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.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
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.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The Last Champion
When I was about twelve years old my father took my family out to the desert to spend two weeks at Cisco Andrade’s training camp. It was a boxing camp, and Davey Moore was the premier boxer in training there at the time. He was the Featherweight Champion of the World, and was preparing to defend his title one last time before retiring. There would be no more fights after this one. He felt he had finally saved enough money to provide for his wife and children. Jerry Pina and Frankie Hernandez were in camp as well. The camp was normally restricted to boxers, their trainers, managers, sparring partners and families, but my father knew somebody so we were invited to stay in a cabin on the grounds, to spend some time with the fighters, and watch them train.
Having been raised in white suburbia, Davey Moore was the first black man I had ever really gotten to know beyond a superficial level. He took an interest in my family and me. In those two weeks we spent quite a bit of time together, shared some meals and a lot of laughs. He took us target shooting with 22’s out in the surrounding desert when he was not doing his road or ring work. He was a very kind, good natured and loving man. Took me under his wing. Gave me some boxing lessons, worked with me on the speed bag and suggested one day I might even whoop his ass. Yeah right.
Even in that brief time I grew to love and admire Davey. He was the kind of man I wanted to be. I began to consider him a big brother, a mentor, a friend. But, as I’ve learned so well, good things can come to an end. He broke camp, and we said our goodbyes on a Friday afternoon. He was to fight the next night at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. He headed off to LA, and we headed back home.
My family and I gathered around the radio the next night to listen to the fight. Davey took a beating from a young Cuban boxer. Lost the fight. Lost his crown. I was devastated. Not because he lost, but because he was hurt.
A few minutes later Davey died in his dressing room. I could not process it. It was beyond my ability to comprehend. Things like that just shouldn’t happen. It was my first experience with the death of someone I had known and was growing to love.
But it would not be my last.
Bob Dylan later wrote a song about Davey Moore, part of which reads:
“Who killed Davey Moore
Why an’ what’s the reason for?”
”Not us” says the angry crowd
whose screams filled the arena loud.
”It’s too bad he died that night
but we just like to see a fight.
We didn’t mean for him t’ meet his death,
we just meant to see some sweat.
There ain’t nothing wrong in that.
it wasn’t us that made him fall.
No, you can’t blame us at all.”
Being twelve, I did blame myself. I reasoned “if Davey hadn’t spent so much time with me at camp he might have been better prepared for the fight. He might even have won.”
The newspaper asked us to write a story about Davey Moore and the time we got to spend with him before the fight. They put our picture in the paper with his. Writing helped to express my grief. But only just a little.
Only just a little.
And it couldn't bring him back.
Having been raised in white suburbia, Davey Moore was the first black man I had ever really gotten to know beyond a superficial level. He took an interest in my family and me. In those two weeks we spent quite a bit of time together, shared some meals and a lot of laughs. He took us target shooting with 22’s out in the surrounding desert when he was not doing his road or ring work. He was a very kind, good natured and loving man. Took me under his wing. Gave me some boxing lessons, worked with me on the speed bag and suggested one day I might even whoop his ass. Yeah right.
Even in that brief time I grew to love and admire Davey. He was the kind of man I wanted to be. I began to consider him a big brother, a mentor, a friend. But, as I’ve learned so well, good things can come to an end. He broke camp, and we said our goodbyes on a Friday afternoon. He was to fight the next night at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. He headed off to LA, and we headed back home.
My family and I gathered around the radio the next night to listen to the fight. Davey took a beating from a young Cuban boxer. Lost the fight. Lost his crown. I was devastated. Not because he lost, but because he was hurt.
A few minutes later Davey died in his dressing room. I could not process it. It was beyond my ability to comprehend. Things like that just shouldn’t happen. It was my first experience with the death of someone I had known and was growing to love.
But it would not be my last.
Bob Dylan later wrote a song about Davey Moore, part of which reads:
“Who killed Davey Moore
Why an’ what’s the reason for?”
”Not us” says the angry crowd
whose screams filled the arena loud.
”It’s too bad he died that night
but we just like to see a fight.
We didn’t mean for him t’ meet his death,
we just meant to see some sweat.
