I recently watched a documentary that a son made about the 50 year marriage of his mother and father. They lived in a conservative town in the mid-west. The film was originally intended, in some way, to honor the relationship, it’s enduring, and endearing qualities. It’s success, but also it’s ups and downs. The son was looking for honesty, but expecting a loving and honorable relationship he could illuminate for the world, and for himself. It would also serve the purpose of validating his own commitment to his wife and family, his own chosen road, and reinforcing for himself that, even through the hard times, he made the right choice in his own life. That choice being ‘to do as his parents had done’. And to do it well. He knew his parent’s marriage was not perfect, but he did view it as remarkably ordinary, and although it was something he feared for himself, it was also something he actually wanted for himself.
The son conducted on-camera interviews with his mother and father over an extended period of time. He interviewed his two sisters as well. During the making of the documentary his mother became suddenly ill and died within three weeks of contracting the illness. To everyone’s shock and surprise his father, during the making of the documentary, married his former secretary just three months after the death of his wife. To make matters worse, the father emptied, and moved out of, the home where they’d lived all those years and moved to Florida to start his new life. The family and friends were stunned, to say the least.
Everything changed for them in a heartbeat.
I work with developmentally disabled adults, conducting a recreation, socialization and mobility class on a medical unit of a large campus. The unit is a satellite existence unto itself. Some really good people make it their home away from home for 8 hours every day. I work part time, but participate in, and absorb, the climate, and the social dynamics of the workplace. Dedicated, hard working and loving people populate the unit. But there have been some rough stretches, as there is with any family or group of people. There had been measurable tension on the unit for a long time. It revolved around a particular individual. It involved a social duplicity, and an underhandedness, and it was affecting, and infecting, the whole environment. Eventually some young, and very courageous, staff members dealt with the situation, directly, and through the proper channels. I provided them support. It was not easy for them. It never is for someone who puts themselves on the line. But it was for the good of the whole, and the situation got resolved. One day the tension was palpable. The next day it was gone, as a great sigh of relief rose from the very foundation of the building.
Everything changed in a heartbeat.
My brother died a year ago. He was the latest in a long line of people I have loved and lost. That is not unique to me. Most people lose people along the way. It happens. We don’t like it, but we make the best of it. We find ways to make the loss tolerable, the pain less painful, the memory more comforting. But the loss remains, nevertheless.
My brother was here. And then he was not here.
Everything changed in a heartbeat.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Social Duplicity
There is a pervasive social duplicity that is practiced far too matter-of-factly. Duplicity, itself, is by no means, an endearing quality to begin with, but even less so when it is wielded so comfortably, and so cleanly, among family, friends and acquaintances. It is seen most profoundly in government. It moves through our work and social circles like a virus, unknowingly infecting even the most unsuspecting among us. When a culture, family or social group, continually demonstrates a particular form of behavior, even those who would be most immune to its influence become affected. People slowly begin to take on the character, style and behavior of their social groups. To not do so would be to eventually invite exclusion from the group on some level.
Duplicity: Defined as “The fact of being deceptive, dishonest, or misleading.” It is an insidious practice. It can be used offensively or defensively, with words, or actions, of both commission and omission. It is how attorneys have acquired such pathetic reputations. When I’ve had occasion to speak with people about honesty, for example, invariably they will put things in the context of whether or not a lie was involved. Rarely will people frame honesty in the context of whether or not a comment, behavior, action or non-action was deceptive or misleading. And there is an increasing inclination to try and convince an offended party that they must have just misinterpreted something. A convenient smokescreen, but really just a transparent and predictable demonstration of the very behavior that is being denied.
The continued practice of duplicity breeds a duplicitous nature. In the soul of an individual, and in the soul of a culture. I believe that is what is happening at an alarming rate today.
Duplicity is about deception and dishonesty, but it is really about character. As individuals, we become what we practice.
Addiction, as an example, develops as the result of practiced behavior. It is of a psychological, and eventually, a physiological nature. Duplicity is of a purely psychological nature, but it picks up momentum and becomes ingrained in ones character as a result of its continued practice, very much like addiction. It is used to gain an advantage over a person or situation. It goes to character. It will always go to character. And, ultimately, it ends up giving other people and situations an advantage over us. As we become compromised, we become weakened and less credible. Many have never recovered from the practice of duplicity.
We don’t start out with a duplicitous nature. It develops over time. Along the way, as we discover the ease with which we can manipulate others, we make choices when and how, and whether or not, to use those skills. Predictably, the more we use them, and the more successfully, the easier it becomes to continue on that path. It is often quite effortless to be less than honest, less than forthright, less than genuine. It becomes, for many, the path of least resistance. But, fortunately, the same can be said of integrity. As we practice honesty we gradually develop an honest nature. It just happens over time. It, too, becomes a natural pattern of behavior, becoming the norm, without additional effort.
I write about honesty, and the dearth of honesty, quite often. Not because I feel everyone to be lacking in the virtue, but because I know it to be the fundamental cause of just about every deteriorating relationship, be it family, friend, community or government. Relationships become strained when people become unable to look each other in the eye.
You can count on it. Unfortunately, many have become expert at being able to do just that. You might call that ‘duplicity in full bloom’.
People become what they practice. We can pretend otherwise, but that would just be an advanced form of duplicity. It's called self-deception.
Duplicity: Defined as “The fact of being deceptive, dishonest, or misleading.” It is an insidious practice. It can be used offensively or defensively, with words, or actions, of both commission and omission. It is how attorneys have acquired such pathetic reputations. When I’ve had occasion to speak with people about honesty, for example, invariably they will put things in the context of whether or not a lie was involved. Rarely will people frame honesty in the context of whether or not a comment, behavior, action or non-action was deceptive or misleading. And there is an increasing inclination to try and convince an offended party that they must have just misinterpreted something. A convenient smokescreen, but really just a transparent and predictable demonstration of the very behavior that is being denied.
The continued practice of duplicity breeds a duplicitous nature. In the soul of an individual, and in the soul of a culture. I believe that is what is happening at an alarming rate today.
Duplicity is about deception and dishonesty, but it is really about character. As individuals, we become what we practice.
Addiction, as an example, develops as the result of practiced behavior. It is of a psychological, and eventually, a physiological nature. Duplicity is of a purely psychological nature, but it picks up momentum and becomes ingrained in ones character as a result of its continued practice, very much like addiction. It is used to gain an advantage over a person or situation. It goes to character. It will always go to character. And, ultimately, it ends up giving other people and situations an advantage over us. As we become compromised, we become weakened and less credible. Many have never recovered from the practice of duplicity.
We don’t start out with a duplicitous nature. It develops over time. Along the way, as we discover the ease with which we can manipulate others, we make choices when and how, and whether or not, to use those skills. Predictably, the more we use them, and the more successfully, the easier it becomes to continue on that path. It is often quite effortless to be less than honest, less than forthright, less than genuine. It becomes, for many, the path of least resistance. But, fortunately, the same can be said of integrity. As we practice honesty we gradually develop an honest nature. It just happens over time. It, too, becomes a natural pattern of behavior, becoming the norm, without additional effort.
I write about honesty, and the dearth of honesty, quite often. Not because I feel everyone to be lacking in the virtue, but because I know it to be the fundamental cause of just about every deteriorating relationship, be it family, friend, community or government. Relationships become strained when people become unable to look each other in the eye.
You can count on it. Unfortunately, many have become expert at being able to do just that. You might call that ‘duplicity in full bloom’.
