Two Hundred Seventy-Four

The forecast for tomorrow, finally, corresponds to my definition of ideal weather: a high of seventy-five and a low in the upper forties, with clear skies. Saturday, the day I will read a short piece on stage at our local Showcase of the Arts, promises an almost identical reprise of that perfection. That’s the sort of weather, though, that makes being indoors a bit like being sentenced to time in jail.

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Sequester

Many days, I feel the urge to drive long, lonely highways toward an obscure destination, some distant place whose only allure is its remoteness and privacy. I know nothing of this place other than it requires considerable time and concerted effort to reach. I’m not after high adventure on the open road; it’s more that I feel a need for distance and isolation from who and where I am. This sense of wanting to get away does not lend itself well to words; there’s no description that quite captures the emotions behind it. Words seldom fail me; yet words, alone, cannot explain this lifelong thirst for sequestration in the form of a road trip. I’m disappointed when I try to envision where I’ll be at the end of my long drive; it’s not the place that’s appealing, it’s the getting there.

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Two Hundred Seventy-Three

Not long ago, I wrote what was to be a short vignette introducing the town of Struggles, Arkansas. There is no such place, except in my head. But I keep returning to Struggles and to my dissatisfaction with my description of the town. There’s more to the place than the failure reflected in the weeds growing in the cracks in its streets. Behind the boarded windows of failed businesses, stories of heartache and disappointment reside in close company with misplaced dreams and dashed hopes. Ten thousand writers have written about a hundred thousand desolate places like Struggles; but no one has written the story of Struggles the way it deserves to be told. One day, I will polish my vignette and do justice to the town that never was, but should be.

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Did Someone Spike the Kool-Aid?

After reading the boasts and lies of one especially egotistical politician who claims he isn’t one, and seeing his approval ratings climb as a result of his braggadocio and mendacity, I feel compelled to acknowledge that a significant percentage of the population of the USA is both angry and stupid.  I am of two minds on what should be done about this situation: on the one hand, I think it behooves us to clearly document his lies and educate his followers; on the other, I believe calls for widespread preemptive euthanasia may be impossible to resist, in which case the real question is who gets to choose who drinks the kool-aid.

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Two Hundred Seventy-Two

How many things do you take for granted every day? No, not just a number; a list. Might the list include the coffee you drink, your ability to be ambulatory, the roof over your head? How about food on the table, the relationship with your family, your health? Could it be that you take for granted a coup d’etat is unlikely to ruin your dependence on a government you loathe?  Water flowing from the tap? Gasoline for the car? Your eyesight? Plastics? Metal?

If you were to take time every day to acknowledge everything you have grown to take for granted, you would have time for nothing else. But an occasional acknowledgement of the scope and breadth of your good fortune is simply the decent thing to do, don’t you think?

 

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Finish Line

Ideas too expansive to understand
dance by too fast to follow, as I claw
through the weeds in slow motion, seeking
a hand-hold, a place for my grip to grasp
onto ways to slow the spin; to catch up.
But that flash-point world, a world dashing
by at twice the speed of light, discards
those of us who sometimes need to crawl.
The rest, sprinting blindly, rush toward
an awkward admonition whose truth will
not be told until the finish line bleeds
broken dreams in the churned sand
of anxious footsteps taken before their time.
The crawlers will wish we had forewarned them
of the shattered path ahead, but we didn’t
really know what to expect, did we?

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Of Course I Remembered

Yellow_RosesRemembering my mother’s birthday takes on a new dimension every year. Either I remember more about things she did and said or I pay closer attention to snippets of memories locked deep in the recesses of my brain. My memories are not the shining, expansive recollections I so often read about in memoirs about someone who has long since died. But they are powerful, nevertheless. I don’t know if my mother really loved yellow roses as much as I think she did; maybe I’ve amplified words of appreciation I heard her say in passing into something more powerful than they were. I’ll never know, at least not directly from her, whether she found yellow roses as profoundly meaningful as my memory tells me. Regardless, for now I’ll remember my mother with a bouquet borrowed from a massive resource she never knew, the internet.