There ain’t nothing wrong in that.
it wasn’t us that made him fall.
No, you can’t blame us at all.”
Being twelve, I did blame myself. I reasoned “if Davey hadn’t spent so much time with me at camp he might have been better prepared for the fight. He might even have won.”
The newspaper asked us to write a story about Davey Moore and the time we got to spend with him before the fight. They put our picture in the paper with his. Writing helped to express my grief. But only just a little.
Only just a little.
And it couldn't bring him back.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Heroes Are Hard To Come By
Yes they are. Didn’t used to be that way. We were allowed to have heroes, icons, mentors. People we looked up to. We knew they were not perfect, but we were allowed to respect them. We’re not allowed that today. If we find someone to look up to, eventually someone will tear them down.
People of questionable character are given a free ride to be who they are. It’s become fashionable to be objectionable. They’re considered to be honest because they live out their flaws and failures publicly. They flaunt them, and it makes them even more popular. Not so with a man (or woman) of good character. If they trip and stumble, if they make a mistake, act on a bad decision, or just screw up on occasion they are attacked and branded as hypocrites. No credit is given for their effort to live honestly, forthrightly and with dignity. No room is allowed them for their own imperfection. They are scrutinized under a powerful microscope by those who would hope to be able to declare them to be compromised. A convenient way to feel better about ones own misgivings and indiscretions. It is always those seeking to take the high road that are accused of judging others, almost as if those taking the low road need to feel judged in order to have someone to feel superior to.
Personally, I would rather set my standards high and fail to reach them than to set them low and live down to them. If one does not stand for something, one stands for nothing.
It would be easy to think that these observations apply only to public people, but public scrutiny is only the visible end of things. What we don’t see is how the same scrutiny filters down to, and through, all areas of relationships with people in general, families even. Children have always wanted to view their parents as heroes. But by the time they become teenagers they have observed the imperfections in their parents. Teenagers have always needed to view their parents as hypocrites. It is what justifies them being able to engage in experimental behaviors. They are quick to measure and compare the behaviors of parents against what those same parents have advised against, or forbidden, for the children. As if children and parents should have the same standards of behavior. They should in some respects, but not in all. Well, the scrutiny is to be expected from teenagers. It’s in their genes. But in today’s world, with that same scrutiny being lived out through a relentless media, in effect we are perpetuating the behavior of teens. We look for the good people to screw up, and then we shout “aha, gotcha, what a hypocrite.” Makes us feel better.
We continue to applaud the questionable actions of some, while at the same time asking “how did everything get turned so upside down?”
Yeah, heroes are hard to come by now.
So try to live your life in a way that will make you a hero to somebody.
People of questionable character are given a free ride to be who they are. It’s become fashionable to be objectionable. They’re considered to be honest because they live out their flaws and failures publicly. They flaunt them, and it makes them even more popular. Not so with a man (or woman) of good character. If they trip and stumble, if they make a mistake, act on a bad decision, or just screw up on occasion they are attacked and branded as hypocrites. No credit is given for their effort to live honestly, forthrightly and with dignity. No room is allowed them for their own imperfection. They are scrutinized under a powerful microscope by those who would hope to be able to declare them to be compromised. A convenient way to feel better about ones own misgivings and indiscretions. It is always those seeking to take the high road that are accused of judging others, almost as if those taking the low road need to feel judged in order to have someone to feel superior to.
Personally, I would rather set my standards high and fail to reach them than to set them low and live down to them. If one does not stand for something, one stands for nothing.
It would be easy to think that these observations apply only to public people, but public scrutiny is only the visible end of things. What we don’t see is how the same scrutiny filters down to, and through, all areas of relationships with people in general, families even. Children have always wanted to view their parents as heroes. But by the time they become teenagers they have observed the imperfections in their parents. Teenagers have always needed to view their parents as hypocrites. It is what justifies them being able to engage in experimental behaviors. They are quick to measure and compare the behaviors of parents against what those same parents have advised against, or forbidden, for the children. As if children and parents should have the same standards of behavior. They should in some respects, but not in all. Well, the scrutiny is to be expected from teenagers. It’s in their genes. But in today’s world, with that same scrutiny being lived out through a relentless media, in effect we are perpetuating the behavior of teens. We look for the good people to screw up, and then we shout “aha, gotcha, what a hypocrite.” Makes us feel better.
