personal values in a poetic vocabulary lesson


Virtuous behavior … have you some?
Vitriolic neighbor … don’t become.
Values we favor … eschew none!
Veach Glines's list ere … 5 to 1:

Innate compersion – admire their joy and jealousy rot
Hypocrisy aversion – always guilelessness in thought
Active conscience – embrace Jiminy Cricket taught
Logical reasoning – superstitious belief in naught
Simple comforts – enjoy materials less bought

vindictive or rude … forgive and it’s done.
vampiric in mood … run narcissist - run!
verisimilitude … "jeez gurl z’at a gun?"
vibrant beige food … fun oxymoron

Spend a Few Minutes to Think Like a Stoic —



               What is one of your important plans or goals?

               Now—think about a possible problem—something which would derail those plans.  What will your initial reaction be when you learn the bad news and, then, what do you do next in this hypothetical situation?  Do you react and move forward, abandon the plan completely, or make some adjustments to the original plan?

               This visualization technique requires you to use pessimism to bring about a positive effect when faced with future challenges. 
 
               Assume you’re planning a holiday-vacation.  You’ve already got time off from your employer, purchased tickets, and researched the destination.  Now imagine that the person you were going to be traveling with tells you—last minute—they can no longer go.  Envision the emotions you would feel (anger, sadness, etcetera) and then what options you would in-this-instance consider [going alone; offering the tickets to someone else (who?); postponing (how long?); cancelling).

               Some of life’s problems aren’t urgent (failure to receive promotion, power outage, sickness in the family, unplanned pregnancy, etcetera) and, for those, we have time to consider options when-and-if they occur.  However—many (most?) of life’s difficulties are panic-inducing emergencies (waking to house on fire, witness a crime, spouse wants a divorce, etcetera).

               To successfully practice the philosophy of Stoicism, it’s imperative to deal with life’s complexities by evaluating and making calm, logical, decisions.  One way to accomplish this is by pre-visualizing the shit-hitting-the-fan emergencies and then mentally walking thru the series of actions required for you to make the best of a bad situation.
 
               People in high-risk jobs (police, firefighters, soldiers, etcetera) continually train.  Since it’s impossible to train for every possible negative situation one could experience in life, pre-visualizing is the most valuable mental training available.  A Stoic doesn’t wait for bad news to arrive and think, “Now what do I do?” (while adrenaline fuels their emotions and, subsequently, thoughts).  Instead, a Stoic calmly considers how they will maybe, someday, possibly be required to act, if/when they receive information that’s objectively-universally negative (laid-off from their job; death in the family; cancer prognosis; vehicle totaled in an accident, etcetera).  By routinely doing this (once a week) Stoic practitioners prepare themselves for the inevitable, exercise their metal elasticity, and train their brains to be able to effectively, calmly, handle decision-making under duress.

Other articles about Stoicism and Philosophy:

tang.abstract.houghts


The title of this artwork — tang.abstract.houghts — is intended to cause you, the reader, to re-read and re-examine the three groups of letters separated by dots and (hopefully-maybe) make some of the following associations:  the word 'abstract' is between the two dots; when the last 't' in abstract is added to the letters 'houghts' (sounds like: hots) the word thoughts is formed; abstract thoughts; would adding any of the first letters in abstract make a word out of the the letters 'tang'?; tang a b s t r . . . nope.; the word 'tangible' is out of reach; tang has many definitions:  an orange drink powder, the part of a knife below the blade (hidden inside the handle), and it's the abbreviated form of the colloquialism poontang.  tang-abstract-hots ... Hot Abstract Poontang?    

hey there below | moiaq ajayf hau


Everchanging you,
which I only, never, view
thy faceting edge of —
     Please 
just keep knocking.

In-depth ranging clue,
rich *sigh* bonetree, sever, two
my hassling pledge: love —
     Freeze
thrust-deep rockfling.

Neap breath strangling stew
ditch-lie lonely lever, new
lie babbling dredge 'bove —
     Degrees
nonplussed teat-shocking.  

GRAB BAG REDUX

Hey...we've been waiting for an update for...almost a decade!
          Welcome to Pin-The-Tale on You.  Every mature person you will ever pass on the street has more-than-probably done things which could qualify them to be labeled 'bad' or 'good'.  It just depends on who tells your story; and how the game show audience reacts to it.  Our grab bag spinner will stop when your tale is finished.

          Will it land on B, for bad?  G for Good?  Maybe you're a combination of equal parts bad and good; if so, the spinner could stop on A for Average.  And—of course—the audience may choose to reject you from the game (spinner on R), although this only happens when someone competes who is mentally incapable of understanding the difference between good and bad.         
          I recall grab bags from childhood fairs.  A game of chance.  After money was paid (I recall it being ten cents) I reached into a large basket and removed (grabbed) a wrapped unknown paper-wrapped item (bag).  It was usually something worthless; and, by that, I don't mean it had zero value, just that the items were worth less than a dime.  Worth less.

          When we were children my mother told us this nursery rhyme (which, today, Squire attributes to the poet Longfellow):  There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid. 

          For too-many-to-count I was (and am still) plagued by bad people.  I've had my fill.

          For seventeen of my twenty military years I worked in law enforcement, where (obviously) it was my job to prevent people from doing bad things, catch those who had already done bad things, and (once I became a supervisor) train my subordinates to do the preventing/catching while (most important) insure there were no subordinates who were bad.

          I wrote this entire essay almost ten years ago; the following handful of paragraphs were specific to my life in 2011
Lately, I've been (unsuccessfully) trying to help the two spawn of my fiancΓ©e grow up.  They, too, are worth less than the time and money I have invested.  Although one is nearly a legal adult (17 biological years old; mentally 14; emotionally 12) and the other is legally an adult (23 biological years old; mentally 15; emotionally ?...he has none) neither has the capacity, wherewithal, ability, or desire to be good.  Actually, the opposite seems to be true.