People become what they practice. We can pretend otherwise, but that would just be an advanced form of duplicity. It's called self-deception.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Not The Kind Of Friends I Want To Have
Years ago I spent some time in Europe, pack on my back, guitar slung over my shoulder, traveling through about 15 different countries. Eventually, I found myself walking through the desert of Eastern Greece, heading to the Turkish border. Then on to Istanbul. I’d been hitch hiking all day. I was out in the middle of nowhere. Alone. There were very few cars. Two or three an hour. No one would stop. But I had a good sense of direction, and in the early evening decided to leave the road and cut cross country on foot. If I was going to end up walking all the way to the border, I’d at least cut down on the distance. It was flat, and I figured I’d be OK. I pointed myself in the right direction and began the long trek through the desert. I walked for hours. It was very dark. And I was very tired. I could see the faintest of lights way off in the imperceptible distance. So far away that I wasn’t exactly sure if I was really seeing them at all.
I was living a hard trip. No frills, no pampering niceties. Alone for days, and weeks on end. Walking, carrying my life on my back. Intermittent company, but no one I wished to be around for too long. Evaluating my life, my circumstances, my future. Some concern with all of that, but overshadowed by my immediate concern about getting to Istanbul.
And now, it was the middle of the night, well past midnight. I was walking with the dead, practically counting myself among them. Then I began to sense a presence. Never a good sign. At first just faintly, then stronger, until I was sure I was no longer alone. It was then that I began to wish I was. It felt now as if it were getting closer. And closer still. And then a sound. Over here. And then over there. And there. And there. I couldn’t tell if it was different sounds in different places, or if it was just one sound that my own fear was moving around like manic thoughts in a bad dream. Then the sound was close enough to see. A dog. Not a friendly dog. And another. And another. And another. These were big dogs. And they were wild dogs. I was surrounded. I was prey. I was going to be dinner. Never been that before. This was a gang without guns. The pack moved with me as one. They moved around me, darting in briefly to challenge me, to test me, to frighten me. Then out. One, then another. Then another. Growling, grunting. Frenzied, but deliberate. Building their confidence, working their strategy. Scaring me to death. This was no hallucination. And it was not a situation I could talk my way out of. I knew that better than my own name. I’d been in bad situations that I could talk my way out of. This was not one of them. I was frantically swinging my guitar around, trying to keep them at bay. My mind flooded with rampaging thoughts that my family would never see me again. That I would never see them. That they would simply never hear from me again. That I would have, in their minds, simply disappeared, deserted them somewhere across the world, never to be a part of them again. My survival instincts kicked fully into gear. High gear. I would live. Dogs be damned.
I was quickly taken by vivid memories of old black and white Cowboy and Indian movies I’d seen on TV as a child. Pictures that came to me as clearly as the danger I was in. I remembered in the old movies that when the wagon train was surrounded, with the settlers hanging on for their lives, they’re final hope would come down to whether or not they could shoot the Chief. If they killed him, all the other Indians would retreat. If they were unsuccessful they would perish. Yeah, I know it was a stupid Cowboy and Indian stereotype, but it’s the only image I had to hang onto at the time. It’s the image that came to my rescue.
I had a strong sense of which dog was the leader, the Alpha male, whom the others were taking their cues from. He would dart in quickly, and the rest of the pack would do likewise. When he’d back off, they would as well, momentarily, but I saw the pattern. I attacked him full on. I yelled like a crazy nut job in a ‘B’ movie, and ran at him full force, attacking him head on with my guitar. I was not trying to scare him, I was wanting to hurt him. But it did scare him, and he backed off, as did the others, a little further each time I came after him. The dogs would regroup and make subsequent attempts to penetrate my defenses, but as time went by the attacks became more half-hearted than vicious. I continued walking through the night with the dogs consistently holding position around me, still moving as one, for hours, but in a gradually widening circle. Time passed like molasses. By morning light they were gone.
I offered a humble thanks out loud.
I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I took psychic inventory to make sure I was OK, then laid myself down in a quiet place, under a tree, and fell off to sleep.
In Istanbul they told me about wild dogs in the desert. Dogs I’d already met. Not the kind of friends I want to have.
I’ve been seriously threatened by gangs on three different occasions in my life. In Amsterdam, in Harlem, and outside a clinic where I worked in San Francisco. Had a gun stuck in my chest and the hammer cocked. Twice. Been surrounded by men who considered killing me simply because they could. Been more moderately threatened on a couple of other occasions.
I have never been as frightened as I was that night in the desert, alone with the dogs. I have never felt more abandoned or forlorn.
And when I awoke later that morning, under that tree, in that small quiet place . . . . . . . . . . .
I was never more alive.
I was living a hard trip. No frills, no pampering niceties. Alone for days, and weeks on end. Walking, carrying my life on my back. Intermittent company, but no one I wished to be around for too long. Evaluating my life, my circumstances, my future. Some concern with all of that, but overshadowed by my immediate concern about getting to Istanbul.
And now, it was the middle of the night, well past midnight. I was walking with the dead, practically counting myself among them. Then I began to sense a presence. Never a good sign. At first just faintly, then stronger, until I was sure I was no longer alone. It was then that I began to wish I was. It felt now as if it were getting closer. And closer still. And then a sound. Over here. And then over there. And there. And there. I couldn’t tell if it was different sounds in different places, or if it was just one sound that my own fear was moving around like manic thoughts in a bad dream. Then the sound was close enough to see. A dog. Not a friendly dog. And another. And another. And another. These were big dogs. And they were wild dogs. I was surrounded. I was prey. I was going to be dinner. Never been that before. This was a gang without guns. The pack moved with me as one. They moved around me, darting in briefly to challenge me, to test me, to frighten me. Then out. One, then another. Then another. Growling, grunting. Frenzied, but deliberate. Building their confidence, working their strategy. Scaring me to death. This was no hallucination. And it was not a situation I could talk my way out of. I knew that better than my own name. I’d been in bad situations that I could talk my way out of. This was not one of them. I was frantically swinging my guitar around, trying to keep them at bay. My mind flooded with rampaging thoughts that my family would never see me again. That I would never see them. That they would simply never hear from me again. That I would have, in their minds, simply disappeared, deserted them somewhere across the world, never to be a part of them again. My survival instincts kicked fully into gear. High gear. I would live. Dogs be damned.
I was quickly taken by vivid memories of old black and white Cowboy and Indian movies I’d seen on TV as a child. Pictures that came to me as clearly as the danger I was in. I remembered in the old movies that when the wagon train was surrounded, with the settlers hanging on for their lives, they’re final hope would come down to whether or not they could shoot the Chief. If they killed him, all the other Indians would retreat. If they were unsuccessful they would perish. Yeah, I know it was a stupid Cowboy and Indian stereotype, but it’s the only image I had to hang onto at the time. It’s the image that came to my rescue.
I had a strong sense of which dog was the leader, the Alpha male, whom the others were taking their cues from. He would dart in quickly, and the rest of the pack would do likewise. When he’d back off, they would as well, momentarily, but I saw the pattern. I attacked him full on. I yelled like a crazy nut job in a ‘B’ movie, and ran at him full force, attacking him head on with my guitar. I was not trying to scare him, I was wanting to hurt him. But it did scare him, and he backed off, as did the others, a little further each time I came after him. The dogs would regroup and make subsequent attempts to penetrate my defenses, but as time went by the attacks became more half-hearted than vicious. I continued walking through the night with the dogs consistently holding position around me, still moving as one, for hours, but in a gradually widening circle. Time passed like molasses. By morning light they were gone.
I offered a humble thanks out loud.
I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I took psychic inventory to make sure I was OK, then laid myself down in a quiet place, under a tree, and fell off to sleep.
In Istanbul they told me about wild dogs in the desert. Dogs I’d already met. Not the kind of friends I want to have.
