Optics

Wars of nations are fought to change maps. But wars of poverty are fought to map change.

~ Muhammad Ali ~

I remember a time when I found Muhammad Ali (formerly known as Cassius Clay) insufferably arrogant. And I still think the man was arrogant in many respects. But as proud and loud as he was, he was an extraordinary boxer, an excellent self-marketer, and—from time to time—an extraordinary philosopher. Actually, a number of wise, insightful quotations are attributed to him and I have no reason to believe otherwise. Despite the fact that involvement in boxing—a barbaric sport—is awfully dangerous and potentially fatal, I think he pursued it because it represented for him the most likely way forward toward the kind of success he sought.

Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.

~ Muhammad Ali ~

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“How would it look if I …” Though I criticize others who give more credence to optics than to reason, my hypocrisy is on full display when I do. I am just as guilty as anyone else when it comes to worry about what others might think. That fact, alone, embarrasses me. The fact that my worry about what what others might think might arise from “how it would look” is doubly disturbing. When I consider a person who is deliberately addressing optics, I think of a politician and the politician’s staff members as they consider how something might be received, rather than what that something might achieve. Putting myself in the same genus with them is quite shaming and hurtful. It makes the phrase “less than human” come to life.

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Two nights ago, we enjoyed a wonderful evening with our “wine group” friends, some of whom also are “church friends.” One of them hosted us at his house with ribs from his smoker; some of the best I have ever had. The others brought salads, beans, dessert, wine, and various other goodies. Our contribution was wine and stuffed celery. People assume the celery is stuffed with pimento cheese, but mine was different: cream cheese, sharp cheddar, lemon juice, cumin, chile powder, and a little Pace Picante Sauce.  The fact that there was so much else to eat may have been the reason so much was left over; but I think stuffed celery is now considered an appetizer from the 1970s or 1980s. I cannot help it; those were the years when I was coming into my own. “Coming into my own?” According to thefreedictionary.com, it means: “reach a new level of maturity, independence, or success.” But I digress!

Sitting among a group of good, friendly, reasonable, thinking people was such a good feeling. Everyone could be themselves, with no fear of offending anyone else. I may be the only one who actively considers such a concern: worrying that what I do or say may offend. The only people I would not worry about offending are people I actively dislike. Or loathe. Not, it’s not more digression; well, maybe a little. At any rate, I felt so fortunate to be among kindred spirits. Grateful to be protected by a refuge of progressive thought in a political (and even social) environment of deliberate, aggressive, unapologetic regression. And grateful for many other aspects of my life. Appreciative of the people who made life worth living in years gone by and those who do the same today.

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As we sat watching the latest episodes of Happy Valley last night, we heard a loud “boom.” I thought it sounded like a car crash, perhaps half a mile from us. Mi novia went online to learn what others nearby might have heard. Online, she read reports from all over Arkansas. Some people suggested it was a sonic boom, caused by a space capsule racing through the atmosphere as it plunged downward toward a water landing in the Gulf of Mexico. This morning, the only things I found about the sound were these:

• • • • A Facebook post made by a meteorologist,  who said it was the SpaceX capsule
      • A headline story online from The Manila Times, saying:
        • A private flight carrying two Saudi astronauts and other passengers returned to Earth on Tuesday night after a nine-day trip to the International Space Station. The SpaceX capsule carrying the four parachuted into the Gulf of Mexico, just off the Florida panhandle, 12 hours after undocking from the orbiting laboratory.

And so there you go. Our entertainment was interrupted by subtle evidence of a once-in-a-lifetime event that we did not learn much about until this morning (and not much so far this morning).

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Today is the very last time we can experience May 31, 2023. There will never be another one.  Six hours and thirteen minutes into this 24-hour span as I write this, less than three quarters of the day remain to be experienced. Never again will I be able to capture this moment. I’ve already squandered most of a quarter of the day. Only time—roughly eighteen hours of it—will tell whether I do the same to the rest or whether I put at least part of it to constructive, progressive, positive use.

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June, which begins in about seventeen hours and forty-five minutes, is a month flush with birthdays. Mi novia, my sister, a brother, and several friends celebrate their birthdays in the coming month. And I will celebrate the fact they have birthdays to celebrate. Although, for the first time I can remember, I wonder why we celebrate birthdays? Yes, I understand it is a milestone, but isn’t ten days after; a birthday also a milestone? I think so. And, anyway, why do we need milestones to warrant celebration? Why shouldn’t we celebrate the mere fact of all existence…every day??! We should! And I think we do, each of us in our unique ways. We may not even recognize that we are celebrating our existence in this universe and the universe’s existence in our fields of vision, speech, touch, smell, and hearing. Now, if only we would waken every day and express gratitude for (not to) everyone and everything. Time flies. We have only seventeen hours and thirty-three minutes left until June begins. I must prepare for it!

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The world in which I live would have been a completely different environment if evolution has gone in a slightly different direction a few millennia ago. What if, for example, the brains of sheep had evolved so that their intelligence (in human terms) was greater than humans? And, assuming that had happened, assume they developed the capabilities to work with the same tools humans use, just modified to conform to the anatomy of sheep. We might be sharing the Earth with a species that possesses capabilities that equal or exceed our own. They might drive their versions of “cars.” They could practice law and medicine. They could, through intense lobbying, get their most astute and persuasive members appointed to important governmental posts. Including, let’s say, executive positions in the Department of Agriculture and the State Department. Any mention of leg of lamb or lambchops would be considered hate speech. Sheep probably would run for elected office in key political districts, garnering ever greater political power with every office. Shepherds would be out of work; in an environment in which any human control over the genus Ovis is prohibited by law. These are absurd thoughts, indeed. Yet here they are, ideas emerging from a nearly seventy-year-old brain; a mind afflicted with all manner of innocuous deviance.

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My hands are riddled with claw and teeth marks. I blame the cat, but part of the problem has to do with my way of playing with—roughhousing with—the cat. She’s still a kitten, really, and still learning how to play without causing damage. I should be concerned, though, that my rough way of playing might be teaching her to be more aggressive, more willing to draw blood, and more willing to attack. So, watch it, John. She can take you out with just one swipe of her razor-sharp claws.

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Another day has begun. It has long been light outside. The air seems still and heavy, though I have yet to go outside. I think I shall, in a minute. A fresh cup of coffee and a deep breath of swamp-wet air is just what I need. Best of the day to ya!