caveat emptor

Responsibilitation Impassionized and Petitionated

This is one of those posts where I try to convince you to do something. I don't mean to abuse my relationship with you, and I know that you don't come here to be burdened with conviction or concern. I have, in fact, full confidence that each of you is living according to the dictates of your own conscience and personifying the best character you can imagine given the dynamic interplay of your knowledge, your values and your resources. Nevertheless, I am going to ask you, before this post is over, to do something.

First, however, I'm going to soften you up with an illustration from, as far as you know, my own life. When I was a boy I had a pet wolf. He was my only true friend, and I named him Jack. I had originally named him after Jack the Ripper, which is not inspiring at all. For the purpose of this story, therefore, I am going to tell you that I named him after Jack London, an idea that just occurred to me. Jack wanted nothing more than to run away from me and join the pack of wolves that lived just outside the town. He could hear them at night, and he whined and pined to go to them. You probably think he heard them howling, but he didn't. He heard them jamming. They had formed a moderately successful (on a local scale) jazz band. Jack, being an accomplished sax player, longed to join them. He didn't, however, because I kept him chained in the back yard. Also, we'll say it was because he loved me.

If you're like me, you may wonder where this story is going. Let me assure you right now that it is heart-warming. Jack, at this point in the story, does something really, really, really heart-warming. What did he do? Well, nothing that I can think of is heart-warming enough. That's how heart-warming it was. Take my word for it, though, you should, at this point, be moved and manipulated enough to be open to suggestion. Just like old Jack would have wanted.

Now we come to the impassioned plea. I'd give you a moment to compose yourself, but that would completely defeat the purpose of discomposing you in the first place. So, straight to the petition: Please, for the love of all that is good in this world, DO SOMETHING!

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 38. Thanks for stopping by.

Inutwige Meets a Fellow

First you should understand that I wander. Like all of us, I once had a place to watch, a place of my own. I remember that place with a deep love. The place was excavated and carried away by humans, however, and rain and wind scattered what little remained. So, like others in the same position, I wander. I make my relationship, passing though it is, with fields and stones and trees that I meet as I wander. It is a different way, but it is good. I am happy.

It was while wandering that I met an interesting fellow. Passing in the night through a place thick with buildings, I could feel in my feet a that the ground beneath contained a hollow, unusual for the area. So, I went down to see. Far down, past most of the roots, I found the hollow. It was enormous, and obviously cut out of the limestone shelf by force of will. I could smell that someone was already here as soon as I entered the place, so I called out.

"Welcome, friend, to this place," I said. "I cannot see you."

"I'm over here," the fellow answered, and I walked that way, my eyes beginning to adjust to the dark place. "You are welcome. This place is mine," he added.

"And a fine place it is," I commented. "My place is gone. I wander."

"Of course," he said. I was in front of him now. He was leaning against the wall, his boots off. I removed my boots and sat facing him.

"This chamber," I said, "it is a curious place. Has it been here long?"

"Only a few hundred seasons," he said. "Scott, a human, hewed it, though not with his own hands. He had it hewn."

"Amazing," I said. "And why did he do such a thing?"

"I'm not sure," the fellow replied. "He was odd, though he was my friend."

"You knew the human?" I was genuinely surprised.

"Well, he saw me."

"Did he?"

"Yes."

"Have other humans seen you?" I had never heard of such a thing.

"No, just him. He's gone now, of course." He sounded almost wistful, and I was reminded of my place.

"My place," I said, "was a wonderful place. I was there from the beginning. Have you always been here?"

"No. It was a sea once, this place."

"I can see so. Did you wander here?"

"I did," said the fellow. "I think Scott built the place for that." He pointed to a shelf of rock. There was something on it, something made by hand, but I couldn't make it out.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A strange bird likeness. Once it was gold in color."

"He built this place for it, this Scott?" I walked over and looked at it. It was indeed a bird likeness. I think it was meant to look comical. I think it was meant to be a turkey.

"I think so."

"Please," I said, sitting again in front of the fascinating fellow, "tell me more. My name is Inutwige."

"I call myself Chuck," he said, bowing his head in greeting.

"It's a name I never heard," I smiled. "Has that always been your name?"

"No."

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 37. Thanks for stopping by.

Letters from the Underground

I got a letter from Kevin of the Mole People yesterday. He was just checking in to see how I was doing. "We're still down here, if you ever change your mind," he said in the closing. It made me sad for him.

I first met Kevin while exploring a long drainage tunnel that ran under Interstate 30 when I was eleven. I was in the sixth grade. Yes, I was the kind of kid that poked around in underground tunnels, pretending they were mysterious and exciting instead of just smelly and dangerous. This one was long enough that when you stood in the middle you could barely see the openings, little tiny spots of light on each end. It was super dark in the middle, and I never brought a flashlight. It was like a test of bravery to walk from one end to the other with no light. I'd like to say I wasn't afraid, but I always was a little afraid. That's what made it fun.

