This is a work in Philosopical progress
       and these are the '
interesting times' RFK referred to in 1966. . .


          Always.  Constantly.  Your entire life.  Yesterday, today and especially tomorrow; you were, are, and will be talked about . . . after you walk out the door.  Also, before you arrive.  And, when you are not present.  Does this come as a surprise?  Maybe this is something you prefer not to think about?  If so, you might be someone who chooses to think that only you talk about other people candidly, without fetter, when they're out of earshot.

           You were raised by hypocrites, who were themselves reared by hypocrites.  Generations of people who thrived on gossip but shamed those who talked about them "behind their backs."  They, who filled long hours talking about those around them—but, invariably, denied (and will deny tomorrow) talking about you.  The result is a classic dichotomy:  you and your family hold two conflicting ideas in your head at the same time; you talk about everyone you know, but you don't think they talk about you the same way.  They do.  Especially if you attempt to manipulate how they should think about you when you talk to them.  To them.  Not with them.  That shit gets you judged faster than any other behavior.  Fake.  Insincere.  Shallow.  Vapid.  (Are never said to your face.)

          Decades ago, social researchers posited that the majority of adults had between five and twenty-five other adults who were members of their circle of trust.  That was before the internet; when people paid large amounts of money (relative to their income) for "long distance phone calls," and—almost exclusively—communicated by talking face-to-face and writing letters delivered by affixing inexpensive postage stamps to envelopes.  Those hippy researchers labeled our 'inner circles' as circles of intimacy (containing between zero and five people) and the third ring as our circles of associates with a maximum of 150 acquaintances and friends-of-friends.

          During these Trying Times of The Twenties (TToTT®) although technology makes instant communication simple, our circles of trust have shrunk.  [I wanted to edit out these cute correlation-causations, but I like them too much:  the number of characters in your average text; the number of colors and filters in your latest insta; the number of likes; number of favs; of πŸ–’; of conversations (pay-to-talk helps, but doesn't count); of pills you take; of videos you watch; of ... ?] ... Do you even know how to have a conversation?  A real one?

          Today's hipster researchers have re-researched and, now, our circles of trust contain between zero and five people and our circle of intimacy now contains—on average—between zero and two people.  This deserves repeating:  your circles of intimacy and trust may be nonexistent.  Are there any people with whom you can relax and tell anything to ... ... who feel likewise about you?  Are you certain of that?

          Now, of course, you have viewers, followers, and 'facebook friends'.  Those screen-names might fit into our circles of associates, but more-than-likely they are a fourth circle:  strangers hoping you Egostroke, Entertain, or Educate for Free (EEE 4 Free®).

fuck you and the horse you rode in on IRONY HURTS

          O. K.  (you say)  So . . . this is a blog post about Philosophy.  Capital P.  This is the point where you philosophize, bitch.  Impart your art!  Tell me (you demand) about some long-dead, heavily-read, thinker.  Someone who lived during the time of leeches; thrived under the threat of being spiked to a crossbeam until they asphyxiated; for whom pedophilia was routine and customary (their entire lives: catcher-to-pitcher); who practiced a rape-is-legal level of misogyny; who proudly owned slaves (but wrote thoughtfully on how to get the most out of one's chattel-born); and who only thought murder was immoral when it was done to men of his wealth, class, race, and education . . . what knowledge did he have to impart regarding how to cope with my life's difficulties (you ask).  Share the wisdom (you cajole) which might help me assuage these new hardships as I have difficulty coping with uncomfortable and unfamiliar mask-breathing and social-distancing as a modern socially distant person living without access to all the comforts and privileges I was accustomed to a couple of months ago (you say without awareness of the irony, except that I've rubbed your nose in it for a paragraph).

          Stay alert for opportunities to be able to say the sentences: "I was wrong"; "I don't know"; or "That is a new (word, idea, concept, etc) for me".   

          And, when the opportunity occurs, say those words to your viewers, screen-names, followers, and 'friends'.  Then, keep talking to them.  Ask them to explain their point of view, request they share their opinion, and maybe you could even apologize for being wrong. *shudder*  Honest.  Sincere.  Thoughtful.  Challenging.  (Said in your presence ellipsis question-mark.)  

