"Frankly, My Dear, I Don' Give a Damn": It's Gone With the Wind

 

I hate to say it, but most people, sooner or later, reach a point of "I Don't Give a Damn." It may take a while to find that sweet point where you feel redemption in voicing damnation, yet it's never going to pack up and leave your soul. It's always within, slowly growing and sticking straight in your craw, aging until perfection. Then one day -- Wham! -- out of the blue with completely no set context, it spills out of your gut into your throat and you spew it out until you think your body could not possibly take even one more ounce of the torment. "You" like me, don't give a damn, do you?

When that realization attacks, it hits you with a vision clearer than the brightest blue sky.You realize you suddenly that you are experiencing the lasting symptoms of "I Don't Give a Damn." All has finally come to fruition.

You try to rationalize its presence, but invariably give in to its gush of emotional and physical power. You can't stop it, ignore it, or wish it away, no matter how hard you try. The damned thing covers you and soils everything and everybody else nearby, and you can make no excuse for its eruption ... sometimes such a violent explosion that your head feels separated from the rest of your body because of the blunt force you just experienced. You see, you acknowledged your own lack of "giving a damn" in your enormous eruption.

What age do people IDGAD? It varies with their degree of patience, understanding, and honesty ... an honesty measuring your own toleration, or more clearly, your lack of control over your virtues. You just don't give a damn anymore, do you? You can't hold back and you realize goodness because now you have entered the black hole of IDGAD, like it or not. So, now you spiral out of existence and perceive others are just as living undead as you. That is "I Don't Give a Damn" in retaliation and in mutual feelings. Relation, lovers, friends -- all enter the frame of mind out of your actions.

Take me, for instance, I was making some good progress with my IDGAD until suddenly and seemingly without warning, foundations of my existence were not only shaken but completely obliterated. I pushed too hard and caused my old self to lay in pieces all around me. Like Humpty Dumpty, no one could put me back together again. This IDGAD is your new state fashioned by your past. Only you can deal with the aftermath. I can't help anyhow. I already "don't give a damn."

You will know when it's your time for the change. It's not just a sense of carelessness or a shortcoming of the spirit. The golden rule hits rock bottom, and its suddenly the time when you look around with a dazed mind only to discover a newfound, strange confidence that suddenly shows new vision. Clear or cloudy,you just don't care anymore about what you now see, and you step squarely in the middle of that black hole of IDGAD, never to be spit out into a sensible, kind transition. Age itself prevents such a comeback.

Don't worry. None of your preparation for prevention would have worked to prevent your fall. You have had this affliction as an involuntary reflex -- a necessary movement in which you must relieve yourself  like dumping an unwelcome, huge load of waste. I don't care how you handle it. Once it begins -- and it will begin -- I guarantee it -- it will appear because you are a genuine human being enslaved in your own trappings. You already "got yours" as they say, and that is all that counts in this greedy world.

Your physical strength or your mental toughness won't stop the paroxysm either. It just happens -- hopefully in private, but most often unfortunately it occurs in public among many others. No warning, a gush of IDGAD bursts unannounced and there you have it -- a complete, utter mess. And, don't expect a friend, spouse, or caretaker to help clean it up -- without exception, your IDGAD is yours alone. Others don't give a damn because they have their own little lives to worry about.Thus, IDGAD universalizes the planet on which we survive.

And certainly don't expect me to care or help you because I have already experienced "I Don't Give a Damn." So, I don't try to make anyone better. It belongs to you in its entirety and has finally flared up in its own slow, careless making. The entity is new to you. Just deal with it. IDGAD. Period. Run up your IDGAD flag so everyone will not expect you to lift a finger (outside of your self-interests, of course).

When it happened to me, I was full of stress and dread, yet strangely aware that I had tested my own limits and that I had somehow had failed. The agony and extent of the explosion to others around me will forever remain unknown+, so don't expect anyone to ever discuss such an indifferent topic with you or expect anyone else to attempt to relieve you of any part of your suddenly newfound, hardened self. All of the shock and awe -- you own it, brother or sister. It grew and had to relieve itself most likely in an unlikely, enigmatic display of your immediate sick intentions. It now is just a hackneyed "it is what it is."

IDGAD has no time for reflection or change. It so occupies the fibers of your present being, and it will most likely linger like a chronic disease the rest of your life. You see, IDGAD justifies itself. It doesn't need its host after its arrival. Excuses make no sense while apologies for its destruction and mayhem are seldom welcomed. Why? You guessed it. They -- those you conceived loved you -- have experienced the malady, too; it's too late for personal redemption or damage control.

Let me share how I later found some telltale symptoms of "I Don't Give a Damn" before my sudden and permanent transformation:

1. Silence and lack of communication on any level.

2. Lack of interests and social connections,

3. Complete loss of dependence,

4. Total unconcern for others with similar or worse plights,

5. Gut-wrenching loneliness sans concern for each other,

6. Deliberate noncompliance and revenge,

7. Constant disagreement about the smallest of topics, 

8. "Same old, same old" feelings about responsibilities,

9. Lack of sincerity -- lie after lie -- often with hidden expenses, and ignoring detail, and finally 

10. Discovery of hidden, hateful emotions for others disguised as simple disagreement.

These were all signs of "I Don't Give a Damn" that I later tried to blame for its eruption. At the time, many seemed trivial; however, many did permanent, lasting damage that built in intensity to a final crescendo over time. I allowed it to happen.

I felt bad about changing my ways and started seeing external excuses. What a waste of time. IDGAD is all about you, no others. It would never appear because of anything someone else said or did. You, like me, are your own worst enemy -- at least now I have learned to be silent and take responsibility whenever I can. But I know I'm still in the clutches of IDGAD. It reappears in various forms of my life ... often with inconsistencies and total ignorance.

After all, I have free will and old habits worsen as they dwell in the heart of the human beast ... with the exceptions of a few public niceties -- done for show, for appreciation of past care, for what some kind souls call "common courtesies." Sincere replies for appreciation are few and far between -- very few know even how to compose a kind expression as life-changing IDGAD has also consumed their hearts and minds. 

IDGAD must be expected from other busy, forgetful souls, yet its effects so weaken our world. I-phones, lack of truth, boring television, condoned violence and hatred, lack of care for any but one's own opinion, and placing our fast-paced lives over empathy -- I've never seen the absence of interest so low in my 73 years. 

I admit this mayhem all happened under my watch and care, so I take blame for my own IDGAD syndrome. You handle yours, and I'll run out of breath handling mine. I regret my present state, but it is reality. I am so unversed in fantasy, modern culture, and staying abreast of the new "ways" that I can assure you "I Don't Give a Damn" about 99% of what keeps the present afloat. If you will, IDGAD has damned my soul.