I’ve been seriously threatened by gangs on three different occasions in my life. In Amsterdam, in Harlem, and outside a clinic where I worked in San Francisco. Had a gun stuck in my chest and the hammer cocked. Twice. Been surrounded by men who considered killing me simply because they could. Been more moderately threatened on a couple of other occasions.
I have never been as frightened as I was that night in the desert, alone with the dogs. I have never felt more abandoned or forlorn.
And when I awoke later that morning, under that tree, in that small quiet place . . . . . . . . . . .
I was never more alive.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Silence Doesn't Lie
When it comes to people, it’s remarkable really, how animals, both wild and domestic, seem to know whom they can trust and whom they can’t. There are countless antidotes about dogs or cats sensing something troubling about an acquaintance, a new boyfriend or girlfriend, a delivery man, friend of a friend etc. I’ve often observed dogs grow agitated at the very appearance of a particular individual, even before the person says a word. Wild animals will often remain calm and unconcerned around some people, but become nervous and aggressive when near others. Frequently they will flee a situation altogether if sensing a profound enough need for self-protection. Newspapers are filled with stories of women who were harmed by men whom they immediately and instinctively mistrusted, only to have over-ridden their own intuition with a rationalization based on need. Need for companionship, need to be liked, or not wanting to offend, or to think of oneself as ‘accepting’, or as ‘not ruled by fear’, or any one of a myriad of other reasons.
The point here is that we’re losing the ability to rely on gut-level perceptions. Remarkably, we’ve come to substitute flimsy rationale for the intuition that has been built into our very core. The intuition that was designed to ensure our well-being, our longevity, our personal prosperity. The thing about animals is that they are masters of the obvious. Because they don’t understand the words we (as people) speak, they cannot be misled by them. They tune in almost exclusively to body language, movement, facial expressions, twitches, ticks, and (when a person is speaking) tone and manner of voice. It is much more difficult, almost impossible, to fool an animal. Some animals (like people) will ignore their internal alarm in order to get something they want, but for the most part they pay attention to what their natural powers of observation are saying.
Over a great many years I have (from a distance) frequently watched conversations between people whose voices I could not hear. I have always been fascinated by those exchanges. Having no idea what was being discussed, it would still become fairly obvious if one person or the other was being genuine or not. Not a judgment I would make, but a loudly registered internal and natural perception (instinct). Some call it a sixth sense, usually accompanied by the implication that it is something that ‘some’ people have. In actuality, everyone has it. But not everybody uses it.
I have always enjoyed watching television with the sound turned off. Interesting how a particular actors’ performance can seem very good, even profound. But turn off the sound and you can see the flaws, even the dishonesty in the performance. You begin to realize how the words being spoken, the music of the soundtrack, even the laugh track, can enhance or disguise the true performance. You can see that an actor might not really believe what he’s saying. Watching an actor without sound can also produce the opposite result. You might see a more brilliant performance than you saw with the sound on. My point here is that sound (and especially words) can obscure the reality of what you might otherwise be seeing. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “He hides behind his words”? Many people do hide behind their words. Politicians in particular.
Don’t know about you, but with the campaigns for the presidential nominations in full gear, I’m getting pretty sick and tired of the phoniness being displayed by just about every one of the candidates. Everybody saying what you want to hear. Everybody pretending to be the candidate of integrity. The honest candidate. The one above the fray. And we’re going to be getting this dog and pony show shoved in our faces for the next year. Let’s face it, that’s politics, but we don’t really need to hear anything more they have to say.
I have a suggestion. Why not turn off the volume of the TV and just watch these people like an animal would. Silence doesn’t lie. You want to know who’s telling the truth? Who’s trying to fool you? Who’s hiding behind their words? Who actually believes what they’re saying? Politics aside, who you can trust as a person? I’ve been watching without the sound for a very long time now. I’m neither a Democrat or a Republican, and I don’t fully agree politically with any of these people, but I do know what I see. It registers on an instinctual level.
I’m pretty familiar with the politics of all four of these candidates. Some I like better than others. Some I dislike more than others. But the following conclusions are based solely on what I have observed of them without the hollow sound of their words. I must admit, two of the conclusions surprised me. Two did not.
If I were a dog greeting visitors in my keepers front yard, this is how I would respond to each of the four leading candidates for President if they came to my house.
Barak Obama - I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk, through the house to the back yard where my family was gathered. And, based on my comfort level with him, they’d probably invite him to stay for the barbecue.
Mitt Romney – I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk and through the house to the kitchen. I’d leave him there, and go out back to get my keepers. They’d come in and have coffee with him at the kitchen table.
John McCain – I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk to the front porch, then go over to the side of the house and bark for my keepers to come out front to sit with him for a chat on the front porch.
Hillary Clinton - When I saw her coming from down the street I’d begin running the perimeter of the yard, barking loudly to deter her from coming any closer to my house. And to warn the neighbors that she was in the neighborhood.
Again, based solely on watching them to see what registers as genuine, and what does not.
Just my observations. You do your own.
The point here is that we’re losing the ability to rely on gut-level perceptions. Remarkably, we’ve come to substitute flimsy rationale for the intuition that has been built into our very core. The intuition that was designed to ensure our well-being, our longevity, our personal prosperity. The thing about animals is that they are masters of the obvious. Because they don’t understand the words we (as people) speak, they cannot be misled by them. They tune in almost exclusively to body language, movement, facial expressions, twitches, ticks, and (when a person is speaking) tone and manner of voice. It is much more difficult, almost impossible, to fool an animal. Some animals (like people) will ignore their internal alarm in order to get something they want, but for the most part they pay attention to what their natural powers of observation are saying.
Over a great many years I have (from a distance) frequently watched conversations between people whose voices I could not hear. I have always been fascinated by those exchanges. Having no idea what was being discussed, it would still become fairly obvious if one person or the other was being genuine or not. Not a judgment I would make, but a loudly registered internal and natural perception (instinct). Some call it a sixth sense, usually accompanied by the implication that it is something that ‘some’ people have. In actuality, everyone has it. But not everybody uses it.
I have always enjoyed watching television with the sound turned off. Interesting how a particular actors’ performance can seem very good, even profound. But turn off the sound and you can see the flaws, even the dishonesty in the performance. You begin to realize how the words being spoken, the music of the soundtrack, even the laugh track, can enhance or disguise the true performance. You can see that an actor might not really believe what he’s saying. Watching an actor without sound can also produce the opposite result. You might see a more brilliant performance than you saw with the sound on. My point here is that sound (and especially words) can obscure the reality of what you might otherwise be seeing. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “He hides behind his words”? Many people do hide behind their words. Politicians in particular.
Don’t know about you, but with the campaigns for the presidential nominations in full gear, I’m getting pretty sick and tired of the phoniness being displayed by just about every one of the candidates. Everybody saying what you want to hear. Everybody pretending to be the candidate of integrity. The honest candidate. The one above the fray. And we’re going to be getting this dog and pony show shoved in our faces for the next year. Let’s face it, that’s politics, but we don’t really need to hear anything more they have to say.
I have a suggestion. Why not turn off the volume of the TV and just watch these people like an animal would. Silence doesn’t lie. You want to know who’s telling the truth? Who’s trying to fool you? Who’s hiding behind their words? Who actually believes what they’re saying? Politics aside, who you can trust as a person? I’ve been watching without the sound for a very long time now. I’m neither a Democrat or a Republican, and I don’t fully agree politically with any of these people, but I do know what I see. It registers on an instinctual level.
I’m pretty familiar with the politics of all four of these candidates. Some I like better than others. Some I dislike more than others. But the following conclusions are based solely on what I have observed of them without the hollow sound of their words. I must admit, two of the conclusions surprised me. Two did not.
If I were a dog greeting visitors in my keepers front yard, this is how I would respond to each of the four leading candidates for President if they came to my house.