          This mind-set is transformative.  If you are someone who never says these sentences, who never admits to any of these attributes of normal human behavior (or incessantly qualifies the rare admissions you're capable or willing to make) don't give up, you're more than half way there!  It takes more effort to frown than to smile . . . which is just a metaphor I borrowed to point out the huge wall your ego must be constantly building around you.  Justifying the biases which we all have (but which you are seemingly unaware)🞹🞹.

          It is only an inordinate strength of intellect which recognizes it is never the strongest nor the most intelligent, can easily admit if-and-when it has misspoken, and eagerly listens with the intent to learn; which always possesses a child's openness to absorb new information (with the seasoned reasoning of a philosopher only acting as custodial-staff: stepping-in to clean up afterwards); and actively hopes-for and wants—when listening/reading—to hear anything which might improve its out-of-date, biased, confused brain with new-to-you knowledge.  Something, which another might have been carrying around in their head (and been willing to impart) for as long as you've known them.  For free.  All you had to do was ask. *gasp* 

          Normally, I'd attribute, here, which terrible human being(s) I gleaned the above advice from.  The thing is, it came from all of them and none of them.  It's not even possible to source to a single style, type, or area of philo-theosophical writing.

          A bunch of eastern and western dudes (who probably supported the burning of witches for speaking heresy—if, in no other way, than by keeping silent when their next-door neighbors did it) wrote a bunch of random ideas in letters, books, diaries, and formal speeches.  Probably a large amount of which they'd heard or read in books or libraries which were later sacked and burned, so—today—they appear to be the first to think these thoughts.  Which, let me assure you, they were not; almost everything is paraphrased.

          For years, I've put some of that shite which has been attributed to them in my head.  Then, I typed this distillation.  If this makes me a philosopher, please, know this:  I reject almost everything ever written or said, by almost anyone I've ever listened to, or read.  If pressed, I'll probably disagree with the majority of what I just wrote.  *sigh*

🞹🞹  as to what is meant by half-way there and seemingly:  Those who are already vigilantly hyper-attentive, in order to never admit their fallibility, are unaware this always makes them appear to be trying to be someone they're not, which is all it takes to be considered untrustworthy.  Which is why their circles of intimacy and trust are small (or gone) and why they are spoken about, negatively, behind their back.  The fix sounds simple:  admit misspeaking, admit not knowing, admit learning something new.  



more on 'how to relate' (to your-2020-self and others):


          Senator Robert F. "Bobby" Kennedy's full Day of Affirmation speech is linked here; I especially enjoy the following excerpts: ...The cruelties and the obstacles of this swiftly changing planet will not yield to obsolete dogmas and outworn slogans.  ...  "There is," said an Italian philosopher, "nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things."  ...  Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring: those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance. ...  There is a Chinese curse which says "May he live in interesting times." Like it or not, we live in interesting times. They are times of danger and uncertainty; but they are also the most creative of any time in the history of mankind. And everyone here will ultimately be judged - will ultimately judge himself – on the effort he has contributed to building a new world society and the extent to which his ideals and goals have shaped that effort. ...
          That RFK was unwilling to attribute the new-order-of-things quote to Machiavelli, by name, gives me a tickle.  It was ballsy enough to give this speech in mid-apartheid South Africa, but to reference the guy who wrote the book on how to unseat a government by any and all means?  Priceless.        

image portions for fuck you and the horse you rode in on IRONY HURTS by:

KISSES


(click for πŸ”Ž)

           This conglomeration of nine real image portions (one which was quasi-distorted) is intended to instigate a type of ambedo.  One's eye is drawn to the center, into a storefront, to a poster on the wall above teller windows—what kind of business would KISSES be and who would be so comfortable, in today's society, to challenge their customers with such a necessary (albeit polarizing) question?  The pleasantly warm bustle of a city and the genuine happiness of a mother—yet what city has simple-to-climb rungs on sidewalk electric poles?  Multiple mirrors provide you, the driver, with ample all-around views—but what is happening around your bus?  And, what thought(s) or emotion(s) was the artist trying to instigate in viewers . . . of the sticker they adhered to the electric pole?   

