time to close your laptop and do something else.  This is about choices, and this is about a habit or a lifestyle.  You need to hear me when I say this to you.  You are a husband, a father of four, and a homeowner.  Technically, there is never a time when you have nothing to do.  If you sit down in your room with your laptop to kill time, then it’s because you are deliberately choosing to ignore your parental responsibilities, spousal responsibilities, and homeowner’s responsibilities.  When you say ‘yes’ to your laptop and killing time with that machine, you are saying ‘no’ to everyone and everything else, and you are placing your responsibilities on me in addition to my responsibilities.  That is, in fact, the lifestyle that you have chosen to pursue for the majority of our marriage.  You cannot continue to live like that if you want your daughters to respect you because they are beginning to figure some things out about gender roles.  It’s simply not morally right for you to take your happiness at my expense.  Have you ever seen me sit around and do nothing? Think about that before you answer.  Have you? Why do you think it’s so hard for me to read the books for book club? When do I have time to even sit down and read a book? Where do you think that Fibromyalgia diagnosis came from?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You’re right.  I…”  he sighed.  I swept the floor while he processed my words.  It was a lot to take in, but I’ve said all those words before.  There was nothing new in what I said, but sometimes you have to continually speak to a person’s identity repeatedly before the truth sticks.  I don’t know how my husband sees himself.  I can only tell him how I see him.  He is my husband.  He is the father of our children.  He is my partner in life, and yet he lives as a bachelor who occasionally shows up to help.  This is an identity problem.  I’m not suggesting that we don’t need to take a break and recharge.  We do, but he tends to take a break from his individualism to participate rather than taking a break from fatherhood and being my husband.

I have to stop here and explain something about expectations in marriage or even in relationships.  We all have expectations–hidden expectations.  If two people married, rented an apartment, maintained their own jobs and separate checking accounts, socialized in their own circle of friends, and only maintained relationships with their respective families, then what would they be? Roommates and fuck buddies.  They don’t own a home together so the expectations on how to split home maintenance responsibilities  don’t exist.  There are no children so the stress and responsibilities that come with raising children not to mention the expectations for dividing those responsibilities and what mutual collaboration might look like aren’t on the table.  At some point, there comes a time when we either invest ourselves in our relationships or we don’t.  We are either people that can be counted upon or we are not.  Some things have to be constant in relationships, and I am beginning to wonder if the masculine idea of “father” and “husband” is distinctly different from what women imagine and expect.

I spent some time with a friend recently, and we shared our marital experiences.  There was a lot of pain in both of us.  Disappointment.  She told me that all of her girlfriends were in the same boat.  She didn’t know one woman who wasn’t struggling with the same issues.  Then she went on to tell me something that caused my heart to ache.  An older woman in her life shared that her husband told her that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.  This older woman quietly smiled and said, “I wish I could say the same thing about him.” I didn’t want to understand that.  I really didn’t, but I did.  My friend explained, “He just refused to grow up and mature.  He wouldn’t deal with his issues.  He would never be a real partner to her.”  A forty year marriage…

I don’t want to feel like that in twenty years, but I don’t have control over my husband.  What is his idea of masculinity? What does he imagine when he thinks of the word ‘husband’ or ‘father’ or ‘partner’ or even ‘man’? I often imagine that men imagine Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders when I think of American men–the rugged individualist.  The character of Don Draper from “Mad Men” has certainly made an impact on men.  Women revile him, but I’ve heard more than a few men speak of him with great admiration–“Oh, to be Don Draper..”  What is the definition of 21st. century masculinity? Most of the women I know are working more than ever, but their husbands appear to be clinging to a warped view of the role of the female.  They accept that their wives are working and leading full lives.  They even encourage it, but they don’t pick up the slack.  This is where expectations and communication come in.  What do we really expect from our partners even down to grocery shopping and preparing meals? What do we really expect when it comes to cleaning a house and taking care of a yard? What about pulling weeds? Who’s going to do that? Who is going to take out the trash and recycling? Who is going to do laundry? Who is going to fold it? What are the expectations around HOW to fold towels? Does it matter? What about the expectations around making a bed and changing sheets? Do the sheets get changed after sex and, if so, who will be doing that since sex is usually a shared activity? Who will wash the sheets? Believe it or not, these expectations matter because these tasks are what make up daily life–cooking, cleaning, and errands.  This defines the quotidian moments.  The quotidian matters far more than those milestone moments because we live our lives out in the mundane.  It’s in the mundane that life happens.  You share your life while you’re changing sheets and doing dishes, and if you’re doing all these things alone while your partner is making little to no contribution then you’ve invested your entire self for two people while your other half has invested nothing.  It’s really a form of thievery, and it can’t last.

