Yet Another Workday

She sat down with her friends.  “We are Womyn — hear us roar!!!” she proclaimed to the rushing waters of the river in the bottom of the canyon below them.

They rested for a moment, some taking swigs from their collapsible, BPA-free drinking jugs, some chewing on energy bars and some photographing their friends.

Palatia looked at her mobile phone.  “Does anyone have a recent photo of Ellen?  This ol’ talk show still photo doesn’t do her justice.”

The tinest piece of lint floated out of a space between Palatia’s thumb and her mobile phone.

The lint followed the invisible, random path of static electricity, air currents, solar radiation and macromolecules suspended in the dry air.

None of the day hikers knew what the lint was doing there, let alone why.

The lint had no discernible thought patterns to speak of.

But the lint was the most important link between that moment and a moment hundreds of years later.

Palatia pushed earbuds millimetres from her eardrums, cranked up some retro k.d. lang tune on her mobile phone and stood up.  “Bag your trash!  Pack your gear!  Let’s roll!”

The lint was dragged along with the hikers for a while before a cool breeze from the valley pushed up over the canyon rim and turned the lint in another direction.

History was in the making.

Palatia was a key component of the cogs and wheels of social change on the day she decided to call in sick and skip her shift at the fast food factory labeled “Grab-n-Go Burgers, 24/7.”

The deliverer of a piece of lint.

Lint that carried a genetic message.

A message intended for someone not yet “born,” the culmination of years of research, a being not quite any one species, neither completely organic nor completely electromechanical.

The lint didn’t earn a wage, didn’t pay taxes, didn’t travel roads or depend on national defense to perform its function.

The lint didn’t breathe, it didn’t eat, it didn’t earn an education, it didn’t produce heirs and it didn’t vote.

Yet the lint was more important than all the billions of people who earn a wage, pay taxes, travel roads, depend on national defense to perform their function, breathe, eat, earn an education, produce heirs and vote.

Events millions of years later in a single galaxy were traced to the piece of lint.

The lint, though inanimate, was analysed, idolised and denigrated as if it was once alive.

What if a cloud had obscured the Sun from a group of hikers one day?

What if it had rained?

More than one “if” fills volumes of historic pondering about a piece of lint.

We call them genetic markers.

The lint called itself nothing.

Yet here it is, studied as if it had intent in at least one “if.”

All because a worker in a minimum-wage job decided to tell her shift supervisor “fuck you” and take the day off, absolutely no thought about changing the course of galactic history.

Simple scenario, you ask, too simple?

The truth is plainer than you think it is.

What I went through with my mother in-law in 1997…

…I go through with my mother in 2012.

My mother in-law was 80 years of age when her husband died.  My mother was 78 when her husband died.

In both cases, as in any longterm relationship between two people, the survivor learns new forms of daily decisionmaking.

My mother in-law depended on her now-deceased son and living daughter (my wife) to help her make decisions after their father died.

My mother depends on my sister and me to help her make decisions after our father died.

When my father in-law died, my wife was almost 35.

When my father died, I was 50.

In between: fifteen years of wisdom gathered through life experiences, some shared between us, some accumulated individually.

Fifteen years of social changes/progress, including new technology (think about how much the Internet has changed in 15 years), new businesses, failed businesses, climate change, fashion cycles, pop music tastes, entertainment choices, medical science advances, etc.

Are we more or less tolerant of Iranian atheists/humanists?  Liberal Quakers?  Non-heterosexual relationships?  Physical/mental challenges?  The unemployed?  Cute cat videos?

Is there room in your life for a late night TV talk show host with a robotic skeleton and cloth-horse costumed actor(s)?

Would there have been such a creature 15 years ago?  Could he have been a reformed Scottish alcoholic comedian?  Do such creatures exist in real life today?