Composite collage art comprised of photos by:

Saint Labrador the Retriever (et al)




          In Waterbury, Vermont, you can:  touristy-tour the Ben and Jerry's ice cream factory and the Cold Hollow Cider Mill; view sculpture-art on the train-trestle and Saint Labrador the Retriever; hike, bike, or cross-country ski the portion of the Cross-Vermont Trail which loops around the old state hospital and asylum grounds and parallels the Winooski River; or you can meander the obstacle course of the three-year (2019-2021) construction project to explore the tiny downtown area where there is one art gallery, a thrift shop, a bookstore, two bric-a-brac stores, a nice toy store, and a hand-full of bars with a double hand-full of restaurants/diners.




other Vermont to-see's:


Essential Apostrophe


          Whacha been doing since we last talked?

          A decision tree bloomed in my head.

          I considered, for approximately .07 of a second, replying with a brief explanation of the various philosophy books, video-synopses, websites, and—subsequently formed—logical insights I'd come up with on aesthetics, fallacies and personal politics... and how all that related to the ongoing pandemic from my point-of-cloister; which caused me to focus/trip over how pretentious that-all might sound if it were dumped into my unprepared ear-brain.

          So I shifted to considering (for an additional .14  of a second) a nutshell-sketch of my recent art collages:  how I'd created them after perusing thousands of images—over scores of hours—for just the right fit to tell just the right story, to engage my viewers for an extended moment of their lives and (hopefully) cause them to think about what that specific image is asking them to feel, which is the same as what I, the composer, am hoping to communicate.  Which, unfortunately, caused me to realize;  a conversation of this magnitude would require visuals, and a friendly talk was not the place for a PowerPoint presentation.

          For the next full second I thought about the things I'd done since we'd last talked:  I'd gone to a drive-in theater with four screens to choose from (two films at each) and each screen had it's own audio over a different FM radio station.  But.  It was just a drive-in.  It was just Empire Strikes Back...  Also, I'd:  hiked with my cats a few times, gone picnicking, had a campfire, gone to a museum filled with hundreds of hand carved birds, and explored parts of the Green Mountains as well as the islands in Lake Champlain with my wife.  But those were just special things to us.  It was just sightseeing.

          Same-old same-old.  Tryin' not to catch it again.  Or spread it if I'm still contagious.  Keepin' busy.  You?

          Not much different.  Can't wait for this to be over so I can go back to work.  Back to normal.

          I wondered about asking: what if that's never possible - if wearing masks and staying separate was forever - if the education paradigm was going to become 90% online/virtual and the 10% hands-on requirements were going to be held in sterile environments with 14-day quarantines whenever someone entered - if full-body spacesuits were going to be a thing - if . . . nah . . . too pessimistic. 

          I thought you were an essential worker.

          Who're es..essential workers.

          The preferred term's sex worker; I'm pretty sure they aren't.

          Hunh?  Now I'm confused.

          Asked if you were essential and it sounded like you said whores are essential.

          Oh.  The apostrophe in who-are is essential.  I'm not.


comprised of photos titled apostrophe by:

use yer werds ews-yur-wurdz
     aka: floating heads and already deads




          US Federal personnel wearing military uniforms without insignia (except a POLICE patch), driving unmarked rental vans, have begun arresting/detaining people in Portland, Oregon.  In one video, the protester-camerawoman repeats the phrase: use your words towards the mute authoritarian federal law enforcement officers who are in the act of snatching-and-disappearing an alleged protester.  


 collage-art in the same vein:

The Luck Dragon





Swansong cloudy ride - must you always land?
prolong! vow thee bide, thrust to take a stand.
right/wrong soundly snide trussed beforehand.
ding-dong ciao deride; just th' rue as planned.

Falkor might come back.  He's not forever lost.
give yer kite sum slack, 'tis but weather tossd.
lots more shite-n-frack, xpect untethered cost.
old lore, setback - read mending wall by Frost.




obviously animals got harmed (during the creative process)




This composition was created by searching down the
flikr favorite rabbit-hole:
my discovery of a subjectively relevant image in
a photographer's 'faves' leads to searching that
photographer's faves for another image,
which resulted in - all of the above.




image excerpts by:  Reinhold S, Pavel P, Don Springer, Austin Granger,

eye am knot





you give Me A wood
ICH BiN NiCHT (I'm Not)
This is not a good place.
Cops Set the fire



more pareidolia related art:


image excerpts by Austin Granger and Paul McFarland

Covid Diary - Chapter 2


          About ten weeks ago, I wrote about my wife and I catching what we could only assume was Covid19.  I updated that article for a month, until our symptoms disappeared.

