Mark Scheel's Blog: Musings of an Aging Author, page 2
August 7, 2020
Never Mind the Clowns, the Lions Are Loose!
In 1960, a British film, directed by Sidney Hayers, was released titled Circus of Horrors. I was in high school at the time and remember being captivated by the dark, violent twists and turns, the odd erotic undertones and the haunting theme song, “Look for a Star.” The plot involved an evil-genius plastic surgeon on the lam who, after serendipitously acquiring a circus in Europe, cosmetically restores beauty to women with severe facial scars, only to entrap them as performers in his circus, their attempted escapes inevitably resulting in “accidental” death.
Coincidentally, awhile back, I ran across a mention of that theme song and out of curiosity accessed its lyrics. I see now, which I may have missed in my youth, the ironic appropriateness inherent in its words. Life not worth living. No longer caring who you are. Feeling alone and lonely. Well, look for a star (as there’ll be someone waiting to guide you). The women initially saw the surgeon as their savior (star) from a derailed life path, only to later realize the horrible price they’d have to pay.
The metaphor of “the circus” is one that’s crossed my mind repeatedly as regards the goings-on in the nation at large and especially the Congress the past two years. The Kavanaugh hearing, for example, devolved into a three-ring clownfest of hypocrisy and rank showmanship. The State of the Union Address was always good for over-the-top comedic displays of approval or rejection. The Democratic Party presidential debates only lacked the participants arriving with red balls on their noses, white face paint and shoes ten sizes too big. However, two events in 2020 altered drastically the comic character of the “big top”—COVID-19 and the police killing of George Floyd. Suddenly the whole nation began to transform into a “circus of horrors.” It was as if the clowns had fled the ring, replaced by the roar of lions escaping their cages and the horrified screams of spectators scrambling for safety!
The COVID-19 news reportage quickly became politicized and evolved into a morass of conflicting information. The Trump administration’s response was disgraceful. The Trump administration’s response was commendable. Masks aren’t necessary and can be unhealthy. Masks are vital in containing the spread. Hydroxychloroquine is a great treatment aid. Hydroxychloroquine is ineffective and even dangerous. On and on.
Some people felt debilitatingly alone. Some felt terrified. Some were enraged—life had let them down. Some sought bitter revenge. Fear and anger ruled the day. So most everyone began looking upward for a “saving star.” Someone waiting “to guide them.” And many thought they had found it in Black Lives Matter and Antifa—their version of the genius surgeon.
Recently the journalist Joan Swirsky interviewed the author Linda Goudsmit about her new book, The Book of Humanitarian Hoaxes: Killing America with ‘Kindness’. Concomitantly, a post by Kurt Nimmo appeared on his blog site Another Day in the Empire titled “Year Zero in America.” Both—as well as now increasingly other numerous news sources—reveal a chilling portrait of the “saving star” many Americans are opting to embrace.
In response to Swirsky’s question as to the genesis of Goudsmit’s insights, Goudsmit explained, [in her research and writing post 2017] “I realized that there was a consistent pattern of leftist political policies that were presented as altruistic, but in reality were deceitful, tactical, political strategies deliberately designed to collapse—to destroy—America from within.” She went on to elaborate, “[I]t takes ideology and money to fundamentally transform America . . . The Black Lives Matter and Antifa so-called protestors who are rampaging through our country today, toppling historical statues and proclaiming their goal to destroy our Constitutional Republic, . . . are acting with the incitement of Obama’s resistance group, Organizing for Action (OFA), as well as with the collusion of the globalist media, the collaboration of the RINOs and corrupt radical leftist Democrats in Congress, and the cooperation of Democrat mayors and governors—all of them financed courtesy of their globalist handlers.”
Indeed, Nimmo points out, referring to the significance of his employing the “Year Zero” allusion, “Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge called their terror campaign waged against civilization ‘Year Zero,’ the idea that culture, heritage, religion, and history must be utterly destroyed to make way for a communist vanguard and the implementation of revolutionary culture.” Furthermore, he quotes one of the founders of Black Lives Matter, Patrisse Cullors, as proudly admitting in an interview with Sputnik that she was trained as a Marxist and, “I see Black Lives Matter and Antifa as part of a global Marxist effort to destroy the United States.”
Now, I ask, what does all this have to do with the aggrieved “peaceful” protesters milling around in the streets crying out for “social justice” and lamenting the death of George Floyd? Quite simply, they’re being unabashedly exploited by forces behind the scenes unbeknownst to them concerning the real “end game.” Again, as Goudsmit perspicuously relates to Swirsky, “The corporate sponsors of BLM and Antifa, et al., know exactly what the plan is. The 279 globalist companies currently supporting BLM, for instance, manufacture their goods with cheap labor in China. President Trump put the hurt on China with his devastating tariffs and it is a financial nightmare for these globalist companies. They want to get rid of Trump and go back to business as usual with a guy like Biden—a corrupt Democrat tool of the globalists and communist Chinese.”
So, where does that leave us as regards the “circus of horrors” in which we find ourselves enmeshed today? Well, to begin with, let’s all get our facts straight. See the truth of what’s really in front of us. And behind what we’re presently witnessing. Then, if we insist on remaining in a “big top,” let’s at least bring back the clowns en mass. Horns, balloons, baggy costumes and all. And as for the lions (biased journalism and Marxists), drive them back into their cages once more where they belong. Then ban them from the performances forevermore!
Coincidentally, awhile back, I ran across a mention of that theme song and out of curiosity accessed its lyrics. I see now, which I may have missed in my youth, the ironic appropriateness inherent in its words. Life not worth living. No longer caring who you are. Feeling alone and lonely. Well, look for a star (as there’ll be someone waiting to guide you). The women initially saw the surgeon as their savior (star) from a derailed life path, only to later realize the horrible price they’d have to pay.
The metaphor of “the circus” is one that’s crossed my mind repeatedly as regards the goings-on in the nation at large and especially the Congress the past two years. The Kavanaugh hearing, for example, devolved into a three-ring clownfest of hypocrisy and rank showmanship. The State of the Union Address was always good for over-the-top comedic displays of approval or rejection. The Democratic Party presidential debates only lacked the participants arriving with red balls on their noses, white face paint and shoes ten sizes too big. However, two events in 2020 altered drastically the comic character of the “big top”—COVID-19 and the police killing of George Floyd. Suddenly the whole nation began to transform into a “circus of horrors.” It was as if the clowns had fled the ring, replaced by the roar of lions escaping their cages and the horrified screams of spectators scrambling for safety!
The COVID-19 news reportage quickly became politicized and evolved into a morass of conflicting information. The Trump administration’s response was disgraceful. The Trump administration’s response was commendable. Masks aren’t necessary and can be unhealthy. Masks are vital in containing the spread. Hydroxychloroquine is a great treatment aid. Hydroxychloroquine is ineffective and even dangerous. On and on.
Some people felt debilitatingly alone. Some felt terrified. Some were enraged—life had let them down. Some sought bitter revenge. Fear and anger ruled the day. So most everyone began looking upward for a “saving star.” Someone waiting “to guide them.” And many thought they had found it in Black Lives Matter and Antifa—their version of the genius surgeon.
Recently the journalist Joan Swirsky interviewed the author Linda Goudsmit about her new book, The Book of Humanitarian Hoaxes: Killing America with ‘Kindness’. Concomitantly, a post by Kurt Nimmo appeared on his blog site Another Day in the Empire titled “Year Zero in America.” Both—as well as now increasingly other numerous news sources—reveal a chilling portrait of the “saving star” many Americans are opting to embrace.