In closing, I'll ask, "Do you really give a damn about me ... anything?" No, that even sounds selfish to me. How about, "Do you really give a damn that, as I see it, a dark and fucked up future awaits because too many enter IDGAD too soon. I know you've already said it -- "Well, I don't give a damn" -- and I also know you experience many of the symptoms I cite to date, so be honest with yourself and with others before falling into that permanent IDGAD abyss and tumbling head over heals to your newer, more careless condition. It's not very pleasant at all. Lonely as hell.

Most of the time I blame myself for "I Don't Give a Damn" because I evidently used my imagination, hope, and charity with expectations of no return. I let my greatest opportunities go to hell and merely expected someone else to restore sanity. I take full responsibility for my own fall. No response or indifference feeds and breeds contempt. Blame immaturity, ignorance, scapegoats, stereotypes but it is I ... and I suspect a little of you ... who helped ban imagination and thus minded to our own selfish, thoughtless business. Greed? Disinterest? Lack of care? Face it -- I and you created this stinking, backwards looking mess. So hey, "I Don't Give a Damn." Do you? I thought not.

 "Once They Banned Imagine"

By Drive-By Truckers

We had our heart strings dangling ripe for the yanking
And lot of reasons grabby was good
Poor huddled masses singing boots up their asses
Giving grabby what he needed to pull
All the way back to where ghosts from the past were still
Fighting their wars from the grave
Complete with record burning and threatening and spurning
The crime of getting blood on the page

Since the big one ended we'd been mostly pretending
We'd have had the same gumption and grit
As the greatest among us when harm came upon us
We wouldn't hesitate to defend
But with or against something's been out to get us
And it looked like something finally did
No nobler cause in our lifetime for setting our sails to the wind

But once they banned Imagine it became the same old war its always been
Once they banned Imagine it became the war it was when we were kids

Are you now or have you ever been in cahoots with the notion that people can change
When history happens again if you do or you did you'll be blamed
From baseless inquiry
To no knocking entry
Becoming the law of the land
To half cocked excuses for bullet abuse regarding anything browner than tan

Cause once they banned Imagine it became the same old war its always been
Once they banned Imagine it became the war it was when we were kids

* The lyrics reflect the political climate and the challenges faced by artists in expressing their views freely. “Once They Banned Imagine” by Drive-By Truckers serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of artistic expression and the constant struggle against censorship. It highlights how power structures manipulate events to control and silence voices that dare to raise questions or offer alternative perspectives. (Imagine the fates of John and Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr, and John Lennon to get even more perspective. And, of course, now many of us don't give a damn -- the same old internal war.)

Drinking At Public Events -- True Confessions of a Confused Nuisance

I believe I am old enough to express an opinion in a mannerly fashion. I feel I have worked enough with groups and individuals I know very well that, even if they disagree with my ideas, I can offer my simple view, supported with what I consider evidence, and then discuss the idea with whomever is involved. I admit I may be wrong in my decisions, but when I talk "against the grain" and get blamed for being an ass or a troublemaker for my own personal, deep beliefs, I don't appreciate it. It hurts.

Recently, I took some considerable criticism from those who disagreed with my view about an event. I felt belittled but not extremely upset because (1) I had served the organization for many years, and (2) in my view, my work for them allowed me a dissenting voice but still a needed understanding in the group. I thought about our argument, and I soon felt somewhat caught in my own dilemma of feeling right and the group's alternate decision that I had been headstrong and wrong.

Lack of communication can often discombobulate the actual reality of such a situation; however, a lack of communication can also hinder group members' beliefs that the situation is fair or just. I believe strongly in a lot of talk and consideration before rendering a decision involving a group of people and free speech that allows all views to surface before a controversial decision is made. How can you do that with adequate approval? I don't know -- solicitation from majority membership?

With no good pro-arguments, I admit all vices are horrid. I stand on shaky ground standing up for them. However, toleration of some vices is not unusual nor is it sinful (in my book). For example, drinking and smoking are not good for health or necessarily for happiness, yet I believe in certain circumstances that toleration of such behavior ... complete with a long history of both ... deserves a voice in the planning of a group event. 

We could get into a long harangue about social lubricates and guarded freedoms, but that would not help to solve what I consider to be the problem in this essay. I guess I upset some people with challenging a majority. Gosh, I'm sorry ... maybe.

We could speak of safeguards and avenues for toleration for both drinking and smoking. We could consider safety in both. We could even change venues, and find one that does not prohibit theses vices altogether. Our long history of meetings in a drinking establishment offered allowances for both, and no one was ever harmed. But, the counter argument is, of course, they could and should not be tolerated in the first place. And, I admit it has irrefutable grounds.

An Event of Celebration Banning Drinking

Drinking has become a problem for many people. For some, it is a way to numb the pain of life. For others, it is a way to celebrate. But what happens when things go wrong? Drinking becomes a way to forget. And when things start going good, drinking can also become a way to excess. This is the problem with drinking: it can have negative consequences that we try to forget or avoid. It is commonplace but despised by many -- from appearing at pro ballgames to having a little wine at a wedding. 

I do not, however, belief drinking in moderation is voluntary madness and a problem for the majority. In fact, after a beer or two, I generally agree with Ernest Hemingway: “I drink to make other people more interesting.” And, in fact Hemingway also said: “Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” Funny? Often sadly true, I'm afraid. 

I also do not belief social drinking is necessarily "an escape." I believe it is an added attraction under strict conditions. Why? I was raised to believe alcohol in moderation was perfectly acceptable.

F Scott Fitzgerald described its effect: “Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.” Friedrich Nietzsche even said:“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.”

And, humorously, Stephen King once answered the question: “Do you drink?"
His response was, "Of course,I just said I was a writer.” Yes, I am guilty of greatly enjoying a drink once and awhile.

Deciding to meet and greet old friends is often painful for me without sharing drinks. I feel uptight, guarded, and less joyful without a beer or two among friends. I don't care if my friends do not drink. It's just that I find myself opening up more, sharing antidotes, and stories, and simply being happier as I finish my second beer. Talk flows with the liquor as do associations with past good times spent together. Yet, Oscar Wilde in warning claims, “Alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkenness.” Accurately funny as hell. What effects? He did not elaborate.