The best way I can think to describe how small actions have large consequences in the grand scope of life is through this 14th century proverb:

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Relationships live and die by the small actions we take every day.  Why? Because we do not live in a vacuum.  Call it the butterfly effect if you like.  A butterfly flits it wings in Argentina and somehow a taxi runs into a telephone pole in Manhattan two weeks later.  Our actions affect others.  More to the point, so does our inaction.  When I choose to do nothing with my life and my time, I’m also communicating something.  I’m also contributing something.  I’m contributing to the void of empathy, kindness, and goodness in my sphere of influence.  I’m making a statement about the kind of person I want to be.  I’m saying clearly that I am passive and selfish.  Even if I am simply forgetting to keep my promises.  When I know that I have a problem with remembering important things yet I do nothing to help myself remember, my passivity is still an active contribution.

This is one of the biggest relational issues I see currently in my life and in the lives of many women I know.  The women are overcompensating for the passivity of the men in their lives which results in codependency.  In the end, this male passivity is rewarded through what ends up being enabling.  I’ve been engaging in this relational pattern of behavior for a long time.  I’m trying to put a stop to it.

It’s very uncomfortable around here for all of us, but I didn’t stand up in front of God, my husband, and the witnesses at my wedding almost 18 years ago and vow to make my husband comfortable.  I vowed to love him.

Sometimes love is uncomfortable.  You know what love is not? Passive.

My life forever changed…

I was a typical teenager in high school, discovering life with fellow students, when a new teacher appeared, both my homeroom teacher and English composition/drama class teacher.

She had the hots for me but I was just smart, naive and ignorant enough to avoid her advances.

However, she finally bedded a student younger than me, got pregnant, married the student and lives with him in Tampa where he is a television news anchor.

Her advances confused my sense of propriety and teacher/student roles we assign each other for conveniences of social engagement.

Certainly, intimate relationships don’t always obey the decorum of staying within your age bracket.

But, as a writer, the possibilities of what goes through the thoughts of those involved are entertaining.

For example, switch genders and ask yourself if the sociopathic mindset is any more or less intriguing of one such as Hannibal the Cannibal when female: Tampa, the novel.

Recap

The young man, aged 23, sat on a log by the campfire, his left arm wrapped around the back of the 36-year old woman beside him, his right hand held close to her stomach under a wool coat, her fingers intertwined with his.

He felt a sense of déjà vu.  How often had he been here before, repeating this same steps, the same words, the same outcome?

She looked up at him, her chapped lips curled outward, her deep brown eyes focused only on him.

“I cannot believe I’m here with you, alone.  I’m practically throwing myself at you, cuddled up to you as close as I can get, shivering, when, if you weren’t such a gentleman, we could…”

His memories of what his father taught him in a situation like this replayed over and over — never take advantage of a drunk woman… unless… — but he couldn’t remember the last part.

“Unless” what?

He was almost twice as old as he was when he earned his Eagle Scout Award at 13.  At 23, he was, for all intents and purposes, still a virgin.

She was a married woman with kids, a supportive if somewhat misogynistic husband, 250-lbs heavy, 6 ft, 8 in tall, and constantly demonstrating that as husband and head of household, he owned his own construction company, able to toss 100-lb bags of dry concrete like a 5-lb sleeping bag.

Speaking of sleeping bags…

Sleeping bags weren’t that far away.  The young man leaned in and looked more closely at her eyes in the dim light, his thoughts spinning with the cold air in the fireside party that had lasted from dusk until this wee hour of the morning, and brushed his lips over one of her eyebrows.

She kissed his Adam’s apple, giggling at the sensation of his day-old beard tickling her lips.

Out of nowhere, an image flashed into his thoughts, an article called “Breeding Minnows” by Dr. Robert J. Goldstein:

Most minnows do well in single-species groups in 20-gallon tanks with canister or trickling filtration, water changes, powerheads for current, a pebble substrate with rocks.  They do well on a diet of flakes, bloodworms, brine shrimp, white worms, grindal worms, blackworms, and/or Daphnia.  Most cannot tolerate heat, and some require a chiller.