We continue to applaud the questionable actions of some, while at the same time asking “how did everything get turned so upside down?”
Yeah, heroes are hard to come by now.
So try to live your life in a way that will make you a hero to somebody.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Sociatalism
Socialism/Capitalism
Socialism vs. Capitalism. The age old debate. Create a form of fiscal and social equality, but restrict the individuals right to prosper; or support the freedom to prosper while creating a social and economic divide? As we know, in the U.S. about 20% of the people control about 80% of the wealth, and 80% of the people control only 20% of the wealth. The disparity between rich and poor in the U.S. is alarming, with fortunes continuing to be made on the backs of the working poor. Modern day land barons, and plantation owners continue to line their pockets with gold while the poor and working class struggle to survive. Our political leaders and corporate executives are millionaires many times over. These are the people dictating, influencing and controlling our lives. Sure, we elect the politicians, but they’re just lapdogs who do the bidding of the corporate conglomerates. Not to mention the international cartel of billionaires who actually run things from the shadows.
I’m a believer in capitalism. It is what enables someone with a good idea, or someone with talent and ambition to achieve his/her dreams. And I don’t believe it should be required that the fruit of ones honest labor be shared equally with those who never had a hand in earning it. But when ambition breeds greed beyond measure it affects all of us disproportionately. When the wealthy prop up the wealthy to become even more wealthy, driving up the cost of goods and services, the fiscal lower and middle classes are forced to work even harder to keep themselves afloat. Insurmountable debt and eventual homelessness are the predictable consequences of such unmitigated greed.
The following plan is based on my belief that in today’s world freedom with limitations is inherently better for society than freedom run amok. I am not a sociologist; business man, educator or economist, but I have devised this plan as a means to restructure the socio-economic makeup of America. I call the concept “Sociatalism” (Pronounced like society). It looks like this.
* No individual in the U.S. may, as an employee or business owner, earn more than one million dollars annual salary. But a business owner may increase his/her income with company profits.
* No company may keep as profit more than the total sum of the wages it pays out to its employees. An individual running a company alone, such as an online business out of the home, will be considered to be an employee and a company, with a one million dollar salary limit.
* Up to an equal amount may be invested back into the business annually towards the growth of the company. This would encourage the growth of business, but restrict the growth of greed. As wages rise, the profit would be allowed to increase. Example: If a company has 20 employees earning an annual salary of 2.5 million dollars collectively, the ‘Keepable Annual Company Profit’ (KACP) would be 2.5 million dollars annually.
This would be income above and beyond the salary of the business owner. An additional 2.5 million dollars may be invested back into the business.
* The business owner(s) could keep this profit, or divide it accordingly among stock holders. This would not be considered salary. The KACP would never exceed the sum total of the companies collective annual salary. If a business owner wishes for a greater KACP he must increase the collective annual employee salary accordingly.
* Any additional profits will go into a National Fund to be divided equally, ½ for Health Care, and ½ for Business and Educational opportunities. The Health Care portion of the fund will be used to provide free health care for any U.S Citizen. The Business and Educational portion of the fund will be used to provide a 4-year education for any Citizen wishing to get a college degree. Those not wishing to avail themselves of the educational opportunity will be given the option of starting a small business, with the funds provided equaling up to the average value of a 4 year college education. This provision would be for anyone wishing to invest in themselves, including artists, farmers etc. Every Citizen will be given this option. Legal immigrants waiting for citizenship would not be excluded.
* No individual would be provided both an education and seed money for a start up business, although an individual granted ‘Business Startup Money’ (BSN) could still pay for his own education, and an individual paying for his own education could still be eligible for ‘business startup money’.
* Companies who earn enough profit to contribute to the National Fund will not be taxed on the portion of their earnings that equals the amount provided to that fund. If the amount provided is less than the annual profit, the remaining portion of the profit will be taxed. If the amount is equal to, or greater than, the annual profit they will not be taxed at all.