I want my close friends to accept my intricacies more readily, so I enjoy drinking with them. The reduction of formal friction is something I truly enjoy -- not slowing stooping into disgusting drunkenness, but having a great time sharing and engaging each other's company. Men like me, for example, would never consider fast-dancing until they've had a couple of drinks. Free expression and thoughtless reactions to the rhythm suddenly become acceptable then ... it destroys my tendency to be embarrassed and builds my joy level even with my quirky, jerky movements. Dick Clark rates those reactions to "the beat" as the power of the rhythm.

Pulling back into the theme of this essay, I wonder if those who opposer alcohol either (1) fear drunkenness, or (2) see it as a sin. I get it. I don't agree, but I accept the concessions to the argument of allowing drink. I sin, yet we all sin in some fashion. I don't have time to judge people, let alone my friends.

One can always cheat with flasks or frequent trips to the car during "drinkless occasions," but those people will counter their integrity with such hypocritical behavior at a party "necessary" and "perfectly sly with a purpose." I'm much too old for such shit I did with regularity in high school. In simple terms, "I don't want to lie to my own beliefs and natural tendencies." I gave up being sneaky and deceitful quite a long time ago. No drinking rules must be obeyed in my mind. I won't attend, and that's just fine.

Theme? I merely want the chance to express an opposing view as "nonsense." Does this make me an alcoholic or an evildoer? I'm not advocating for mass protest or for any one other individual to follow my lead or my thinking. I just don't want to be known as the "bad guy" trying to wreck an event. I fear I am now. I politely decline to go, and I wish the best for the sober crowd. Please, laugh, talk, and make all kinds of merriment sans alcohol. I pray that the attendance is at an all-time high and that everyone leaves satisfied as a bee in a honey jar.  

I never saw this coming. I just was not willing to give up my annual night of revelry under the belief of my own accord. I'm sure I'll miss tremendously certain aspects of the gathering. I just am a little "spoiled brat" as my unloving, disagreeable spouse says. Then, of course, the coup de grâce follows: "All of this is your own fault, you old motherfucker."

"Disagreeable motherfucker" -- I believe I've found my modus operandi at last. After ten prior events like this that I have helped organized, I am finally revealed. Damn the luck. (Merle Haggard singing, "I think I'll just stay here and drink" in the background.) Better make the next one a double. 

* P.S. I was under the incorrect assumption that all alumni of school were part of the official Alumni. Now I understand I was wrong. The group has a sole purpose of scholarship. Any real affiliation with school? Good question for which I have no answer. I know of no dues for inclusion. I remain confused and mildly interested. There's a tent -- but whose structure does it fall under?

Animals in Peril Must Be Available For Adoption

 

In 2023, 690,000 dogs and cats were euthanized in shelters across the US. For many members of the public, this calls to mind healthy, adoptable animals euthanized for space in open admission (so-called “kill”) shelters – those required to accept all animals, even if there’s no room. But shelters also have to cope with owner-requested euthanasias, behavioral problems and animals who are so sick or injured that a gentle death is the most positive outcome.

The issue shelters are facing is this: after a record low of  5.5 million in 2020, animal intakes are slowly increasing, and they aren’t leaving – in 2023, 6.5 million animals entered, and only a little over 6 million left. Animals are lingering for weeks, months and sometimes years in shelters. Between 2022 and 2023, the number of animals waiting to get out of shelters increased by 177,000.

Some animal care and control agencies tell people to leave found animals alone because they don't have the capacity to handle them.Those people turn to a foster-based rescue that is similarly inundated. As closed admission shelters, They can decide to turn animals away if they lack space, even though they strive to prevent it, knowing what may happen to those they do not accept.

The list of people waiting to surrender animals is always growing. Yet getting people to understand that crisis sometimes feels impossible. Most members of the public are only interested in one thing: euthanasia.

(S.E. Smith. "America’s animal shelters are overwhelmed. Pets – and staff – are at breaking point." The Guardian. April  17, 2024.These lives do not blur together. We remember all of them

While the media popularized the idea of the “pandemic puppy”, dogs adopted by white-collar workers trapped at home only to be discarded as soon as the world reopened, the truth of what’s happening in animal welfare is more complicated. It’s gotten harder to access and afford vet care, while emergency extensions of the social safety net, including increased Snap benefits, expansions to Medicaid, childcare assistance, the student loan pause, the child tax credit, and generous unemployment insurance benefits  have come to an end, leaving people in financial likelihood that hurts pets too. Far from a world where people treat animals as disposable, we are surrounded by people who love and desperately want to keep their pets, but can’t. 

Animal care workers confront a form of moral injury, in which they may struggle with being asked to do things that go against their consciences, or circumstances expose them to feelings of helplessness or betrayal. Many are dedicated volunteers working only for the love of animals. 

In open admission shelters, some employees are coping with the caring-killing paradox, described in 2005  in a study exploring the heavy impact of euthanasia on shelter workers, who may play with a dog in the morning and euthanize it in the afternoon. Both phenomena are associated with issues such as anxiety, suicidal ideation and substance use disorder as people struggle to process traumatic events.

Addressing the Issue

Animal control shelters and their workers are facing increasingly dire consequences. Consider how the population of unwanted animals increases -- especially detrimental to bigger, adult dogs. No one wants to adopt them. They are left to languish and to eventual being euthanized. Pounds and shelters make possible adoption or sponsorship as best they can. However, rising prices for these adoptions -- often astronomical for the more popular and smaller breeds is hitting a serious high. Many poorer people just can't afford the price required. Cost factors must be reconsidered because paying hundreds, thousands, for such animals is impossible in so many cases.

I blame careless breeders, lack of spaying and neutering, and just plain indifference for much of the crisis. Owning and raising a pet is serious business, and the public must realize taking severe actions against puppy mills and while neglectful pet owners must face stiff, swift, and fair prosecution and costs themselves. How can one measure the life of a domesticated animal? Leaving them living in squalid unhealthy conditions is criminal. I say make such breeders must pay stiffly for their neglect of these beautiful animals.

One last gripe -- due to crooks who want to profit from adoption -- sales to the public suffer. I get it. I understand the need to stop unlawful treatment of animals; however, adoption is often very complicated, slowing down the process of saving pets' lives while the real perpetrators of the crimes often get off scot free. Both potential owners and shelters find this reduction in turnover impossible to comprehend. In the meantime, dogs and cats die due to lack of funds and full shelters. How "cruel and unusual" can you get? Officials must help end this slaughter immediately with more money and time given to the proper agencies of enforcement to end the abuse.