 

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Two Hundred Seventy-One

Early this morning, while I was trying to decide whether to get out of bed or stay there, imprisoned by the warmth, I had weird conversation with myself. I questioned whether anthropologists and their allies make too many assumptions while explaining what life was like in pre-history. My answers morphed into a scene in my head, involving an odd conversation, a dialog I felt I was hearing and watching unfold. Here is my attempt to replicate in words, that experience:

The early human thawed quickly under the infrared heat. When, after he thawed, he began to move, my jaw dropped. My surprise exploded into astonishment when he turned to me and spoke coherently, albeit haltingly and with an odd chemical-flavored accent. “Thanking for you. Colder is not for good feeling. Ingested your language asleep but aware; us together are talking now, accept?”

I understood what he was saying, I just didn’t believe what I was experiencing. It took only twenty minutes, though, for him to explain things to me that, when I share them later, will change the way we view ancient humans.  For example, very few early humans lived in caves; only the ones we would now call “commercial artists” lived in caves; the rest, like my new unfrozen friend, lived in make-shift shelters. The cave-dwellers’ cave art survives to the present day, while the more advanced people, whose art would rival Da Vinci, burned theirs at the end of their lives.  We think we know more than we do.

I think it’s possible I dreamed up an answer to a question I haven’t heard anyone asking. Then, again, I might be hallucinating. But so, too, might you.

 

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A Short Life Considered

Let me suggest to you that, one day when no one else is around, you take the process of cooking in a slightly different direction. My suggestion is that you do this when you are preparing to make a shrimp dish, but you can do it with almost any ingredient that once moved of its own volition.  I’ll assume you’re using shrimp.

If the shrimp is frozen, thaw it. If it is headless, imagine it with a head. If it lacks a shell imagine it with its carapace intact. Try to put yourself in the shrimp’s place; not as it is now, but as it was before it was harvested as food. Consider the scope of the world in which that shrimp lived. Think of the salt water environment in which it lived. Understand that, very probably, the shrimp was not sentient in the same sense that you and I are, but that it was aware of its surroundings. Look around at the flora and fauna on and near the sea floor.  Pay attention to the sea grasses dancing in the currents; follow their gyrations in response to moving water and to the turbulence caused by tails and fins as they drift by.

Snap to the present. Look at the carcass before you. Consider that it once was a tiny, almost microscopic creature, then its mother gave birth to it, and then it matured in a protected environment until it was able to make its way in its watery world. That dead shrimp you are about to process into food spent its entire short life oblivious to your hunger. It was oblivious to your very existence. Suddenly, though, it was harvested. And here it is before you. It has no memories of sea grasses swishing in the undersea breezes. It has no recollection of its search for food.  This corpse no longer feels pain nor hunger nor fear nor whatever else shrimp experience.

You wonder why that brief life, lived in a place you cannot hope to understand, came to an abrupt end. You look down at that shrimp before you and you wish you could express in a way it could understand how much you appreciate and admire what it has done and will do for you.  You cannot bring yourself to look in the mirror, for there will be eyes looking back at you, questioning what you are thinking. You dare not say.

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To Vanquish

Fear.

We think we know what it is until we experience it.

Then, and only then, do we recognize that fear is a physical being, an entity with weight and force, writhing with malice. It is a monstrous—yet ephemeral—demon, a  translucent organism comprising rage and loathing that fuel its ravenous thirst for vengeance, leaving dread in its wake.

The only weapon sufficient to conquer fear is acquiescence. By yielding to fear, accepting it has vanquished bravery, an even more fierce form of fear can arise, the fear of losing the last shred of humanity to a monstrosity. Then, and only then, do we recognize we have the capacity to overcome our worst nightmares.

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Two Hundred Seventy

The concept, or rather the practical application of the concept, of prison is bizarre. I’ve never thought of it quite the same way before, but this morning it hit me: society decides the behavior of an individual is sufficiently deviant from the range of behaviors we deem acceptable to warrant forcibly locking the person away.