In response to Swirsky’s question as to the genesis of Goudsmit’s insights, Goudsmit explained, [in her research and writing post 2017] “I realized that there was a consistent pattern of leftist political policies that were presented as altruistic, but in reality were deceitful, tactical, political strategies deliberately designed to collapse—to destroy—America from within.” She went on to elaborate, “[I]t takes ideology and money to fundamentally transform America . . . The Black Lives Matter and Antifa so-called protestors who are rampaging through our country today, toppling historical statues and proclaiming their goal to destroy our Constitutional Republic, . . . are acting with the incitement of Obama’s resistance group, Organizing for Action (OFA), as well as with the collusion of the globalist media, the collaboration of the RINOs and corrupt radical leftist Democrats in Congress, and the cooperation of Democrat mayors and governors—all of them financed courtesy of their globalist handlers.”
Indeed, Nimmo points out, referring to the significance of his employing the “Year Zero” allusion, “Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge called their terror campaign waged against civilization ‘Year Zero,’ the idea that culture, heritage, religion, and history must be utterly destroyed to make way for a communist vanguard and the implementation of revolutionary culture.” Furthermore, he quotes one of the founders of Black Lives Matter, Patrisse Cullors, as proudly admitting in an interview with Sputnik that she was trained as a Marxist and, “I see Black Lives Matter and Antifa as part of a global Marxist effort to destroy the United States.”
Now, I ask, what does all this have to do with the aggrieved “peaceful” protesters milling around in the streets crying out for “social justice” and lamenting the death of George Floyd? Quite simply, they’re being unabashedly exploited by forces behind the scenes unbeknownst to them concerning the real “end game.” Again, as Goudsmit perspicuously relates to Swirsky, “The corporate sponsors of BLM and Antifa, et al., know exactly what the plan is. The 279 globalist companies currently supporting BLM, for instance, manufacture their goods with cheap labor in China. President Trump put the hurt on China with his devastating tariffs and it is a financial nightmare for these globalist companies. They want to get rid of Trump and go back to business as usual with a guy like Biden—a corrupt Democrat tool of the globalists and communist Chinese.”
So, where does that leave us as regards the “circus of horrors” in which we find ourselves enmeshed today? Well, to begin with, let’s all get our facts straight. See the truth of what’s really in front of us. And behind what we’re presently witnessing. Then, if we insist on remaining in a “big top,” let’s at least bring back the clowns en mass. Horns, balloons, baggy costumes and all. And as for the lions (biased journalism and Marxists), drive them back into their cages once more where they belong. Then ban them from the performances forevermore!
April 26, 2020
My Journey as a Writer
As a young boy growing up on a Kansas farm, I early on exhibited an interest and aptitude for pencil drawing. My mother had been a school teacher, an artist and a bibliophile before marrying my father and redirecting her talents to homemaking. So her abilities in creative realms were vital in sparking and nurturing my own artistic leanings as I grew through boyhood and into adolescence.
Upon the arrival of my senior year in high school, I was honored to be assigned the art editorship of the school yearbook. But along the way, too, some dedicated teachers in honors English classes awoke within me a love for the written word. And for fiction and poetry like that of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Sandburg and Frost.
My first college major was industrial engineering; however, after two years I converted my scholastic focus to psychology and graduated with a BA degree from Kansas University in 1967. Nevertheless, it was during those university years—encountering the works of authors like Orwell, Wolfe, Bertrand Russell, Rand, Voltaire and Euripides—that a firm seed was planted to one day pursue a literary career. I had begun keeping a journal. And during the summers between semesters I had indulged an unquenchable wanderlust to see new places and work new jobs—in Kansas City, San Francisco and New York as a laborer, commercial laundryman and construction worker.
The year after graduation I “struck out for California,” as they say, and ended up experiencing the frenetic street scene of Hollywood during the Vietnam protests and unbridled youth revolt. It was that impressionable time that would later form the material for my first attempt at writing a novel. And that manuscript, revised countless times, is still circulating seeking a publisher because the story is too good to let go.
I had failed the Army draft physical, so I wasn’t worried about facing mortality in the jungles of Vietnam; however, a near-death experience while in LA brought an abrupt turnabout in my thinking, and I subsequently volunteered for Red Cross service and, indeed, in 1969 I went to war. (“If it was good enough for Hemingway, it was good enough for me,” I’m sure factored into my callow reasoning.) I was assigned to a substation at Bearcat, Vietnam, the area of operation of the Thai Panther Division. The Red Cross would take me also to Thailand, Germany and finally England, working with different branches of the military. All the while I compiled voluminous journal entries which I hoped one day to distill into stories and novels. And the necessity of recording in narrative detail each client case one handled on the job provided a certain day-to-day structural discipline on a typewriter.
Technically speaking, I celebrated my first published work during that time, 1972 to be exact—a collaborative article prepared with a friend for Cycle Guide magazine (splitting a payment of $100). At the conclusion of my Red Cross service in 1973, I departed for California once more, to San Diego where two friends I’d known in Germany were living, and I began writing fiction in earnest. It was a brief but idyllic period, they both working during the day and I reading and writing alone in the garage apartment with a scenic view of the ocean.
My efforts, though fledgling, were prolific. Upon returning home to Emporia, Kansas, for a friend’s wedding, however, I was greeted with the news that my mother had cancer and that constituted a watershed event in my life. Being the only living child, I felt it my duty to remain in the home area and help my father with my mother’s care. The unencumbered freedom I’d known to go anywhere and do anything whenever I chose suddenly came to a dead end.
So, in an effort to make the best of that difficult situation and sustain and progress with my literary ambitions, I began taking literature and creative writing classes at nearby Emporia State University. That eventually led to admission to the graduate studies program in English and the awarding of a teaching assistantship. During my second semester in graduate school, I propitiously got permission to design my own independent study course—the writing of a novel—under the mentorship of Professor Green D. Wyrick. I completed a first draft by the conclusion of the term, a story set in Hollywood in 1967, and Professor Wyrick continued to work with me on revisions after I left graduate school. I’ll always cherish, too, the opportunities I had then to meet famous authors coming to do readings at the university: James Dickey, Adrienne Rich, John Barth, Truman Capote, John Gardner, to name only a few.
A short time later a friend I’d made when taking classes graduated and took a position with a newspaper in Arkansas. She needed someone to housesit for her until she was certain the job would work out permanently. I volunteered, moved in, and that was the start of a nine-year arrangement where I had cheap living and a quiet, if lonely, place to write while looking in on my mother at a nursing facility and intermittently assisting with maintenance tasks on the farm. I polished the novel, wrote more stories and poetry, amassed a whole library of paperback books and continued publishing in literary magazines here and there.
Although I won some writing contests, had a feature essay in a Sunday magazine, had a nibble from Bantam on the novel, and met a man with whom I coauthored his self-published memoir (Of Youth and the River: The Mississippi Adventure of Raymond Kurtz, Sr.) all was fleeting recognition and nothing led to the breakout I’d kept hoping for. One treasured memory, however, involved Hollywood coming to Emporia to film the made-for-TV movie Murder Ordained during which I secured temporary hire as a stand-in for the actor Keith Carradine and a later brief flirtation with scriptwriting.
Eventually the house where I’d been staying sold, and I had to make other arrangements. My mother had passed away and the farmland was rented out, so I moved to Kansas City to seek work opportunities and that began a whole new phase in my life. I met my wife to be, Dominga, and accepted a position with the Johnson County Library as an information specialist. I also helped found a men’s writing critique group, The Fifth Street Irregulars. We sponsored readings, published a small magazine of our writings, and at one point co-op-published my story and poem collection A Backward View, which won a book award from the Kansas Authors Club. Many of the members of that group were to become accomplished authors and poets—such as Glen Enloe, Paul Goldman and Vern Barnet—and friendships were formed that have endured up to this day.
Also, at that time, I became involved with another group of writers and teachers who had founded Potpourri Publications Co. and Potpourri magazine. I joined their board of directors and became their library liaison, helping with promoting the magazine and planning writer conferences and readings. And that later drew me to another literary association—Whispering Prairie Press and a new magazine called Kansas City Voices. I was invited onto their board of directors and over time was appointed their senior prose editor. That was after I’d retired from the library position. One of the fun perks with Voices was having the opportunity to work with local celebrities on pieces we’d solicited for the magazine.