Over the last eight months the 17 year old has spent 4 months in jail, (theft, drugs, various probation violations) the other 4 months he repeatedly ran away and lived on friends couches and the street.  There are no rules he is willing to obey.  He says jail means nothing.  It's just "hitting the pause button with free food and TV".  We've rarely seen him in 2011 except in various different courtrooms.  My years as a cop tells me he is going to continue to commit more serious felonies and will spend the majority of his life in prison.

The 23 year old has never had a drivers license, never held a job long enough to put on a rΓ©sumΓ©, and has also spent a few months in jail (drugs, resisting arrest).  His increasingly erratic behavior could be disorganized schizophrenia.  He refuses to discuss or ever admit he acts abnormally.  In his mind his actions (hording, inability to focus, substance abuse, lack of hygiene, obsessive-compulsive actions, and an inability to handle any property without damaging it) are normal.  He claims he doesn't need anything but to eat my food, waste my hot water, live in my guest room, and use my electricity.  We evicted him this week (and—don't get the wrong idea—he only visited for three weeks...which turned out to be 19 days too long).  My years as a member of civilized society tells me he is going to be a petty criminal who spends his life in dozens of different homeless shelters and on the street begging for spare change.

The studio audience has voted.  The spinner for the 17 year old lands on B...and it's leaning towards HORRID.  The spinner for the 23 year old stopped on R.

          Late 2019:  The 17 year old is now 26.  Eight years ago, he was charged with arson after setting fire to a trash dumpster; for that, he spent a few years in jail and on probation in a halfway-house.  About four years ago, he was charged with attempting to murder his halfway-house roommate, after—allegedly—striking him in the head with a rock.  He was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, plead guilty, and was sentenced to 10 years in the state mental hospital (where he currently resides).  Reportedly, medication has stabilized him and his auditory hallucinations are less persistent (he still claims/believes/hears messages from a 'tall radio tower on Mars' sending signals directly into his brain).  He is occasionally permitted to leave the hospital on day-passes; he hopes to be permitted to reside in a halfway-house soon.  The roommate he (allegedly) assaulted with a rock died of a drug overdose a few years ago.

          The 23 year old is, maybe, 32 now.  After living on the street for a few years, he was arrested (for resisting arrest) and spent a few months in a California jail.  Prior to that incident, and since, he refused to communicate with most/all of his family.  Nobody knows where he is.  Nobody knows if he is still alive.

          The spinner—for both 23 and 32—has permanently stuck on R.  Neither of their brains are capable of guiding their actions to conform to societal norms or laws and, consequently, neither of their brains have been judged as capable of acting with intent when it comes to "behaving good or bad".  Although they look like adults, both of the brains in their skulls are incapable of performing high-end executive functions or govern their behavior in the way that society expects "normal" adult brains to perform.  It is as if both their brains never matured beyond those of preteens; they are incapable of future planning and can only think about the sensory inputs of the present moment.

          Writing this update caused me to focus my attention on ethics and morality (interchangeable terms for describing actions relative to desired behavior), which I will write about in the near future.

Also enjoy these philosophical essays:

Sexual Spectrum or — How Every subsequent Y in your road is affected by those who preceded *

          I think a lot.  I ruminate.  Ponder.  Plan for contingencies.  Meditate about the me of today who's composing this beginning sentence of a beginning paragraph which I've just begun with only the title above as my stanchion and which is, at the moment, only based on a couple-to-three ephemeral ideas without a solid bridge betwixt them.

          Today, I think I should list these ideas because that'll make it easier to see where to begin to build bridge-abutments and also will—I hope—help me to remember them before they, like most of my mental messages-in-a-bottle, drift out of reach.

          When thinking about the me of yesteryear, I recall the major decisions which had the most geographical, emotional, financial, and intellectual effect on the me-outcome (more specifically, the where, who, how's, and why's that comprise the me that is today-me).  I realize that I made some of the more drastic course corrections in my life because of the few women I loved in yesteryear and the one I'm currently in love with.

          Bridge.

          Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of thoughts, emotions, suppositions, hormones, taboos, and facts.  Tens of billions of humans have simplified all that, in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children).  I too, simplified it to understand it.

          Not very long ago, I considered everyone who wasn't heterosexual to be homosexual.  When someone claimed to be bisexual—as far as I was concerned—they were homosexual.  I (erroneously) thought this way because I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved.  I love breasts (especially, the pert variety); the shape of the female buttock is wondrous; and I can't get enough pudenda.  Conversely, the penis and scrotum are ugly; testosterone-packed male physiques are as attractive, to me, as inanimate objects, and androgyny is a blah.

          I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates.  The boys I talked with said they also didn't choose.  The girls talked about their unflinching attraction to hard muscles and body hair with the same tone I use when adoring all that's smooth, svelte, and hairless.  I also talked with a few gay guys (who I knew well enough to talk specifics) and they assured me their sexuality had been formed in adolescence and couldn't choose any more than I could—one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart" and said they'd "never be fully accepted by the gay community".

          Bridge.

          In high school, I was informed that approximately ten percent of the population was left-handed and almost everyone in the world was right-handed, like me.  At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned there existed a small number of exceptional people who were ambidextrous.

