Choosing Not To Force Myself To Write

Watching others find ways to live, and watching myself reach out to the world through the cold, unloving connections of bits and bytes, I wonder…

While keeping the research of the particles of life moving forward, just so we can reach a milestone 14,284 days from now…

I wonder.

The old ways are still valid comparison points, I tell myself.

Political boundaries were meaningful at some point in time.

Every supercivilisation concedes old economies of scale to the previous generation.

I wonder why parents force so many structured activities on their children when children will become better adults if given time to explore subjects their parents don’t care to know about or simply don’t know exist.

How much of a general education is good for one person?

In sixth grade, I’ve said here at least once, I learned about the Soviet Union making students choose the direction their education would take at around age 10 or 11 (my same age at the time), and about Germany giving students the Gymnasium route, if they chose, after their primary school years were completed.

In secondary school, I could choose a vocational/technical program, a college preparatory program or a general education program for my high school diploma.

Specialisation divided me from my primary school classmates at age 15.

My observations about life in general began to take a new direction at that age, despite my desire to learn about all ways of life.

I lost track of the thought patterns of students outside the college preparatory track.

Yet, I still kept trying to apply my theories about general personality types to a smaller population.

Thus, at university, my theories were destroyed.

Was it inevitable?  For me, obviously, yes.

Snobbishness did not equate to applied intelligence as it had amongst my friends in secondary school.

People with a so-called redneck personality were just as likely to pursue a career in engineering or science as a person who had never seen a can of PBR beer.

And in the streets of downtown Atlanta, those who never completed a formal education were just as likely to drink high-shelf liquor and drive expensive cars as those who had PhDs and invented the Next Big Thing.

The Internet, a general means of access to self-education, did not exist in my youth.  Television, films, books, magazines, newspapers and contact with other people were the limited means to teach oneself.

I couldn’t instantly tweet with a person on the other side of the globe but I could exchange letters with an international penpal.

Ham radio gave some semblance of tweeting/texting.  Both provide no clear understanding of body language (but voice-based ham radio communication did provide intonation (Morse code was the tweeting/texting of its day, of course)).

But one body is still one body, subject to circadian, natural wake/sleep cycles.  Despite external devices and integrated prosthetic body part advancement, we chiefly depend on the speed of our central nervous system to process stimuli.

We may have speeded up the ability to herd our species but we are still flesh-and-blood states of energy.

Enlightened youth want more and they want it now, while older people want to keep their well-established lifestyles.

In general.

I enjoy watching the misdisuninformation cycles that those with something to sell/tell start by dropping a pebble, the concentric circles distorting and being distorted by all the competing messages vying to become stimuli to individuals and groups.

I have nothing to sell or tell.

I want to live a life that is amenable, even if “amenable” is a word I have to look up its meaning to determine if I’ve used its definition in the right context here.

So far, I’ve enjoyed the luxury of sharing my observations freely, keeping myself from succumbing to the temptation of luxury.

As we become more fully aware that consciousness is a deception that can fool us into a self-destructive supercivilisation, we will give more and more thought to the fact our bodies are made of competing subsystems working for the greater good of the body.

Nurture creative criticism in our children so they will understand friendly competition is the route to a world of competing subcultures working for the greater good of the body.

Cutting off negative pathways is painful but so is removing a gangrenous body part for the sake of the body.

There is no ultimate solution.  Life goes on.

We adjust to the changing times or we don’t – either response is acceptable.

Give room for the voices to be heard – the best solution in the moment often comes from a place we won’t know existed because a parent gave a child time for self-education outside the prescripted norm.

The size of the pathway or nervous system pipeline is key to understanding how to read the health of a subculture.  Overcrowd the pathway or overclock the pipeline speed and you create side effects that quickly turn into pathological terminators.

Are any of these theories universally valid or have I created a thought set that applies to a limited population?

Beanpole Twist ‘n’ Shout

Lord, have mercy, it was a fun time last night.

Smacking boot heels on old wood floors.

Accordion, washboard, guitar, drums, bass…like an ol’ bayou Saturd’y night getdown.

‘Memberances of N’awlins, crawfish boils, jazz fests, New Year’s Eve on the Riverwalk, ESPN settin’ up for the national championship.

Louisiana hot sauce or, when that’s not available, habanero squeezin’s on the chicken sandwich at Beauregard’s, the ever resourceful Antonio givin’ us the extra onion rings.

Dance lessons a’fore hand – “just remember, it’s not the exact steps that counts, it’s keepin’ time with your partner that makes it zydeco!”

One, two, three four.  Five, six, step back.