One phase, it seemed, blended into another then. I became involved with the FairTax movement as their local PR person. My interest was piqued with the evolution/education controversy in Kansas and I attended conferences and wrote about it in The Kansas City Star. That flowed into an acquaintance with the Turkish journalist Mustafa Akyol and a deep connection with interfaith activities—which in turn provided my wife and I an all-expense-paid tour of Turkey to compose a travelogue and, soon after, the opportunity to deliver a paper on communitarianism at a Muslim conference in Rotterdam, Netherlands.
I also began writing a blog, when that activity first came into vogue, and titled it The Pebble. Its intent was to introduce my writing and expand its exposure to a wider readership. After three years of posting on a plethora of topics, I selected 60 pieces and published them in 2015 on CreateSpace as a hardcopy “blook” titled The Pebble: Life, Love, Politics and Geezer Wisdom. It was well received by those who learned about it. Shortly thereafter, while serving on the program committee for a Kansas Authors Club annual conference, I had the incredible fortune finally of securing literary representation with an agent at The Metamorphosis Literary Agency. And that wonderful lady placed my most recently completed fiction collection, And Eve Said Yes: Seven Stories and a Novella, with a large publisher in Texas, Waldorf Publishing, on a traditional royalty contract. The book launched in October, 2019, and almost before I could blink an eye, my poetry collection Star Chaser (which I myself had been shopping for 10 years) placed with Anamcara Press in Lawrence, Kansas, on similar terms, to launch the summer of 2020.
The marketing of both books, however, is now fraught with uncertainty due to the COVID-19 lockdown. And the Amazon Vine program has thus far failed their obligation completely to provide book reviews, leaving Eve dead in the water.
And so, I’ve now come to that stage (age 77) where one takes, echoing my first book title, “a backward view of life.” An assessment of what came to be and what never did and what probably never will be. The literary game has become unrecognizable from what it was when I lived in a “borrowed house” typing stories on a portable typewriter. Then it was extremely difficult to get published, sending out manuscripts in manila envelopes and receiving rejection slips. And when the rare acceptance appeared, it was cause for popping a champagne cork!
My Waldorf publisher informs me at present 4,000 new titles appear every day. With the internet and Kindle Direct Publishing, anyone can become an author. The catch is, few can really get read, let alone paid. As I heard way back in the late seventies the famous Harper & Row editor Frances McCullough opine at a writers conference, “Since I’ve been an editor I’ve learned one thing—there are many more writers out there than there are readers.” Unfortunately, that’s still true, even exponentially more so today. The only advice I can offer to any novice aspirant with pen in hand is to not expect fairness or rationality in the literary scene. Be fair always to others (it helps your karma), but don’t expect it to be reciprocated. And should you be one of the minuscule few who grab the brass ring, never believe it was because you were better than the others. You weren’t. You were simply lucky. So, always eschew arrogance and pride. Be humble—and most grateful.
To be perfectly candid and blunt, the thing I always sought was to write well and be read, not achieve celebrity or fortune. I couldn’t care less about Dick-Cavette-type interviews or sycophants groveling for an autograph. (Think of the rich and famous writers who died by suicide! I should envy that?)
I wanted the words I put on the page to reach out to people and do the talking, and give those people something worth their dime. I remember when my poem “Rain” won the Nostalgia Poetry Award and a year later the editor shared with me one reader’s reaction. A black woman had written how the poem (a tribute to my father) moved her, almost “uncannily,” and how she reread it over and over, studying the form and language. When the next contest opened, she wrote a poem of her own, paying tribute to her mother—and won an honorable mention! To know that across miles and time my words on paper inspired another human being, whom I’ll never meet, to an accomplishment of her own is my reward. And my deep sense of joy. My written words are my children and all I desire is that they have the opportunity to live their lives productively long after I’ve departed the building.
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Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Scheel/e/...
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Originally appeared on Elaine Marie Carnegie's "A Writer's Journey" blog site as a guest posting, 04/19/2020.
Upon the arrival of my senior year in high school, I was honored to be assigned the art editorship of the school yearbook. But along the way, too, some dedicated teachers in honors English classes awoke within me a love for the written word. And for fiction and poetry like that of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Sandburg and Frost.
My first college major was industrial engineering; however, after two years I converted my scholastic focus to psychology and graduated with a BA degree from Kansas University in 1967. Nevertheless, it was during those university years—encountering the works of authors like Orwell, Wolfe, Bertrand Russell, Rand, Voltaire and Euripides—that a firm seed was planted to one day pursue a literary career. I had begun keeping a journal. And during the summers between semesters I had indulged an unquenchable wanderlust to see new places and work new jobs—in Kansas City, San Francisco and New York as a laborer, commercial laundryman and construction worker.
The year after graduation I “struck out for California,” as they say, and ended up experiencing the frenetic street scene of Hollywood during the Vietnam protests and unbridled youth revolt. It was that impressionable time that would later form the material for my first attempt at writing a novel. And that manuscript, revised countless times, is still circulating seeking a publisher because the story is too good to let go.
I had failed the Army draft physical, so I wasn’t worried about facing mortality in the jungles of Vietnam; however, a near-death experience while in LA brought an abrupt turnabout in my thinking, and I subsequently volunteered for Red Cross service and, indeed, in 1969 I went to war. (“If it was good enough for Hemingway, it was good enough for me,” I’m sure factored into my callow reasoning.) I was assigned to a substation at Bearcat, Vietnam, the area of operation of the Thai Panther Division. The Red Cross would take me also to Thailand, Germany and finally England, working with different branches of the military. All the while I compiled voluminous journal entries which I hoped one day to distill into stories and novels. And the necessity of recording in narrative detail each client case one handled on the job provided a certain day-to-day structural discipline on a typewriter.
Technically speaking, I celebrated my first published work during that time, 1972 to be exact—a collaborative article prepared with a friend for Cycle Guide magazine (splitting a payment of $100). At the conclusion of my Red Cross service in 1973, I departed for California once more, to San Diego where two friends I’d known in Germany were living, and I began writing fiction in earnest. It was a brief but idyllic period, they both working during the day and I reading and writing alone in the garage apartment with a scenic view of the ocean.
My efforts, though fledgling, were prolific. Upon returning home to Emporia, Kansas, for a friend’s wedding, however, I was greeted with the news that my mother had cancer and that constituted a watershed event in my life. Being the only living child, I felt it my duty to remain in the home area and help my father with my mother’s care. The unencumbered freedom I’d known to go anywhere and do anything whenever I chose suddenly came to a dead end.
So, in an effort to make the best of that difficult situation and sustain and progress with my literary ambitions, I began taking literature and creative writing classes at nearby Emporia State University. That eventually led to admission to the graduate studies program in English and the awarding of a teaching assistantship. During my second semester in graduate school, I propitiously got permission to design my own independent study course—the writing of a novel—under the mentorship of Professor Green D. Wyrick. I completed a first draft by the conclusion of the term, a story set in Hollywood in 1967, and Professor Wyrick continued to work with me on revisions after I left graduate school. I’ll always cherish, too, the opportunities I had then to meet famous authors coming to do readings at the university: James Dickey, Adrienne Rich, John Barth, Truman Capote, John Gardner, to name only a few.
A short time later a friend I’d made when taking classes graduated and took a position with a newspaper in Arkansas. She needed someone to housesit for her until she was certain the job would work out permanently. I volunteered, moved in, and that was the start of a nine-year arrangement where I had cheap living and a quiet, if lonely, place to write while looking in on my mother at a nursing facility and intermittently assisting with maintenance tasks on the farm. I polished the novel, wrote more stories and poetry, amassed a whole library of paperback books and continued publishing in literary magazines here and there.