I learned a new phrase today: conformity to tomorrow (from book, “Without Apology: The Heroes, the Heritage, and the Hope of Liberal Quakerism” by Chuck Fager [which I read, quickly, in the book section of Unclaimed Baggage Center]):

“Conformity to tomorrow: …consists in a moderate opposition to the existing political power, together with the espousal of the ideas and doctrines of the most sensitive, the most visionary, the most appealing trend in society. This is a trend which, from the sociological point of view, is already dominant, and is the one which should normally be expected to win out….In this way, the political stand has the appearance of being independent, whereas in reality it is the expression of an avant-garde conformism.” (Jacques Ellul, a French Reformed theologian and sociologist, 1972A, p. 123.)

I would toss musical acts like Rage Against The Machine, political groups like the Tea Party and Occupy Wall Street, and economic movements like the EU handling of the PIIGS into the realm of avant-garde conformism, as well as most official social protest groups not included in terrorist lists for “wanted: dead or alive” drone attacks.

We always have to have enemies toward whom we formally direct our confusion/fear-based hatred.

But, as usual, I digress.

Earlier today, at a roadside restaurant called Carlile’s in Scottsboro, Alabama, a town where a plentiful plethora of people met for camaraderie and shopping bargains, my wife and I held a wonderful discussion with Autumn, mother of three boys aged 7, 6 and 2, the first taking the role of the responsible eldest (“Mom told you not to do that”), the second a quiet child who puts up with the physical shenanigans of his two brothers, and the youngest, the rowdiest one of the bunch.

Autumn, raised by her grandparents, lost them both nine months apart five years ago.  The emptiness inside is slowly, very slowly, wrapped up in new friendships and new experiences we call the passage of time.

When she wants to turn to her grandparents for guidance, they are not there and she feels an instant pang of pain.

Although she has a beautiful tattoo of a heart on her arm where every one of her three boys first rested and for whom she tattooed their names, she would never tattoo the names of her grandparents or the name of her husband on her body because the reminder of their losses, in plain ink visible under skin, would be too much to bear (beauty is not the only thing that’s skin-deep).

She, like all parents, believes deep down that her kids will outlive her, their futures bright.

To those who’ve lost their children to congenital conditions, I give you my sympathy.  No one wants to survive the death of offspring with a promising future.

My wife outlived her parents and her only sibling.

I have outlived my father but not my mother and my only sibling.

As this storyline grows more complicated, my life and the lives of my family members are intricately intertwined.

Not a loss, not a gain nor a zero-sum game is life.

The sets of states of energy are constantly in flux.

Every waking moment is an opportunity to learn.

Is new technology an enabler of your relatively expensive entertainment addictions or an avenue of opportunity for increased wealth?  Does it increase the credit or debit side of your account ledger?  In other words, do you go into debt to play games and watch videos?

These and other questions lead us to thought trails about the costs and benefits of a globally-connected economy, where plenty of leisure is available to the masses.

If this laptop computer and these blog entries are using up CPU cycles for the sole purpose of entertaining myself, is that okay?

What about the urgency to act, the desire to change our society significantly so that spare CPU cycles are used to ensure survival of Earth-based lifeforms here and elsewhere as long as potential energy states are available to support them in this part of the universe?

Does it matter if the majority of our species believes in self-centered activities?

What are a few decades compared to 1000 years?

What is 1000 years compared to 200 million?

Can we really know the future, no matter how much we bunch together to conform to one vision knowingly, unknowingly, voluntarily and/or coercively?

All for the sake of family, whatever that means to you/me/us?

Domestic quarrels

Domestically, how many entertainers whose salaries put them in a category called the 1% wrap themselves up in “Occupy Wall Street” symbology, bashing others for proudly showing and protecting their wealth, when the entertainers themselves have financial advisors and accountants setting up tax shelters and foundations to protect the entertainers’ wealth?

I watched a few minutes of…

Wait a minute.  I was about to comment about an entertainer whose whole purpose in life is to get rich riling up people as they watch his show on TV.

If I mention his name and what he said (making fun of another person’s body weight, one of the weakest attack methods in debating), then I promoted him and his show.

Instead, let me practice the method of “water on a duck’s back” and return to storytelling of my own, a time 1000 years from now when all of this, though entertaining to me in the moment, is forgotten.

…while watching my neighbours rush up and down our quiet suburban street in their motor vehicles like they’re running from a pack of rabid dogs.

What is lambda over pi?