          The textbook went on to explain these gifted people were capable of doing everything equally well with either hand.  I remember a story about a dead-before-I-was-born president who was innately left-handed but taught as a child (I think the book used the word forced) to become right-handed.  It said he occasionally would show-off his talent by writing simultaneously with both hands and may even have related that he could write in two different languages at the same time (but that might be confabulation on my part).  I also recall something about tutors and nannies being involved in forcing/re-training him to be right handed.  And I recall feeling scorn for the reason he had been was forced to stop writing with his left hand: some fucktard in his family believed the left hand was the devil's hand.  It's possible the school book encouraged my scorn by its choice of phrasing (although I'm sure it didn't use the word fucktard, that's all me).  A quick search would turn up this president's name but since I don't recall it off-the-top of my gulliver I'm disinclined to embellish poor memory with moot facts.

          In college, I was told that about ten percent of the population were homosexual, that almost everyone in the world was heterosexual like me.  At the same time (probably in the same dorm-room bullshitting session) I was informed of the existence of a small number of people who were attracted to both sexes.

          Specifically, one bullshit session attendee alleged, some bisexuals (more of whom, he said, were female than male) were not turned-off by the body, physique, or genitals of their own sex, which garnered nods of understanding from that roomful of hetero-men.  We could get our brains around how a hetero-woman might be capable of seeing beauty in the female form—what was confusing, to us, was how a hetero-man could be attracted to another man.  A joke was re-told (which originated from an unfunny comedian who I can't recall the name of) which said the upside of being bisexual was doubling one's chances of a date on Friday night.  Another bullshitter related a story (which probably began with: my junior high school neighbor's cousin's best-friend once told us...) about how this nameless boy he knew was groomed over a period of years by one of his older relatives to first receive and then give blowjobs and then, later, to give and eventually receive anal sex (his story never contained the word forced).  It was the first time I'd heard the word 'groomed' in that context (and I wasn't alone, because someone went off on a 'bridegroom/groom' tangent).  The nameless boy's story concluded with the allegation that before, during, and after the years of abuse, he was innately attracted only to girls.  The bullshitter telling the story surmised that because the nameless boy had been intimate with a member of the same sex for such a prolonged period of time that he might, now, be able to choose.  At this point the bullshit session switched its focus to the sexual proclivities of Greek philosophers (someone had a philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room.

          Bridge.

          I have grown into the knowledge that gender and human sexuality is a very complex spectrum.  I picture a two dimensional xy Cartesian graph.  The horizontal line depicting the genitalia one is innately sexually attracted to.  On the left is the female pudenda (the minus 5 position); on the right is the male penis (the plus 5 position).  Someone who is equally attracted to both sexes and who chooses his or her next partner based solely on the fickle winds of chance mutual attraction is a 0.

          I think of the top of the vertical line as a measure of how strong one's attraction feels, or how often one thinks about sex, or how often one has the urge to engage in their preferred sexual act (it's subjective and doesn't matter if one plots one's strength point for a given moment in time or for the average over a period of time).  At the top, the plus 5 position, is sexual addicts and those incapable of controlling their constant sexual urges.  Where the vertical meets the horizontal (the zero point) is those who are asexual and incapable of any attraction.  Just above the zero point, the plus 1 position, is those who exclusively pleasure themselves (which would include iDollators).

          The bottom of the vertical line is for all the paranormal innate attractions.  At the bottom, the minus 5 position, is for necrophiliacs.  All of the minus positions cover the range of attractions which society considers abnormal from sexual attractions to inanimate objects, BDSM, and rape.       

         To be accurate and complete, this graph now needs to become an xyz three-dimensional graph in order to measure fantasy versus reality.  What one thinks about when one is engaging in the sexual act is important because it's the brain that's sexual, not the body.  The further along the plus z line the more fantastic one's mental images are from what's currently happening to one's body (within societal "norms").  100% focus on the sex one's body is experiencing—no fantasy—is 0; the further along the minus z line the more disparate the brain's focus is from what is currently being experienced by one's body (outside of societal "norms").  

          Bridge.

          Mental moving snapshots with sound:  My first significant other is berating me for my unwillingness to attend catholic mass.  Her sharp words are intended to make me feel guilty for my lack of materialism and lack of concern for our toddler's spiritual upbringing, which is my final straw (Snap.)  My second significant other's  insouciance becomes unbearable.  No words becomes no love (Snap.)  Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide, while she is on a relationship-sabbatical to locate my current love (Snap.)  Now we are ten years together.  Everything is as wonderful as I imagined it could be.  Better, having chosen not to tolerate the bad behavior of her predecessors, who taught me what type of woman to look for and what, who, and where not to be. 

          Bridge.

          So hey.  I've stopped saying "people don't choose" because some people do.  Maybe a lot of people do (maybe the world is equally divided in thirds: 1/3 hetero and can't choose otherwise; 1/3 homo and can't choose otherwise; and 1/3 are attracted to both, can choose, and do...or let their government/church choose for them).

          There seems to be a large quantity of fundamentalists and conservatives who use the word "choose and choice" with an definite air of certainty...maybe that's because every one of them are near the 0 point, in the middle of the horizontal axis and they've all decided to let their religious and political leaders tell them what choice to make.

          The most important point is everyone should be happy with what they've got (between their ears).  If you haven't yet found what makes you happy (between the sheets)...keep looking.  If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found their happy) stop attempting to make them as unhappy as you are; misery doesn't really love company.

          * Original essay from the spring of 2013; my views on these subjects have continued to grow after talking/listening to different people (over the previous seven years) explain their thoughts about gender and sex.

D’Abord Stalactite de Glace


Fickle icicle – grow n’ shrink

midnight stone

sunlight drink

yester-blowback, reminisce

trickle drip-track

puddle’s kiss.

Danger icicle – toe th’ brink

frightful mass

girth n’ length

knelt a roof crack, precipice

tickle hold-back

parti pris.

          – D'Abord Stalactite de Glace (First Icicle) by Veach Glines

Neither Overwhemed Nor Underwhelmed



What is the cement of memory?

Does what we remember form who we are?

Why do we forget 99% of our lives?