Profit Sharing:
In the Capitalist system of Profit Sharing, if the company does well, the employees share in the profits. In the Sociatalism system, if the company is doing well and the business owner wants to take a greater profit, he/she must increase the workers collective annual salary in order to realize increased personal revenue. Profit sharing is inherent in the salary and profit structure. The workers automatically share in the increasing income of the owner. As previously stated, every worker would have the right to earn up to One Million dollars in annual salary.
Sociological Impact of Sociatalism:
- Greater economic equality.
- The proliferation of small businesses to stimulate the economy.
- More motivated and contented workers resulting in increased productivity.
- An educated nation without equal anywhere in the world. Existing tax revenue would be more readily available to schools for the primary and intermediate grades to ensure that anyone hoping to go to college would have the educational skills necessary to achieve that goal.
- Equal access to health care for all Americans.
- Health care, Higher Education and new Business paid for by the people for the people, resulting in a truly ‘citizen controlled democracy’.
- Increased esteem as a Nation of Individuals serving a collective purpose.
- Fewer citizens on welfare and other government programs.
- Taxes could be reduced, and since the governments primary purpose is the protection of it’s citizens, greater tax revenue could be designated for the security of the nation. We could equip and maintain an unprecedented Department of Defense.
- Greater tax revenue would be available for the building and maintenance of a first rate infrastructure (roads, bridges, dams etc.).
- Greater tax revenue would be available for research and generation of new forms of energy and transportation.
- Greater tax revenue would be available for comprehensive and effective Social Service Programs for the disabled and the displaced.
It’s time to change the system. There are smarter, more competent, and more connected individuals than myself who could help instigate change. Maybe not according to this particular plan, but some plan that would allow for socio-economic justice. I submit this one. But it will take some dynamic leadership, and a revolution of the people to initiate it. Not a violent revolution, but an economic one. A boycott of corporate goods and services.
And a political revolution that would give the status quo their walking papers.
It’s a big order, but we all know SOMETHING’S got to be done.
Socialism vs. Capitalism. The age old debate. Create a form of fiscal and social equality, but restrict the individuals right to prosper; or support the freedom to prosper while creating a social and economic divide? As we know, in the U.S. about 20% of the people control about 80% of the wealth, and 80% of the people control only 20% of the wealth. The disparity between rich and poor in the U.S. is alarming, with fortunes continuing to be made on the backs of the working poor. Modern day land barons, and plantation owners continue to line their pockets with gold while the poor and working class struggle to survive. Our political leaders and corporate executives are millionaires many times over. These are the people dictating, influencing and controlling our lives. Sure, we elect the politicians, but they’re just lapdogs who do the bidding of the corporate conglomerates. Not to mention the international cartel of billionaires who actually run things from the shadows.
I’m a believer in capitalism. It is what enables someone with a good idea, or someone with talent and ambition to achieve his/her dreams. And I don’t believe it should be required that the fruit of ones honest labor be shared equally with those who never had a hand in earning it. But when ambition breeds greed beyond measure it affects all of us disproportionately. When the wealthy prop up the wealthy to become even more wealthy, driving up the cost of goods and services, the fiscal lower and middle classes are forced to work even harder to keep themselves afloat. Insurmountable debt and eventual homelessness are the predictable consequences of such unmitigated greed.
The following plan is based on my belief that in today’s world freedom with limitations is inherently better for society than freedom run amok. I am not a sociologist; business man, educator or economist, but I have devised this plan as a means to restructure the socio-economic makeup of America. I call the concept “Sociatalism” (Pronounced like society). It looks like this.
* No individual in the U.S. may, as an employee or business owner, earn more than one million dollars annual salary. But a business owner may increase his/her income with company profits.
* No company may keep as profit more than the total sum of the wages it pays out to its employees. An individual running a company alone, such as an online business out of the home, will be considered to be an employee and a company, with a one million dollar salary limit.
* Up to an equal amount may be invested back into the business annually towards the growth of the company. This would encourage the growth of business, but restrict the growth of greed. As wages rise, the profit would be allowed to increase. Example: If a company has 20 employees earning an annual salary of 2.5 million dollars collectively, the ‘Keepable Annual Company Profit’ (KACP) would be 2.5 million dollars annually.