Barak Obama - I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk, through the house to the back yard where my family was gathered. And, based on my comfort level with him, they’d probably invite him to stay for the barbecue.
Mitt Romney – I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk and through the house to the kitchen. I’d leave him there, and go out back to get my keepers. They’d come in and have coffee with him at the kitchen table.
John McCain – I’d meet him at the gate, lead him up the walk to the front porch, then go over to the side of the house and bark for my keepers to come out front to sit with him for a chat on the front porch.
Hillary Clinton - When I saw her coming from down the street I’d begin running the perimeter of the yard, barking loudly to deter her from coming any closer to my house. And to warn the neighbors that she was in the neighborhood.
Again, based solely on watching them to see what registers as genuine, and what does not.
Just my observations. You do your own.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Vanishing Ego
It is mans ego that enables him to rise to an occasion, to blaze his own trail, protect his territory, or conquer his own demons. It is the idea that he is the master of his domain that feeds his motivation and encourages his strength. It is a positive thing that a man has an ego that requires something of him, that demands it even. It is the man who has been stripped of his ego who flails and flounders, who floats and drifts through life broken, battered, and without resolve, like a rudderless raft at the mercy of a raging river. A man can be stripped of his ego quickly, or gradually by time and circumstances. He can be scarred, compromised or diminished by a parent, by drugs, alcohol, religion, social conditioning, a toxic spouse, or a combination of any of the above.
A disinterested parent can condition a boy to feel worthless, restricting development of his, otherwise, burgeoning ego. A domineering parent can crush his fragile ego like a soda can under the tires of a two-ton truck, delaying a healthy transition into adolescence, and adulthood. Drugs can cause a teen-ager, or a man, to turn inward to the point of losing himself within himself, leaving his ego lost in its own darkness, with only the remnants of a former motivation to cling to. Alcohol can drown a man’s ego like a crocodile drowns a water buffalo in an African river. Religion can strip the ego from a man like a raging bull steals the dignity from a matador as the man stumbles, wounded, compromised and disoriented, around the ring, vulnerable to moves of ferocious beauty, hooves of danger, and, ultimately, the horns of death.
Social conditioning can eventually cause a man to deny his own strength, and to doubt his own value. When he’s seen enough idiot males in enough idiot sit-coms being pummeled and emasculated by smart and domineering women, and when he’s seen enough ‘tough ladies’ beating up enough average men in enough crime dramas and action movies, he’s going to begin being compromised in the same way he was marginalized and invalidated by the women’s movement back in the 70’s. Only this new destruction of the male ego is being perpetrated upon a new generation of men, men who have already been raised to value, and appreciate women. Evidently, it is not enough; they must also be stripped of their egos, and of their dignity. And the cycle perpetuates itself.
A toxic relationship can poison a man’s ego, suffocating him slowly until his lungs collapse, until the only options he is left with are death or surrender. In such a relationship, when a man attempts to assert himself as a man, he is beaten down with words, or hostility, and denied access to love. The women’s movement of the 70’s practiced, either by coincidence or design, a scorched earth policy, leaving no male sympathizer un-bruised, the supporters, the boyfriends, and the husbands alike. They were all victimized by the insensitive and unsympathetic aggression of the budding feminist collective. The only men who were spared the damage were (big surprise) the actual male chauvinist pigs, the misogynists, if you will. Those guys didn’t care enough to be effected.
As an outgrowth of the movement, already considerate men began getting sensitivity training from increasingly insensitive women. They began learning how to become girlfriends, rather than husbands, to their wives. They began the accelerated process of losing their egos, of compromising their maleness, of subjugating themselves to a socio-political movement. As the men were becoming what the women were demanding them to be, the women began to lose respect for the men and turned to each other for love, for their primary relationships, and for companionship. The men, as they were now conditioned to do, followed their lead and also turned to one another for companionship, and sex. Both sexes realized ‘wow, this is a lot easier than trying to relate to the opposite sex’. And all of a sudden everybody was gay from birth. For the women, being gay enabled them to usurp, and adopt, the male egos that they had a hand in surgically extracting from the men; and for the men, now no longer a threat to the women, being gay enabled them to be ‘best friends’ with women, to be included in the private lives of females, while, at the same time, being able to indulge themselves in all the sex they wanted with other males, ‘any time, any place’ kind of thing. Worked for everybody.
What I find disconcerting is that, rather than doing the necessary psychological work to understand the reasons for the choices they were making, and to understand the implications of feeding a social movement that those coming up behind them will be influenced and affected by, so many choose acquiesce to the illusion of OK-ness rather than to embrace the reality of their own conflicted predicament. I’m not talking about a sexual identity conflict, but of a pain/anger/hostility/acceptance/forgiveness process, leading, ultimately, to a reconciliation with the past. In its absence, the next generation will be faced with the same agenda, only more advanced, and they will eventually have to do the hard work that their parents circumvented in their reluctance to look honestly at themselves.
Now, don’t everybody get your BVD’s (or panties) in a bunch over this commentary. It is not an accusation, it is not a judgment of you, and it is not a sociological doctrine to be taught to your children in the primary grades. It is my observation. I was there. It is what I saw. And much of it is what I see today. Although the angry feminism of the 70’s has now transformed itself into what I now call ‘spiritual feminism’, it is still the same feminism, but with a knowing kind of self-righteous smirk. It continues to emasculate men, and young men in particular, by leading them into the egoless realms, and domains, of ‘the new spirituality’. Yoga is at the forefront of this charade, with bogus psychobabble philosophies, compliance doctrines, dependence psychologies, and political correctness leading our young men along like lambs to the proverbial slaughter.
If you were there in the 70’s, maybe you saw something different. In which case, maybe you could write to me about that. And if you weren’t there, maybe you’ve at least read the studies that have reached different conclusions than mine, the ones that were done by those same women, now with P.H.D.’s, who, by the way, ended up living in close personal relationships with one another after they lost their husbands. Collateral damage. Choose your own conclusion.
A feminist, or feminist group, put out a bumper sticker many years ago that narcissistically proclaimed “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle”. They later introduced the “Size DOES matter” theme as a means of further emasculating any man with an already fragile ego. That about sums it up.
After seeing the devastation that has been inflicted upon men over the years, I say
“Men without egos are like spiritual feminists without Oprah”. The difference is we can recover our egos by disassociating ourselves from the feminist agenda, but they will always need another Oprah, or a Suze Orman to tell them what to do, or even another, innocuous, Elizabeth Gilbert to tell them how to feel. A man with his ego intact does not need anybody to lead him around by the proverbial nose. He follows the beat of his own drum.
My assessment is not about any individual. I don’t make judgments about individuals, their personal choices, lifestyles, or preferences. I observe culture and mentally record my observations. I know what I see. It is when a cultural dynamic affects and influences people, and young people in particular, that I feel the need to define the dynamic for those same people flirting on and around its fringes. In describing any such dynamic, somebody’s feelings are going to be hurt. It is not now, nor is it ever my intention, for that to happen. Those men and women, many of whom I love, who are involved in perpetuating a movement I may give voice against, already know that it is possible to separate a person from a particular consciousness. They have, in fact, shown that themselves by their love for me. I hope they can regard my love for them as equally valid.
Each of us, as individuals, are adrift on the same current, but upon our own raft. It’s just that some have built into their rafts more consciously reliable rudders.
A disinterested parent can condition a boy to feel worthless, restricting development of his, otherwise, burgeoning ego. A domineering parent can crush his fragile ego like a soda can under the tires of a two-ton truck, delaying a healthy transition into adolescence, and adulthood. Drugs can cause a teen-ager, or a man, to turn inward to the point of losing himself within himself, leaving his ego lost in its own darkness, with only the remnants of a former motivation to cling to. Alcohol can drown a man’s ego like a crocodile drowns a water buffalo in an African river. Religion can strip the ego from a man like a raging bull steals the dignity from a matador as the man stumbles, wounded, compromised and disoriented, around the ring, vulnerable to moves of ferocious beauty, hooves of danger, and, ultimately, the horns of death.