Although I won some writing contests, had a feature essay in a Sunday magazine, had a nibble from Bantam on the novel, and met a man with whom I coauthored his self-published memoir (Of Youth and the River: The Mississippi Adventure of Raymond Kurtz, Sr.) all was fleeting recognition and nothing led to the breakout I’d kept hoping for. One treasured memory, however, involved Hollywood coming to Emporia to film the made-for-TV movie Murder Ordained during which I secured temporary hire as a stand-in for the actor Keith Carradine and a later brief flirtation with scriptwriting.
Eventually the house where I’d been staying sold, and I had to make other arrangements. My mother had passed away and the farmland was rented out, so I moved to Kansas City to seek work opportunities and that began a whole new phase in my life. I met my wife to be, Dominga, and accepted a position with the Johnson County Library as an information specialist. I also helped found a men’s writing critique group, The Fifth Street Irregulars. We sponsored readings, published a small magazine of our writings, and at one point co-op-published my story and poem collection A Backward View, which won a book award from the Kansas Authors Club. Many of the members of that group were to become accomplished authors and poets—such as Glen Enloe, Paul Goldman and Vern Barnet—and friendships were formed that have endured up to this day.
Also, at that time, I became involved with another group of writers and teachers who had founded Potpourri Publications Co. and Potpourri magazine. I joined their board of directors and became their library liaison, helping with promoting the magazine and planning writer conferences and readings. And that later drew me to another literary association—Whispering Prairie Press and a new magazine called Kansas City Voices. I was invited onto their board of directors and over time was appointed their senior prose editor. That was after I’d retired from the library position. One of the fun perks with Voices was having the opportunity to work with local celebrities on pieces we’d solicited for the magazine.
One phase, it seemed, blended into another then. I became involved with the FairTax movement as their local PR person. My interest was piqued with the evolution/education controversy in Kansas and I attended conferences and wrote about it in The Kansas City Star. That flowed into an acquaintance with the Turkish journalist Mustafa Akyol and a deep connection with interfaith activities—which in turn provided my wife and I an all-expense-paid tour of Turkey to compose a travelogue and, soon after, the opportunity to deliver a paper on communitarianism at a Muslim conference in Rotterdam, Netherlands.
I also began writing a blog, when that activity first came into vogue, and titled it The Pebble. Its intent was to introduce my writing and expand its exposure to a wider readership. After three years of posting on a plethora of topics, I selected 60 pieces and published them in 2015 on CreateSpace as a hardcopy “blook” titled The Pebble: Life, Love, Politics and Geezer Wisdom. It was well received by those who learned about it. Shortly thereafter, while serving on the program committee for a Kansas Authors Club annual conference, I had the incredible fortune finally of securing literary representation with an agent at The Metamorphosis Literary Agency. And that wonderful lady placed my most recently completed fiction collection, And Eve Said Yes: Seven Stories and a Novella, with a large publisher in Texas, Waldorf Publishing, on a traditional royalty contract. The book launched in October, 2019, and almost before I could blink an eye, my poetry collection Star Chaser (which I myself had been shopping for 10 years) placed with Anamcara Press in Lawrence, Kansas, on similar terms, to launch the summer of 2020.
The marketing of both books, however, is now fraught with uncertainty due to the COVID-19 lockdown. And the Amazon Vine program has thus far failed their obligation completely to provide book reviews, leaving Eve dead in the water.
And so, I’ve now come to that stage (age 77) where one takes, echoing my first book title, “a backward view of life.” An assessment of what came to be and what never did and what probably never will be. The literary game has become unrecognizable from what it was when I lived in a “borrowed house” typing stories on a portable typewriter. Then it was extremely difficult to get published, sending out manuscripts in manila envelopes and receiving rejection slips. And when the rare acceptance appeared, it was cause for popping a champagne cork!
My Waldorf publisher informs me at present 4,000 new titles appear every day. With the internet and Kindle Direct Publishing, anyone can become an author. The catch is, few can really get read, let alone paid. As I heard way back in the late seventies the famous Harper & Row editor Frances McCullough opine at a writers conference, “Since I’ve been an editor I’ve learned one thing—there are many more writers out there than there are readers.” Unfortunately, that’s still true, even exponentially more so today. The only advice I can offer to any novice aspirant with pen in hand is to not expect fairness or rationality in the literary scene. Be fair always to others (it helps your karma), but don’t expect it to be reciprocated. And should you be one of the minuscule few who grab the brass ring, never believe it was because you were better than the others. You weren’t. You were simply lucky. So, always eschew arrogance and pride. Be humble—and most grateful.
To be perfectly candid and blunt, the thing I always sought was to write well and be read, not achieve celebrity or fortune. I couldn’t care less about Dick-Cavette-type interviews or sycophants groveling for an autograph. (Think of the rich and famous writers who died by suicide! I should envy that?)
I wanted the words I put on the page to reach out to people and do the talking, and give those people something worth their dime. I remember when my poem “Rain” won the Nostalgia Poetry Award and a year later the editor shared with me one reader’s reaction. A black woman had written how the poem (a tribute to my father) moved her, almost “uncannily,” and how she reread it over and over, studying the form and language. When the next contest opened, she wrote a poem of her own, paying tribute to her mother—and won an honorable mention! To know that across miles and time my words on paper inspired another human being, whom I’ll never meet, to an accomplishment of her own is my reward. And my deep sense of joy. My written words are my children and all I desire is that they have the opportunity to live their lives productively long after I’ve departed the building.
Website: https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/...
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Scheel/e/...
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
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Originally appeared on Elaine Marie Carnegie's "A Writer's Journey" blog site as a guest posting, 04/19/2020.
April 20, 2020
The Lot of Man: Proscription and Curse
Today’s mastery of mankind by a “teensy bug” combined with the folly of media fearmongering and shameless political posturing offers the homebound human an uninvited occasion to ponder. Welcome or not, it’s here. And I do aspire, as Descartes admonished, to at least intermittently ponder. So, in trying to make the best of it, here’s my latest summation on “the state of man’s fate”—a proscription and a curse. (“Man” used generically, don’t badger me PC’ers!)
Walking in the dark alone last evening, in obeyance of the government edict regarding social-distance exercise, I came upon a sign in the black window of Mission’s popular sports restaurant, The Lucky Brewgrille: Going Out of Business Sale. Following the surprise and shock, I experienced a profound heartbreak. Another victim, I surmised, of this godforsaken shutdown. The Brewgrille held for me twenty years of happy memories involving friends, good food and exciting sports competition played out on the big display screen. This seemed tantamount to the death of a close relative. Perhaps calling for a funeral?
Shaking my head and proceeding on homeward, I slipped into that “what’s-it-all-about-Alfie” frame of mind. And thoughts I’d previously broached began to redefine themselves, thoughts about meaning and purpose. Where, amid the turmoil, would we best seek guidance? What’s the true bedrock of living? What questions should we really be asking? And two topics that I’d visited in my mind before once again came to the forefront—what’s the “greatest commandment” and what’s the “greatest myth”? After all, we humans revere Biblical wisdom and (as Joseph Campbell pointed out) actually live myth.
If the Biblical Ten Commandments (and other religious variations thereof) are meant to outline guidance for life’s path, why do we humans persistently find ourselves veered off into the ditch? What if instead of ten, we would dedicate ourselves to, and follow, one commandment with absolute fidelity; which one would it be? (Remember, “loving your neighbor” wasn’t one of the originals, and sadly hasn’t a good record of practice.) Well, I’d nominate the last: “Thou shall not covet what thy neighbor possesses.” After lengthy consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that most of the others really hang on that one. If it weren’t for envy, the human race might travel a far smoother road.
Just think about it. It’s nearly always some form of envy that leads to, let’s say, adultery (why does she deserve the hunkiest husband—why not me?). Or, disruption in the family (mom, you favor Johnny more than me, I hate you!). Or, theft (give me the money, I deserve it too). Or, murder (I want that, and you’re in my way). Or, lies (my promise for your vote [so I can get the power I really deserve]). Or, religious conflict (you think your religion is better than mine, I’ll show you!).