This would be income above and beyond the salary of the business owner. An additional 2.5 million dollars may be invested back into the business.
* The business owner(s) could keep this profit, or divide it accordingly among stock holders. This would not be considered salary. The KACP would never exceed the sum total of the companies collective annual salary. If a business owner wishes for a greater KACP he must increase the collective annual employee salary accordingly.
* Any additional profits will go into a National Fund to be divided equally, ½ for Health Care, and ½ for Business and Educational opportunities. The Health Care portion of the fund will be used to provide free health care for any U.S Citizen. The Business and Educational portion of the fund will be used to provide a 4-year education for any Citizen wishing to get a college degree. Those not wishing to avail themselves of the educational opportunity will be given the option of starting a small business, with the funds provided equaling up to the average value of a 4 year college education. This provision would be for anyone wishing to invest in themselves, including artists, farmers etc. Every Citizen will be given this option. Legal immigrants waiting for citizenship would not be excluded.
* No individual would be provided both an education and seed money for a start up business, although an individual granted ‘Business Startup Money’ (BSN) could still pay for his own education, and an individual paying for his own education could still be eligible for ‘business startup money’.
* Companies who earn enough profit to contribute to the National Fund will not be taxed on the portion of their earnings that equals the amount provided to that fund. If the amount provided is less than the annual profit, the remaining portion of the profit will be taxed. If the amount is equal to, or greater than, the annual profit they will not be taxed at all.
Profit Sharing:
In the Capitalist system of Profit Sharing, if the company does well, the employees share in the profits. In the Sociatalism system, if the company is doing well and the business owner wants to take a greater profit, he/she must increase the workers collective annual salary in order to realize increased personal revenue. Profit sharing is inherent in the salary and profit structure. The workers automatically share in the increasing income of the owner. As previously stated, every worker would have the right to earn up to One Million dollars in annual salary.
Sociological Impact of Sociatalism:
- Greater economic equality.
- The proliferation of small businesses to stimulate the economy.
- More motivated and contented workers resulting in increased productivity.
- An educated nation without equal anywhere in the world. Existing tax revenue would be more readily available to schools for the primary and intermediate grades to ensure that anyone hoping to go to college would have the educational skills necessary to achieve that goal.
- Equal access to health care for all Americans.
- Health care, Higher Education and new Business paid for by the people for the people, resulting in a truly ‘citizen controlled democracy’.
- Increased esteem as a Nation of Individuals serving a collective purpose.
- Fewer citizens on welfare and other government programs.
- Taxes could be reduced, and since the governments primary purpose is the protection of it’s citizens, greater tax revenue could be designated for the security of the nation. We could equip and maintain an unprecedented Department of Defense.
- Greater tax revenue would be available for the building and maintenance of a first rate infrastructure (roads, bridges, dams etc.).
- Greater tax revenue would be available for research and generation of new forms of energy and transportation.
- Greater tax revenue would be available for comprehensive and effective Social Service Programs for the disabled and the displaced.
It’s time to change the system. There are smarter, more competent, and more connected individuals than myself who could help instigate change. Maybe not according to this particular plan, but some plan that would allow for socio-economic justice. I submit this one. But it will take some dynamic leadership, and a revolution of the people to initiate it. Not a violent revolution, but an economic one. A boycott of corporate goods and services.
And a political revolution that would give the status quo their walking papers.
It’s a big order, but we all know SOMETHING’S got to be done.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Seemingly Random Associations
Every morning I would see a woman on the side of the road waiting for a bus. I’d just drive by, she’d be there, and I’d keep on driving. It was always the same. I had no interaction with her or connection to her. She was just a woman on the side of the road waiting for a bus. She appeared to be comfortable. By that I mean she seemed by all visible criteria (clothes, skin, hair, posture, body language etc.) to be OK with herself, and with life. As if life had been pretty good to her. Just an observation, but nevertheless it is the impression I’ve had of her. The only thing that has seemed a little odd is that she was waiting for a bus. Seemed like I should have been seeing her every morning behind the wheel of a new Lexus, a Volvo or a BMW. I entertained the idea that she could be, but was doing her part for energy conservation and the environment. What do I know?