Social conditioning can eventually cause a man to deny his own strength, and to doubt his own value. When he’s seen enough idiot males in enough idiot sit-coms being pummeled and emasculated by smart and domineering women, and when he’s seen enough ‘tough ladies’ beating up enough average men in enough crime dramas and action movies, he’s going to begin being compromised in the same way he was marginalized and invalidated by the women’s movement back in the 70’s. Only this new destruction of the male ego is being perpetrated upon a new generation of men, men who have already been raised to value, and appreciate women. Evidently, it is not enough; they must also be stripped of their egos, and of their dignity. And the cycle perpetuates itself.
A toxic relationship can poison a man’s ego, suffocating him slowly until his lungs collapse, until the only options he is left with are death or surrender. In such a relationship, when a man attempts to assert himself as a man, he is beaten down with words, or hostility, and denied access to love. The women’s movement of the 70’s practiced, either by coincidence or design, a scorched earth policy, leaving no male sympathizer un-bruised, the supporters, the boyfriends, and the husbands alike. They were all victimized by the insensitive and unsympathetic aggression of the budding feminist collective. The only men who were spared the damage were (big surprise) the actual male chauvinist pigs, the misogynists, if you will. Those guys didn’t care enough to be effected.
As an outgrowth of the movement, already considerate men began getting sensitivity training from increasingly insensitive women. They began learning how to become girlfriends, rather than husbands, to their wives. They began the accelerated process of losing their egos, of compromising their maleness, of subjugating themselves to a socio-political movement. As the men were becoming what the women were demanding them to be, the women began to lose respect for the men and turned to each other for love, for their primary relationships, and for companionship. The men, as they were now conditioned to do, followed their lead and also turned to one another for companionship, and sex. Both sexes realized ‘wow, this is a lot easier than trying to relate to the opposite sex’. And all of a sudden everybody was gay from birth. For the women, being gay enabled them to usurp, and adopt, the male egos that they had a hand in surgically extracting from the men; and for the men, now no longer a threat to the women, being gay enabled them to be ‘best friends’ with women, to be included in the private lives of females, while, at the same time, being able to indulge themselves in all the sex they wanted with other males, ‘any time, any place’ kind of thing. Worked for everybody.
What I find disconcerting is that, rather than doing the necessary psychological work to understand the reasons for the choices they were making, and to understand the implications of feeding a social movement that those coming up behind them will be influenced and affected by, so many choose acquiesce to the illusion of OK-ness rather than to embrace the reality of their own conflicted predicament. I’m not talking about a sexual identity conflict, but of a pain/anger/hostility/acceptance/forgiveness process, leading, ultimately, to a reconciliation with the past. In its absence, the next generation will be faced with the same agenda, only more advanced, and they will eventually have to do the hard work that their parents circumvented in their reluctance to look honestly at themselves.
Now, don’t everybody get your BVD’s (or panties) in a bunch over this commentary. It is not an accusation, it is not a judgment of you, and it is not a sociological doctrine to be taught to your children in the primary grades. It is my observation. I was there. It is what I saw. And much of it is what I see today. Although the angry feminism of the 70’s has now transformed itself into what I now call ‘spiritual feminism’, it is still the same feminism, but with a knowing kind of self-righteous smirk. It continues to emasculate men, and young men in particular, by leading them into the egoless realms, and domains, of ‘the new spirituality’. Yoga is at the forefront of this charade, with bogus psychobabble philosophies, compliance doctrines, dependence psychologies, and political correctness leading our young men along like lambs to the proverbial slaughter.
If you were there in the 70’s, maybe you saw something different. In which case, maybe you could write to me about that. And if you weren’t there, maybe you’ve at least read the studies that have reached different conclusions than mine, the ones that were done by those same women, now with P.H.D.’s, who, by the way, ended up living in close personal relationships with one another after they lost their husbands. Collateral damage. Choose your own conclusion.
A feminist, or feminist group, put out a bumper sticker many years ago that narcissistically proclaimed “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle”. They later introduced the “Size DOES matter” theme as a means of further emasculating any man with an already fragile ego. That about sums it up.
After seeing the devastation that has been inflicted upon men over the years, I say
“Men without egos are like spiritual feminists without Oprah”. The difference is we can recover our egos by disassociating ourselves from the feminist agenda, but they will always need another Oprah, or a Suze Orman to tell them what to do, or even another, innocuous, Elizabeth Gilbert to tell them how to feel. A man with his ego intact does not need anybody to lead him around by the proverbial nose. He follows the beat of his own drum.
My assessment is not about any individual. I don’t make judgments about individuals, their personal choices, lifestyles, or preferences. I observe culture and mentally record my observations. I know what I see. It is when a cultural dynamic affects and influences people, and young people in particular, that I feel the need to define the dynamic for those same people flirting on and around its fringes. In describing any such dynamic, somebody’s feelings are going to be hurt. It is not now, nor is it ever my intention, for that to happen. Those men and women, many of whom I love, who are involved in perpetuating a movement I may give voice against, already know that it is possible to separate a person from a particular consciousness. They have, in fact, shown that themselves by their love for me. I hope they can regard my love for them as equally valid.
Each of us, as individuals, are adrift on the same current, but upon our own raft. It’s just that some have built into their rafts more consciously reliable rudders.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
I Never Got To Say 'Goodbye'
When I was 18 years old I had a group of really good friends. A bunch of high school buddies. We moved into a big green five-bedroom house together. We played, and laughed a lot. They were carefree times in one respect. Very profound and serious times as well. We talked about remaining together through the future, starting another band, traveling, and maybe even changing the world somehow. Yeah, we were dreamers like everybody else. Big time. But we were honest dreamers.
Jim was a dichotomy. He was very responsible in many ways, much more so than some of us. But like the rest of us at that age, and in those times, he was irresponsible as well. Had a good head on his shoulders, for the most part. Seemed to have a loving family, but nobody outside a family really knows that family. Appeared to have good self-esteem, was good looking, and always had the things he needed. Had his pick of girls. They were lined up like hookers in a Cat House waiting for a nod from him. Drove an old MG sports car, a convertible in very good condition. It fit him well.
But Jim was not happy. He would go into deep depressions, suddenly, without any sense of provocation that we could see. Just went from normal to strange. It happened often. We learned to leave him alone when it was going on. He’d get a funny look on his face, as if he were seeing demons, or God. When in those pronounced depressions he’d sometimes laugh sort of a crazy laugh. It kind of scared us. This was not drug-induced behavior. He was like this before he ever started using drugs of any kind.
Jim played guitar, sang a little, but was more shy than some of us. Liked Jim Morrison and the Doors. Liked their darker, moodier stuff. I liked the Doors also, but in a different way than Jim. I thought they were musically skilled, profound, lyrical and edgy. But Jim liked the darkness. I was a little afraid of that in him. So many of the other bands of the day were producing good music, but without that inherent gloom, the sense of hopelessness. The Doors had kind of a dangerous element to them, a quiet desperation. Jim often secluded himself, with the Doors as a steady diet. It was not good for him. He identified too closely with Jim Morrison. Morrison was not a healthy man to be so deeply, so profoundly connected to.
LSD was Jim’s favorite drug. It was his kaleidoscope. It was the means through which he saw the world. It was his light, the color in his life, the color of his life. I fully understand that. But LSD was too much information. Too much inundation. It was too much stimulation of the senses. Not only for him, but for all of us. We took it regularly, a lot of it. But it was bigger than we were. Much bigger.