My partner – my rational, logical engineering wife – dissecting the steps ’cause we already know how to keep time.  This ain’t work, honey, it’s the weekend!  😉

Sippin’ whiskey from a flask – Bushmills Black Bush.  A little Sprite for the missus.  A swig of ginger ale for her male.

My, oh my, does the zydeco bring out the bee-yout’uhful ladies?!

Like the cream o’ the crop, they were, a’dancin’ with their beaus or choosin’ more experienced partners to learn a new move or two to spice up their relationship on the dance floor and off.

I felt like someone wound my clock back, and we were back at the ol’ Chicken Shack down by the river, a jug of hooch bein’ passed back and forth while bodies spun ’round and ’round like the storm clouds that swept past over and over again.

Lightnin’ never strikes the same place twice unless the dance floor’s on fire, my grandpappy used to say.

Reckon he’s right.

Zydeco lessons at the Eagles Club tonight, folks.  Don’t miss it!

A nod to Jessica at Arby’s, the behind-the-scenes folks at Lowe Mill, and Yuri Ozaki, whose quiet happiness blesses us all – may your country find peace during this difficult recovery period.  Cat, we’ll fill up on Happy Tummy the next go-round.

Take a day off, then my wife and I are hittin’ the dance floor again, this time shufflin’ our feet to swing music.

No offense to you bowling fans but between drinkin’ beer at the bowling alley or hoppin’ on the dance floor with my wife, I’ll take the parquet.

Or is it butter?

One day, our dancing will be as smooth as such.

How do I pray/meditate?

Are you a generalist and say, “([Favourite] Deity), provide loving support for the person(s) toward whom I direct your blessings right now.”?

A friend of mine told me that miracles occur because a group of his church friends got together and prayed heavily for a person serving in a war zone.  The person survived an IED “attack,” which destroyed the vehicle and killed at least one other in the convoy, proving that prayers work because the person being prayed for was unscathed.

I don’t have evidence that others in the convoy received more or less praying for their safety and well-being but, even if I did have the evidence, I will let my friend keep his belief that prayer works.

Do your friends and family who do not own businesses understand the ramifications of their rumours and innuendos about people and/or their businesses?

How do I pray/meditate?

I look at the Great Unknown – God, Lord, He/She/It, Them – as a source of infinite wisdom that I can tap within my thoughts or from talking with friends/family about problems I want to resolve.

Dogma or ritual/ceremony that serve vain purposes cloud my solution-seeking.

In other words, everything is up for grabs.

If I cannot stop the adults around me from spreading rumours or complaining without caring about finding a viable solution, then I can at least prevent their attitudes and habits from affecting young people, hoping they won’t adopt the same unhelpful attitudes and habits, while, at the same time, I work with programmers to turn rumours and complaints into a source of data from which trends can be extracted and solutions provided.

It is, you see, a life of constant prayer/meditation for me.

Frequently, I find myself chasing my tail but if I’m happy in the moment, let it be so.

Life is not fair – how much do politicians owe their electorate to spread the wealth of those who have successfully built fortunes on predatory business practices?

Is it my responsibility to protect the rights of the easily manipulated, impulsive buyer?

In constant prayer/meditation, I ask myself, “If I don’t protect the species from itself, who will?”

How do I give strength to wanting to live without inflating the artificial sense of self?

What are the eternal/ perpetual/ unanswerable/ philosophical questions that need no further consideration?

Kentucky Borderline

A clean bill of a healthy state of mind.

Thoughts drifting.

Sitting on the elementary schoolyard swing set again, singing “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” with my two schoolmates, Renée and Rita, while we saw who could swing the highest without getting the teacher’s attention.

After recess, returning to the fourth grade classroom and hanging out with the guys who challenged everyone to memorisation games, using pulldown maps of countries, states and land features.

Talking about a new literature one of the guys had discovered, called “science fiction.”

Passing love notes to Renée in class, getting caught and reprimanded by Mrs. Tallman, who threatened to tell my mother, a first-grade teacher in the same school, down in the modern pod section where the open classroom concept was being tested on teachers and students, whether they wanted it or not.

Renée dead a year later from a blood disorder that I assume was leukemia.

Some thoughts repeat themselves, overshadowing memories that might have been important at one time, including spelling, grammar, math, history, social studies and geography.

How many politicians who want to make teaching a minimum-wage job with no benefits have children in public schools?

Could you be convinced to vote for a real person like yourself whose lifestyle matches most of the ones in your voting district and is not tempted by wealth?

That is, if you have the right and privilege to vote, which you exercise, seriously considering the ramifications of your decision.

If such a person would register as a candidate for public office.