Let's face it -- pet shelters are also poor places for pets. Lacking enough room and proper attention, workers are pitiful stand-ins for responsible owners. I feel most animals spend the majority of their days in cages with lack of needful attention. The workers do the best they can, but the pets need families to recover from trauma and to thrive. Saving a pet is gratifying: the love offered by the adopter does not match the rewards these animals offer. Devoted adoption is so more rewarding and healthful than anything these animals have ever experiences. They are forever thankful for their adoption Make them cheaper and even  more available, please. Lives are in the balance. Most of us can't afford the large amounts of money asked for their sweet lives.

Pet users; abusers; uninformed, spiteful owners; and profit mongers, stay away! Prosecute the guilty abusers and make them pay dearly for each day they must be kenneled. The loving, general public does take on these financial responsibilities when traveling or needing serious pet attention. Now, make the original human birth parents responsible too. I very much want them to hurt -- in their pocketbooks and behind bars.  

Make local dogs more affordable! Prices required for adoption are soaring. I understand the tremendous costs incurred by shelters, but hundreds (thousands?) of dollars for adoption is just too much. Save the life of the pet! No one can put an adequate dollar amount on this chance for survival anyhow. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Write -- Little or No Meaning Required, Just Desired B.S.

My wife says "I write bullshit." She sees any quest for meaning as foolish, be it putting words on paper to discover something or even going on a paper trail for our ancestors as foolish activity for any old man. Me? I "think" with the keyboard. I discover, qualify, and even, at times, justify my written searches for meaning. I guess you can say its therapeutic bullshit, but it qualifies as my thoughts are, at that point, forever preserved on paper, and, sometimes, that is just enough to give me some pleasure ... to realize I have worked things out in my view, to reach new destinations, or just to sail in circles while enjoying the meaningless view of the print. It's habit forming and often times self-justifying.

I also write when the spirit hits me squarely between the eyes. The spirit -- anger, praise, or working through mixed feelings -- most often qualifies as editorial revenge or just discovering more about myself. Finding my talents (or my lack of) and refining  my feelings about issues and related subjects is like working a puzzle to me. Cormac McCarthy, one of the great novelists of American literature says, “I don’t know why I started writing." I don’t know why anybody does it. Maybe they’re bored, or failures at something else."

I believe there is a lot of truth in that statement -- writing and thinking can cure boredom, and reignite worn hearts and minds. Plus, I find plenty of failed expressions along the search for meaning. However, I never find writing words boring. It is the art of stringing words and sentences together in a modicum of meaning that frustrates me so: I know what I want to relate but I am often unskilled enough to be profound or even close to finding the big truths that I and others seek. 

Without practice, writing with purpose is very difficult: it often stalls our brain motor activities into a drifting mode, desperately seeking verbiage to justify the purpose of the print. When I stumble upon a "hit" I believe suitable for an audience, I feel elated and strangely connected in both time and purpose! I sprint towards the keyboard, unfurl the sails, and set course featuring strong winds of change. My mind delights in sharing even if the audience is minute. I only wish I could elicit more response to my words.

All of this brings me to writing for discovery. This exercise scares the shit out of most, so they never warm up with free-writing or just capturing preliminary thoughts on paper. I free-write all of the time to develop fluency of thought and pen. It can be tossed away later or saved for future exploration, but some of my best free-writing leads to purpose and qualifies meaning. I find it indispensable as a tool -- a first step for any written project. Just write your own strong thoughts down and let the conscious and subconscious blend them into some very sound point. This approach can make words and sentences  take strange, surprising turns, which can surprise both the readers and the author. 

The three basic elements of paper writing you seek are presented in sequence here for clarity. However, incorporating new ideas as they come up in the writing process often requires moving back and forth between your argument and your evidence.

• Stage One: Close Reading for accurate response
  
• Stage Two: You Need an Argument
• Stage Three: Selecting and Analyzing Evidence
• Introductions, Transitions, and Conclusions

Slipping to Stag Two: The first draft of an argument is usually only a rough approximation of what you'll ultimately discover as you proceed with analysis of an idea or text/ The most important elements of your thought will be obscure to your reader if your argument doesn't ultimately transmit the full content or potential of that thought. "Genius," says Aristotle, "is the ability to state the obvious: to express a complex thought so clearly that it will suddenly appear simple and noncontroversial." E = mc2, for example.

No matter how simple you believe your thesis to be -- always write with a mind for possible strong rebuttal (rebuttal that must be countered) while considering how to destroy such a decent argument against your thesis. Many an essay writer correctly chooses "changing horses" to his opposite defense when he finds little support other than emotional, weak support on his sides. What else can he do? Change his evidently weak position on the topic ... and learn in the process emotion is useless in argumentation.

His mistake of not switching sides? In his zeal, he is determined to convinces others to his views by delivering hasty thoughts in a dictatorial tone with little or no logical argument for bedrock, which is as dangerous as a defense attorney posing a weak question open for a good answer in a court of law. "Never ask a question you cannot logically answer -- a bumbling reply reeks of defeat.

Thinking on paper is not for the weak of heart. Gloria E. Anzaldua. most famous as an American scholar of Chicana feminism, cultural theory, and queer theory loosely based her best-known book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza  (1987), on her life growing up on the Meivo-Texas border and incorporated her lifelong experiences of social and cultural marginalization  into her work says:

“Why am I compelled to write? . . . Because the world I create in the writing compensates for what the real world does not give me. By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it. I write because life does not appease my appetites and anger . . . To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. To convince myself that I am worthy and that what I have to say is not a pile of shit . . . Finally I write because I’m scared of writing, but I’m more scared of not writing.” 

– Gloria E. Anzaldúa

Such fear of writing is justified but as Anzaidua puts it, she writes to dispel the myths that she is a mad profit ... but because she is scared of not writing, more than writing about her unique views. Loneliness becomes a writer's very good friend, one he may draw upon for inspiration and continuous argument. Why? It feels "right" to a person's self, no matter the subject. Some may call that vindication.

It makes me recall a verse in the Battle Hymn of the Republic" by American patriotic song writer and abolitionist writer Julia Ward Howe during the American Civil War. Howe adapted her song from the soldiers' song "John Brown's Body" in November 1861, and first published it in The Atlantic Monthly in February 1862.

"Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on."

Now I'm not sure of being on the right side of the judgment; however I am certain of the stirring,uplifting feelings of righteousness in the Union the song created as it resounded in the campfires of troops at night. "His truth is marching on!" Such purpose of Holy lyrics stirs patriotic crowds yet today.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

 Justifying the death of your own countrymen must have taken a tremendous toll on Union soldiers. Yet slavery and succession are evil products of the devil.