In the part of the world where I burn fossil fuel to push a four-wheeled vehicle over paved roads, I often encounter math geeks proudly displaying an unusual symbol that I can only describe as lowercase lambda over pi.

These geeks refer to themselves by a moniker that makes even less sense than the symbol — the Crimson Tide — expressing their sheer delight that math equations equate to broken bodies on a field of play, preferably of young men on the other side of the line, some on “offense,” some on “defense,” and some on “special teams.”

Where did this mathematical symbol originate and what does it mean, precisely:

Beware Greeks geeks bearing gifts — that’s all I have to say!

Finally, a quiet nod to a humble man who preferred anonymity for taking one step on behalf of his species in appreciation for the math, engineering, science and technology that allowed him to put his bootprints on a natural satellite circling our planet.

Thanks to the kind folks at the Main Dish in Meridianville, Alabama, who served up a delectable meal for my wife and me and told us about a show on the tellie called Restaurant Impossible which features the family and decor changes that transformed an old ice cream parlour interiour into an elegant roadside steakhouse.  Casey — blonde hair or brunette — your service was perfect.

There once was a dog named Vetch

While the Venezuelan government decides whether to threaten the U.S. and/or British intelligence agencies for the recent destruction of vital equipment meant to scare Central and South American countries into submission, the Association for the Assertion of Ascension assessed the accuracy of counterterrorism techniques taught in typing pools.

Very cool.

Now, a word from our sponsor:

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As you’re probably aware, we’ve provided surveillance data to governments around the world for years.

Why, just this week we were asked by your government to plant a person in each showing of a film about what the world will be like if your current chief executive is reelected.  These casual observers have been capturing facial snapshots of all the audience members, evaluating emotions displayed during specific scenes in the film, and recording private conversations they carry on while entering the theatre, watching the film and exiting in order to ascertain the range of voice intonations that indicate shock, surprise, agreement and/or controlled rage.

In other words, does a documentary like this simply serve to reinforce beliefs, strongly or weakly held?  Can it actually change voting patterns?

In addition, we use DMV data of the audience’s vehicles to gather property ownership, tax history and election data captured in private voting booths.

Select members of the audience were tagged with waterproof audiovisual and GPS data collection devices that send information on an hourly basis for up to 48 hours and then self-destruct, resembling bird droppings, splattered food and other innocuous substances often found on clothing and motor vehicles.

By determining the film’s effect on the actual voting and shopping behaviours of our government’s “customers,” we help keep the local economy running at its current level of inefficiency in order to destroy the economies of rival governments in other parts of the world.

As you can see, we have our fingers on the pulse and our probes on the thoughts of any and every customer you can imagine, from pet spiders to neglected great-aunts.

Give us a call today because we already know your business is about to go under due to the services we provided to your rivals who, for now, are one step ahead of you.

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Don’t delay! Time is a commodity you can’t afford to lose when price is no object!

We return you to the limerick contest currently in progress:

There once was a dog named Vetch
Who played a mean game of Fetch;
His owner, though blind
Was not very kind —
Ordered his dog to catch, then retch.

Back to the storyline currently taking place in the unmapped borough of Progress, Ecuador

An insider inside the insidious secret buildings of an unnamed organisation shared secret inside information with me secretly inside a restaurant where the old-fashioned switcherooski trick of placing a USB stick inside the secret sauce of a sweet dish delivered a soothing sensation.

In other words, I learned why children in certain neighbourhoods are encouraged to open the valves on fire hydrants.

For years, the unnamed organisation has tracked vehicles by placing pedestrian tracking devices on them — namely, fluorescent dyes and radiative markers — that allowed surveillance personnel to follow a quickly-fading trail of vehicles passing through these uncertain, certain neighbourhoods.

With GPS trackers, the ability to tail a suspect has changed.

However, the pedestrian methods still work.

So, yesterday, in cooperation with local unnamed authorities, I placed a few untraceable chemicals in my power washer fluid so that vehicles passing through my neighbourhood and driving through the liquid crossing the road in front of my house can provide backup data for the GPS trackers.

Also, some parents who have signed on for “Track my kids at any cost” program will be given the appropriate data to approach their children about their unregulated behaviour patterns.

