Saturday, May 19, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Obviously
there are instances where physical swords are currently and have been
throughout history wielded unwisely, for reasons I do not write in this
blog about, it does not contain a personal opinion about fighting,
combat, or war. Also, I do not deny the potential negative impact of
war metaphor (with adults and especially with children) nor do I deny
the positive (with children, especially with adults). I do not intend to
outline a debate on just war. With all political indignation,
pacifism, and Freudian analysis aside, I wrote this here bit, inspired
by my nephew. Please read it.
I was catching up on some vids stored on my cellular telephone. One in particular I watched several times over. It was one I had shot weeks back somewhat nonchalantly, while checking the old missed call/text log on a Sunday afternoon. Nephew (Brady) was running around while I was circulating with my feet planted in the grass, legs wrapped around a daisy (green plastic disk in shape of daisy petals) at the end of a rope hung from a ficus (benjamina) limb. Nephew was running in circles trying to catch me with a sword in hand. All thewhile, he was insisting on what I couldn’t gather until he tripped, became aggravated, and I finally stopped laughing, circling away from him, at last listening to what he had to say.
I was catching up on some vids stored on my cellular telephone. One in particular I watched several times over. It was one I had shot weeks back somewhat nonchalantly, while checking the old missed call/text log on a Sunday afternoon. Nephew (Brady) was running around while I was circulating with my feet planted in the grass, legs wrapped around a daisy (green plastic disk in shape of daisy petals) at the end of a rope hung from a ficus (benjamina) limb. Nephew was running in circles trying to catch me with a sword in hand. All thewhile, he was insisting on what I couldn’t gather until he tripped, became aggravated, and I finally stopped laughing, circling away from him, at last listening to what he had to say.
“You need a sword,”
he said
“Why?” I asked, somewhat befuddled, defiant.
“Because, you need to fight,” he stated, matter of fact'ly.
Tree’s leaves are green.
Green jello has pears in it (and a lil’ cottage cheese). And, you need a sword [Uncle Alan] because
you need to fight. He didn’t actually
state the former two Sunday afternoon truths, but as I watched the vid and pondered
his logic, the one statement he made outright seemed to most obviously follow
the two that I had fabricated. What I mean
is, the first reason why I was enraptured by the vid, and what I cherish about
my nephew Brady or any/every child for that matter, is the simplicity behind
their reasoning. In other words, there were
no secondary arguments to defend his primary insistence upon my needing a
sword. There was one reason, “because
you need to fight.” Period.
The second reason I loved this vid was due to the direct
connection in Brady's mind with a sword as an object, and fighting, an action. He doesn’t necessarily yet understand the
makeup of a traditional sword, how metal as a state of matter can be malleable,
shapeable, hardening, temperature permitting, potentially with sharpened edges,
for practical use when whittling, dicing vegetables (or fruits), or in hand-to-hand
combat. He doesn’t yet understand that
in this world we don’t always get our way and if/when we absolutely must get
our way for certain reasons, say defense of justice, protection of peace
(purposefully vague, subject to interpretation), or to obtain certain items
that we are in no way capable of obtaining without fighting it away from some
other body…or does he understand these things? Regardless of
whether he does or not comprehend why we fight, and at that with a sword, he remains
a child (capable of err and very soon capable of accountability but not yet as
far as I’m a judge of such things (though he talks extremely well for a massive
two year old bulldozer)). And as a
child, with tears he forced a sword into his Uncle’s hands, mine, and told me I
needed it because I need to fight. Agreed. I do, I strongly believe that
I do. I need a sword because I need to
fight. Period.
Finally,
in life there are those who go through it all for all the reasons
they are told to go through it all and there are those who put a foot
down, have a long thought on the potential good that can arise when
minds' give sway to heart, when ideas are really thought out, and money
gets put where the mouth is, and dear mosses when pages get torn out of
“my mother’s hymn book” (feast in heaven, john r. cash) and voice boxes
start tintabulating like all God-given gumption, “in his love abiding,
and in him confiding,
just like a tree that’s planted by the water, I shall not be moved.” Period.
You need a sword because you need to fight. Period.
Well said Brady.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Mid Week Thoughts or The Best and The Worst
Wandering this thing called life.
What an adventure it can be.
I have the best and the worst.
My days are filled with the youthfulness
of my new love, Jodie Isabella.
I think of her and what she needs.
She has brought the joy back to our home.
We were sad as can be over here.
Darkness covered our days and nights.
She has opened our souls to the brightness that was hiding.
She brings the thoughts of possibilities.
In doing this, she also reminds me of how old I am.
The what if's come to me.
I worry about the cats health.
They are getting older.
My other dog, Maddy Jean, is almost nine.
What would Jodie do without her.
What would Maddy Jean now do without Jodie.
Jodie has brought Maddy Jean back.
Not that she was gone but she was so sad.
Now, she plays all day in between naps.
Me, I'm trying to keep up.
Acting like I'm in my thirty's or forty's, only I'm not.
I finally had to go to the not so popular Dr.'s office.