What if the Union sentiment was not widely expressed, just weakly felt. It would have definitely resulted in embarrassing defeat. God knows slavery is wrong, and his servants cannot risk stubborn succession, even though based on monetary riches. Cut the nonsensical romantic crap of pride, tradition, and a tolerable way of life for whom they considered subhumans, and you can appreciate the great sacrifice of the Godly-supported Union -- a group supporting a true cause of justice.

Writing takes guts and stamina because the opposition is always seeking a way to destroy democracy and bring more violent vision into focus. As I consider the division in this country, I finally have reached a stalemate of advocating right -- people want revenge without sacrifice, and it is a desire based upon solely on personal acquisition of money and defense for violence. Politicians shooting assault rifles and bragging about "stopping people at the border" by any means relates to me a horrible change of heart for the downtrodden and innocent patriots we adore.

One party now wants power and retribution. They are bent on revenge they cannot even conceive. Why? They fear greatly any loss of White privilege and minority acceptance. Their static and defensive ways do not support needed change and indefensible growth. They chant "Make America Great Again!" while ignoring fantastic advances in the rights of black and brown and yellow human beings. God protects and defends all -- not just those of Pilgrim ancestry and Eastern European roots. Immigrants are vilified as drug dealers, rapists, and murderers who must be walled in another country for little or no reason. I say fix the system, do not erect artificial hindrances to problems we too long neglected ourselves. Benefits would abound in compromise and stricter, larger enforcement of what we already possess.

I see dark days ahead for America as division and hatred are more routinely substituted for unity and compromise. Many people in the U.S. now look for a scapegoat -- they blame the opposite party for all the woes of incomplete, hard work requiring negotiation and hands-on action. They force power through hatred.

Why do I write about such topics? Maybe my wife is right in that 99% of my words are editorial bullshit. Still, it takes one spark to ignite a fire, and I reserve the right to express my written opinion. One match in the darkness can offer exceedingly great vision. Consider Gandhi, King, or Kennedy and their fearless contributions. Please, try writing to offer more light to cut through the blackness. We need pens and keyboards bent on action now more than ever before.

"Gertrude Stein, when asked why she wrote, replied, “For praise.” Lorca said he wrote to be loved. Faulkner said a writer wrote for glory. I may at times have written for those reasons, it’s hard to know. Overall I write because I see the world in a certain way that no dialogue or series of them can begin to describe, that no book can fully render, though the greatest books thrill in their attempt.

A great book may be an accident, but a good one is a possibility, and it is thinking of that that one writes. In short, to achieve. The rest takes care of itself, and so much praise is given to insignificant things that there is hardly any sense in striving for it.

In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe.

James Salter: Why I Write

---

November 29, 2017

“To write! What a marvelous thing!” When he was old and forgotten, living in a rundown house in the dreary suburbs of Paris, Léautaud wrote these lines. He was unmarried, childless, alone. The world of the theater in which he had worked as a critic for years was now dark for him, but from the ruins of his life these words rose. To write!

One thinks of many writers who might have said this, Anne Sexton, even though she committed suicide, or Hemingway or Virginia Woolf, who both did also, or Faulkner, scorned in his rural town, or the wreckage that was Fitzgerald in the end. The thing that is marvelous is literature, which is like the sea, and the exaltation of being near it, whether you are a powerful swimmer or wading by the shore. The act of writing, though often tedious, can still provide extraordinary pleasure. For me that comes line by line at the tip of a pen, which is what I like to write with, and the page on which the lines are written, the pages, can be the most valuable thing I will ever own.

The cynics say that if you do not write for money you are a dabbler or a fool, but this is not true. To see one’s work in print is the real desire, to have it read. The remuneration is of less importance; no one was paid for the samizdats. Money is but one form of approval.

It is such a long time that I have been writing that I don’t remember the beginning. It was not a matter of doing what my father knew how to do. He had gone to Rutgers, West Point, and then MIT, and I don’t think in my lifetime I ever saw him reading a novel. He read newspapers, the Sun, the World-Telegram, there were at least a dozen in New York in those days. His task was laid out for him: to rise in the world.

Nor was my mother an avid reader. She read to me as a child, of course, and in time I read the books that were published in popular series, The Hardy Boys and Bomba, the Jungle Boy. I recall little about them. I did not read Ivanhoe, Treasure Island, Kim, or The Scottish Chiefs, though two or three of them were given to me. I had six volumes of a collection called My Bookhouse, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, whose name is not to be found among the various Millers—Mrs. Alice, Henry, Joaquin, Joe—in The Reader’s Encyclopedia, but who was responsible for what knowledge I had of Cervantes, Dickens, Tolstoy, Homer, and the others whose work was excerpted. The contents also included folktales, fairy tales, parts of the Bible, and more. When I read of writers who when young were given the freedom of their fathers’ or friends’ libraries, I think of Bookhouse, which was that for me. It was not an education but the introduction to one. There were also poems, and in grammar school we had to memorize and then stand up and recite well-known poems. Many of these I still know, including Kipling’s “If,” which my father paid me a dollar to learn. Language is acquired, like other things, through the act of imitating, and rhythm and elegance may come in part from poems.

I could draw quite well as a boy and even, though uninstructed, paint. What impulse made me do this, and where the ability came from—although my father could draw a little—I cannot say. My desire to write, apparent at the age of seven or eight, likely came from the same source. I made crude books, as many children do, with awkward printing and drawings, from small sheets of paper, folded and sewn together.

In prep school we were poets, at least many of my friends and I were, ardent and profound. There were elegies but no love poems—those came later. I had some early success. In a national poetry contest I won honorable mention, and sold two poems to Poetry magazine.

All this was a phase, in nearly every case to be soon outgrown. In 1939 the war had broken out, and by 1941 we were in it. I ended up at West Point. The old life vanished; the new one had little use for poetry. I did read, and as an upperclassman wrote a few short stories. I had seen some in the Academy magazine and felt I could do better, and after the first one, the editor asked for more. When I became an officer there was, at first, no time for writing, nor was there the privacy. Beyond that was a greater inhibition: it was alien to the life. I had been commissioned in the Army Air Force and in the early days was a transport pilot, later switching into fighters. With that I felt I had found my role.

Stationed in Florida in about 1950, I happened to see in a bookshop window in Pensacola a boldly displayed novel called The Town and The City by John Kerouac. The name. There had been a Jack Kerouac at prep school, and he had written some stories. On the back of the jacket was a photograph, a gentle, almost yearning face with eyes cast downward. I recognized it instantly. I remember a feeling of envy. Kerouac was only a few years older than I was. Somehow he had written this impressive-looking novel. I bought the book and eagerly read it. It owed a lot to Thomas Wolfe—Look Homeward, Angel and others—who was a major figure then, but still it was an achievement. I took it as a mark of what might be done.