          As I type this opening paragraph, my brain is switching between thoughts about choosing interesting words that will entertain itself as it compiles this sentence and—switch—scrounging thru my memory-attic for events, which can fit in a bright mauve container labelled ‘overwhelming’.   My as-I-type brain just decided that the first event to go in, is

          Witnessing—for almost two full minutes—the 2017 total eclipse of the sun.   I prepared for this event for months.  I bought expensive wrap-around viewing glasses and a phone-app to track where the shadow was going to be.   Weeks before, I drove a few hundred miles to reconnoiter.  I read articles describing what to look for when it happened.   The day of, I woke at 4am for a 5am departure in order to set-up three hours ahead of time.  As the moon began to creep across the sun, I recalled aloud (for the handful of people with me) a few previous partial eclipses and used the term underwhelming to describe those curled and faded polaroid snapshots.—switch—These vague recollections of pinholes in paper and flimsy cardboard glasses are now attached—like a deflated balloon static-stuck to the back of a worn-out child’s sweater—to the overwhelming event.   (I typed ‘overshadowing event’ and edited it so as to not end this paragraph on a pun.)—switch

          The moment when the entire moon’s shadow—the umbra—completely covered the sun:  the blue sky turned black; the yellow corona around the sun became white; stars were visible; the air temperature dropped; the silence of no-more bird and insect noises grabbed for my attention; spots of corona-sunlight, inside of darker shadows, took-on the changing shape (circular to crescent) of the umbra; and ripples of light wavered across the ground like faint “light snakes.”   My senses were overloaded.  I could not catch up.   There was no time to think or focus on the moment.

          —switch—It seems my as-I-type brain considers it's desirable when it-itself is unable to function as it's currently functioning (which, it considers to be its norm; its steady-state; its comfortable, uneventful, default mode; its regular state of being, which is neither over- or under-whelmed) and this asItype brain is not putting anything into its memory.  Short-term memory disappears unless something over- or under-whelms enough to get stored long-term.

          I know if I were not currently writing about thoughts—an act which facilitates asItype to be able, in the future, to become asIread (which, in turn, will become the me that has re-remembered based on what previous-me wrote)—I would, very soon, no longer be able to recall how I occupied myself this mid-November Friday morning.   If I'd instead been studying, reading, hiking, gaming, painting, listening to music, watching videos, talking with friends, playing with my cat, or performing routine chores, I would (probably) not be able to answer the question, “What did you do last Friday morning?”   Because of these words, these paragraphs, this essay (about normally neither being over- or under-whelmed) I can say I was writing an essay about memory.

          Now asItype wonders why are our recollections valued?   Is being able to recall something because it was sufficiently overwhelming/underwhelming to become immediately-permanently locked in long-term memory a prerequisite to being consciously aware of what is important to who we are and who we want to be?  And—switch—let me dig for a stronger, more recent, memory to stick in the intense yellow underwhelming container (next to those partial eclipses).

          Last June, I drove the west-east Going-To-The-Sun Road, through Glacier National Park.  I would not use the word boring to describe the slow procession up and over—but I would not use the word exciting either.  Rivulets of snow melt soaked me a few times (cabriolet top was down) and some of the hairpin turns with sheer drops revealed very interesting views; but a complete lack of wildlife and over 90 minutes of traffic-jams combined to make the 50-mile drive an unsatisfactory experience.—switch

          Why?—my asItype-self asks itself.  What made this memorably underwhelming?

          Preconceived expectations were not met—during my first visit to Glacier National Park (13 years ago) the Going-To-The-Sun Road was closed because of snow (which created—in that 2006-me’s brain—an unfulfilled desire).  On that trip, I felt privileged-lucky to see:  bald eagle, elk, black bears and grizzly bears, and experienced no vehicle traffic or full parking lots. 
 
 
more mind & memory essays:
 
 
 

straits of ujod

Winterfall

Find
Where you best - are comfortable at rest
Near the space where the muscles under your face
Unwind, then
Seek the spot when
Your attentive mind - feels evermost kind
Unfocused on the locus while at the same time
Reach, for a
Resolve to abhor
Never to soar - or - teach yourself to become more
Cognizant of whatever you're always most-never
Aware, yet
Don't devolve
Or forget - that every contestant we've never once met
Dies before they consider themselves wise
Careful, there
It's slippery
(You have time - I know, you know there's no finish line.)

                         - Winterfall by Veach Glines

Thanks Fellow Veteran





          Instead of the bland, ubiquitous, cringe-inducing 'thank you for your service' - try asking a question.  And, because I think humorous questions are better than serious ones, try these:
  • Was it an adventure or was it just a job?
  • What was it like to be more than you could be?
  • Was it fun doing more before 9 am than others do all day?
  • Do people expect a you're welcome when they thank you for your service?