He heard the babbling water of a creek that flowed in a J-shape around the campsite.  He thought about the aquariums at home, who was feeding his fish while he was gone for the weekend.  Had he forgotten to set the timed feeders?

She whispered in his ear, “I am getting really cold.  And I’m not as drunk as you think I am.  It’s probably just the altitude and lack of food.”

He realised he had turned his head away from her to look for the creek in the dark.

He returned to her intoxicating eyes.

Their lips touched.

Neither moved.

She held his gaze, as if waiting for him to make the next move.

A professor they both admired had brought them here to this moment, a philosophy teacher who was instructing her in a History of Philosophy class this term and had taught him in a Logics class the previous school term.

The philosophy professor was passed out in a tent nearby, separated from the fire by another tent, empty, unused, quiet, warmed somewhat by the fire.

He pressed his lips more tightly against hers but he didn’t kiss her.

Instead, their eyes made love to each other, exploring the pupils and irises, noticing the tiny creases at the edge of eyelids, the leftover mascara, the bloodshot veins, writing history like a magician conjuring a lovebird out of thin air only to disappear just as quickly in a puff of white smoke, unwritten yet remembered forever by the audience.

Out of habit, she licked her chapped lips, passing her rough tongue across his dry but unchapped lips.

They both smiled and pulled apart, tickled simultaneously, breaking the bond they played with, testing the future without thinking about consequences.

Another thought passed through him: “Has anyone ever written a parody of The Charge of the Light Brigade, substituting the terrorist group called the Red Brigade for the main ‘character’ of the poem?”

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Alfred, Lord Tennyson


1.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
“Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870

And what, or who, determined the definition of a terrorist group?  If, as his philosophy teacher had oft repeated, human labeling systems are meaningless in the grand scheme of the universe, what divided a terrorist group from a government that used threats such as random tax audits and accidental home raids to keep its people in line?

She pressed her lips back against his, mumbling, “Sorry, but I’m cold.”

They slipped off the log and broke out into nervous laughter, instantly shushing themselves like giddy children.

He helped her stand up.

She squeezed him as tight as she could.  He hugged her back.

Her whole body shuddered.  “If this is it, then I think we better find a tent.  If this isn’t it, I think we better find a tent.  Either way, I’m cold!!”

He nodded, leaned down and pressed a cold ear against hers.

“That feels good.”

He nodded.

“What are we waiting for?”

He let go of her and looked at the fire.  A few embers glowed orange and red.  “Well, I better put out the fire.”

“What fire?”

His heightened senses made the few embers look like a giant furnace.  He picked up a water bottle and slowly emptied its contents over the embers, watching each one sizzle and turn to grayish-black.  With the last ember extinguished, he kicked the ashes around, feeling the leftover heat through his leather boots but seeing no glow or flame.

He put his arm around her and led her to the empty tent.

There were times when his father’s advice was not available for reference, unable to answer the questions that arose in moments his father had never experienced or at least never described to his son.

In that moment, the son was creating a memory that would last a lifetime, shared by two.

The snoring chorus of their fellow campers sang to them from the other tent, a serenade that doesn’t play well in romance novels or Hallmark Channel movie soundtracks.

Perhaps, instead, a rom-com or an avant-garde film filled with arbitrary flashbacks.

To try breeding [minnows] in an aquarium, separate the sexes, and feed them live foods while keeping them cool and on an 8 to 10 hour light cycle for a month.  Then place them together in a larger tank with large gravel or pebbles.  Raise the temperature 5 degrees, and increase the light cycle to 12 to 16 hours.  Spawning starts in a few days with flashing undulations by the males, fin erection, operculum flaring, and color intensification.  Non-adhesive eggs are scattered above the gravel or in thick bushy plants.  After spawning, remove the adults.  The eggs hatch within five days, and the fry need rotifers, ciliates, or other infusoria as a first food.

Wally Gee Willacres

Sometimes I forget the simple phrase like “a member of Congress who threatens sanctions will now be designated an official international economic terrorist and subject to prosecution to the full extent of the law” is more than the sum of the numerology values of its words.

I forget a lot of things.

I forgot that I left a bunch of scientists stranded in a subsubsubbasement corridor during reconstruction and then got their last laugh by posting a satirical blog entry called “My selfie.”

And here I thought I was hacked.  Hacked off is more like it.