I had gotten married, and in the embrace of a more orderly life, on occasional weekends or in the evenings, I began to write again. The Korean War broke out. When I was sent over I took a small typewriter with me, thinking that if I was killed, the pages I had been writing would be a memorial. They were immature pages, to say the least. A few years later, the novel they were part of was rejected by the publishers, but one of them suggested that if I were to write another novel they would be interested in seeing it. Another novel. That might be years.

I had a journal I had kept while flying combat missions. It contained some description, but there was little shape to it. The war had the central role. One afternoon, in Florida again—I was there on temporary duty—I came back from the flight line, sat down on my cot, and began to hurriedly write out a page or so of outline that had suddenly occurred to me. It would be a novel about idealism, the true and the untrue, spare and in authentic prose. What had been missing but was missing no longer was the plot.

“Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end.”

Why was I writing? It was not for glory; I had seen what I took to be real glory. It was not for acclaim. I knew that if the book was published, it would have to be under a pseudonym; I did not want to jeopardize a career by becoming known as a writer. I had heard the derisive references to “God-Is-My-Copilot” Scott. The ethic of fighter squadrons was drink and daring; anything else was suspect. Still, I thought of myself as more than just a pilot and imagined a book that would be in every way admirable. It would be evident that someone among the ranks of pilots had written it, an exceptional figure, unknown, but I would have the satisfaction of knowing who it was.

I wrote when I could find time. Some of the book was written at a fighter base on Long Island, the rest of it in Europe, when I was stationed in Germany. A lieutenant in my squadron who lived in the apartment adjoining ours could hear the typewriter late at night through the bedroom wall. “What are you doing,” he asked one day, “writing a book?” It was meant as a joke. Nothing could be more unlikely. I was the experienced operations officer. Next step was squadron commander.

The Hunters was published by Harper and Brothers in late 1956. A section of the book appeared first in Collier’s. Word of it spread immediately. With the rest I sat speculating as to who the writer might be, someone who had served in Korea, with the Fourth Group, probably.

The reviews were good. I was 32 years old, the father of a child, with my wife expecting another. I had been flying fighters for seven years. I decided I had had enough. The childhood urge to write had never died, in fact, it had proven itself. I discussed it with my wife, who, with only a partial understanding of what was involved, did not attempt to change my mind. Upon leaving Europe, I resigned my commission with the aim of becoming a writer.

It was the most difficult act of my life. Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end. Call it a delusion if you like, but within me was an insistence that whatever we did, the things that were said, the dawns, the cities, the lives, all of it had to be drawn together, made into pages, or it was in danger of not existing, of never having been. There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.

Of the actual hard business of writing I knew very little. The first book had been a gift. I missed the active life terribly, and after a long struggle a second book was completed. It was a failure. Jean Stafford, one of the judges for a prize for which it had been routinely submitted, left the manuscript on an airplane. The book made no sense to her, she said. But there was no turning back.

A Sport and a Pastime was published six years later. It, too, did not sell. A few thousand copies, that was all. It stayed in print, however, and one by one, slowly, foreign publishers bought it. Finally, Modern Library.

The use of literature, Emerson wrote, is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. Perhaps this is true, but I would claim something broader. Literature is the river of civilization, its Tigris and Nile. Those who follow it, and I am inclined to say those only, pass by the glories.

"Over the years I have been a writer for a succession of reasons. In the beginning, as I have said, I wrote to be admired, even if not known. Once I had decided to be a writer, I wrote hoping for acceptance, approval.

"Gertrude Stein, when asked why she wrote, replied, “For praise.” Lorca said he wrote to be loved. Faulkner said a writer wrote for glory. I may at times have written for those reasons, it’s hard to know. Overall I write because I see the world in a certain way that no dialogue or series of them can begin to describe, that no book can fully render, though the greatest books thrill in their attempt.

"A great book may be an accident, but a good one is a possibility, and it is thinking of that that one writes. In short, to achieve. The rest takes care of itself, and so much praise is given to insignificant things that there is hardly any sense in striving for it.

"In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe."

(From "Don’t Save Anything: The Uncollected Essays, Articles, and Profiles of James Salter," by James Salter, courtesy of Counterpoint Press. Literary Hub.November 29, 1917.)

* Note: James Salter was a novelist, short story writer, screenwriter, essayist, and journalist. The New York Times called his novel A Sport and a Pastime “as nearly perfect as any American fiction,” and it became part of the prestigious Modern Library Collection. He won the PEN/Faulkner Award for his collection Dusk and Other Stories and was also the winner of the Windham Campbell Prize, the PEN/Malamud Award, and others. He died on June 19, 2015, at age ninety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"God Give Me Strength" To Hurt and To Hold On

 

"God Give Me Strength"

Now I have nothing
So God give me strength
'Cos I'm weak in her wake
And if I'm strong I might still break
And I don't have anything to share
That I won't throw away into the air

That song is sung out
This bell is rung out
She was the light that I'd bless
She took my last chance of happiness
So God give me strength
God give me strength

I can't hold on to her
God give me strength
When the phone doesn't ring
And I'm lost in imagining
Everything that kind of love is worth
As I tumble back down to the earth

That song is sung out
This bell is rung out
She was the light that I'd bless
She took my last chance of happiness
So God give me strength

God if she'd grant me her indulgence and decline
I might as well
Wipe her from my memory
Fracture the spell
As she becomes my enemy

Maybe I was washed out
Like a lip-print on his shirt
See, I'm only human
I want him to hurt
I want him
I want him to hurt

Since I lost the power to pretend
That there could ever be a happy ending
That song is sung out
This bell is rung out
She was the light that I'd bless
She took my last chance of happiness
So God give me strength
God give me strength 

 

 Writer(s): Elvis Costello, Burt F. Bacharach

 

Truth in writing is essential to strong meaning. This is one of my favorite lost-love songs because of its honesty in accurately addressing a forlorn relationship. Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach pull no punches in the verses. Reduced to "nothing," the narrator in the song admits his ex-lover took with her departure "his last chance for happiness." And, as the melody rises to an emotional fever pitch, Costello bellows at the top of his range in a stunning moment of honesty -- "I want him (his substitute) to hurt!" for "his" apparent affront.

 

Listening to the narrator declare an end to any glimmer of a loving relationship, he admits his own human fault of non-forgiveness ... and somehow I agree with him. I want this bastard to hurt, too. Hurt "him" and not her. Does this mean his love is still deeply ingrained although totally lost? This is tragedy yet with brutal consequences for such intrusion.