          In the two month interim, I have experienced three slight recurrences of the symptoms and she has experienced one.  Each were/are identical to our first symptoms only milder in both intensity and duration.

          I added 'are' to the last sentence because I—as I type (7 July 2020)—am, again, symptomatic.

          It began yesterday with sore long muscles in my arms; as if I had done too many push-ups the day before.  As the day progressed, I tested my muscles.  Other muscles began to feel unaccountably fatigued after very little activity.  Newly notable, was, when I entered strong sunlight, my iris's failed to contract as if an optometrist had dilated my eyes.  Today, every muscle is just slightly sore, which I notice most in my fingers, neck, abdomen, and thighs.  Slight headache.  No other symptoms.

          For the last three months we both have practiced social distance and/or stayed home; we wear masks and gloves if going shopping (which is the only time I went out recently: grocery shopping four days ago).

          Obviously, antibodies are only effective for a short period of time and then the antibodies, which may be still present, helped to reduce the severity of our symptoms from massive, can't-get-out-of-bed whole-body, 48-hour exhaustion (Chapter 1, for us) to a few hours of slightly tired muscles.

          This is my opportunity to pass along some funny-albeit-apropos words I heard from my daughter yesterday:  after all the shit I've done in my life, if I die because I touched my face...

Orangemen's Mailbox


Orangemen's Mailbox - 12 July (Orangemen's Day / 'The Glorious Twelfth')




Mailbox artwork - ALL
Santa Claus' Mailbox - 25 Dec (Christmas)
AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)
Sommerzeit's Mailbox - 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)
Γ”STARA's Mailbox - 19 Mar (Vernal Equinox / first day of Spring - northern hemisphere 2020)
Avril Poisson's Mailbox - 1 Apr (April Fools Day / April Fish in France)
St. George's Mailbox - 23 Apr (Feast of St George)
May IV's Mailbox - 4 May (Star Wars Day)
Serling's Mailbox - 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)


image portion by Jamie Wheeler

Laundromat Pantograph




For those interested in a game of Seek and Find:
I compiled this collage from the photographs of
Oregon artist Austin Granger (flikr link below).
- Good luck determining exactly how many -


continue viewing composite artworks:

image excerpts by Austin Granger at austingranger.com

BFR in the ROK
       (Big Fuckin Rock in the Republic of Korea)

           As I entered the platoon office, Staff Sergeant Colwell gestured with his chin in the direction of a soldier standing in front of his desk at parade rest.  Without looking up from the documents on his blotter, SSG Colwell squinted the left portion of his permanent wrinkles in my direction—which was either a smile, sneer, frown or grimace—and said in his quiet rumble (indicating it wasn't a sneer or frown) “Sergeant, this is Private Wiznewski.”

           I turned and extended my hand.  Wiznewski didn’t even move his eyes, let alone his hand.  I smiled and said, “At ease Wiznewski.  Pleased to meet you.”  He slowly brought his eyes to meet mine, almost smiled and returned the handshake like this was his first-ever.  I glanced down at his terrible handshake and murmured, “We’re gonna work on that.”

           Before I could say anything more, SSG Colwell interrupted.  “Private.  This is Sergeant Glines.  The squad leader for second squad.  He’s your squad leader.  Which means you are in the second squad.  Got it?”   I wondered about what had been said to make SSG Colwell think it was necessary to hammer the numbers and titles.

          “Yes. . .second squad, Platoon Sergeant; pleased to meet you, Sergeant.”  Wiznewski replied to both of us; his voice was average—matching his build, height and hair color and contrasting with his apparent age (he looked about fourteen years old).

          SSG Colwell then gave us both some brisk parting words containing a full complement of threats and ultimatums.  No matter that Wiznewski graduated from Military Police school last week, arrived in Korea yesterday, only assigned to us this afternoon, and had not been issued any equipment yet—he was to be ready to go to the field for training with the rest of our platoon in four days.