Now, I have no argument that people who pose a physical danger to others should be restrained. But non-violent offenses are more problematic.  It’s not that I disagree that certain people who repeatedly steal or damage property should be prevented from engaging in those behaviors, it’s that the degree of deviance from the ‘norm’ is a moving target. That’s not just from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, but from time to time and from judge to judge and from jury to jury within the same jurisdiction.

Prisons seem to be arbitrarily assigned corrective measures of last resort.

And there’s something else. A person can be put in prison for engaging in a behavior that, today, is judged sufficiently deviant to warrant incarceration. Yet, if the rules change tomorrow to permit that same behavior, the person is not freed; he or she is forced to serve his or her sentence based on the rules that were in play at the time of the infraction. If a person can be punished for breaking rules that are later relaxed, why shouldn’t society punish a person for engaging in behaviors that, today, are legal but become illegal tomorrow? For example, if a person is observed taking a pill that’s legal today, but becomes illegal tomorrow, should we not punish him for retroactive bad behavior?

Yes, I understand the arguments against the latter suggestion, but still I think the concept of prison is odd. We lock people away. We, the independence-loving people who fervently celebrate freedom, snatch it away because someone engages in behaviors we deem inappropriate.  Would we feel the same way we do today if the rules changed, making people who engage in behaviors in which we regularly engage subject to imprisonment? For example, if the “right” people came to power and decided coffee is an evil stimulant and its use should be punishable by five year stints in a state pen, would we be as vehement about insisting that people follow the rule of law or risk loss of their freedom?

Just thinking. That’s what I’m doing. Just thinking.

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Delving into the Dark Side

What is it about the dark side—the underbelly—of life I find so compelling?  What magnetism pulls me toward that grey, cold abyss? Why is that deep and dangerous place of which most people speak in hushed tones so irresistible to me? Why does my writing tend toward the chilling, the frightening; the muffled screams and tortured psyche?

In an attempt to understand why I am who I am, I returned to psychology. Not the psychology from my college days, though; this time, I returned to psychology as if I were new to the discipline, a fresh recruit to the exploration of the recesses of the mind. I discovered what I expected to discover; not much has changed. That is to say, the absence of hard and fast answers remains safely ensconced in the practice of psychology today. New ideas continue to blossom and bloom, but they tend to wither under the intense light of critical assessment, as has always been the fate of new ideas.

The dark side of one’s persona often comprises the emotions, experiences, and fears one is trying at once to eradicate and to embrace with the purpose of understanding them. That dark side is the pain buried beneath the surface, the open wound barely contained under a thin, sheer web of intellectual defenses unsuited to emotional battles. That is not to say the dark side reflects one’s behaviors or propensities toward action but, rather, one’s attempts to compare and reconcile one’s internal emotional experiences with external emotional stimuli.  According to some shamans psychologists, a person’s dark side is what he or she hates most in herself and in others. It may be fear of failure, drug or alcohol addiction, extreme aggression, debilitating shyness, sexual compulsion, or a host of other fears and attributes.

A relatively common suggestion is that one’s dark side should be identified, attacked, and overcome. That suggestion is, in my humble opinion, uninformed nonsense. It presumes one can physically take hold of one’s demons, as if they could be put in shackles and locked away in a cerebral cell, hermetically sealed to prevent them from escaping to do their mayhem.  More recently, it seems, some would-be mental and emotional healers suggest acceptance is the best approach. That is, they suggest acknowledging one’s ‘dark side’ and redirecting the energy one spends fighting it toward more productive endeavors. Though the implied simplicity of that suggestion is fraught with opportunities for failure, the concept may have some merit. Rather than attempt to overcome, the idea is to understand and live with the realities of whatever it is that causes one’s attraction to (or revulsion from) mental and emotional darkness.