Jim was a sensitive young man. He was kind, and he was loving. He used to cry sometimes. Nobody else I knew ever cried. Besides myself.
Jim went out one night and never came home again.
I didn’t know he was gonna die.
And I never got to say Goodbye.
Jim was a dichotomy. He was very responsible in many ways, much more so than some of us. But like the rest of us at that age, and in those times, he was irresponsible as well. Had a good head on his shoulders, for the most part. Seemed to have a loving family, but nobody outside a family really knows that family. Appeared to have good self-esteem, was good looking, and always had the things he needed. Had his pick of girls. They were lined up like hookers in a Cat House waiting for a nod from him. Drove an old MG sports car, a convertible in very good condition. It fit him well.
But Jim was not happy. He would go into deep depressions, suddenly, without any sense of provocation that we could see. Just went from normal to strange. It happened often. We learned to leave him alone when it was going on. He’d get a funny look on his face, as if he were seeing demons, or God. When in those pronounced depressions he’d sometimes laugh sort of a crazy laugh. It kind of scared us. This was not drug-induced behavior. He was like this before he ever started using drugs of any kind.
Jim played guitar, sang a little, but was more shy than some of us. Liked Jim Morrison and the Doors. Liked their darker, moodier stuff. I liked the Doors also, but in a different way than Jim. I thought they were musically skilled, profound, lyrical and edgy. But Jim liked the darkness. I was a little afraid of that in him. So many of the other bands of the day were producing good music, but without that inherent gloom, the sense of hopelessness. The Doors had kind of a dangerous element to them, a quiet desperation. Jim often secluded himself, with the Doors as a steady diet. It was not good for him. He identified too closely with Jim Morrison. Morrison was not a healthy man to be so deeply, so profoundly connected to.
LSD was Jim’s favorite drug. It was his kaleidoscope. It was the means through which he saw the world. It was his light, the color in his life, the color of his life. I fully understand that. But LSD was too much information. Too much inundation. It was too much stimulation of the senses. Not only for him, but for all of us. We took it regularly, a lot of it. But it was bigger than we were. Much bigger.
Jim was a sensitive young man. He was kind, and he was loving. He used to cry sometimes. Nobody else I knew ever cried. Besides myself.
Jim went out one night and never came home again.
I didn’t know he was gonna die.
And I never got to say Goodbye.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Be Quiet
I have an old Toyota Corolla as a second car. Used to have a radio/tape player in it, but it got stolen. Didn’t bother me much. Sometimes I listen to what circumstances have to say, and like most of us, sometimes I don’t. But this time I did, and circumstances were saying ‘maybe a little quiet would be a good thing’. Lately I’ve been thinking about quiet. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. How little of it we actually have in our world. It gets to the point sometimes that when we do find ourselves with a momentary lapse of sound we quickly find a way to fill the silence with more sound. It’s what we’re used to. And the more used to it we get the more uncomfortable we become with silence.
I’m a musician. I’ve always liked to listen to music. I find it motivating and inspirational. It makes me feel good. Even sad music makes me feel good. Most of my life I’ve had music on in my environment. I’m also a thinker. I like to think. And I like to listen to reports, comments and opinions that make me think, that provoke me to form my own opinions, to come to my own conclusions. I think about everything. I even think about thinking. What is thinking, really? We do it automatically, accidentally even, but very seldom do we do it deliberately.
I listen to talk radio in the car sometimes. Sports and political shows, community programs, social commentary, even some religious stuff. Provokes thought, some of it. Of course, some of it is just garbage. Got to think it through to know that. But some of it you just know. If it smells bad it’s probably garbage. Anyway, the point is that the radio is additional sound in an already deafening environment. It’s more clutter. It may be intellectual clutter that serves a purpose, but it’s still clutter. When we’re not careful, it can think for us. And it can keep us from hearing. It can inhibit our ability to hear the still small voice within us, the sound of our own understanding, the conscience of our inner self.
We get so inundated with sound that we lose, not only the ability, but often, even the inclination, to hear. When that happens we lose a big part of ourselves. How can I ever really know myself if I never have a good quiet conversation with myself? In observing the condition of the world these days, I think it’s a conversation we ought to be having on a regular basis. Many of us are terrified of the prospect. We make sure we have auditory distraction day and night. Rather that having meaningful discourse with others, we even find ourselves parroting useless information, and wielding words like a shield of sound, rather than as a means of connection.
I like to drive my Jeep much more than the Toyota. But in the Jeep it’s hard not to turn the radio on. Seems to kind of turn itself on at times.
Sometimes I drive the Toyota specifically because I never replaced the radio after it was stolen. It affords me a built-in quiet time. It’s funny how many of the important decisions I’ve made over the past few years have been arrived at while driving that car. While being quiet. While listening.
Somewhere in the Bible it says “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Certainly couldn’t hurt.
I’m a musician. I’ve always liked to listen to music. I find it motivating and inspirational. It makes me feel good. Even sad music makes me feel good. Most of my life I’ve had music on in my environment. I’m also a thinker. I like to think. And I like to listen to reports, comments and opinions that make me think, that provoke me to form my own opinions, to come to my own conclusions. I think about everything. I even think about thinking. What is thinking, really? We do it automatically, accidentally even, but very seldom do we do it deliberately.
I listen to talk radio in the car sometimes. Sports and political shows, community programs, social commentary, even some religious stuff. Provokes thought, some of it. Of course, some of it is just garbage. Got to think it through to know that. But some of it you just know. If it smells bad it’s probably garbage. Anyway, the point is that the radio is additional sound in an already deafening environment. It’s more clutter. It may be intellectual clutter that serves a purpose, but it’s still clutter. When we’re not careful, it can think for us. And it can keep us from hearing. It can inhibit our ability to hear the still small voice within us, the sound of our own understanding, the conscience of our inner self.
We get so inundated with sound that we lose, not only the ability, but often, even the inclination, to hear. When that happens we lose a big part of ourselves. How can I ever really know myself if I never have a good quiet conversation with myself? In observing the condition of the world these days, I think it’s a conversation we ought to be having on a regular basis. Many of us are terrified of the prospect. We make sure we have auditory distraction day and night. Rather that having meaningful discourse with others, we even find ourselves parroting useless information, and wielding words like a shield of sound, rather than as a means of connection.
I like to drive my Jeep much more than the Toyota. But in the Jeep it’s hard not to turn the radio on. Seems to kind of turn itself on at times.
Sometimes I drive the Toyota specifically because I never replaced the radio after it was stolen. It affords me a built-in quiet time. It’s funny how many of the important decisions I’ve made over the past few years have been arrived at while driving that car. While being quiet. While listening.
Somewhere in the Bible it says “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Certainly couldn’t hurt.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
I'm Comfortable In This Truck
I drive a 1990 4-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee. But I’ve occasionally been driving my sons new Toyota 4-Runner when I take my grandson out for some one-on-one time. I love that vehicle. Feels really safe. Big mirrors. Air bags. Automatic door locks, windows and alarm. Everything is automatic. Good sound system. It’s comfortable and easy to drive. Feels secure. Feels insulated. And I feel like I’m protected with maximum insurance coverage.
I also feel a strange sense of isolation when I’m driving the 4-Runner. And it’s not just his truck that has that effect on me. It’s just about every new car I’ve driven, or ridden in, over the years. I’m really happy for my son that he has that truck. It’s a good utilitarian vehicle. And it will serve him well.
But I like my Jeep because it bounces around like an old tractor, or a stagecoach. Makes me feel like I’m connected to the vehicle, by extension, connected to the road, and by even further extension, connected more intimately to life. I like feeling connected that way. I need it somehow.