          As my squad—the second squad, of the second platoon, of the 142d MP Company—departed the platoon’s tactical operations area the first morning of the field training exercise, we traveled in a convoy of three HUMMWVs.  My driver was PFC LaMott; in my opinion she was the best driver in the company.  And, with newly-issued equipment and (now) fully trained on how to correctly shake hands, PVT Wiznewski rode in the turret as my M60 gunner.

          Behind us, my other two HUMMWVs contained three occupants each: SGT Tinley was my second team leader and SGT Lee, a KATUSA, was my third team leader.   CPL Yoon, also a KATUSA, was SGT Tinley’s driver and PFC Witherspoon was the gunner for vehicle two.  PV2 Smith drove vehicle three (he hated being called Smith or Smitty and somehow ended up with Robert as a nickname, even though his name was Darryl—I think it was because of Robert Smith of The Cure—it was 1989, but it still makes very little sense.)  I don’t remember the name of vehicle three’s gunner, we called him Joe; he was either from California or talked about living there.

          We parked the vehicles near a roadside market, purchased snacks (which in the late-80s usually meant 16oz returnable bottles of Pepsi and Choco-Pie brand moon pies) and then I explained to my eight squad members how the week of training was supposed to go and how it was actually going to go:

          “Every day, all week, we’re supposed to drive our entire assigned area in a tactical three-vehicle convoy.  Our platoon is conducting battlefield route recon.  Our squad has the area marked on these maps.  The other two squads have different areas, different maps.  We’re tasked with comparing maps with actual terrain and making corrections on the maps as we discover them.  For example, if a bridge is marked on the map as having an 18 ton weight limit, but a sign on the bridge says 8 tons, we’d make a note.  We have many hundreds of miles of crisscrossing roads to cover.

          “The way we are actually going to accomplish this—much faster and more efficiently—is to separate.  Each team will drive an area, or a section, and make notes.  Before returning to the campsite in the evening before dinner, we’ll meet and I’ll update the main map with your notes.  That way it’ll all be in my writing.

          “I don’t know how much you all heard this morning when he was talking, but SSG Colwell has directed us to never change our radios off of the platoon frequency and also he said we aren’t allowed to stop and buy any snacks or local food.”  I said this as I raised a Pepsi bottle over my head, which got chuckles and laughter.

          “He thinks he can monitor us if he can always hear us, which would prevent us from separating.  But we will do it this way:  I’ll give you each a section.  We separate.  Drive different routes.  When we need to talk to each other without him hearing, say something on the platoon frequency about an animal, then immediately switch your channel over to 696969.00, say what needs to be said—like meet for lunch at the market at blah-blah grid coordinates—then switch back quickly to the platoon frequency.  Questions?”

          And that is how it went for three days.  Smooth.  Almost all our recons were already complete and we still had four more days left.

          On the fifth day, as we were departing the platoon camp, my vehicle’s engine got an electrical short.  Melting plastic, smoke, flames and several fire extinguishers later—we were down to two vehicles.  No one was at fault.  No matter, SSG Colwell wanted to find someone to blame and hated that he couldn’t twist this into someone doing something he had forbidden.  Because of this, his threats become more venomous.

          My two vehicles were now full with four people in each.  I said to PVT Wisnewski, “Hey, sorry man, you’re still a member of the second squad.   It’s just that I need you to ride with first squad for the rest of the week.  Not as an M60 gunner, just as an extra team member.  Shit happens.”

          And that was how it went for two more days.  Still smooth.  Our recons were now 99% complete, so we mostly fucked off and swam in a creek and relaxed in the shade.

          On the last day we had only two roads to finish (which was expected to take no more than an hour) and then everyone was ordered to meet with SSG Colwell and the Lieutenant at a central area before 1700 hrs.  Late?  Expect to be punished. 

          We finished the road recons, took lunch—Pepsi and Moonpies, and then leisurely headed south along the most direct road which the map showed connected to a highway leading to the meeting area.  About noon we exited the area we were responsible for updating.  An hour later, the road ended at the edge of a rice paddy.  The highway, which we wanted to be on, was about 200 meters away. . .on the other side of the mud-filled paddy.  A dirt track, which appeared to be just wide enough for a HMMWV, had replaced what the map showed was a two-lane gravel road.

          “Sergeant, this is exactly what we are out here to find!  To correct on the map, right?”