On this day, I was about a fourth of the way in when I heard a noise ahead. I stopped, my mind racing through all the possibilities of what could be in here with me. As I was turning to get out of there, I heard a guy's voice. "Hey," he said, "don't be afraid. My name is Kevin." He sounded friendly, and not at all crazy, but I was still nervous, though less so.

"Hello," I said. "I'm Scott."

"I've seen you come through here before," he said. "I like to come up here."

I found it odd that he said "up here," but people said that sort of thing all the time. I knew local people who said, "We're going down to Oklahoma," even though Oklahoma was north of here or who said, "We're going up to Austin," even though it was south. "Oh," I said. "I've never noticed anyone in here."

"Yeah," said Kevin, "I don't usually say anything when you go past. When you heard me just now, though, I was afraid you might not come back."

"Oh," I said, and I steeled my courage and turned back toward him.

"Listen," he said suddenly, "I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not a human. I'm a Mole Person. We're not dangerous, but the few humans that have seen us in the past have always freaked out. We're supposed to stay down below, but I like coming up here. So, if you want to get out of here, go ahead. I won't blame you. I just don't want you to come over here and see me and freak out."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I can't see down here anyway."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"But it's so bright in here I can hardly stand it."

"Not for me," I said. "I guess we must see differently."

"I guess."

And we started talking. Eventually I walked down and sat beside him. We talked until it started to get dark outside. He was a really cool guy.

"Well, I should get home," I said.

"Me too," he said. "Family Ties comes on pretty soon and it's my favorite show."

"You have TV?"

"Cable," he said. "We don't pay for it, though."

"Cool."

"I know. Hey," he said, "you want to meet again tomorrow?"

And we did. We met all the time. One time I brought a flashlight and, after he closed his eyes really tightly so the light wouldn't hurt him, I looked at him. Dude. Freaky looking. Still, he also just looked like a normal kid. His jeans and shirt were really dirty from crawling around in the dirt, but they were pretty stylish.

Then, when I was in the eighth grade, we had to move. Kevin was crushed. I mean, seriously, he cried and sobbed like a little baby. It embarrassed him really badly, but he couldn't help it. "You should come live with us," he said. "There's room."

"I don't think I could, Kevin," I said. "I'm afraid of tight places. They scare me."

"Why?" He sniffled strangely with his weird little nose.

"I don't know," I said, "I just am. I always have been."

So, that was it. He gave me an address and said, "If you send things to that address, they'll get to us."

"How?"

"I don't know," he said. "Will you write?"

"Sure," I said.

And that was it. I wrote him a couple of times and he wrote me a lot for the next few years. I moved on, and so did he. He's married now, and he has, like, forty-three kids. He told me all of their names in the letter. Seven of the boys had Scott in their name somewhere. I only have one son, and he didn't have Kevin in his name. I felt a little bad about that.

Sometimes you have those friendships where they like you more than you like them. Sometimes you have those friendships that just can't work out because of circumstances. It's sad, but what can you do? We all do what we can, especially when we're kids. I don't think I'll write back to Kevin, though. It just makes me too sad.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 36. Thanks for stopping by.

Gnostalgia

As long is there is light and something to illuminate, there will be shadow. It is the natural outcome of the dynamic between joy and freedom that happy things will pass away. Freedom is realized in action and human freedom strives toward growth. Action that leads to growth necessitates change. If my life is full of people and activities and things I love and yet I persist in constant change, people will leave when I stay or stay when I leave. The season for an activity, or at least for my participation therein, will end. Things will be lost or left behind. If we embrace change, then, and live lives of joy and love, there is a natural accretion of lost joy and lost love. We can call this nostalgia, which is a form of sadness.

How can we stop this sad nostalgia? From my perspective, we have two options: 1) Stop growing. 2) Stop loving. I choose neither of those.

It would be ridiculous to suggest that we should learn to rejoice in the loss of joy and love. How unnatural and divided would a mind have to be to live in such a state? As Steely Dan said, "Only a fool would say that." So, instead, we should learn to love today's love, and rejoice in today's joy. We can look back with fondness, but also we can understand that, although the loss is sad, it is necessary and fruitful.

Sometimes, in watching my web traffic monitors, I am directed to an old post on this blog. On rereading the post or the comments, I am reminded of another time in life and of other people. For the first year and a half of blogging, I was in a position to talk and talk and talk to so many amazing people. I loved the dynamic of conversation that this medium represented then. Today, I focus more on the creative process and on writing as a craft. I have less time for talk. I'm enjoying this new place, but I still love that old way. The recent decision by several of my favorite bloggers to stop posting has magnified this sad nostalgia I feel. Good things have been lost.

When I think about it, though, every former blogger I know seemed to move on to other activities in a proactive motion of positive realignment, a growth spurt. This is a good thing. My new writing habits and patterns are, for me, good things. The people, old friends and new, who grace this blog with their visits and dialogue are a joy to me. I will not contrast today with yesterday. However I felt about yesterday, I love today. Today is a joy. It really is.

Hello, friends. How are you? How are you today, I mean?

Later. Love.