Before Looking for an Apartment in Vermont

Thinking about moving to Vermont?    
  • Almost all landlords are members of the Vermont Landlords Association (VLA), which behaves like a guild/insurance company.
  • The VLA has a policy-guideline:  no more than 30% of a renter's income should be spent on housing (rent combined with all utilities and 'housing fees').
  • Member-landlords treat this as law and ask all prospective tenants to provide proof of income.
  • Acceptable documents include recent pay-stub or employer-letter.
  • Landlords will refuse to lease to tenants who's income would cause the tenant to pay more than 30% on housing.
  • The VLA supports its member-landlords with legal assistance and can provide monetary assistance if any tenant behavior results in a financial loss to a member-landlord.
  • The VLA may refuse to assist a member-landlord if employment documents were not obtained or if those documents reflect insufficient income.
Important statistics:
  • Vermont Minimum wage (as of 1 Jan 2020) is $10.96, which computes (for a full-time employee) to about $1,900 a month before taxes.
  • Assume double-occupancy (every minimum-wage worker must have a roommate in Vermont) and 1,900 x 2 = $3,800.
  • 30% of $3,800 is $1,140.
  • $250 monthly utilities (1 BR Apt) $60 electricity; $150 (average) heat; $40 garbage.
  • $1,140 minus $250 is $890.
  • $890 is the maximum rent a landlord can expect two minimum wage workers to afford.
  • In and around the metro-Burlington area (where more than 50% of the state population resides), average 1BR rents are $1,300 (+/- $300) albeit many complexes offer units with all or most utilities included in the rent.
  • To be permitted to afford $1,300 a month, in rent and utilities, the household must be able to prove they have an annual income of $52,000.
None of this is a government regulation/law; merely a guideline, informally enforced by VLA member-landlords.  The results:
  • Throughout the state, housing turn-over (across all levels and types) is extremely low (and not just in the winter).  The reason?  The minimum wage increased 18 cents per hour from last year; which is $30 a month.  Nobody can move if their rent has increased more than their wages.  
  • There is a constant need for temporary, seasonal, minimum-wage workers (50-60% of businesses have help wanted signs).  The reason?  Nobody can move to a state with almost the highest rates of taxation in the country and middling wages, if there is an unregulated "informal gatekeeper" dictating: every household must have over $50K to move here
 The fix is simple:

          Vermont legislature:  Make it illegal for businesses and landlords to request a person's income.

 other very-vermont things worth noting:

Good Day to Be a Crow


          A few days ago, I decided to go trail walking among the falling and yet-to-fall autumn leaves.  At the trailhead, I noticed a list of Vermont's Hunting and Trapping Dates.  Although I hadn't heard any gunshots, I realized that was probably the last thought JFK, MLK, and Theo Van Gogh all had (although Theo had enough time for a follow-up think: "nobody kills the village idiot," since his assassin only shot him off his bicycle and, then, dispatched him with a knife).

          As I got out my reading glasses, I looked down at myself (wearing exclusively subdued colors except for a splash of color on my hat) and read that bow season was already open for deer, and black bear season had been open for more than six weeks.  Which caused me to feel both stupid-lucky and stupid-foolish at the same time – I'd walked in different wooded areas every one of those past weeks not wearing bright colors but with bear spray on my hip. 

          Driving away, I considered what the odds were of being killed by a human compared to being killed by a black bear (and decided it was statistically more probable to be murdered, by at-least a factor of 100).  Then I wondered at the increased odds of being "accidentally shot" by a drunk, stoned, Vermont hunter, during bear hunting season, while wearing a black sweater (and decided it was smart I chose not hiking to Preston Lake that day).

          One line on the list of hunting season dates stuck and wouldn't let go of my shadow:

          Crow   JAN 18 thru APR 8 and AUG 19 thru DEC 16:  Open FRI – MON Only; Closed TUE – THR

          It seems that it is illegal to hunt crows mid-week in this state.  What logic-based data (presumably, closed hunting dates are decided on nesting dates) would support only hunting four days a week?

          Crows – which the government stupidly uses as a category-name for all Corvids – learn from past experiences, pass information along to their young, and (reportedly) are scared away from an area by shooting at them or by using a crow-based scarecrow.

          The federal government regulates an annual maximum number of days in which every state is permitted to allow the hunting of migratory birds.  Vermont Dept of Fish and Wildlife disagrees with the categorization of crows as migratory (considers them a nuisance) and closes "crow season" every mid-week so as to appear to adhere to the letter of the federal regulation. 

 

other Vermont to-see's:

An Amazon God Has Spoken



          As someone who owns TACKLIFE Propane Fire Pit... can you help this fellow customer?

 

Q:    What is the difference between bo7lg5kdnk for 179 and the bo7lg5q78q for 189?

A:     Ahhh young padawan, it is illogical to ask the amazon gods about the algorithm which determines why one ASIN costs ten dollars more than another.  That is a question better answered by camelcamelcamel.  (An Amazon God Has Spoken)


Q:    After watching the installation video, i realized that i did not plug in the wire to the auto starter. once i plug in the wire, it worked.

A:    How did you find out how to make it turn on without using any of your own brain cells?  For 200.   (An Amazon God Has Spoken)


Q:    Can we put this on the outskirts of our garage so we can have some cover?

A:    Based on your vague description (the word "outskirts" and "some cover" are not helpful in specifically knowing your plans, but are helpful in that I think you already know the idea is wrong-headed).  I picture you and your elderly husband placing this large propane fire just inside your open garage door and saying that 'the amazon gods said it would be ok'.  If you do this, you could fail to get sufficient ventilation from the open door that the carbon monoxide kills you before you get a chance to see the plastic portions of your siding melt and the paint catch on fire from the heat.  I put this in the middle of my back yard and could see the heat moving leaves on a branch twenty-five feet above - I recommend you watch the video 'dumb ways to die' for more things you should not do.  You are welcome (An Amazon God Has Spoken).

Other Posts About Amazon

Don't Act Like a Nail and Complain About Hammers

          When caring and cognizant parents recognize a dysfunction in their child, they seek advice from a health care professional.  No matter how immature it is, that child’s mind already began to form a coping mechanism, projecting: ‘this is how you-I-we function, you are normal, I am right, we aren’t impaired, they are all wrong’.

          Children become adults.  The coping mechanisms (of those without caring and cognizant parents) have denied their dysfunction for so long that—in most cases—the dysfunctional adult is no longer able to recognize when they are “unable to get out of their own way.”  And, when others point out their disordered thoughts or actions, their coping mechanism takes over:  better to change jobs, break-up with partners, cut off family members, and then blame them for the change/break-up/cut off.