The Cherokee makes a lot of sounds that are not necessarily innate to its operation. Parts wearing down. Parts wearing out. Other parts working extra hard just to keep up with the general flow of things. Has a lot of squeaks, and the sound of wind coming through the cracks. Visually, it has scratches, some worn paint and a lot of rough edges. Has a ding in the corner of the windshield that I’m sure I’d miss if the windshield was ever replaced. The Jeep’s usually unwashed, not really dirty, just not really clean. The drivers seat is not as solid as it once was, reformed from its original shape. 135,000 miles of fanny on that cushion. But I like that. It reminds me that life changes as it goes, that it does not maintain itself like it began. That it shapes itself around us as we add miles along the way.
I think life is more like my old jeep, than it is like any new car.
I’m comfortable in this truck. Not comfortable like a nice pair of slacks is comfortable, but like an old worn pair of jeans. The kind you hope will hold up for another washing.
And another wear. . .
I also feel a strange sense of isolation when I’m driving the 4-Runner. And it’s not just his truck that has that effect on me. It’s just about every new car I’ve driven, or ridden in, over the years. I’m really happy for my son that he has that truck. It’s a good utilitarian vehicle. And it will serve him well.
But I like my Jeep because it bounces around like an old tractor, or a stagecoach. Makes me feel like I’m connected to the vehicle, by extension, connected to the road, and by even further extension, connected more intimately to life. I like feeling connected that way. I need it somehow.
The Cherokee makes a lot of sounds that are not necessarily innate to its operation. Parts wearing down. Parts wearing out. Other parts working extra hard just to keep up with the general flow of things. Has a lot of squeaks, and the sound of wind coming through the cracks. Visually, it has scratches, some worn paint and a lot of rough edges. Has a ding in the corner of the windshield that I’m sure I’d miss if the windshield was ever replaced. The Jeep’s usually unwashed, not really dirty, just not really clean. The drivers seat is not as solid as it once was, reformed from its original shape. 135,000 miles of fanny on that cushion. But I like that. It reminds me that life changes as it goes, that it does not maintain itself like it began. That it shapes itself around us as we add miles along the way.
I think life is more like my old jeep, than it is like any new car.
I’m comfortable in this truck. Not comfortable like a nice pair of slacks is comfortable, but like an old worn pair of jeans. The kind you hope will hold up for another washing.
And another wear. . .
Saturday, November 3, 2007
The Summer Of Love
The Summer of Love. 2007, the 40th Anniversary. I have not participated in the festivities. But I was there in 1967.
I remember sitting on a distant hillside in West Covina, California with a couple of friends, and watching my high school class graduate below. Quite a surreal experience. I remained quiet. Just took it all in. They got their diplomas. I eventually received mine in the mail. I left that night for the Haight Ashbury in San Francisco.
The Summer of Love was calling. Don’t know how they got my number, but they did. Had to go. Had to join the parade of flower children and hippy wannabes, in our quest to change the world, or at least to change our place in the world. We hopped aboard the peace train on our pilgrimage to Mecca and made our way as best we could. Crashing in basements of abandoned houses, renting flats, fifteen to a room, sleeping in the park, in parked cars, and in the garages of unsuspecting home owners. Suburban refugees chasing a dream, and following the trails of yesterdays LSD. Everybody wanting to be part of the cultural revolution. Everybody wanting some of the love the movement promised. It’s eventual downfall was that everybody wanted to be loved, but nobody knew that love is really about giving, not getting. Music, drugs, sex, hugs and silly smiles. A formula for peace. What lab did that formula emerge from? The movement eventually died of its own indulgence, though some pretend today that it never went away. And maybe it hasn’t for them. Many of us were lost early on. We were quick to accept the illusion? Shows the depth of anger and disillusionment we felt concerning the establishment. I hugged a lot of strange people, heard a lot of good music, and lost a lot of friends. I knew girls who got raped, kids who got beat up, robbed, burned on drug deals and overdosed on bad drugs. I knew a lot of kids who used to be alive back then, including my best friends, until the scene got hold of them and drowned them like a litter of unwanted puppies in a tub. That’s the part we never hear about the Summer of Love.
But the families of those kids know.
Yeah, they know.
Those who led us into the abyss of narcissism and egocentricity, and the members of my generation who followed, have still never taken responsibility for the devastation the 60’s set in motion, nor have they apologized for the tragic consequences visited upon the lives and culture of the innocent, including subsequent generations who have become the unwitting victims of their parents moral relativism, addictions, and divorce. For this, we as a society continue to suffer.
We thought we found freedom in the 60’s, but we had to close our eyes to believe that. And all the while, the drugs were convincing us that our eyes were finally opened, that we had found the path to enlightenment. Well, that path led to a lasting enlightenment for many. Unfortunately, it was a pseudo-illumination they would never, could never, recover from. We failed to realize that a freedom born entirely of ones own self-indulgence lacks, not only the will, but also the foundation, to sustain itself, eventually feeding upon itself for it’s own survival. With the emergence of ‘group-think’, and the subjugation of one’s own morality to that dynamic, the definition of freedom expands to include any ideology or behavior any member of that group is willing to engage in. The Summer of Love was a Pied Piper for many young, well-meaning idealists, and many are afraid to admit today that they followed a phony musician.
It’s always easier to re-define freedom than to take the time to actually try and understand what true freedom actually is. Human nature is such that it will always push the proverbial ‘line not to be crossed’, further away, to keep it always out in front of us. If we get too close to the line we move it even further again. It’s how we are. If we cross it, we consider the line to be obsolete, and in need of being re-drawn. Always stretching the boundary, enlarging the dimension, until we are lost for lack of an ability to even find a boundary if we need one. The Summer of Love. The 40th Anniversary of the death of our innocence.
It is in family, it is in loving relationships, and it is in generosity that one is truly able to find freedom. It is in that context that freedom will ultimately define itself. It is in considering the greater good, the good of the whole, that one finds goodness, and wholeness, within one’s self.
It is a principal that was missing in the 60’s, and is still missing today in the afterbirth of those times. But it is a principal that pays dividends for those willing to seek, and find, the honesty of its embrace.
I remember sitting on a distant hillside in West Covina, California with a couple of friends, and watching my high school class graduate below. Quite a surreal experience. I remained quiet. Just took it all in. They got their diplomas. I eventually received mine in the mail. I left that night for the Haight Ashbury in San Francisco.
The Summer of Love was calling. Don’t know how they got my number, but they did. Had to go. Had to join the parade of flower children and hippy wannabes, in our quest to change the world, or at least to change our place in the world. We hopped aboard the peace train on our pilgrimage to Mecca and made our way as best we could. Crashing in basements of abandoned houses, renting flats, fifteen to a room, sleeping in the park, in parked cars, and in the garages of unsuspecting home owners. Suburban refugees chasing a dream, and following the trails of yesterdays LSD. Everybody wanting to be part of the cultural revolution. Everybody wanting some of the love the movement promised. It’s eventual downfall was that everybody wanted to be loved, but nobody knew that love is really about giving, not getting. Music, drugs, sex, hugs and silly smiles. A formula for peace. What lab did that formula emerge from? The movement eventually died of its own indulgence, though some pretend today that it never went away. And maybe it hasn’t for them. Many of us were lost early on. We were quick to accept the illusion? Shows the depth of anger and disillusionment we felt concerning the establishment. I hugged a lot of strange people, heard a lot of good music, and lost a lot of friends. I knew girls who got raped, kids who got beat up, robbed, burned on drug deals and overdosed on bad drugs. I knew a lot of kids who used to be alive back then, including my best friends, until the scene got hold of them and drowned them like a litter of unwanted puppies in a tub. That’s the part we never hear about the Summer of Love.