Not the mini clinic like I normally do.
And, by normally I mean when I have to.
Nope, my old damage body had demanded that
I visit with the professionals who ask all sort of questions.
Always the shock of being in a coma and sepsis.
Question after question.
I
guess they are surprised to have me just mention it like
it was a cold or a previous broken arm.
Not that big a deal.
Yes, it happened and now let's talk about what I came in for.
Do they ever want to run tests on me.
Oh, the joys of getting old.
So, there you have the best and the worst.
The possibilities are endless.
So, I will enjoy my freshness and
wait to hear what those professionals have in store for me.
Nothing like being tested on .. been there and done that.
Oh, and the weather .. it's rainy wet out with snow arriving soon.
And, again I think .. the good and the bad.
I will play in it and driving to puppy class will be hell.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
That''s Demoralization
Today I participated in an annual ritual that is perhaps among the most hated activities in my life: swimsuit shopping. My mother is an excellent seamstress, and yet even she struggles to craft the perfect suit. With this knowledge in mind, I find it peculiar that the modern American fashion industry has chosen to populate the market with what can only be described as village idiots.
My angst has less to do with my physique than it has to do with the impossibility of adequately addressing simple things like torso length. Note to swimsuit designers: it is not beyond the realm of possibility that a women would be both tall and thick. I found a plethora of suits that were wider in the hips & bust - and yet the length of the torso either left my breasts or my bum utterly exposed. I find this unacceptable for family vacations. Additionally - those of us who have surpassed the median American height of 5'5" are not all plagued by eating disorders. I found a number (albeit a lesser number than the thick suits) of long-torso suits, each of which may have nicely covered a thigh, but little more.
I also think it's inconceivably rude that there is precious little variation in age-appropriate swimsuits. The aforementioned idiots must have failed to observe that there are several stages of life, stylistically speaking, between puberty and menopause. Tours through Old Navy, Target, Kohls, Macy's, among other venues failed to reveal any concept of transitional ages. I can only assume that the designers, in their infinite wisdom, have learned that by the end of the shopping experience a woman will be worn into utter haggard, premature aging and thusly identify with the matronly suits that are slight degrees removed from a floral burqa.
Anyway, stay tuned for another post on how I was re-moralized by a fantastic week! Until soon lovely readers.......
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
story of mybooob
When I got trouble scare in my mind ,I was so nervous and terrifying for my future but every ways still have given occasion for me myself ,brought a while in my middle destination.Actually tomorrow will be nearly get indeed but everything have been change in my ways, but greedy motivation and inspiration always bring me to be bigger in my ease way to get some lucks, thanks for every person who has been giving me motivation and inspiration to get my future , and thanks for my near friends who always give me some ways to get better than ever ...............................
Just as important for me Thanks for all who ever in closed in my mind , you are all my beloved in my heart ......thanks to all member in everywhere ..
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
As I Grew Older
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
~Langston Hughes
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Dead zone
How are we supposed to act, or feel, when people die?
Our reflexive response when someone tells us of a death is, “I’m sorry to hear that.” We say this whether or not we’re actually sorry to hear it. It just seems like the polite thing to say.
We may not be sorry, though I assume what we’re really saying is, we’re sorry that somebody we know is experiencing a loss. And if it’s somebody we knew and liked who died, then we genuinely feel some degree of grief.
It’s pretty much accepted that you’re not allowed to be happy when somebody dies, unless it’s someone despicable like Hitler or Bin Laden or Urban Meyer. (for all you wearing blue jean shorts, that was just a joke.)
One of my professors from UGA, Conrad Fink, died recently. Now, I didn’t know him well at all, but I knew a few people who did, and they always spoke highly of him. I took one journalism class from him, and a few things stood out in my memory:
• He would throw erasers at me when I was drifting off to sleep or not paying attention in his class, which was often.
• He told a highly entertaining story about when, during his days as a reporter, he had a testy encounter with the King of Borneo. I don’t know nor care if it was true, but it was a great story.
• He always said to write for the “Kansas City milkman”, which meant keep your stories simple and understandable so even the least educated among us could enjoy them. I guess today he might say to write them for people who watch Jersey Shore.
• He pulled me into his office one day and told me that he thought I was the best writer in his class (is this bragging? Probably so), but that I didn’t have any “fire in my belly” and I should forget journalism and go somewhere like Coca-Cola and get a job in the public relations department. I was offended and angered by this and went on to have a lucrative 10-year career in newspapers, which ended when I went to Coca-Cola and got a job in their public relations department.
So even though I didn’t know Professor Fink that well or for that long, he did have an impact on my life, and I did note his death with some sadness.
Then recently, another person from my past died, and this was somebody I didn’t care for too much. He was generally not a nice person, thought most people thought he was. I found him to be dishonest, manipulative and mean-spirited. Maybe, as hard as this is to fathom, he just didn’t like me, so I never got to see whatever good side he might have had.
So while I didn’t pop open a cold bottle of Pink Champale when I learned he had died, I didn’t feel particularly sad, either. And I didn’t feel bad about not feeling sad. Maybe this makes me a bad person. I just don’t know.