          Narcissists, sociopaths, and psychopaths are rarely clinically diagnosed; most never have significant enough life-impairment to admit they need assistance from a mental health professional.   People with un-diagnosed NPD appear to act like people with no mental disorders, unless one observes their behavior from a close perspective.  (Because lying and manipulation as well as having no empathy and no remorse are behaviors only noticeable by people who are close to them.  In simple terms:  Friends and family are the only ones who care when friends and family are callous and/or uncaring.)    

          Almost every female in my family is/was a narcissist (it only seemed to skip-over Great Aunt Betty).  Research has identified that female narcissists tend to raise female narcissists.  Point out their lies, manipulations, lack of empathy, or refusal to apologize and they all—bar none—cut off communication for years or…for decades.

          Or… for what is left of our respective time alive—(as I reaffirmed when I wrote to my sister to see if she was still a narcissist).

          She referred to suing our step-father’s estate in the 90’s this way: “…I broke with the hypocritical narcissist and her progeny and have nothing to apologize for in my behavior.”  Although an ironically contorted way to refer to our mother, half-sister and myself, she eventually re-re-re-terminated all our future communications using all the aplomb of a highly-practiced coping mechanism: “I do respect that you reached out, and these emails show how we both tried … I found this worthwhile, too, but I am not interested in taking this any further.”   

          After my friend died in 2018, my half-sister showed all four traits in quick sequence.  I wrote her a detailed letter (mailed in an envelope) and explained how her detrimental narcissistic actions on the phone, in texts, and in emails were affecting me.  I said I’d remain open to future communications regarding her un-diagnosed NPD in the form of envelope-letters, because they require (and show) time and effort.  She replied in an email:  “…I will send via email, since I truly send so few things via post” and—after nothing but (unopened) links and curt texts for about ten months—sent this text: “thinking you’ve made it to Vermont … a new address to send letters?” 

          Narcissists. Do. Not. Give. One. Shit. About. Anyone. But. Themselves.  They also do not keep track of the lies or excuses they use to manipulate (but will quickly claim you're attempting to manipulate them if you quote them).  Their coping mechanism will not permit them to be open and honest with themselves, most of the time, so forget about open-honest words coming out of their mouth.  They also choose not to see their own behavior thru the eyes of other people—and choose not to picture themselves in other people’s shoes. 

          My half-sister was unaware of the irony in sending:  ‘I will send via email’ in an email; unable to imagine her words ‘to send letters’ would remind me of her excuse: ‘I truly send so few things via post’; and—when forwarding memes (like this)—she is oblivious it shows her coping mechanism at work:  using Hallmark-words is efficient, sufficient, and hides that you/I/we are deficient (when we use our own words).  
 
 
 related essay-articles: 

 

Stories of My Demise - Amor Fati and Memento Mori

          Recent essays about Bret and Carol reminded me of a couple of my favorite philosophical theories:   Amor Fati (love fate) and Memento Mori (remember death).  Both Latin phrases are related to the philosophy of The Stoics.

           Memento Mori is something I incorporated into my thoughts long before learning that these unique ideas about death had been codified and given a name over two thousand years ago. 

          Although I understand the useful mental benefits that Amor Fati are supposed to provide, I find myself struggling with the practice of incorporating it into daily life.
   
          In his last book, Ecco Homo, Nietzsche (considered an Existentialist by many - albeit, a label he would have shunned) coined the phrase Amor Fati, which I’ve paraphrased:
          The formula for human greatness is to love fate — to want nothing (which has-happened in the past or will-happen in the future) to be any different than it was or will be.  Do not just ‘bear with’ the necessary hardships in life, much less conceal them, but—instead—love them! 
          I can quasi-successfully get my brain around Nietzsche’s advice:  belaboring our regrets is a dark hole we should be wary of; ‘lucky’ coins provide a single benefit (melt-value exceeds face-value); and, fearing what tomorrow has in store imbues worry but does not alter events.  Therefore (sayeth Fred) ‘flaunt the hardships of life and cherish them, for they are necessary.’  But I say: The hard-knocks which fate has already dealt—or has yet to deliver—haven’t all been (and won’t all be) valuable teaching tools.  I regret stepping in dogshit yesterday, dislike whomever chose not to bag it after their pet shit in my yard, and didn’t enjoy cleaning my shoe.  But, I will remain open to suggestions on how Amor Fati is successfully practiced.

          Pertaining to Memento Mori, the stoic philosopher, Aurelius wrote,
          “Don't look down on death, but welcome it.  It, too, is one of the things required by nature; like youth and old age, like growth and maturity, like a new set of teeth, a beard, the first gray hair, like sex and pregnancy and childbirth—this is how a thoughtful person should await death—not with indifference, not with impatience, not with disdain, but simply viewing it as one of the things that happens to us.” 
          After attending my maternal-grandfather’s funeral, I learned that Papa (1915-1977) had been planning on retiring, and collecting social security later that same year—only an unforeseen heart attack derailed his plans while he was sleeping.  At his funeral, I re-heard the story of his father’s demise at the age of 57 (also, of an unforeseen heart attack) although Great-Papa was rowing a boat at the time of his death.
 
          When I first began to talk about those two ancestors (Papa and Great-Papa) I’d synopsize their lives to underscore how they might have enjoyed the relaxation of a few “golden years” if they hadn’t chosen to blindly focus on, and plan for, the end of their employment years based on the one-size-fits-all, government retirement template.

          In the middle of my 17th year of military service—1999—I was (not partying like it was almost Y2K but, rather, was seriously) second-guessing my oft-stated plan to retire in three years.  Fate reminded me.  My father, Leverett, died of an unexpected heart attack.  He was 60 and driving down a sunny mid-afternoon road.  Needless to say, I stuck to my plan.