The insidious thing about envy is how one can actually fool one’s self by converting it into some “noble” cause. Why, I’m for the little guy, the downtrodden, so let’s level the playing field with punitive laws and redistribute the wealth via taxes and entitlements (from those who have it) to benefit that poor needy fellow (along with me, too). Yeah, that’s the ticket. Why, it’s only “fair.” And taxes aren’t stealing from the labor of others; they’re really a necessary institution for “the common good” (and no one is more common than I). And politicians aren’t really lying, rather they’re “creatively” advocating for benefits from the public trough to their constituents (including me). And historical wrongs, even centuries ago, call for recompense, even from the modern-day innocent (that is, if it’s my gain). Envy was really the “snake in the Garden of Eden,” when you come right down to it. And it led to Cain killing Abel—see what I mean?
And that leads into the question about myth—which one really can we learn the most from and apply its lesson today? Well, there’s quite a range from which to select: Theseus, Jason, Odysseus, Prometheus, on and on. However, the one I’d nominate would be the one concerning the Greek king Sisyphus. And here’s why.
It seems to me the decreed lot of Sisyphus—for eternity he must roll a stone up a mountain only to have it tumble back down to be rolled back up again—pretty much depicts the condition of all mankind. Picture if you will an elderly grandfather on his deathbed with his young grandson by his side. He has toiled all his life to acquire that peak of wisdom only age and experience can bring. Understanding and knowledge of pain, of despair, of war, of love, of hope, of hate, of fear, of male and female, of struggle, of failure, of success, of tears, of sweat, of song, and of truth—merely to have it all, upon the drawing of his last breath, vanish into oblivion. And the young boy then shouldering at the bottom of the mountain the heavy burden of living to reacquire it once more, across the years, only to have it all, at his demise, dissipate to nothingness yet again. Back to the bottom of the mountain.
It is for this reason, I believe, that mankind seems stuck on the treadmill of time and illusion. Oh yes, technology and science advance; however, human nature never really evolves. Each generation must relearn its “humanity” again and again. And are condemned to lose it over and over. I would challenge any skeptic of this observation to reread the Bible and Greek drama. Or for that matter, Shakespeare. The people and their plight are all the same, only the costumes change.
And so today we find ourselves in the midst of a global panic. What do we do; where do we turn? Whom can we trust? Whom should we blame? We flail about, turning republics into dictatorships. Throwing out babies with the bathwater. It’s all happened before; we just don’t remember. And it will all happen again. Ah humanity, you benighted buffoons, evermore pushing the rock up the mountain, the slaves of envy and death.
Walking in the dark alone last evening, in obeyance of the government edict regarding social-distance exercise, I came upon a sign in the black window of Mission’s popular sports restaurant, The Lucky Brewgrille: Going Out of Business Sale. Following the surprise and shock, I experienced a profound heartbreak. Another victim, I surmised, of this godforsaken shutdown. The Brewgrille held for me twenty years of happy memories involving friends, good food and exciting sports competition played out on the big display screen. This seemed tantamount to the death of a close relative. Perhaps calling for a funeral?
Shaking my head and proceeding on homeward, I slipped into that “what’s-it-all-about-Alfie” frame of mind. And thoughts I’d previously broached began to redefine themselves, thoughts about meaning and purpose. Where, amid the turmoil, would we best seek guidance? What’s the true bedrock of living? What questions should we really be asking? And two topics that I’d visited in my mind before once again came to the forefront—what’s the “greatest commandment” and what’s the “greatest myth”? After all, we humans revere Biblical wisdom and (as Joseph Campbell pointed out) actually live myth.
If the Biblical Ten Commandments (and other religious variations thereof) are meant to outline guidance for life’s path, why do we humans persistently find ourselves veered off into the ditch? What if instead of ten, we would dedicate ourselves to, and follow, one commandment with absolute fidelity; which one would it be? (Remember, “loving your neighbor” wasn’t one of the originals, and sadly hasn’t a good record of practice.) Well, I’d nominate the last: “Thou shall not covet what thy neighbor possesses.” After lengthy consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that most of the others really hang on that one. If it weren’t for envy, the human race might travel a far smoother road.
Just think about it. It’s nearly always some form of envy that leads to, let’s say, adultery (why does she deserve the hunkiest husband—why not me?). Or, disruption in the family (mom, you favor Johnny more than me, I hate you!). Or, theft (give me the money, I deserve it too). Or, murder (I want that, and you’re in my way). Or, lies (my promise for your vote [so I can get the power I really deserve]). Or, religious conflict (you think your religion is better than mine, I’ll show you!).
The insidious thing about envy is how one can actually fool one’s self by converting it into some “noble” cause. Why, I’m for the little guy, the downtrodden, so let’s level the playing field with punitive laws and redistribute the wealth via taxes and entitlements (from those who have it) to benefit that poor needy fellow (along with me, too). Yeah, that’s the ticket. Why, it’s only “fair.” And taxes aren’t stealing from the labor of others; they’re really a necessary institution for “the common good” (and no one is more common than I). And politicians aren’t really lying, rather they’re “creatively” advocating for benefits from the public trough to their constituents (including me). And historical wrongs, even centuries ago, call for recompense, even from the modern-day innocent (that is, if it’s my gain). Envy was really the “snake in the Garden of Eden,” when you come right down to it. And it led to Cain killing Abel—see what I mean?
And that leads into the question about myth—which one really can we learn the most from and apply its lesson today? Well, there’s quite a range from which to select: Theseus, Jason, Odysseus, Prometheus, on and on. However, the one I’d nominate would be the one concerning the Greek king Sisyphus. And here’s why.
It seems to me the decreed lot of Sisyphus—for eternity he must roll a stone up a mountain only to have it tumble back down to be rolled back up again—pretty much depicts the condition of all mankind. Picture if you will an elderly grandfather on his deathbed with his young grandson by his side. He has toiled all his life to acquire that peak of wisdom only age and experience can bring. Understanding and knowledge of pain, of despair, of war, of love, of hope, of hate, of fear, of male and female, of struggle, of failure, of success, of tears, of sweat, of song, and of truth—merely to have it all, upon the drawing of his last breath, vanish into oblivion. And the young boy then shouldering at the bottom of the mountain the heavy burden of living to reacquire it once more, across the years, only to have it all, at his demise, dissipate to nothingness yet again. Back to the bottom of the mountain.
It is for this reason, I believe, that mankind seems stuck on the treadmill of time and illusion. Oh yes, technology and science advance; however, human nature never really evolves. Each generation must relearn its “humanity” again and again. And are condemned to lose it over and over. I would challenge any skeptic of this observation to reread the Bible and Greek drama. Or for that matter, Shakespeare. The people and their plight are all the same, only the costumes change.
And so today we find ourselves in the midst of a global panic. What do we do; where do we turn? Whom can we trust? Whom should we blame? We flail about, turning republics into dictatorships. Throwing out babies with the bathwater. It’s all happened before; we just don’t remember. And it will all happen again. Ah humanity, you benighted buffoons, evermore pushing the rock up the mountain, the slaves of envy and death.
January 31, 2020
Siddhartha’s Second Demise
With the Super Bowl upon us and NCAA March Madness not far behind, the following is dedicated to the throng of sports fans glued to big screens nationwide in the thrall of athletic action throughout the coming weeks.
Folks what knows me good, ol’ Elmer, can testify I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, rabid Kansas Jayhawker roundball fan (‘cept when they’s losin’, then I don’t even know’em, cause life’s got enough downers without backin’ a loser). Problem is, they plays on them dad-blasted cable channels what I don’t get cause I resents what I sees as triple billin’. Ya buys your dern TV and the electric to run it. That’s enough. So that explains why I mosey down ta Sulley’s sports bar when there’s a game on ta catch it on they’s big screens. And that’s how come I got myself acquainted with fellar KU ball lovers like Buddha and Bűb (pronounced “boob”).