The idea of death used to freak me out. I can remember going to funeral homes when some great-aunt or another died, and my mother would go to the casket and proclaim, “Oh, she looks so pretty!” Uh, hello, mom, no she doesn’t. Aunt Jenny is DEAD! She does not look pretty. She looks stuffed.
In The Return of the King, Gandalf tells one of the hobbits, “Death is just another part of the journey.” Of course, that was easy for him to say, since he had already died and been resurrected by that time. Oh, and he was a wizard. But I guess if that’s the case, we should just look at it as a chance to wish people well on the rest of their journey, and if we didn’t like them, hope we don’t run into them again when our time comes.
Our reflexive response when someone tells us of a death is, “I’m sorry to hear that.” We say this whether or not we’re actually sorry to hear it. It just seems like the polite thing to say.
We may not be sorry, though I assume what we’re really saying is, we’re sorry that somebody we know is experiencing a loss. And if it’s somebody we knew and liked who died, then we genuinely feel some degree of grief.
It’s pretty much accepted that you’re not allowed to be happy when somebody dies, unless it’s someone despicable like Hitler or Bin Laden or Urban Meyer. (for all you wearing blue jean shorts, that was just a joke.)
One of my professors from UGA, Conrad Fink, died recently. Now, I didn’t know him well at all, but I knew a few people who did, and they always spoke highly of him. I took one journalism class from him, and a few things stood out in my memory:
• He would throw erasers at me when I was drifting off to sleep or not paying attention in his class, which was often.
• He told a highly entertaining story about when, during his days as a reporter, he had a testy encounter with the King of Borneo. I don’t know nor care if it was true, but it was a great story.
• He always said to write for the “Kansas City milkman”, which meant keep your stories simple and understandable so even the least educated among us could enjoy them. I guess today he might say to write them for people who watch Jersey Shore.
• He pulled me into his office one day and told me that he thought I was the best writer in his class (is this bragging? Probably so), but that I didn’t have any “fire in my belly” and I should forget journalism and go somewhere like Coca-Cola and get a job in the public relations department. I was offended and angered by this and went on to have a lucrative 10-year career in newspapers, which ended when I went to Coca-Cola and got a job in their public relations department.
So even though I didn’t know Professor Fink that well or for that long, he did have an impact on my life, and I did note his death with some sadness.
Then recently, another person from my past died, and this was somebody I didn’t care for too much. He was generally not a nice person, thought most people thought he was. I found him to be dishonest, manipulative and mean-spirited. Maybe, as hard as this is to fathom, he just didn’t like me, so I never got to see whatever good side he might have had.
So while I didn’t pop open a cold bottle of Pink Champale when I learned he had died, I didn’t feel particularly sad, either. And I didn’t feel bad about not feeling sad. Maybe this makes me a bad person. I just don’t know.
The idea of death used to freak me out. I can remember going to funeral homes when some great-aunt or another died, and my mother would go to the casket and proclaim, “Oh, she looks so pretty!” Uh, hello, mom, no she doesn’t. Aunt Jenny is DEAD! She does not look pretty. She looks stuffed.
In The Return of the King, Gandalf tells one of the hobbits, “Death is just another part of the journey.” Of course, that was easy for him to say, since he had already died and been resurrected by that time. Oh, and he was a wizard. But I guess if that’s the case, we should just look at it as a chance to wish people well on the rest of their journey, and if we didn’t like them, hope we don’t run into them again when our time comes.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
This is a pretty pessimistic post... So, if you're in a great mood... don't read it if you don't want your mood to drop... and if you're already in a crap-mood... well, I don't think you're going to be happier... Here goes...
Love is an over used word.
You can love a person, true enough, you can love a pet also... you can also love Stacy's new bag, or Jack's new ride. Also, the weather, that cake you had at the restaurant your family loves, and what your hair is currently deciding it wants to do.
Do you really love these things? Probably not, you just really like them... though, for lack of a better word, you love them. It used to be that you would only say that you loved a person.... and even then, you said it and you meant it.
As I think about the people in my house, there are four who live there currently, I say 'i love you' to two of them. And it's true, I love my parents. It doesn't, mean, however, that I don't love my sister. I just don't say the words. I don't know why, I think I used to, but I don't anymore... And my friend, Sir, who lives at my house says he loves me - I think it's the love best friends have, that he reminds me he has for me, if it's not, I'm oblivious... but my response to him nine out of ten times is 'I know', the other percentage is online, where I just respond with a smiley face. I friend-love him, too, but I don't say it....
Why? Because I think the word has been cheapened over the years...
And as the months get colder, and I hear the word love thrown around, all I can think about is how I am alone. How I have all kinds of family-love and friend-love to go around, but when I wake up at four:fifty-seven, that sentiment from home won't wrap it's arms around me and ask me if I'm okay and continue to keep me warm at night.
I just want to be held, I think, and to have my own guy to say 'i love you' to... that's it...
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
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