          Bring up the subject death and I, invariably, get massive push-back.  Everyone I’ve ever attempted to talk with—about death (theirs, mine, anyone’s) is really invested in the specious idea that it is unpredictable and mysterious and (most important) never imminent.   I’m routinely scoffed at when I explain the primary reason I remained in the military for twenty years (and not 30) was because I did not want to follow in my ancestor’s footsteps (that of working up to the day of demise).  “Oh Veach, you aren’t going to die anytime soon!” I constantly hear from naysayers, all-in-a-rush to change the subject.

          My form of Memento Mori is slightly different from that of the Stoics.  I agree that death is a normal part of life, but I also think it should be a topic of normal conversation.  Bring it up with the kids.  Talk about it over beers with a neighbor.  It needs to be discussed because it needs to be de-fanged.

          Americans avoid the subject of death and dying slightly more-often than they avoid talking about how much money they have (promulgated by a foolish, 1950-era, white, male, corporate-mindset based in privilege, greed, inequality and an unspoken ‘I got mine – you get yours’ doctrine) and ever-so-slightly less-often than they talk about what flavor of sex they enjoy (promulgated by a foolish, 450s-era, white, male, religious-mindset based in close-minded hypocrisy, fear, and an unspoken ‘I hide mine – you better hide yours’ doctrine).

           To treat death as a taboo subject, imbues it with the power of mystery.  It isn't mysterious.  It may not be as predictable as the weather (remember when the weather was never predicted with any measurable accuracy?) but definite patterns can be identified.  Actions can be taken to mitigate impending death.  And, when the visage with the scythe does, eventually, come knocking (as it has for every living thing, ever) if you are someone who practiced Memento Mori and Amor Fati you will not be taken by surprise in your sleep, or in your car, or in your rowboat.  You will be mentally prepared for the end of your life - as any rational person should be.

The First Rule of Philosophy Club is Don't Talk About . . .


          I'm reticent to tell people, in normal conversation, that I've been studying and currently study philosophy.  Even after years of researching different philosophical areas, I don't bring it up unless directly asked.  When I consider talking spontaneously about what I've learned, I feel a pressure-twinge in the proximity of my brain near my conscience, which urges me toward an act of inaction, whichwhen translated into wordslooks like something firmly wedged between modesty and humility.

          Initiation into philosophy club began with reading some books written by some very-long-dead old wise men that had been translated, re-translated, and interpreted (andsurprisingly oftenre-re-interpreted) by less-long-dead (or, occasionally, living) wise people.  The translators and interpreters labeled themselves: Authorand labeled the men they translated and interpreted: Philosopher.

          For me, one book led to another.  One video to another.  Repetition was important.  Re-reading or re-listening became valuable.  Reading a different author/interpreter discuss the same very-long-dead philosopher became most important.  In the long run, all that really happened was I, eventually, gleaned a few insights about the universe; human life and death; society; politics; religions; the brain, consciousness, and the importance of human reasoning; time; logic; as well as how best to cope and how to decide how best to cope (whichsimply putis how to think about thinking and use that self-awareness to best advantage).

          Realization that I was a member of philosophy club occurred when I recognized my ability to become self-aware had increased (I haven't become fully self aware, but, knowing what that means is a valuable step).  Membership brought with it the knowledge that all of these insights were available to everyone who can read.

          Knowledge about knowledge can be meta-knowledge, but it also can be an awareness that everything labeled "philosophical theory or concept" (which I might/might not be able to understand in whole or part) is no different than a single informative sentence.  Because we all know a paragraph will provide more information.  Which leads us to realize that an entire book would be much more informative.  Then we see an entire shelf of books and wonder about the quantity and quality of all that additional information.  Stepping back, we are now far enough away to observe the entire library and realize there are (and were) more library's nearby.  (Library's which are filled with information, library's which were burned to the ground a while ago, as well as library's which were burned to the ground before any author/translator was able to read what all those very-long-dead old men had thought about long and hard enough to write it all down.)

          There will never be completion when it comes to knowledge.  Every theory and concept and idea comes from reading about theories and concepts and ideas.  The result of my studying various types of philosophy isit transformed me from a person of average intelligence into a wise person.

          A wise person once said, "referring to oneself as an artist requires a punishable amount of hubris."

          What an astute phrase within an ironic sentence (since I just made it up).  More accurately, I assume I just compiled the above seventeen words and four punctuation marks into an order, which no person compiled them into before.  I'm not saying the concept is novel.  Certainly, some hundreds or thousands (millions?) of people have already said, or written, about the terms wise and artist in conjunction with hubris.  I may even have heard or read them.  However like George Harrison writing My Sweet LordI have no awareness of He's So Fine in my consciousness, as I type.

          The building blocks of my sentence are both words and ideas.

          I learned, at UW-Milwaukee, that most creative people did not refer to themselves using the term Artist.  Yes, we had gallery showings.  Yes, some of us profited from selling what we created.  But, artist was a compliment-label we reserved for others to use about us.

          Accordingly, when studying philosophical concepts, I learned that most extremely intelligent people did not refer to themselves using the term Wise.  Yes, they were successful authors.  Yes, they may be professors and may possess Doctorates in Philosophy.  But, wise was a compliment-label they reserved for others to use about them.

          I metrecentlya person who creates art and sells it in a gallery she owns and operates.  She constantly refers to herself as an artist.  She also insists, with the bulldozing personality of a stage performer, that other creatives must self-anoint, proclaim, and metaphorically tattoo the word ARTIST somewhere prominent for the world to always read.

          Although I consider her artistic, and can see passion in her work, she is not wise.  She is neither humble nor modest, nor does she possess the inaction firmly wedged between humility and modestly.  Instead, she suffers from an inability to get out of her own way.  She is a business-woman.  She is an activist.  She is not an artist.