 

Revenge? Righteous anger? Most of us have been there at some time in our lives, and this sentiment not only comes from the hurt but also from the bruised heart ... and possibly a small section of torn ego. The narrator admits that he’s finally reached a point of no return: Since I lost the power to pretend / That there could ever be a happy ending.

 

Isn't this a bit of a shocker after considering the title and the refrain? The speaker  calls on the Almighty to heal (and to take revenge) for an apparent affront he cannot get over. Complete darkness and loss of strength reveal his pitiful plea to "wipe her from his memory." What a declaration of his total dependence upon her -- her loss destroys all hope for any bright future. This man is hopeless and helpless -- a songwriter's sentiment usually requiring sappy, overused lyrics such as "I can't live without her."

 

I often wonder if Bacharach didn't write this as a companion piece for Costello's great tune "Alison"? 

Well, I see you've got a husband now
Did he leave your pretty fingers lying in the wedding cake?
You used to hold him right in your hand
But I bet he took all that he could take

Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
When I hear the silly things that you say
I think somebody better put out the big light
'Cause I can't stand to see you this way

Allison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Allison, my aim is true
My aim is true

 

It's the honesty that makes the listener feel the hurt himself -- no bullshit but just plain truth considering unrequited love. All the pain and grief are here. But absent is trite  trifling with sentimentality and even hope. Both the love and future of the relationship are dead ... stone cold "sung out" and "rung out." As I listen, I become the lost soul of the singer in the song. The lyrics confess the only source of saving sanity and reason is God himself. Without His help, the singer seems doomed not only in any possible future relationships but also, very possibly, in living.  

Few songs consistently make me feel alone and in complete remorse every time I play them. "God Give Me Strength" (and "Alison") break me down with total consistency of mood. They are complete, honest, and heartbreaking. They are true. In that aim, Costello succeeds. These tunes offer views of love at the breaking point.

 

Jennifer Bell offers this accurate interpretation of "God Give Me Strength":  

 

"Elvis Costello’s hauntingly beautiful voice adds an additional layer of depth and emotion to the song. His heartfelt delivery of the lyrics draws listeners in, allowing them to connect with the profound emotions being conveyed. The melody itself is melancholic, evoking a sense of despair and longing ... both introspective and relatable. It is through these lyrics that listeners can find solace and understanding in their own experiences of heartbreak.

 

(Jennifer Bell. "The Meaning Behind The Song: God Give Me Strength by Elvis Costello." https://oldtimemusic.com/the-meaning-behind-the-song-god-give-me-strength-by-elvis-costello/. August 25, 2023.)

 

You Must Do It

 

First Lady Betty Ford wrote: 

"You never know what you can do until you have to do it." 

This quote speaks to the remarkable capacity of human beings to rise to the occasion when faced with challenges or difficult circumstances. At its core, it underscores the idea that our true potential often remains hidden until we are compelled by necessity or circumstance to tap into it. The call for using the full strength  of our human spirit to push ourselves to its limits is self-explanatory.

This quote emphasizes the idea that our self-imposed limitations are often far narrower than our actual abilities. We have to actualize any potential we have to realize growth and eventually victory. Push off into life with gusto and your absolute best. Never settle for less than the miles you advanced yesterday. New days bring important new discoveries essential to our individual talents to blossom.

In a broader context, it encourages us not to underestimate ourselves or prematurely dismiss challenges as insurmountable. It suggests that the human spirit is resilient and adaptable, capable of achieving remarkable feats when pushed to the limit. A carpenter during my home improvement told me once, "No one said it was going to be easy." Truer words were never spoken.

So, when faced with uncertainty or doubt, this quote reminds us to embrace the challenge, for it is in these moments that we may discover our untapped potential and the depths of our capabilities. It encourages us to have faith in our ability to adapt and grow in the face of adversity, revealing that our true strength often lies hidden until we must summon it to overcome life's obstacles.

I'm certain athletes, especially those like bodybuilders and weight lifters, adopt the quote to exceed any idea of limitations they conceive maximized their strength. This is how records -- both societal and personal -- are set. The untapped abilities in our minds must be pushed to their limits before new successes are established.

However, how does this advice relate to overcoming bad habits or faults while establishing new and needed accomplishments? How does Ford suggest we overcome any physical or mental foe that pins our ideas of limitations to the mat ... often for the final count?

Effort is the key to confronting and overcoming all expectations. Too often we take mediocrity for granted and make ourselves believe we have already achieved our best. I believe "our best" is never enough -- not only in our physical achievements but also in our mental capacities. Many work hard, become exhausted, and simply quit after trying passing their accepted high marks of character and spirit. Often, these accomplishments are set too low because of the tremendous toll on energy and time they require from our bodies and brains.

Sadly ... 

Although some achieve apparent miracle status, most people never even touch the top layer of their abilities. The high degree of difficulty of such challenging and demanding tasks simply wears out the participant and defeats purpose. Like the old saying: "Anything worthy of accomplishment takes hard work." Yet, how often do we accept second-best and stop the final, hardest push to the top.

Tired bodies and minds attest to the fallout rate while reaching mediocrity and settling for less than total achievement in most everything we do. We accept the lowest level of our goal and move ahead to what we think is "enough" often falling far short of our true limitations. To us, "it's just too demanding" to continue.

George S. Patton Jr. said, “Anyone in any walk of life who is content with mediocrity is untrue to himself.” Yet, our own deep fears often prevent us from exceeding mediocrity. And, we are also used to associating with mediocre people and becoming one of their flock. Colin Powell adds: An important attribute in successful people is their impatience with negative thinking and negative acting people."

Modeling greatness and achievement groom successful advocates of wondrous accomplishment by helping push them ever onward to reach their highest possible goals. We do not have to invent success. Blueprints already exist and coaches never tire of helping others achieve -- dare I say "overachieve" -- in these difficult quests of attainment. Strong mind breeds unequaled success.

Ford's emphasis is right on point -- our minds and bodies simply "have to do it" to reach our zenith of progress. "I could do that" is an empty, self-serving statement; I will do that is testament to the absolute power of the human spirit. Even though "that" means many different things in many different contexts, the extreme need for doing it produces the greatest effect. Oh, that success does not stem from luck or industrious labor -- it begins with effort and the refusal to accept final failure. 

Some failing souls simply lack the need and effort required for supreme attainment. These people refuse to try to establish newer limits because they are lazy and, quite frankly, unable to motivate themselves. Downtrodden, they refuse to seek help or assistance by settling for the old rigidity of decay.