Writing from experience, I can say I know of demons residing in my brain (not literal dancing demons, with pitchforks and fiery tongues), though I can’t say with any degree of certainty when or why they took up residence. I just know they are there. And I know, buried within the creases of my cerebral tissue, scar tissue barely covers wounds that periodically snag against reality, opening new fissures. These rips in my emotional fabric may be inborn, they may have resulted from experiences of which I have no recall, or they may be self-inflicted wounds. Whatever they are, I find the best way of dealing with them (even though I might not be aware I’m dealing with them) is to acknowledge them in some form through my writing. At least that’s what I’m thinking at the moment.

What is it about the dark side of life I find so compelling? The real answer, the one closest to reality, is that I don’t know. But psychology suggests there may be a reason. And psychology suggests various ways to confront that reason or those reasons. For today, for this very moment, I choose to do it through writing. But I don’t really know why I write about the dark side. But I know this: I do.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Nine

M.C. Escher introduced me to optical illusion in art. I must have been in my mid to late teens when I first encountered Escher’s work, an odd assortment of impossibilities made possible with pen and ink and woodcuts and such. Escher’s graphics, inspired by mathematical relationships.  I remember, quite vividly, looking at his piece entitled ‘Drawing Hands’ and deciding I wanted to replicate the piece. I tried, repeatedly, but never achieved anything like his level of artistic capability. I think I drew some very realistic hands (my own), but they were not life-like. Escher’s hands arose from the page as if they were really emerging, fully formed, from a blank sheet of paper. A later piece, ‘Relativity,’ depicted an impossible architectural scene in which stairs, on completely different planes, played a prominent part. My oldest brother, knowing of my fascination with Escher, bought me a coffee table book of Escher’s works; I suspect my copy of that book is more than forty years old. I still have that book today and occasionally thumb through it, allowing myself to enter the realm of impossibility Escher created. I wonder whether some kid today—the same age now as I was then—is just as fascinated with Escher as was I? Probably. But our perspectives on the world would be quite different.

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Guys Like Me are Mad for Mermaid Meat*

Buried deep in my subconscious are recollections of what must have been a torrid love affair with a mermaid.

My gustatory passion for creatures who spend their lives in the sea betrays that obscure secret, hidden beneath waves of recall that pound my psyche with fresh shards of aquatic memories; reminiscences scattered among seaweed and algae on a wish-laden beach.

This deep, almost mystical, affection for seafood can be explained only as overt evidence of a covert dalliance with a luscious mermaid who introduced me to the edible opulence of the ocean. What other realistic explanation can there possibly be?

I can only imagine the sensual experiences etched into my subconscious mind as a result of that ferocious fling with that mermaid, that goddess of the sea, that creature so beguiling and alluring as to conquer my hedonistic desires and turn them into her own.  All I have left, now, is my steamy sentiment for scallops, my feelings for fish, the seductiveness of shrimp, and the magnetism of mussels. That long-forgotten emotional conflagration of coastal combustibles brought to the surface by that magnificent mermaid explains my gustatory passion for creatures who spend their lives in the sea.

The title gives homage to a line from Leonard Cohen’s Jazz Police: “Guys like me are mad for turtle meat.”
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Two Hundred Sixty-Eight

There’s a “what if” just waiting to be asked when something unplanned, unexpected, or unwanted happens. That “what if” can jar one into greater appreciation of what is, a more acute gratitude for the life benefits one enjoys without giving them thought or acknowledgement. For example, I have taken my eyesight, flawed though it always has been, for granted. I rarely focus my attention on my ability to see; it’s a given. Yet, when I experienced what amounted to blindness after my recent cataract surgery, the idea of permanent blindness bubbled to the surface like a reckless diver desperate for air. Even though I knew (and continue to hope) the loss of my vision was temporary, I felt a sense of panic. I imagined what my life would be like were I to lose my eyesight.

After recovering from that momentary panic, I considered other aspects of life that I take for granted; the ability to breathe easily, the ability to be self-sufficiently mobile, the ability to speak and type and record my thoughts. Any one of these could disappear in an instant. I suppose my thoughts don’t necessarily turn to “what if” they were to be gone, but instead to a greater appreciation of the abilities I have.