Renée’s lively personality left my life when we were ten, 20.8% of my current life.

Now, news of friends’ parents dying is growing common.

In middle age, these are the days of my life.

My parents just called to inform me Mrs Abernathy had died.

John, Carol, Beth and Don – my thoughts and prayers are with you as you begin the grieving process for the death of your mother.  She was a sweet lady, the consummate Mom for all children, loving the neighbourhood kids, church kids, and school kids without showing favourites.

I sit here, remembering her influence on me as I grew up in Colonial Heights – hosting church youth socials in the backyard, supporting Sing Out Kingsport and school musicals – knowing Renée never had the attention from Mrs. Abernathy that I enjoyed throughout my teenage years.

Neither will I have been the type of parent to provide that community support for my children and their friends/schoolmates.

From one end of life to another, death is a constant.

Yet, as much as we know about the whys and wherefores…the loss, the end of forming new memories and absence of wisdom, love and insight from deceased family and friends, young or elderly, change our perspectives.

How does it change my perspective?

Renée has been gone almost 40 years.  Mrs. Abernathy just died.  Mr. Guinn died 10 days ago.  At least one of my schoolmates is dying of metastasised/terminal cancer.

Where is my sense of humour today?

It showed itself in the gift I made for and gave to Dr. Brown this morning, an electronic “Cat of the Year” calendar/video of our cat, Merlin, who has recovered from dental surgery, thanks to the professionalism and joy that Erin and her staff bring to their veterinary occupations.

Humour is an outlet for pain, among other expressions of relief from daily concerns, frustrations and ennui, including relief that pain/worry has ended.

Humour is what I pretend to believe that defines a separation of me from everything else (although I know I am a combination of everything that has passed through this dense set of states of energy called me in this moment).

Merlin ran out of the cage when we got home and looked for dry food to eat, the sign to me he was ready to get away from wet food after a week of healing sore gums.

Debbie and Neal plan to be grandparents in June.

Our oldest nephew marries in July.

Chestney graduates from high school soon.

Our days are numbered – we count up because we never know when to start the countdown.

Renée died at a point that I called 100% of my life up till then.  When I die, I will have lived 100% of my life.

Math.

I will have died somewhere.

Geography.

I will have lived with others in a specific time period.

History.

My name will be recorded in both official birth and death certificates.

Spelling.

I might get an obituary to go along with my birth announcement.

Grammar.

I contributed to sub/cultures during my life and learned from others’ sub/cultural clues.

Social studies.

That’s all I know.

All I need to know.

The rest is a joke waiting to be told from a curious perspective while walking down that Blue Highway I call my life.

Survivor: Real-Life Classroom

From my folks, both educators:

Have you heard about the next planned “Survivor” show?

Three businessmen and three businesswomen will be dropped in an elementary school classroom for 1 school year.

Every business person will be provided with a copy of his/her school district’s curriculum, and a class of 20-25 students.

Every class will have a minimum of five learning-disabled children, three with A.D.H.D., one gifted child, and two who speak limited English. Three students will be labeled with severe behavior problems.

Every business person must complete lesson plans at least 3 days in advance, with annotations for curriculum objectives and modify, organize, or create their materials accordingly. They will be required to teach students, handle misconduct, implement technology, document attendance, write referrals, correct homework, make bulletin boards, compute grades, complete report cards, document benchmarks, communicate with parents, and arrange parent conferences. They must also stand in their doorway between class changes to monitor the hallways.

In addition, they will complete fire drills, tornado drills, and [Code Red] drills for shooting attacks each month.

They must attend workshops, faculty meetings, and attend curriculum development meetings. They must also tutor students who are behind and strive to get their 2 non-English speaking children proficient enough to take the State Mandated Tests.  If they are sick or having a bad day they must not let it show.

Every day they must incorporate reading, writing, math, science, and social studies into the program. They must maintain discipline and provide an educationally stimulating environment to motivate students at all times.  If all students do not wish to cooperate, work, or learn, the teacher will be held responsible.

If not involved in extracurricular activities with the students (out-of-town sporting events, math tournaments, spelling bees, etc.), the business people will only have access to the public golf course on the weekends, but with their new salary, they will not be able to afford it.  There will be no access to vendors who want to take them out to lunch, and lunch will be limited to thirty minutes, which is not counted as part of their work day.  The business people will be permitted to use a student restroom, as long as another survival candidate can supervise their class.

If the copier is operable, they may make copies of necessary materials before, or after, school. However, they cannot surpass their monthly limit of copies.  The business people must continually advance their education, at their expense, and on their own time.

The winner of this Season of Survivor will be allowed to return to his/her job.

FINIS