          “Yes LaMott.  And I’ll make sure it's noted on the map first squad was responsible for, but, more important at the moment is deciding if we can slowly creep across this dirt berm or if we turn around and make the full loop back to where the road connects to the highway.”

          “If you ground-guide me across, I can make it.  No problem.  Driving that loop will add an extra two hours of bumpy gravel roads.  We’ll be fine crossing the dirt-berm if we go slow.  These are hummvees!”

          I began to walk backwards (signalling with my hands if tires got too close to the edge) and she slowly, carefully, drove forward.  The second vehicle crept behind us with SGT Tinley ground-guiding it.

          Half way across, the front tire on the passenger side slipped off the dirt edge of the berm (my fault for not ground-guiding further away from that edge).  Four-wheel drive began to churn loose dirt, but there was an obstruction catching the bottom edge of the front bumper.  It was preventing the truck from climbing back up onto the top of the berm.  We couldn’t reverse back up onto the berm because the loose dirt on the edge began to erode, which was causing the angle of the HMMWV to increase—too much more and it looked like the truck might roll down onto its side in the deep rice paddy mud.

          “I’m looking at what seems to be stopping us from making it back onto the berm, Sergeant.  It just looks like a tiny sharp rock.”  Said SGT Tinley from under the front bumper.

          “OK, get a shovel, pickaxe, and the muscles of Joe and Witherspoon up here to clear it.”  I replied.

          I began to calculate.  There were plenty of hours.  We could do this.

          Thirty minutes later the hole around the “tiny rock” was now almost a five foot circle and at least eighteen inches deep at the outside edge.  We had all spent time with shovels and various tools of destruction to no avail.  The four inches of rock jutting out of the edge of the berm was connected to a massive bolder which sloped away in all directions like a wedding cake.  When LaMott drove forward, the front bumper came to rest against the top few inches of the bolder.

          Another thirty minutes and I watched as Robert, shirtless, stood over the rock and bludgeoned it with a ten-pound sledge hammer, sending shards of granite splintering with every blow.  Tinley and I stood back as Robert shouted, “Fuck me to hell, Sergeant, this damn thing goes all the way to the core of the Earth!”

          “Ok.  Stop.  STOP.  Take a break Robert.  LaMotte, begin unwinding our winch.  I want to see if it will reach that metal telephone pole at the edge of the highway.”  As she began to un-spool the cable, I got on the radio.

          “This is DeltaTwoLima, warning anyone driving along highway eighteen-alpha near grid coordinate SC189543, there is a cow loose in the road.  Warning: cow in the roadway.  Drive with caution in that area.”

          I switched to 696969.00 and waited.  Two minutes.  Three minutes.  Come on.  Come on.  Come on.

          “Hello Veach? This is Dan.”  (SGT Dan Primock, the first squad leader.)

          “Fuuck it’s great to hear your voice, Dan.  I was worried Wisnewski wouldn’t remember.  I owe him one and I will owe you double if you can help us out of a jam.”

          “What’s with this secret squirrel shit?”  He asked in a laughing tone.

          “Got stuck at SC432476 and need a vehicle with a winch at the edge of the highway where that secondary road meets it.  Can you do that without talking on the platoon freq?”

          “Umm, let me look.”  His pause lasted forever.  “Yeah, we’re only 30 minutes south.  See ya soon.”

          LaMotte came back and pointed out that the cable was short by about ten meters, which was what I’d assumed.  I told them to continue to dig around the boulder, pry with the pick-axe, and attempt to break chunks off with the sledge while we waited for the first squad to arrive.  I said, dejectedly, “Hopefully, guys, you can find the edge of it.  If not, I’m counting on Plan B: connecting two winch cables together and them dragging us over that motherfucker without damaging the undercarriage.  Colwell is going to broil my ass over his personal hell-fire.  He’s someone who’d fuckin love to ruin my career—I want to do everything I can to avoid making him that happy.”

          First squad showed up and began to spool out their cable, connect them, and winch them tight.  Now, the hole around the boulder was deeper—about two feet at the deepest—and, accordingly, the bumper came to rest about five inches below the top of the rock.  Try as we could (and did) there was no way to winch/drive it up and over that BFR.