I don’t offer my thanks to anyone or anything for these attributes of my life; rather, I simply take some time to appreciate and recognize them for what they are and to hope I am never forced to leave them behind.

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Philosophical Rant Redux

I posted the following essay exactly three years ago today. I remain perplexed that the ideas I offer here have not found their way into genuine conversation and debate. It seems so obvious, to me, that the concept of employment arose out of servitude. How can we not have serious conversations about the philosophical underpinnings of employment?

Must We be Subservient?

I am writing this post to try to sort out, in my own mind, an issue involving people and work.  Perhaps putting down in black and white my evolving thoughts will help me come to grips with the issue.

Specifically, I am writing this post in an attempt to understand why so many of us…the vast majority of us… in this country and, quite possibly, worldwide seem to believe we have to be hired by someone else if we are going to work.  Our culture assumes people who want or need the ability to buy goods and services will go out and find a job.   We don’t assume they will go out and create products or services that people want to buy.

Of course, we educate our young people so they can exchange their capabilities and knowledge for regular infusions of money and the label “employee.”  But that’s by no means preparing them to go out and create their own futures.  It appears we’re preparing them to go in search of the best, most lucrative caregiver. It’s as if society’s role is to prepare people to go in search of someone else upon whom to depend for their livelihoods.  Why is that?

Why isn’t it the other way around?  Why  doesn’t our culture assume the people we educate and prepare for the world of work will work for themselves, creating products or services of value that others want to buy?  Could the reason be, quite simply, that our culture inculcates in us a belief that we couldn’t possibly be successful in earning our way without depending on being “on the dole” from an employer of one kind or another?

Wait, I think I know what you’re thinking.  Your first reaction to these questions and inferences is to label my thought process right-wing and bathed in regressive, deeply conservative values.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact,  my questions emerge from my left-of-center political perspectives and my growing distrust of the foundations of capitalism.  You see, I think society DOES push us toward being “worker bees” who do the bidding of our employers, the majority of whom benefit financially from their employees’ efforts far more than do the employees themselves.  I think society has reached that point over a long period of time because a relatively small and, in today’s world, increasingly powerful “production elite” has deliberately (over a very long period of time) manipulated it in that direction.

The success of this scheme depends heavily on the vast majority of people unwittingly reinforcing it.  Parents tell their children to finish school so they can get a good job.  Teachers discuss career choices with their students from the perspective of finding employment. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting parents and teachers or, for that matter, employers are part of a vast conspiracy to intentionally “serve the capitalist monster.”  What I am suggesting is that the capitalist monster does nothing to dispel the idea that the right thing to do for most people is to go find a “job” so that golden ring of the work life, stability, can be achieved.  “Normal” has been manipulated to mean “find someone to pay you, for you are not equipped to figure it out on your own.”  We continue to accept that “normal,” even as the imaginary economic wonder-world disintegrates around us.

As stability in employment has become increasingly ephemeral, it is harder to understand how the average working person can continue to fully and unquestioningly accept the idea that his or her future is completely tied to one or two or, more likely, a string of employers, rather than his or her own willingness and ability to take risks, accept defeat, and pick oneself up and move on toward self-reliance.

Over time humanity has either succumbed to subtle economic blackmail that led to what amounts to de facto servitude or simply stumbled into today’s normalcy.  Whatever the route to get here, most of us, in fact, rely on others to give us money that allows us to find shelter and put food on the table.  How many among us would be able to continue to eat if we were suddenly faced with joblessness and no prospects for employment?  How many of us have been “educated” into the position of being utterly, completely, irrevocably dependent on being allowed to keep the highly limited, almost robotic role of “employee” simply to be able to live.

We, most of us,  can’t grow our own food and we can’t create the tools and implements we would need to build our own shelter.  Most of us either are employees or just one step away from it.  We need the economic structure we created.  Unfortunately, it really doesn’t need us, at least not all of us.

Do we all need employers?  Until we decide we don’t, we do.