The woman had a relaxed air about her that indicated she might be enjoying this alone time. Just a little time by herself. No demands on her, or expectations of her. Just waiting for a bus.
One day, after a few months, I noticed another woman in the same place waiting for the same bus. Now there were two of them. They stood apart. This new arrival left an entirely different impression with me. She seemed like someone you would expect to see waiting on the side of the road for a bus. She seemed to be a bit beaten down by life, as if life had had its way with her. She had a saggy posture, kind of unkempt hair and clothes, weathered skin, and bags under her eyes that made it appear as if a lot of sleep had eluded her over the years. It did not seem like her and life were very compatible partners.
One woman was black. The other was white. Which was which is really of no significance here, only that one was black and the other was white. They were both about the same age. For the next several weeks I noticed they continued to stand apart. I never saw them acknowledge one another. I can’t say they didn’t, I just never witnessed it. And their body posture was quite guarded, protective, anxious.
But I eventually began to notice a softening in that posture, a lessening of the distance between them and an occasional glance, an acknowledgement of one another. It made me smile. How could it not? As the weeks moved on I watched a relationship develop. I could only watch it briefly in my moments driving by, but it was like a flower blooming in the desert. In time they were laughing, touching each other as part of their mutual expression, standing shoulder to shoulder or face to face. The woman with the saggy posture was standing taller now, and looking younger. The woman who had initially appeared to be comfortable, then guarded, was now comfortable again, but even more so. There was now an element of happiness to her comfort. This had been an amazing transformation for me to see. And it’s something I think about quite often. I think of it in terms of other seemingly random encounters, how they come about, and what we do with them. What I do with them. It leaves me wondering if there really is any such thing as a random encounter. In the isolated context of these two women it does not seem like it was random at all, but rather a deliberate linking of two individuals to see what each of them would do with the other.
Our lives are filled with these associations, at work, at play, and in the marketplace. We choose daily what to do with them. And what we will allow them to become.
When I drove by this morning the women were gone. I’m thinking they began to drive together. Together. Not collectively alone.
I like the thought of that.
The woman had a relaxed air about her that indicated she might be enjoying this alone time. Just a little time by herself. No demands on her, or expectations of her. Just waiting for a bus.
One day, after a few months, I noticed another woman in the same place waiting for the same bus. Now there were two of them. They stood apart. This new arrival left an entirely different impression with me. She seemed like someone you would expect to see waiting on the side of the road for a bus. She seemed to be a bit beaten down by life, as if life had had its way with her. She had a saggy posture, kind of unkempt hair and clothes, weathered skin, and bags under her eyes that made it appear as if a lot of sleep had eluded her over the years. It did not seem like her and life were very compatible partners.
One woman was black. The other was white. Which was which is really of no significance here, only that one was black and the other was white. They were both about the same age. For the next several weeks I noticed they continued to stand apart. I never saw them acknowledge one another. I can’t say they didn’t, I just never witnessed it. And their body posture was quite guarded, protective, anxious.
But I eventually began to notice a softening in that posture, a lessening of the distance between them and an occasional glance, an acknowledgement of one another. It made me smile. How could it not? As the weeks moved on I watched a relationship develop. I could only watch it briefly in my moments driving by, but it was like a flower blooming in the desert. In time they were laughing, touching each other as part of their mutual expression, standing shoulder to shoulder or face to face. The woman with the saggy posture was standing taller now, and looking younger. The woman who had initially appeared to be comfortable, then guarded, was now comfortable again, but even more so. There was now an element of happiness to her comfort. This had been an amazing transformation for me to see. And it’s something I think about quite often. I think of it in terms of other seemingly random encounters, how they come about, and what we do with them. What I do with them. It leaves me wondering if there really is any such thing as a random encounter. In the isolated context of these two women it does not seem like it was random at all, but rather a deliberate linking of two individuals to see what each of them would do with the other.
Our lives are filled with these associations, at work, at play, and in the marketplace. We choose daily what to do with them. And what we will allow them to become.
When I drove by this morning the women were gone. I’m thinking they began to drive together. Together. Not collectively alone.
I like the thought of that.
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