          “Ok, guys.  I was afraid of this.  Start winding up your winch, Dan.  Everyone else!  Climb inside first platoon’s vehicles.  You’re going to have to sit on laps and climb into the bed with the gear.  I’ll stay here with the two vehicles.  You’ll all make it to the 1700 meeting.  That way, I’m the only person who gets in trouble. . .aaannd. . .What.  In.  The.  Hell.  Could.  This.  Guy.  Want?”

          As I was talking and soldiers were re-winding winch cables and putting on shirts and beginning to store tools, a very, very, old and extremely well dressed—in traditional white suit, hat, and booties—Korean gentleman slowly shuffled toward us along the berm, leading a large beige cow on a hand-braided rope.  The cow had a wooden ring the size of a dinner plate thru its nose.  The man was so stooped over that he seemed to only be able to look at the ground in front of him.  He stopped.  I said, “SGT Lee?  CPL Yoon?  Please tell this farmer that I, we all, are so very sorry for damaging the berm of his rice paddy.  And ask him what we can do to make up for it.”

          While the two KATUSA’s talked in hushed and respectful tones with the great-grandfather, I went to some of the other soldiers and asked them to examine their wallets for Korean money, and to please kick-in what they could (I assumed he would want to be paid for the damage).  I promised to repay them all if they would give it to him.  As they all began to check their wallets, SGT Lee approached me with an odd almost-smile in his eyes but not near his mouth.

          “What did he say, Lee?”

          “Sergeant he...  He wants to help.  Help us with the rock.”  Lee was struggling with keeping a smile away from his voice.  I stared at Lee to see if he had snapped in the heat and, somehow, thought that now would be time to crack a joke.  It didn’t feel like a prank.

          “How would he...?”  I asked as I looked past Lee at Yoon, who was not having any difficulty with laughter because the gentleman was handing him the rope to the cow’s nose ring and beginning to untie the front of his white linen jacket.

          “Does he think that his bull is going to have more success than the truck winches?”  My voice now had a bit of a giggle in it.  Lee could hear my breathy giggle and that caused the smile he was fighting off to reach his mouth.

          “I do not think he wants to use the cow, Sergeant.  He only asked if... he... could... use the sledgehammer.”  The word broke out of his mouth with many more chuckles than he wanted.  He tried to stuff them back in.

          But I had no similar compunction.  I laughed and said, loudly, “The fuck are you telling me?  Lee! Is this a joke?  This old guy, dressed in his Sunday best, can’t even stand up straight.  You just watched four strong soldiers fail to break that fucking hunk of Korea with a sledgehammer and a pick-axe for over an hour—are you, seriously, telling me that this dainty ninety-year-old wants a go?”

          “Yes.  He said he can help.”  Everyone, from both squads, were now standing and chuckling and smiling.  I looked at my watch.  It was 1530 and the drive—for them—would not be more than 30 minutes.

          “Ok.”  I shook my head with laughter and shrugged my shoulders, “Joe, hand him the sledgehammer.”

          The man said something.  Lee translated, “He only needs the top part.  The metal.”

          Joe turned the sledge over, tamped the handle, the head slipped to the ground, then he picked it up and handed it to the farmer, who was now hat-less.  The cow seemed inpatient and pulled on the rope a little.  Yoon tugged back.

          The man slowly, gingerly, lowered his legs into the hole we’d dug around the rock and then picked up the head of the sledgehammer in both hands, leaned forward toward the point of the rock and then tapped the rock with the metal.  He licked his hand, rubbed the rock, and then . . . tap tap tick tap.  He bent closer.  Looked at it from a slightly different angle, tap tick tap.  As thirty seconds became a minute ..tap, tap, tik.. and then a minute became five ..tap tap.. the spectacle wore off.  The funny died down.  Sure, there were still some giggles, but they were becoming snickers of embarrassment.  Someone said, with too much volume, “A diamond cutter!” ..tap, tic, tap.. “This farmer is going to find the vein in the granite!” ..tap, tick, sloooooog.

          The top tier of the rock-wedding cake, the size of a basketball, slid off and settled near the right foot of the diamond cutter.  Everyone burst into shouts and applause and shocked awe.