They also got their next-to-last laugh by rigging a Leap Motion device in front of my neglected Robosapien, connecting its movements to the RS Media mechs in the streets of your town such that, sometime in the next few days, there will be a worldwide flash mob dance performed by what you always ignored as homeless alcoholic beggars.

The scientists promise complete chaos as it will appear they have hacked the minds of ordinary citizens, turning regular people into dance-happy zombies.

I mean, what’s next?  An uncontrollable orgy covering every home, school, office, hospital and farm?

If humans can be overtly convinced that they’re under the influence of hidden forces, dancing to the beat of invisible choreographers as seen on global TV/Internet channels…well, what’s to stop them from thinking about the subtle, subliminal, subversive influences that control their lives?

Remind me never to lose track of my scientists again.

The head of an ISP I recently talked with said she is thinking about running a background check on all her customers.  Instead of turning over email and account information to the government, she plans to delete the accounts of customers who work for the government, turning the power back over to the people.

I wished her luck.  “Live Free or Die” is a great motto but so is “United We Stand, Divided We Fall.”

Others worth considering:

Thanks to Abi at Madison Ballroom; Harold at KCDC; the head cowboy and his cowpokes (congrats to the one whose wife just had a 6-lb baby girl named Chloe) at Chuck Wagon BBQ.

Hellfire, it’s a Spitfire!

Great story sent from a family friend and military veteran:

From: Jack Winninghoff
Subject: Re: Fwd: SPITFIRE 944 A Great True Story – gotta watch this

Walter,
Gotta watch is an understatement to the 10th power!
As a youngster my first serious technical interest was in photography. I built an enlarger and did my own processing for many years. After getting my wings in WWII, I wanted to fly reconnaissance in P-38’s. (didn’t succeed – was put in the VHB (B-24 school and then B-29’s).
I built a very detailed model of a Spitfire in HS – loved that elliptical wing.
I spent a good many years with several companies involved in designing lenses and cameras, e.g. Perkin-Elmer who built the US Cameras and the SR-71 Cameras, and Itek who dominated the low orbital recon satellites.
At Itek I became quite friendly with the then retired father of US Army WWI reccee, General George Goddard.
At Perkin-Elmer and Itek I had great success in writing proposals for camera development and multi sensor systems (Photo, IR, Elint, and Radar). I traveled to Germany and France hawking our proposal to up date tactical recce A/C.

I am so grateful to you for sending this to me
Jack
PS I have a fair number of books on the subject of the value of photo recce, which arguably can is considered to me of critical value to us as early as the balloon flights of the civil war, WWI, and certainly WWII, and the cold war.  You are welcome to browse and borrow.

FWD: Here is some footage of WWII — thought you would be interested.

What a terrific presentation and footage!

SPITFIRE 944

Click on site below.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/ie3SrjLlcUY

That pale blue dot (no, not the DOT (dept. of transportation) that keeps us going)

“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. From Carl Sagan’s “Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space.”

What did you do the day Earth smiled?

Stepping forth through the fourth wall with [in]formal steps

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” — Citizenship in a Republic, speech given by the former President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt at the Sorbonne in Paris, France on April 23, 1910.

I sit back down in the studio at home, leaves of a Japanese redbud outside the window reflecting raindrops from a light rain shower.

During our long ride home last night, my wife and I talked about the range of emotions and thoughts we shared the past few days as newb (not n00b) dancers.

The self-deprecating downers:

  • “I’m just this [guy/gal] who doesn’t deserve to be on the dance floor with such great dancers.  It would be a waste of their time to dance with inexperienced me.”
  • “I don’t dance much because I’m not that good.”
  • “What am I doing here?  Who do I think I am competing against better talent?”
  • “Watching everyone on the dance floor having so much fun is tiring and depressing.  Why can’t I be as good as them?  Well, I know at least a few of them have been dancing since they were three so it must be innate talent that I don’t have that makes them so fantastic, which is even more depressing that I’ll never be like them.”
  • “I’m too nervous to dance well in this competition.  I’m going to mess up, trip and fall or miss a step.  What if I don’t demonstrate musicality or get off the beat of the music?  The judges will score me in last place, I know it!”
  • “What’s going on?  The competition is about to begin, I’m in line to go out on the dance floor in front of the judges, the crowd and video cameras, making me so nervous I could scream.  I’m confused by the instructions because I’ve never seen a competition in person, let alone competed as an ignorant newcomer.  I feel so stupid and scared.”