Now, Buddha is a great big ol’ boy somewhere in his late sixties, weighin’ in at ‘bout 350 pounds. Always sportin’ a do-rag on his head, bib overalls, and black tennies, he’s got a long flowin’ gray beard like that Whitman poet guy we had ta read about in high school. But the most amazin’ thing that ya notices first is how beautiful young women flocks around his table like flies buzzin’ on molasses. ‘Course, he’s always buyin’ everbody beer.
Bűb, on the other hand, is a tall, slender dude in his mid-sixties, white haired and kinda jumpy and excitable. Seems ta worry a good bit ‘bout this and that, like should he look for a job or not. And he’s a tad impulsive, such as when he’ll suddenly leap up and run over to a table of strange gals and engage tryin’ ta converse. They’s reactions vary, but usually they’s either amused, insulted, or terrified. He don’t drink beer since a few years back he got that DUI. Don’t eat neither mainly cause he’s a shade on the cheap side. I don’t drink just on health principles regardin’ my gray matter and I always eats at home ta keep my Mollie from feelin’ neglected. ‘Course, I ain’t about ta order no burger costin’ over three dollars!
Anyhow, the other night I’d pushed open the door ta Sulley’s to find the dang place near empty and the bartender informs me, with the expression of a mortician, that the KU game is on another cable channel what they don’t get. I was moanin’ and groanin’ when who walks up but Bűb. He sizes up the dilemma and suggests we might scoot over to the other neighborhood sports bar, The Peanut, what does get the game. Only problem is they’s really high-priced and the manager expects ya to purchase if you’re gonna watch. They even throwed Bűb out onct when he refused to eat. Nevertheless, Bűb has a plan. The Peanut has an outdoor smoking patio with a screen sos we could watch from his car. That struck me as an elegant solution.
Well, we high-tailed it over and got a good parking space in front, but the gall dang outdoor screen wasn’t on. We could see one screen, though, through the plate glass front windows, so Bűb turns on his car radio to get the play-by-play, figuring we could watch that way. There was a brick column in front of Bűb, sos he had ta lean near on my shoulder to see, givin’ passersby the impression of LGBT newly weds, I reckon. But the worst part was the TV and the radio wasn’t in sync sos all the commentary was delayed.
“This ain’t workin’ out like I’d hoped,” Bűb says.
“Nope. It sure ain’t. But I got me an idea. Let’s go in and see if Buddha is there watchin’. He’ll be eatin’ and drinkin’ and we can set an’ watch with him!”
“You’re a genius, Elmer,” Bűb says. And in we go.
The Peanut is a huge establishment with a bar neigh on a half block long and screens all over. We traipses up and down among the crowd and looked here and there, but no Buddha. Finally we settled at an empty table in a corner. But it weren’t long before a waitress comes over and asks what we’re ordering. Now Bűb decided to play it cool and says, “We was hopin’ to meet Buddha here tonight, sos maybe we’ll just wait awhile to order.”
The waitress stared doe-eyed at us a minute, then blurts out, “You’ve got a long wait. Buddha’s dead.”
“Huh?” I says.
“Buddha’s dead,” she repeats.
“Buddha’s dead!” me and Bűb both exclaims together. “But I just seen him in here two weeks ago fer a game,” I says. “Can’t be.”
“He died a week ago. In the hospital. Heart attack, they say.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” I says. “I’m flabbergasted. Buddha’s dead.”
“Would you two like some water?” the waitress asks. “You look like you could use some.”
“Make mine with lemon,” I says, and off she goes.
“Can’t believe it,” Bűb says. “He told me awhile back he’d just had his prostate radiated.”
“Wonder if they burned him or buried him,” I conjectured. And so many other questions come ta my mind. Did he die with his tennies on? Will the gals at Sulley’s all wear black? Who’s gonna buy the beer? Did anyone tell Bill Self [KU coach]?
After the waitress brought the water, she left me and Bűb alone ta grieve, sos we didn’t have ta buy nothing. And ta tell the truth, I didn’t even remember the score after the game was done, I was so shell-shocked.
The next day when I tolt another friend ‘bout Buddha’s demise, he laughed and says, “Yeah, that happened well over two thousand years ago. Did you just hear about it?” Smart ass. Some people caint seem ta grasp the seriousness of life and what’s most important. To me the takeaway here is ya never should take nothing for granted. Always expect the unexpected. A fella never knows between games what’ll turn up. And be honest if ya ain’t gonna order nothing, otherwise ya can be made out a fool.
Folks what knows me good, ol’ Elmer, can testify I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, rabid Kansas Jayhawker roundball fan (‘cept when they’s losin’, then I don’t even know’em, cause life’s got enough downers without backin’ a loser). Problem is, they plays on them dad-blasted cable channels what I don’t get cause I resents what I sees as triple billin’. Ya buys your dern TV and the electric to run it. That’s enough. So that explains why I mosey down ta Sulley’s sports bar when there’s a game on ta catch it on they’s big screens. And that’s how come I got myself acquainted with fellar KU ball lovers like Buddha and Bűb (pronounced “boob”).
Now, Buddha is a great big ol’ boy somewhere in his late sixties, weighin’ in at ‘bout 350 pounds. Always sportin’ a do-rag on his head, bib overalls, and black tennies, he’s got a long flowin’ gray beard like that Whitman poet guy we had ta read about in high school. But the most amazin’ thing that ya notices first is how beautiful young women flocks around his table like flies buzzin’ on molasses. ‘Course, he’s always buyin’ everbody beer.
Bűb, on the other hand, is a tall, slender dude in his mid-sixties, white haired and kinda jumpy and excitable. Seems ta worry a good bit ‘bout this and that, like should he look for a job or not. And he’s a tad impulsive, such as when he’ll suddenly leap up and run over to a table of strange gals and engage tryin’ ta converse. They’s reactions vary, but usually they’s either amused, insulted, or terrified. He don’t drink beer since a few years back he got that DUI. Don’t eat neither mainly cause he’s a shade on the cheap side. I don’t drink just on health principles regardin’ my gray matter and I always eats at home ta keep my Mollie from feelin’ neglected. ‘Course, I ain’t about ta order no burger costin’ over three dollars!
Anyhow, the other night I’d pushed open the door ta Sulley’s to find the dang place near empty and the bartender informs me, with the expression of a mortician, that the KU game is on another cable channel what they don’t get. I was moanin’ and groanin’ when who walks up but Bűb. He sizes up the dilemma and suggests we might scoot over to the other neighborhood sports bar, The Peanut, what does get the game. Only problem is they’s really high-priced and the manager expects ya to purchase if you’re gonna watch. They even throwed Bűb out onct when he refused to eat. Nevertheless, Bűb has a plan. The Peanut has an outdoor smoking patio with a screen sos we could watch from his car. That struck me as an elegant solution.
Well, we high-tailed it over and got a good parking space in front, but the gall dang outdoor screen wasn’t on. We could see one screen, though, through the plate glass front windows, so Bűb turns on his car radio to get the play-by-play, figuring we could watch that way. There was a brick column in front of Bűb, sos he had ta lean near on my shoulder to see, givin’ passersby the impression of LGBT newly weds, I reckon. But the worst part was the TV and the radio wasn’t in sync sos all the commentary was delayed.
“This ain’t workin’ out like I’d hoped,” Bűb says.
“Nope. It sure ain’t. But I got me an idea. Let’s go in and see if Buddha is there watchin’. He’ll be eatin’ and drinkin’ and we can set an’ watch with him!”
“You’re a genius, Elmer,” Bűb says. And in we go.