None of this is meant to downplay the importance of employees.  Even the most aggressive entrepreneurial spirit cannot overcome the simple fact that entrepreneurs cannot do it all alone.  Employees are necessary, they are important, and they matter.  But I think there are many people who, absent the socialization that minimizes the expectation of productive risk, would be far less dependent on capitalist machinery.

Your thoughts?

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Two Hundred Sixty-Seven

Several years ago, during a business trip to San Diego, I took time out to seek out an Indian restaurant in La Jolla. An epicurean friend who lived on the east coast had encouraged me to give the place a try. I don’t recall the name of the place, but I recall thinking the lamb vindaloo was among the best I’d ever had to that point in my life. An even more vivid memory from that visit, though, was a walk along the waterfront after dinner. A group of children and their parents were creating enormous bubbles, using soapy water infused with corn starch made into huge bubbles with huge, specially made wands made from drinking straws and yarn. I know about the bubble-water mix and the bubble-making devices because I asked; I had never seen such enormous bubbles before. I’ve never made gigantic bubbles like that. Perhaps it’s time; I think I’m old enough now to be trusted with soapy water, straws, and string.

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Vampires in Your Kitchen

When I awoke this morning, for reasons beyond my comprehension, garlic was on my mind. I vaguely remembered writing something about garlic many months ago, something that got to the stark reality of garlic. I found it. Here are excerpts from my pronouncements of truth on the matter of garlic:

Any recipe that calls for a single clove of garlic must be considered suspect…Always use a minimum of three cloves of garlic, regardless of the recipe’s measure, or you’ll have vampires running rampant in your kitchen.

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Gourmet, Anyone?

Last night, we joined two other couples at Pulaski Technical College for a dinner prepared and served by students of the Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management Institute. The facility serves dinners (and lunch) two or three times per week to give students real world experience preparing fine meals.  One of the couples had been to the College for dinner and lunch more than once before; they are the ones who suggested the evening.

In addition to good conversation and an opportunity to see what I consider a first-class culinary teaching facility, we had a very fine meal. Oh, yes, the meal we had was very fine, indeed.

To start, they served an amuse bouche, which was a fig stuffed with a very nice duck paté/mousse.  Next up, we enjoyed mushroom red pepper crostini, followed by scallops provençal on a bed of couscous.  The main course was a beautifully rare New York steak au poivre with green peppercorn demi-glace. For dessert, they served a mascarpone dome drizzled with chocolate and raspberry sauce.  The cost: only twenty dollars per person!  It was a spectacular dinner.

Virtually none of the meal was on our South Beach diet, but we gladly broke the diet.  If it hadn’t been for the fact that my eye (the one operated on for cataracts the day before) was giving me fits, it would have been a perfect evening. With good fortune, we’ll go back in the not-too-distant future when we can enjoy the experience without being interrupted by my weeping.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Six

I might be alone in this, but I’d very much like the opportunity to view a video of my internal organs as they function. Watching the esophagus and stomach do their thing may sound revolting to some, but it strikes me as fascinating. And wouldn’t watching one’s own heart expand and contract with each beat be riveting “television?”  I suppose this fantasy is out of the question for practical reasons, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing, does it? No, it does not.

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Would That I Could See, But Not Feel

I was expecting the same experience with my left eye after cataract surgery as I had with my right eye. I had no reason to expect anything else. But this is not like last time around. My eye feels like a I have a sharp pebble embedded in it so that, every time I blink, the pebble scratches the surface of my eye. My blurred vision, what little there is, almost to the point that I see only light, no shapes.

I will return to the ophthalmologist this morning for my follow-up visit. He told me yesterday there’s a scratch on the surface that will take thirty-six hours or more to heal and, therefore, my vision will be blurry until then. I only hope he’s right. Maybe I’m overly sensitive to pain and blindness, but I have to say I do not like this situation, I do not like this at all.