Death of a Friend — Bret Harrison (1956 - 1978)


          While I was writing the essay about a recently-made close friend who died, my brain did one of the weird-things-it-does by recalling a teenage friend who died when I was still a teen.  I don't think my brain does this because of my Asperger's.  It probably behaves this way as a result of my decades-old drive to exercise my memory, which has over-time become a force-of-habit.  Maybe everyone's brain does this to some extent (only yours doesn't tease out every detail, write about it, or create art because of it).

          Although—between 1972 and 1976—Bret and I attended the same schools in Peru, Indiana (go tigers) and lived very near each other in Parkview Heights (referred to as, by everyone we knew, a "development" or a "sub-division" rather than a neighborhood) we were as opposite as two teenagers could ever have been.

          I started the eighth grade as new student/new city/new school at Peru Junior High, with about a hundred new classmates (who'd all been in puberty for at least a year already),  Unfortunately, I was a short-for-my-age, prepubescent, 12 year old (a year younger than all my classmates).  It is significant to note that this was my 5th new school since I started first grade at 5 years old at Center School in Peabody, MA (My third grade was in New Haven, IN; fourth was in Fort Wayne, IN; fifth/sixth were in Nashport, OH; and seventh was in Frazeysburg, OH.)

          Add—on top of this abnormal constant-uprooting (step-father's job transfers) and the abnormal disparity in classmates ages—that my authoritarian mother forced me to always wear 'school clothes' when jeans, t-shirts, and "sneakers" were the norm; to always cut my hair short, when long or shaggy was de rigueur; and she, routinely, restricted my freedom ("grounded") whenever I was caught playing with a neighbor's toy from her ever-changing and illogical list of verboten items, which included:  plastic toy guns, BB guns, bicycles ("two-wheelers"), GI Joe ("action figures"), and minibikes.

          This snapshot is the environment which molded me into a shy, introverted, twelve year old (with an inability to make friends) when Bret sat down next to me on the school bus wearing his brand new, flesh-toned, starter mustache.  I'd been riding the bus to school for weeks and I'd never seen him before (on the bus or anywhere).  1970s-kid protocol was: high-schoolers didn't exchange pleasantries with junior high kids so I didn't talk to him because I assumed he was the former and learned from him (years later) that he had a personal protocol:  never initiate conversations with anyone.  Ever.

          My next memory of Bret is when it was already sweater-weather.  I was standing outside the school waiting for the doors to open, talking with no-one (new kid protocol), making eye contact with no-one (kid-who-always-gets-bullied protocol and Asperger's trait).  Regardless, one of the Tully twins decided it was time to pick on me—I never learned if it was Tim or Tom—he said something derogatory, laughed, and slapped the books under my arm to the sidewalk (why didn't anybody use book-bags back then, and, why didn't I use my Boy Scout back pack after this?)  Tully got a jeer of encouragement from other-Tully and a few more from the crowd, I dropped to the sidewalk to collect my homework before it blew away, and some of the feet around me began to step back (space-to-fight protocol) as a low voice said, "Leave him alone."  One of the Tullys started to reply, "Mind yer own...," but was interrupted by an arm with a fist at the end of it.  Stand-turning, I noticed blood coming from a Tullys mouth and blood on Bret's knuckles, who immediately turned and walked away without looking back.  I might have shouted a thanks at Bret's back, but that feels squishy, like a false memory.

          Years later, I asked Bret about it and he said that he definitely didn't recall me being there, and was 'definitely not coming to anyone's aid.'  He said that 'those fuckin Tullys' had always 'rubbed him wrong' and that he just saw an opportunity to punch a Tully and took it.

          It was strange to hear then (and weird to think about now)—Bret had the mind-set, in eighth grade, that some people were always deserving a pop in the mouth, and accordingly, he was going to be the person on the look-out for an opportunity to deliver it.  He'd seen a Tully causing a kerfuffle (didn't matter to whom) and popped that fuckin Tully in the mouth.

          Bret and I slowly became friends and, by senior year of High School, we were close enough that we ate lunch together on occasion, shared a study hall, and worked as primary designers on the Senior class homecoming float.  I learned that he was three-or-four years older than me; he'd been 16 with a driver's license (and a starter mustache) in eighth grade!  He was "held back" several times in Elementary School, because of "poor performance".  His older brother (whom I never met) died young and his mother died our Junior year.  There were many months that I never saw Bret (stories of "juvy-hall" abounded) but I never asked where he'd been when I eventually ran into him, and he never offered an explanation, which may have been why we got along.

          I have a vivid memory of walking up to him after a lunch in twelfth grade, and, as we stood talking about nothing, he looked at me and said, "hey, stand up."  Which caused me to look down then look him in the eye, and I recognized in-that-moment he had actually thought I was so short that I couldn't have been standing.  He laughed at his mistake in judgement so hard his eyes teared up, and that laughter was so contagious, my eyes teared as well.  For months after that 'hey-stand-up' was our inside-joke catch phrase.

           My last strong memory of Bret was after I accidentally locked the keys in my family car at our High School graduation party, and he agreed to drive me home for a spare set.  He drove kinda fast and got pulled over by a deputy sheriff less than a mile from the party.  My parents picked me up at the station, retrieved our car, and Bret's Nova SS.  Then Bret came to my house for his car—but only he was able to return to the party.  I was grounded.  (Because I locked the keys in the car, or, because I rode with a 21 year old after he had two beers, or, because needing to be picked up from the police station upset my parents - I'll never know.)

          Two years later, sometime in 1978, I learned Bret had died of the same disease that killed his brother and his mother.  It made me wonder if the months he was allegedly in some juvenile detention facility were just something (promulgated by Bret) to cover for some health treatments as well as improve his bad-ass street credentials.  Again, I'll never know.