Needless to say, military institutes for the improvement of teenagers have, as usual, tapped into the database to refine their prediction algorithms for future enrollment preparation.

Meanwhile, Central and South American countries are deciding whether to prove once and for all that the UK, with its depraved and decadent royal family members, is ripe for a full-scale invasion, aided by years of secret infiltration of British organisations through liberal immigration policies.

In the old days, invasions were carried out by a large armada.

Those days are behind us.

These days, invasions are decades-long in implementation, ensuring that the invaded country never sees what happened to it.

“Divide and conquer” is meticulously carried out in excruciating detail, through propaganda campaigns delivered by organisations within the invaded country itself, by using subliminal messaging of the highest order (disguised in the lowest common denominator).

Common courtesy requires that I tell you no more.

Besides, I accidentally swallowed the USB stick in the styrofoam container of delicious leftovers.

Nothing like a normal bodily function to delay the release of more data, such as what you were doing taking a shortcut through a specific neighbourhood and why Ecuador has more positive press than a country that should be basking in the warmth of Olympic fever but, instead, was brought to its virtual international knees by the simple act of diplomatic immunity for a simple whistleblower.

Horatio Hornblower would be proud.

When you have a whole species dangling from your fingers like marionettes on the small stage of the theatre of life, for your sole soul entertainment, life is good.

Laura lost 45 pounds and Jenn continues to celebrate her good health after a debilitating accident.  Life is better.

13,779 days to go…

Sigh…do you ever get bored with your species?

The same habits, day after day?

Eat, sleep, etc.?

As a comedic storyteller, I choose to entertain myself here in a common language of our species.

I suppose my thoughts aren’t much different.

For instance, what is hair?  I wandered between two discount hair cutting joints today — Cuts By Us and Great Clips — picking one that had fewer customers in the moment.

I suppose, for all that it matters, I could cut my own hair, not tied to fashion but dressing in common fashions of this time habitually anyway.

Maybe a mullet haircut, clipping the hair I can reach and letting the part I can’t reach grow long and unkempt.

Or a buzzcut, using an electric razor to keep my hair cut flush with my scalp.

Instead, I wander over to one of the three nearest hair/beauty shoppes (the other being Walmart) to reduce my travel time (yes, I drive a mile to get my hair cut, as concerned about caring for the environment as the next average person with a motorised transportation device on four tyres and extra cash to convert to motor fuel, rather than walk).

I am spoiled but not over-spoiled.

The 15-day land/cruise tour with Holland America taught me that much.

I’m not used to people waiting on me 24 hours a day, sleeping nearby and ready to jump up in the middle of the night to care for me.

I’m used to people working in 24-hour convenience stores, half-awake nearby and ready to ring up my middle-of-the-night food purchases without a care for me.

I live in a cabin in the woods, tending my thoughts like tending a garden, watching a whole galaxy swirl around me/you/us on a planet in a spiral arm, enjoying this brief moment of planetary/solar system calm, completely spoiled by the luxury of our surroundings, no matter how bleak they may appear in comparison to other parts of this planet.

We just don’t know how lucky we are, spoiling our environment to increase our relative luxuries.

Should I care?

Should you?

Would it matter if our actions today created detrimental effects 100 years from now when most of us are gone (argon, the gas, still around either way)?

There’s no guarantee I’ll be alive tomorrow, the next day or the next decade.

Should I care about preserving the environment, or should I say, “Hey, eat, drink and be merry!”?

I think I’ll continue to conserve my resources in case I live a few decades longer than this moment.

I have no legacy to protect.

Just a storyline to maintain.

I need space for this virtual pen and paper to write these blog entries.

Sharing time with my wife, family, friends, pets and wild animals/plants around us.

Tomorrow: 13,778 days to go, or so it seems…

Are we alone?

Talking with a friend in south Florida about some of her clients, one of whom she nicknamed “Sybil,” and, for the protection of many I won’t detail here (but suffice it to hear that multiple personality disorder may be more myth than fact, except in rare cases like this one), I wonder what to do next.

My grandparents built a house in North Port, Florida, in 1964.