Before the second surgery, I could see “close up” through my one “normal” eye (the one that went under the knife yesterday) by holding items close. Not so any longer. I bought a pair of drug-store eyeglasses yesterday, so I can see reasonably well “close up” with the eye that underwent surgery earlier, but it’s not quite as clear as it was before.

There’s nothing else wrong with me, but the injury to my eye has the effect of making me feel cranky and out of sorts and, because of the sensation of a pebble in my eye, prone to want to sleep just so I can avoid the pain/irritation in my eye. I would make a horrible patient in need of constant care; I would drive myself, and anyone near me, crazy. I’m counting down the hours, hoping the doctor is right.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Five

“Spinning a yarn” is an idiomatic expression meaning “to make up a story” or “to tell a lie.” I gather the genesis of the expression was from a time when groups of women gathered to craft yarn on spinning wheels. While they were working, they told stories to one another. Over time, the telling of stories came to be called “spinning a yarn,” though I can’t seem to find the root of the stories’ validity being questioned, nor why over time “spinning a yarn” came to be assumed to be fabrications or lies.

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Curiosity

Curiosity, I think, is simply a thirst for knowledge. And it’s a thirst absent any requisite redeeming practicality. It’s the same thirst a sot has for liquor; it just satisfies a need buried so deeply in the brain that it’s next to impossible to expose it to reason and to the light of day; it’s just there. Like an alcoholic’s lust for booze, the inquisitor’s longing for understanding is incurable. Yet, like alcoholism, the passion can be curbed. Fed a steady diet of ugliness and painful explanations in response to expressions of curiosity, the person who probes for understanding can be trained to recoil from new information.

I wonder whether the natural curiosity of children is effectively beat out of them with emotional cudgels? And, if that’s the case, how can that ‘treatment’ be reversed? How can people who don’t want to know any more than they already do be made inquisitive again? I’ve wondered this before; I now wonder why this issue of children having their innate curiosity yanked out of their heads keeps coming up in my thinking?

Somewhere, there are answers to those questions. Even in the questions, themselves, there are answers. How can we make the questions just as appealing as the answers?

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Two Hundred Sixty-Four

Breathe and be happy. Smile. Look at other people as friends, even people you don’t know. A genuine smile feels good, whether giving or receiving it. I think people can read decency and generosity in others’ faces. They have a calming effect. In the right circumstances, letting one’s guard down is an incredibly freeing feeling.

Later this morning, I will let my guard down as ophthalmic surgery takes place on my left eye. The ophthalmologist will insert a device in my eye to break up my cataract and the front capsule of the clouded lens through a process called phacoemulsification.  Then, he will remove the pulverized remnants and replace the lense with an intraocular lens implant. Presto! I will be able to see! (Well, that’s the plan; I should be able to see a bit better immediately, and much better after a short while.)

Once the process is complete, I will continue to breathe and be happy. I will try to smile.

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Manisha

He swallowed the mouthful of god-knows-what, the food intended to cover the razor blade and dull the pain as it sliced its way through my throat and into his esophagus. It did its job.

He paid more attention to the flavors of lamb vindaloo and raita and lime pickle than to the strange sensations of pain in a place that had, heretofore, never experienced that sort of pain. Never before had he felt slits in the lining of his throat and esophagus. The pain welled up in places that had never felt pain before, though it was not as unpleasant as he expected.

He had promised himself he would not react with panic, but that promise meant nothing in the midst of a pain-fueled response to unrelenting despair. Using his elbow, he broke the glass cover of the emergency brake housing, grabbed the red lever, and pulled it down as hard as he could. The screeching howl of metal against metal accompanied the sharp jolt of the train car as the brakes took hold. He was thrown against the front of the compartment, his head striking the wall just below the emergency brake lever.

Until the moment he pulled that red lever, his demons were his own; beasts whose only object was to torment him. But with the act of triggering the emergency brake, he unleashed them on a train full of unsuspecting and undeserving people who were about to pay the price for being on board with him. In those awful moments following his selfish act, his demons found their way to one little girl, Manisha,  What they did to her was the reason he lived, his payment for her pain.

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