The Peanut is a huge establishment with a bar neigh on a half block long and screens all over. We traipses up and down among the crowd and looked here and there, but no Buddha. Finally we settled at an empty table in a corner. But it weren’t long before a waitress comes over and asks what we’re ordering. Now Bűb decided to play it cool and says, “We was hopin’ to meet Buddha here tonight, sos maybe we’ll just wait awhile to order.”
The waitress stared doe-eyed at us a minute, then blurts out, “You’ve got a long wait. Buddha’s dead.”
“Huh?” I says.
“Buddha’s dead,” she repeats.
“Buddha’s dead!” me and Bűb both exclaims together. “But I just seen him in here two weeks ago fer a game,” I says. “Can’t be.”
“He died a week ago. In the hospital. Heart attack, they say.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” I says. “I’m flabbergasted. Buddha’s dead.”
“Would you two like some water?” the waitress asks. “You look like you could use some.”
“Make mine with lemon,” I says, and off she goes.
“Can’t believe it,” Bűb says. “He told me awhile back he’d just had his prostate radiated.”
“Wonder if they burned him or buried him,” I conjectured. And so many other questions come ta my mind. Did he die with his tennies on? Will the gals at Sulley’s all wear black? Who’s gonna buy the beer? Did anyone tell Bill Self [KU coach]?
After the waitress brought the water, she left me and Bűb alone ta grieve, sos we didn’t have ta buy nothing. And ta tell the truth, I didn’t even remember the score after the game was done, I was so shell-shocked.
The next day when I tolt another friend ‘bout Buddha’s demise, he laughed and says, “Yeah, that happened well over two thousand years ago. Did you just hear about it?” Smart ass. Some people caint seem ta grasp the seriousness of life and what’s most important. To me the takeaway here is ya never should take nothing for granted. Always expect the unexpected. A fella never knows between games what’ll turn up. And be honest if ya ain’t gonna order nothing, otherwise ya can be made out a fool.
January 20, 2020
Snake Gratitude, or Anthropomorphism?
The Australian wildfires have dominated the news of late, understandably so, and the consequent animal wildlife put at great risk there. Many stories have appeared describing the rescue efforts initiated to save koalas, kangaroos and wallabies and treat the injured. The human compassion on display reminded me of a personal encounter I had some years ago with nature's indifference, and a piece I wrote about it soon after. I thought in the context of the times it worth repeating here.
This past Mother’s Day, my wife and I (neither one of us parents) had a close encounter with the greatest mother of all—Mother Nature. Unexpected, perplexing, yet ultimately, in a way, gratifying. And not soon to be forgotten!
Intending to spend the day at our little vacation house on Lake Gardner and catch up some maintenance tasks there, we planned to enjoy the latter part of the excursion at a cookout with the next-door neighbors. So it was with a certain amount of vigor and anticipation that I launched into the mowing and scything while Dee cleaned inside the house. The grass had gotten a fair head start and first had to be cleared of blowdown branches and twigs.
In late winter the county had installed a sewer system in the area and replaced our septic tank with a grinder pump. The space around the pump had been seeded to grass and covered with straw mulch that was held in place by plastic, degradable netting. So the work there had to be accomplished completely with the scythe.
As I was scything away around the pump, an oddly-shaped, dark-colored stick at the edge of the grass caught my attention. However, upon closer scrutiny, I identified it as a snake’s tail. Drawing the grass away with my scythe, I discovered a blue racer of better than medium size hopelessly and fatally entangled along the edge of the plastic net. Well, too bad, old boy, I thought, as I reached down with my glove to lift the tail and assess how much work it would be to disentangle and dispose of the remains. But in response to my grasp, the snake gave a vigorous wriggle with the end of its tail—lo and behold, he was still alive!
Now, my first thought was simply to crush his head, put him out of his misery, then follow through with my initial intention. But staring down at the helpless creature, condemned to a fate not of his choosing but rather the result of the intrusion of humankind and its ways, the better part of my nature took pity and I began to contemplate how I might set him free. No small feat, such were the numerous plastic strands around his body, but worth a try as blue racers are admittedly a healthy component of the ecosystem. Perhaps a worthy aid, too, in keeping the mice at bay from our infrequently utilized lake abode.
I repaired to the house to obtain a pair of sharp-pointed scissors from my dearly beloved and then returned to the rescue challenge ahead. The poor reptile lay partly in shade, so my vision through my sunglasses was far from optimal (not to mention the sweat intermittently stinging my eyes), especially when trying to distinguish the thin black plastic against the deep gray of his dorsal scales. I had to take particular care not to gouge his body when sliding the blade under the confining strands. At first he seemed to writhe his tail in resistance, but then, whether from exhaustion or some mystic comprehension of help having arrived, he relaxed and let me work.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I detected the weeds beside me moving. What’s this, I exclaimed to myself—another snake, for Pete’s sake! Are we being overrun? I poked around with the scythe, but found nothing, so I returned to my task. However, a few minutes later I glanced to the side and, indeed, there was a second blue racer—a little smaller and more slender—slithering toward me. When I moved, it quickly shot back into the weeds out of sight. Away in a fast heartbeat.
I continued my “operation freedom” with a determined focus, but a little later I looked to the side once more to discover the second snake was back, having paused not far from my boot and lifted its head high in the air, watching me intently. And it remained there. Hmmm, I mused. Perhaps that’s the mate exhibiting a state of curiosity, concern or even hope? Why not? Anyway, I thought to myself, it’s a novel question to ponder. But probably best one for a biologist or philosopher to answer.
I freed the head of the trapped snake last, not wanting it whipping around when I was still working on the body. When I cut the last strand, the big blue racer sprung into vibrant life, and the two snakes were both gone in a flash into the weeds. The weeds and a renewed future.
In telling our neighbors later about the “reptile rescue,” I drew a parallel with the human condition. “Isn’t that what we humans all want?” I conjectured. “When we get trapped in some conundrum of hopelessness and despair, don’t we beg for a big god in the sky to reach down, cut us free and give us a new shot at life?” They only laughed good-naturedly.
Upon returning home late that evening, Dee and I ate a midnight snack, which unfortunately for me precipitated a severe gall bladder attack. In the midst of my pain, I uttered an appeal to the Almighty, crying out, “Come on, Lord, I saved your snake. Now please, please get me out of this pain! I’m calling in the debt.” I was willing to negotiate just about any terms offered!
A few days later, in telling another friend from church about the snake and the gall bladder, I discovered her to have a rather different reaction. She’s a Latino lady and very devout in her own particular way. Her opinions tend to be “the last word,” as one might characterize it. “You had the gall bladder trouble because you handled a snake!” she declared. “Haven’t you read the Bible!”
Okay. I guess it’s all in one’s spiritual perspective. What is that old adage—no good deed goes unpunished? Well, whatever. To each his, or her, own. But that’s not the way I roll.
Originally published online at The Grant Journal, 2017
This past Mother’s Day, my wife and I (neither one of us parents) had a close encounter with the greatest mother of all—Mother Nature. Unexpected, perplexing, yet ultimately, in a way, gratifying. And not soon to be forgotten!
Intending to spend the day at our little vacation house on Lake Gardner and catch up some maintenance tasks there, we planned to enjoy the latter part of the excursion at a cookout with the next-door neighbors. So it was with a certain amount of vigor and anticipation that I launched into the mowing and scything while Dee cleaned inside the house. The grass had gotten a fair head start and first had to be cleared of blowdown branches and twigs.
In late winter the county had installed a sewer system in the area and replaced our septic tank with a grinder pump. The space around the pump had been seeded to grass and covered with straw mulch that was held in place by plastic, degradable netting. So the work there had to be accomplished completely with the scythe.
As I was scything away around the pump, an oddly-shaped, dark-colored stick at the edge of the grass caught my attention. However, upon closer scrutiny, I identified it as a snake’s tail. Drawing the grass away with my scythe, I discovered a blue racer of better than medium size hopelessly and fatally entangled along the edge of the plastic net. Well, too bad, old boy, I thought, as I reached down with my glove to lift the tail and assess how much work it would be to disentangle and dispose of the remains. But in response to my grasp, the snake gave a vigorous wriggle with the end of its tail—lo and behold, he was still alive!