Were you created for greatness? You may ask the Man upstairs, but Einstein says,  “Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.” You must fight the power of opposition with every fiber of your being to avoid settling for less. You possess the miracle of your own conception, and you must actualize your own success and dreams. Others may even resist your finest, well-planned efforts.

When confronted, you must still seek your dreams with action, not defeat. The resiliency of your spirit eventually gains favor, and you then become a "tough customer" on a mission. Others may still say, "Why does he just have to do it?  Doesn't he know better." 

The direct answer is "I do it because I must, and my heart and mind will eventually find a way."

Accepting mediocrity puts an end to dreaming and thwarts successful, continual achievement. Are you strong enough to accept falls and criticism from others. John Steinbeck assures us that “Only mediocrity escapes criticism.” Opposition is common to all who achieve. These naysayers are often frightened by those who do what they can't, or, more accurately "refuse to accept the challenges of doing the impossible." Their unimaginative and fragile minds refuse the stresses of difficult applications and prefer simple comforts to which they have become accustomed. They also often leach onto other's incredible inventions and improvements.

These sluggards avoid difficulty in preference to becoming lazybones of rigidity. Are they happy with their own accomplishments? Or do they just prefer comfort to challenges of presented to their own thoughts and actions? So many just fail to care once a comfort zone keeps them warm and cozy.

Who will be called upon to do something very difficult that he/she must have to do to survive? Likely all of us will face the circumstace in some measure. The more apt question is "Who will be successful in defeating the unbelievable challenges of life?" Settling for "it's just my bad luck" is unacceptable, static defeat built on self-pity and weakness of spirit. 

Ask those who just have had to have done it; those who have had to have accomplished the nearly impossible. Will power works marvelous wonders while procrastinators float aimlessly adrift on Easy River. Finding success may share a multitude of actions; however, none is more important than reaching the reason for embarking with that first step -- an amazingly simple "I had to." Then, paddle like hell for your first destination -- the joy, I guarantee you, will be a part of the actual journey. Of course, you knew that because you just had to do it in the first place.

Do You Wanna Dance? Learning To Be Still and Spontaneous

 

Do you older folks remember the joy of the days when we just "winged it"? You know, we began the day in action set on a random course. The action of spontaneity = freedom and a great sense of liberation. Just maybe being spontaneous allows us to re-balance our spirit between just "being" and "doing." 

I remember many such days when I soaked in unexpected awe, or beauty if you will, of the restless time. How mind-freeing these times were -- allowing me to un-knot my tangled life by discovering and dealing with whatever I ran into along my way. Timeless and beautiful, fragile and yet so strong in need -- I still love spontaneity.

 Kafka once told a teenage friend:  

“Reality is never and nowhere more accessible than in the immediate moment of one’s own life. It’s only there that it can be won or lost.” 

From the moment we are born to the moment we take our last breath, we battle with reality under the constant awareness that we are either winning or losing time. However, does anyone really "win" or "lose" the importance of life? I don't know. I remember the great spontaneity of us teens packing loads of ourselves in my old convertible Mustang for Dollar a Carload Drive-in Movie night. The unofficial count was sixteen but distance breeds unreality. Fun, non-stop action, great comradery, we friends in the 60s had it all. But, let's get serious. Oh hell, read on if you will, please.

Some say we long continually for what T.S. Eliot called "the still point of the turning world." I agree. Do you. Today, let's consider the verse and its relation to what we spontaneously do and its meaning.

At the still point of the turning world (from The Four Quartets)

by T.S. Eliot 

Original Language English

"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. 

I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time."

That image of movement, dancing amidst stillness, right at the center point may seem senseless until you measure that time itself -- in the still point of the turning world -- not only of past and future, but of all things is our pleasure.That ironic idea is almost mind-blowing in conception ... a point not of fixation nor of arrest of movement, but rather where we literally "dance."

Is this the point of spontaneity when certain ideas -- important ideas -- are spoken of so often within spiritual and religious dialog that the words start to lose their meaning. Words like "the present," "centering," "here and now..." After one has read enough books or listened to enough talks, phrases like that become expected and slip by without really registering any more. Such phrases as "time is of the essence" is simply prudent cliche at best. Humans seek the moment of "dance" -- if, indeed, it can even be measured in time.

(Maria Popova. "The Psychology of Time and How the Interplay of Spontaneity and Self-Control Mediates Our Capacity for Presence." The Marginalien. April 27, 2016.

 Reread this line as a new reformulation of words and images:

 "Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is..."

Do these words by Eliot not startle our worn mental insulation while the truth behind real spontaneity touch us anew, more deeply, with new suggestions of meaning. The "still point" describes the loss of any other relation to time other than the real reward of our yearning hearts. The world may keep spinning but our dance entrances our entire human existence. Maybe small steps or longer strides -- it's the dance we seek, and yet find so hard to maintain.

The "dance" is appropriately described by loss of any other sensation -- it may be we lose ours sense of reality in the still of fleeting moments; however, we seek it over and over. In itself, this dance is a single point of tremendous joy and awakening.

 In verse, the poet brings us to that "still point" and it is there where we spontaneously "dance."

"Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance."

 ("At the still point of the turning world (from The Four Quartets)." Poetry Chaikhana. http://poetry-chaikhana.com/Poets/E/EliotTS/Atstillpoint/index.html.)

It is our spontaneity that creates the DANCE and for us, our love of life is at this STILL point, a perfection of living understanding of this endlessly spinning planet. It has nothing to do with the past or with the future, but only with the instantaneous, brief presence of our lives colliding with the continuity of purpose and actions.

Let's celebrate spontaneity and freedom to crave reaching our own "dance" points, no matter our age. Although we can never replace them in terms of time or space, we surely remember dances we frequently did with great natural, unrestrained ardor -- even those dances that could have turned against our own exuberance and passions are part of our "still points in a spinning world." Self-consciousness aside, it is the dance we all still seek. And, as Jackson Browne writes, in its personal formality: "We all do it (dance) alone resulting from a seed that somebody else has thrown" ... "and there is a reason you (and I) are alive but you'll never know -- keep right on dancing.

"For A Dancer"
Words and Music by Jackson Browne

Keep a fire burning in your eye
Pay attention to the open sky
You never know what will be coming down
I don't remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you'd always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing
I can't help listening
And I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round
Crying as they ease you down
'Cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
(Right on dancing)
No matter what fate chooses to play
(There's nothing you can do about it anyway)

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone

Keep a fire for the human race
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don't let the uncertainty turn you around
(The world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound

Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie a reason you were alive
But you'll never know