          I glanced at my watch—and began barking orders as I realized SSG Colwell may never get a chance to be happy on my account.  “Lee, get him out of that hole.  LaMotte, get behind the wheel.  Dan, Joe, Tilwell please pool all the Korean money you can find and give it to Yoon (I gave him about $20 worth)—Yoon, make a list of how much everyone gives and I want that list.  I’ll pay you all back.  Help him and his cow beyond the back vehicle and make sure he understands how much we— I —love what he was able to do.  I think we just witnessed a miracle!  Please explain to him why we need to go so quickly.  Thank you.  And thank him!”

          The HMMWV climbed over the topless-boulder like it wasn’t even there, made it down the berm to the highway in a few minutes, and we all drove to the meeting point.  We arrived before most.  SSG Colwell asked about the dirt and mud on the vehicle.  I said, “We had to veer around a cow in the middle of the road and went thru a mud puddle.  We called to warn others who might be driving in that area.”

          “Sounds like you were driving too fast for conditions.  I told you to insure everyone drove safely or I’d give you an article fifteen.  Sounds like you didn’t listen.”

          “We weren’t going fast.  Hardly moving at all.  But we didn’t hit the cow, just a little mud.”

          THIS STORY IS 100% FACTUALLY TRUE.  IT IS AS ACCURATE AS MY 30-YEAR OLD MEMORY CAN RECALL, BESIDES MOST OF THE NAMES (CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY) IT HAPPENED EXACTLY IN THIS MANNER AND IN THIS SEQUENCE.   I THINK IT'S THE BEST TRUE STORY FROM MY LIFE.

How I Spent My Summer CoV-acation




          There are a few interesting things to see in Westford, Vermont.  Besides a 180 year old covered bridge, there is a 700-pound (318 kg) carved wooden 'fuck you' gesture on a lighted pole and a 30-foot (9 meter) boat painted like a shark with a hand-painted sign: 'THIS VIRUS SUCKS...I WANTED ZOMBIES'.

          The reason I rarely permit myself to be photographed and, subsequently, don't publish photos which include my likeness, or visage, is because a UW-Milwaukee professor who taught me watercolor painting in the early 1980s said (as an explanation for why everything he wore, or owned, consisted of shades of grey):
          I believe the most successful artists are the best observers.  To be a good observer, one must strive to always blend in.  Nobody pays attention to some grey-haired old guy in a grey suit, wearing a grey tie and driving a grey car.  Like a scientist preventing their research from becoming contaminated by his or her own DNA, artists should be observers; not the observed.

more snap-photos of me:

shun the fleck in my roar




Looking at myself in the grungy mirror of who, what, where and when
For the first time in my privileged life, I hate the world today times ten
Things I have no control over which nobody has control over but then...
Some may cure others elect and twelve may incarcerate those bad men

Frame of window glare in tunnel awareness focused switch-plate the ken
Train of thought: removing all untoward distraction, until everyone is zen
I want to cry, I want to yell, I want to teach, I want to bash n bash again
Please empathize, listen, engage, delve and then agree to quit only when


continue contemplating art-poem combinations:


image excerpts from Chad Abramovich at Obscure Vermont

Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism



          The foundation of Jain philosophy is based on three intertwined thoughts and behaviors which they have determined to be correct:
  • Faith
  • Knowledge
  • Conduct
          Adherents to the Jain way of living strive to avoid:
  • Violence or harm to living things (which includes food; most are vegan and intermittent fast)
  • Deception or lies (if speaking truth might harm someone, a Jainist chooses silence)
  • Stealing or misappropriation
  • Passion or lack of chastity
  • Acquisition or possession of material goods
          Jainism is not a religion because they do not believe in a creator.  According to Jain teachings, the universe has always existed (with fluctuating levels of energy) and will always exist.

          My artwork, Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism (Now in letterbox and living color) depicts an ascetic Jain (possess no clothing) wearing a traditional mouth cover (prevent inhaling small insects) while carrying a feather whisk (to remove insects from the path).  Strict followers of the Jain philosophy do not have residences or mailboxes (an octopus has, instead, camouflaged itself as a mailbox); above which, the octopus's stretched skin bears the Jain's motto, in Sanskrit, Parasparopagraho JΔ«vānām, which translates approximately to:  All Life Is Dependently Inter-connected.  Although self defense is permitted, the Jain's posture is not one of fear (from the Japanese Spider Crab) rather, she appears to be glancing at the Jain flag while she takes advantage of the water (Jains do not waste water by bathing).