So did my next-door neighbours (built a house in Big Cove, Alabama, in 1964, that is).

My grandparents and my father are dead.

So, too, one of my next-door neighbours.

My mother considers selling the house in Florida.

The surviving next-door neighbour was convinced by his real estate agent to sell his song for a dance, or less, and he did.

From the death of his spouse to the sale of his house in less than a month.

Makes me question the integrity of the real estate agent (the agency is Keller Williams — more on that later) and/or the sanity of my neighbour.

My mother has been advised not to make major life decisions until six months after her husband is dead.

Someone didn’t tell my neighbour the same thing.

Sure, he wants to be closer to his children and grandchildren.

I know he’ll be lonely without his dear wife.

My wife and I will miss seeing her in her yard, dressed in long-sleeved shirt and long pants during the heat of summer, a beekeeper’s headgear protecting her from sun and insects.

I am winding down from a once-in-a-decade holiday trip with my wife a few months after my father died, after which I spent a week with my mother and sister going through the house in Florida where my grandparents savoured their retirement years year-round and my parents enjoyed their retirement years as snowbirds.

Meanwhile, people have killed each other by the hundreds, if not thousands, thousands of babies have been born, businesses opened/closed and other aspects of our planet’s lifecycle — killing and eating each other to survive — moving along as it always has and always will.

In the meantime (why don’t I say “in the happytime,” instead?), I examine historical documents to prepare myself for a future filled with humour, satire, comedy, tragedy and words.

Last night, I had a dream.

My mother, sister and I sat down at a large table.  Two or three other large tables were spread around the restaurant where people were sitting down in order to get a good view of Dad opening his birthday presents.  Several people walked up and described the special, unique gift they had brought/made and hidden in a back room so my father wouldn’t see when he walked in for the surprise birthday party.

I looked through the gifts, marveling at the personal touches so many people had put into their gifts, feeling a sense of anticipation rise in me at seeing Dad come back and open so he would know how special he was to so many in his life.

Then, the realization of reality crept into my dream world and I woke up shaking, my neck and back muscles tense, my face twitching.

Dang it, I miss Dad!

My subculture wants me to believe Dad is out there somewhere watching over me (i.e., heaven) but I don’t care about some imaginary space that defies gravity.

I want to share time and space here with my father now, talk about the U.S. Navy material I found in his father’s (my grandfather’s) sea chest, ask him what he remembers about growing up during WWII, go fishing one more time, hit golf balls into the park and retrieve them, look at new sports cars and wonder how people can afford them.

But life doesn’t work that way.

We are born, maybe get married, maybe have children, and then we die.

I have lived into that part of the lifecycle that I never wanted to face again after my best friend/girlfriend died when we were 10 years old.

Forty years later, I’m facing the same emotions I couldn’t handle as a preteen, when I dove into my Boy Scout training, schoolwork and marching/concert/jazz band practice to hide the mess of thoughts inside me.

Where do I hide now?

Am I alone as I feel?

Do I even exist?

Does any of this matter?

Today is an imaginary time period created to account for the rotation of Earth on its axis while tilted.

Tomorrow is another such imaginary time period.

I shall let my imagination take me into a world of stories where writers pluck plots and characters, harvesting them at just the right time to entertain themselves (and, perhaps, others later).

Storytelling is my comfort food, a habit I turned to when I was 10 and didn’t have anyone to share the pain of losing my girlfriend with, how I compensated for the fact that the universe is neutral to my existence as a temporary conflux of states of energy.

In the near-term (both time and space), we appear to exist through experimentation from birth that shows an environment of similar groups of states of energy responding to us.

From a great distance, we do not exist — we do not move this planet through our individual actions, although collectively we influence the condition of the planetary environment around us.

Most of us only care about our local conditions, our circle of influence.

But if I don’t care, if I see conditions — past, present and future — that are, practically, independent of the existence of me, what then?

The story continues, with or without me…

Life on the USS Casa Grande, continued

The following pages were clipped together in a file folder alongside other wartime material inside my grandfather’s sea chest/foot locker.

NOTE: The cultural references and social mores of the time (1944) are not politically correct today.