The self-confidence -building uppers:

  • “I just learned a new move without it taking weeks to understand the steps.  This is more fun than I thought.”
  • “People, some of them the best dancers here, are actually interested in dancing with me.”
  • “It’s like being inside a TV show or movie about dancing and I’m the ‘star’ of the moment with my dance partner.  ME!”
  • “Not only did I survive the competition, I was so focused on having fun dancing I didn’t even see what my competition was doing.  I actually competed against the strong belief that I would surely fail and I won because I didn’t fall down and didn’t feel like I made a fool of myself even though I know I made a few mistakes!”
  • “Everyone cares about me and how I danced — their praise and constructive criticism was so good to hear because they paid attention to me, a mere beginner, and wanted me to be a better dance partner with them.”
  • “Can you believe that I went from not wanting to attend this competition or anything like it ever again to wondering when’s the next competition we can go to and repeat the exhilarating fun?”
  • “At football games and car races, there’s too much negativity amongst fans who spent so much of their energy yelling at or putting down others.  Here at this dance competition, we encourage each other, especially our competition.  At our age, maybe we should say goodbye to the ‘boo birds’ and spend our money more wisely with people who support their competitors to get better.”

There were several times after watching some of the competitions that I was sick and tired of dancing because the weight of negative thoughts that I’d never be a dreamy dance partner killed the good mood of the moment.

But then I’d get out on the dance floor, connect with a new partner, enjoy the brief flirtatious friendship and instantly restore my self-confidence regardless of whether I was in perfect sync with my partner the whole time.

As more than one person said, the first is not always the best dance with someone — it may take one, two or three songs for you and your partner to find your commonalities — but you are helping each other improve yourselves that drives you to keep going.

It’s that giving up of one’s ego for the sake of the dance that is amazing to me.  Abi often reminds not to stop dancing because sometimes I would just stop and watch her dance, swept up in the amazement of how great her dancing made me feel.  Same for many other partners, too.  I forget that they’re feeding off me for the sake of the dance.

You mean this little ol’ kid in me is an inspiration for others?

I worked hard all weekend to give myself permission to have fun dancing, clearing my thoughts of guilty feelings that I’m having a great time while people around the world are suffering and my niece is in the hospital recovering from a difficult birth of her baby son.

In fact, I had so much fun that I didn’t constantly split myself into multiple personalities, including the diarist/journalist/blogger who observes and reports everything he saw and felt.

Therefore, I don’t remember the names or personal stories of everyone I met.

Sensory overload was an issue that I didn’t want to get in the way (which triggers crowd anxiety) so I shut off the internal critic, the judgmental elder who uses criticism to build up barriers, and let myself live timelessly in the moment.

I first suppressed and then let pass through me the jealousy/envy of better male dancers who were making the women with whom I wanted to dance look like goddesses, especially after those very same goddesses wanted a song or two with me.

Memories of grade school sockhops welled up from out of nowhere, recalling when I stood like a statue fixated on girls I liked, occasionally getting up the nerve to ask a popular girl for a dance, where I first learned to dance awkwardly with equally-awkward partners, no matter how popular they were, sharing a laugh at the realisation we both felt embarrassed for no reason; high school dances where I was known as a guy to have fun flailing about on the floor, literally, doing jumping jacks, pushups and other shenanigans because I was the wild-and-crazy president of the drama club who had a reputation of outlandishness to maintain; college years full of sorority formals and punk rock mosh pits, often on the same evening; then, 25 years generally devoid of dancing.

And now this, the post Dance Mardi Gras euphoria, where, interestingly enough, a dance form that has no rules or formality — turning into The World Swing Dance Council, with scoring and a points system — inspired me to dance without thinking, letting my whole body speak and learn a new language all over again, while I sit here trying to describe what I felt rather than directly thought with the formal labeled sounds/memes we call words.

Thanks again to everyone of all ages such as the dance groups like Newsies and Tortilla Chips who put on an entertaining show for us during the masquerade ball.  The celebrity J&J contest was just as exciting!

Last, but not least, a big shoutout to the crew who made it all happen.

Is your childhood functionally extinct?

We can think of our sets of states of energy as a microclimate/microenvironment (i.e., the microbiome).

As we age, our symbiotic microorganisms are more or less compatible with our current bodily conditions.

Thus, we may create a situation where we make some species functionally extinct within us.

How many diseases or syndromes are such situations?