But the families of those kids know.
Yeah, they know.
Those who led us into the abyss of narcissism and egocentricity, and the members of my generation who followed, have still never taken responsibility for the devastation the 60’s set in motion, nor have they apologized for the tragic consequences visited upon the lives and culture of the innocent, including subsequent generations who have become the unwitting victims of their parents moral relativism, addictions, and divorce. For this, we as a society continue to suffer.
We thought we found freedom in the 60’s, but we had to close our eyes to believe that. And all the while, the drugs were convincing us that our eyes were finally opened, that we had found the path to enlightenment. Well, that path led to a lasting enlightenment for many. Unfortunately, it was a pseudo-illumination they would never, could never, recover from. We failed to realize that a freedom born entirely of ones own self-indulgence lacks, not only the will, but also the foundation, to sustain itself, eventually feeding upon itself for it’s own survival. With the emergence of ‘group-think’, and the subjugation of one’s own morality to that dynamic, the definition of freedom expands to include any ideology or behavior any member of that group is willing to engage in. The Summer of Love was a Pied Piper for many young, well-meaning idealists, and many are afraid to admit today that they followed a phony musician.
It’s always easier to re-define freedom than to take the time to actually try and understand what true freedom actually is. Human nature is such that it will always push the proverbial ‘line not to be crossed’, further away, to keep it always out in front of us. If we get too close to the line we move it even further again. It’s how we are. If we cross it, we consider the line to be obsolete, and in need of being re-drawn. Always stretching the boundary, enlarging the dimension, until we are lost for lack of an ability to even find a boundary if we need one. The Summer of Love. The 40th Anniversary of the death of our innocence.
It is in family, it is in loving relationships, and it is in generosity that one is truly able to find freedom. It is in that context that freedom will ultimately define itself. It is in considering the greater good, the good of the whole, that one finds goodness, and wholeness, within one’s self.
It is a principal that was missing in the 60’s, and is still missing today in the afterbirth of those times. But it is a principal that pays dividends for those willing to seek, and find, the honesty of its embrace.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Maybe We Need More Emergencies
I live in a rural area near a small town in California surrounded by vineyards, pastureland and oak covered hills with pine trees running up to the higher elevations. Neighbors look out for each other, but keep a respectful distance. It’s nice like that. Streams wind their way like snakes through the picturesque terrain. In the hot summer months the creek beds continue to wind their way, but without the water.
It’s been a peaceful place, even in spite of one unreasonable neighbor. I’ll call him Frank. He lives alone on a few acres, a long ‘stones throw’ from the land I’m on. We share a small common road in, which becomes a dirt road, turning off to the right onto his property, but continuing further on to the end where I live. Frank has had a problem with his temper for years and asserts it as a means of controlling those around him. His unpredictability is quite predictable, but still somewhat disconcerting. I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him when he’s threatened me pretty aggressively. I stood my ground, confronted his BS and refused to energize it, but, like most bullies, it would only anger him more. He’s pretty scary when he puffs up with the veins popping out of his neck. Built like a fireplug. Blows like one when it’s unplugged. He looks to intimidate. Looks for submission to his moods. He does not get that from me. I will not accommodate it. Fortunately I only see him a couple of times a month. Everybody in this area has had similar experiences with him over the years. Every community seems to have a guy like him. The Sheriff knows him well. Has yet to actually follow through with a threat. That’s the good thing.
Frank’s brother, Will, lives on the acreage between Frank and me. A few days ago Will’s property caught fire while he was away. A compost pile internally combusted, and in the high wind the fire began spreading rapidly towards the house. I smelled it before seeing it. I immediately got on the phone to Fire Dispatch, informing them of the situation. Everything is bone dry around here, and with the high wind this was a serious situation. I pounded on the doors and windows to make sure no one was in the house. Frank came running over from his adjacent property, saw me, and immediately began yelling at me like a maniac. It seems to be his immediate reaction to almost anything. He grabbed a hose and began working on the fire while I pointed out the new hot spots as the wind whipped the flames about like feathers in front of a fan. I continued to direct the Fire Department to the scene. They arrived, finished getting the fire under control, and then soaked the property until satisfied that it no longer posed a threat.
Frank came over to me, thanked me for helping to save not only his brothers property, but quite likely his own. He apologized for yelling at, and threatening, me in the past. Offered a handshake. Said he was in counseling now to deal with the root causes of his anger. I shook his hand, accepted his apology, but told him I would continue to keep a reasonable distance until I felt comfortable that he had the issue under control. After all, it was only just a few minutes ago that he most recently displayed his rage.
I walked back home, confident that I had handled the situation well. I was reminded again, by this turn of events, that communities, individuals, are only an emergency away from getting along with one another, from working together, and from disregarding differences. If even for just a short while.
The next day Will came home. He’s been pretty estranged from Frank for years. I told him of his brother’s apology. He said “don’t take it too seriously, Frank pulls the apology thing out periodically. It can’t be trusted.” I was sad to hear that. But I think I knew it at the time.
Maybe what we need are more emergencies.
We’ll see.
It’s been a peaceful place, even in spite of one unreasonable neighbor. I’ll call him Frank. He lives alone on a few acres, a long ‘stones throw’ from the land I’m on. We share a small common road in, which becomes a dirt road, turning off to the right onto his property, but continuing further on to the end where I live. Frank has had a problem with his temper for years and asserts it as a means of controlling those around him. His unpredictability is quite predictable, but still somewhat disconcerting. I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him when he’s threatened me pretty aggressively. I stood my ground, confronted his BS and refused to energize it, but, like most bullies, it would only anger him more. He’s pretty scary when he puffs up with the veins popping out of his neck. Built like a fireplug. Blows like one when it’s unplugged. He looks to intimidate. Looks for submission to his moods. He does not get that from me. I will not accommodate it. Fortunately I only see him a couple of times a month. Everybody in this area has had similar experiences with him over the years. Every community seems to have a guy like him. The Sheriff knows him well. Has yet to actually follow through with a threat. That’s the good thing.
Frank’s brother, Will, lives on the acreage between Frank and me. A few days ago Will’s property caught fire while he was away. A compost pile internally combusted, and in the high wind the fire began spreading rapidly towards the house. I smelled it before seeing it. I immediately got on the phone to Fire Dispatch, informing them of the situation. Everything is bone dry around here, and with the high wind this was a serious situation. I pounded on the doors and windows to make sure no one was in the house. Frank came running over from his adjacent property, saw me, and immediately began yelling at me like a maniac. It seems to be his immediate reaction to almost anything. He grabbed a hose and began working on the fire while I pointed out the new hot spots as the wind whipped the flames about like feathers in front of a fan. I continued to direct the Fire Department to the scene. They arrived, finished getting the fire under control, and then soaked the property until satisfied that it no longer posed a threat.
Frank came over to me, thanked me for helping to save not only his brothers property, but quite likely his own. He apologized for yelling at, and threatening, me in the past. Offered a handshake. Said he was in counseling now to deal with the root causes of his anger. I shook his hand, accepted his apology, but told him I would continue to keep a reasonable distance until I felt comfortable that he had the issue under control. After all, it was only just a few minutes ago that he most recently displayed his rage.
I walked back home, confident that I had handled the situation well. I was reminded again, by this turn of events, that communities, individuals, are only an emergency away from getting along with one another, from working together, and from disregarding differences. If even for just a short while.
The next day Will came home. He’s been pretty estranged from Frank for years. I told him of his brother’s apology. He said “don’t take it too seriously, Frank pulls the apology thing out periodically. It can’t be trusted.” I was sad to hear that. But I think I knew it at the time.
Maybe what we need are more emergencies.
We’ll see.
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