Now, my first thought was simply to crush his head, put him out of his misery, then follow through with my initial intention. But staring down at the helpless creature, condemned to a fate not of his choosing but rather the result of the intrusion of humankind and its ways, the better part of my nature took pity and I began to contemplate how I might set him free. No small feat, such were the numerous plastic strands around his body, but worth a try as blue racers are admittedly a healthy component of the ecosystem. Perhaps a worthy aid, too, in keeping the mice at bay from our infrequently utilized lake abode.
I repaired to the house to obtain a pair of sharp-pointed scissors from my dearly beloved and then returned to the rescue challenge ahead. The poor reptile lay partly in shade, so my vision through my sunglasses was far from optimal (not to mention the sweat intermittently stinging my eyes), especially when trying to distinguish the thin black plastic against the deep gray of his dorsal scales. I had to take particular care not to gouge his body when sliding the blade under the confining strands. At first he seemed to writhe his tail in resistance, but then, whether from exhaustion or some mystic comprehension of help having arrived, he relaxed and let me work.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I detected the weeds beside me moving. What’s this, I exclaimed to myself—another snake, for Pete’s sake! Are we being overrun? I poked around with the scythe, but found nothing, so I returned to my task. However, a few minutes later I glanced to the side and, indeed, there was a second blue racer—a little smaller and more slender—slithering toward me. When I moved, it quickly shot back into the weeds out of sight. Away in a fast heartbeat.
I continued my “operation freedom” with a determined focus, but a little later I looked to the side once more to discover the second snake was back, having paused not far from my boot and lifted its head high in the air, watching me intently. And it remained there. Hmmm, I mused. Perhaps that’s the mate exhibiting a state of curiosity, concern or even hope? Why not? Anyway, I thought to myself, it’s a novel question to ponder. But probably best one for a biologist or philosopher to answer.
I freed the head of the trapped snake last, not wanting it whipping around when I was still working on the body. When I cut the last strand, the big blue racer sprung into vibrant life, and the two snakes were both gone in a flash into the weeds. The weeds and a renewed future.
In telling our neighbors later about the “reptile rescue,” I drew a parallel with the human condition. “Isn’t that what we humans all want?” I conjectured. “When we get trapped in some conundrum of hopelessness and despair, don’t we beg for a big god in the sky to reach down, cut us free and give us a new shot at life?” They only laughed good-naturedly.
Upon returning home late that evening, Dee and I ate a midnight snack, which unfortunately for me precipitated a severe gall bladder attack. In the midst of my pain, I uttered an appeal to the Almighty, crying out, “Come on, Lord, I saved your snake. Now please, please get me out of this pain! I’m calling in the debt.” I was willing to negotiate just about any terms offered!
A few days later, in telling another friend from church about the snake and the gall bladder, I discovered her to have a rather different reaction. She’s a Latino lady and very devout in her own particular way. Her opinions tend to be “the last word,” as one might characterize it. “You had the gall bladder trouble because you handled a snake!” she declared. “Haven’t you read the Bible!”
Okay. I guess it’s all in one’s spiritual perspective. What is that old adage—no good deed goes unpunished? Well, whatever. To each his, or her, own. But that’s not the way I roll.
Originally published online at The Grant Journal, 2017
January 5, 2020
Explaining America to a New Turkish Friend
Considering the bombardment of negative perceptions about a "divided America" in the media at present, I thought it might be refreshing to revive a piece of my writing from 2005 offering a much more embracing image of our nation. While traveling across Turkey at that time with a group of ministers, guests of the Institute of Interfaith Dialog, I made the acquaintance of a Turkish civil engineer at a Fethullah Gulen school dinner in Konya. We had driven there to visit the tomb of Rumi and witness the marvelous Whirling Dervishes ceremony, and our new friend, Fatih, provided us with a warm welcome and masterful orientation. During the course of the evening, he conveyed to me his excitement at the possibility of a business assignment to America the next year, and he eagerly questioned me as to what he might expect to find there. Later that evening, back in my hotel room, I penned for him the following response.
Fatih, you asked me, "What is America really like?" Well, I think I'd respond this way.
America is a little, red-haired girl with freckles, smiling, with a big ice cream cone on the 4th of July, the sparkle of fireworks in her eyes as she looks skyward. America is a mother and father of Asian extraction standing beneath the blue skies of South Dakota and explaining the stone faces on Mount Rushmore to their children. America is a black man in North Chicago stepping up onto a bus out of the rain and sitting down in a front seat on his way to a community college. America is a sprawling, diverse land that embraces persons of every description.
And yes, the geography does imprint itself upon the people who live there—the Pacific Ocean waves are in the blond, curly locks of the surfer's sun-bleached hair. The sweep of the Kansas wheat fields and prairies is in the bearing of the farmer as he climbs down from his tractor. The wind-blown snow of a northeastern winter is reflected in the Maine fisherman's beard as he tends his nets by the shore.
But more than this is America's heart. You see that heart in the boxes of food supplies stamped U.S.A. off-loaded from trucks in a drought-stricken region of Africa. You see it in volunteer medical teams flown in to assist earthquake victims in South America. You see it in the face of a young G.I. in Afghanistan fighting to restore freedom to a people who may not fully appreciate or understand his sacrifice for generations to come. So, too, you see the broken heart of a military family weeping beside a flag-draped casket. But what was it that shaped this heart? To reduce it to a single word—it was "choice."
Well over two hundred years ago, the founders of this nation known as America chose a republic over a monarchy. They chose to trust freedom and its consequences rather than the restrictive whims and edicts of a king. They backed that choice with their lives and fortunes, with the commitment of blood and steel. They debated and agreed upon certain rules they'd live by, penned them on parchment for all to see—and stuck by them. That was the foundation of America's heart.
Oh yes, and there was justice, too—that goes along, in the Pledge of Allegiance, with liberty. But justice wasn't always easy to come by. In the beginning there were peoples who were exploited by others and peoples who were denied what was rightfully theirs. At one point a great war, the American Civil War, was fought to rectify some of these wrongs and restore a balance of interests. Yet the quest for justice is always ongoing, and the thing about Americans is they never quit until they get it right.
Nevertheless, that freedom—the freedom to explore and innovate, to test out new ideas, to pursue one's dreams to their fullest—has wrought some astounding results. It's built endless cities and ports, highways and railroads, airlines and rockets to the moon. It's made literature and art and national parks—universities, factories, homes. It's brought medical miracles and technological wonders. And woven throughout the fabric of these accomplishments is a gratitude Americans feel for this bounty, a gratitude manifest in the reverence for their Almighty Source.
The nation's founders were individuals not only of intellect but also of the sincerest piety, and that religious faith has remained a constant throughout America's history. The evidence of this fact is in the vast numbers of churches, synagogues, temples and mosques one finds throughout the land as well as in the congregations flowing freely to and from their doors on days of worship. Not to mention the motto "In God We Trust" on the coinage.
That's not to say, however, that Americans can't be a fun-loving lot—oh, quite the contrary. The carnival tradition of a Coney Island has been with them for generations, now more than ever. They love Disneyland and motion pictures and rock concerts and baseball. They love walking the dog, shopping, sight-seeing and eating out. And they love the gifts nature has abundantly bestowed upon the land. The beauty of watching a desert sunset. The exhilaration of climbing a mountain trail. The awe of staring down into the Grand Canyon. The quietude of meditating in a redwood forest. And Americans are generous and love to share these pleasures with visitors from other lands. They're there for all to experience and enjoy.
The little girl with the ice cream mentioned earlier—that's how American children are: bright-eyed, full of energy, laughing, running, alternately well-behaved then full of mischief. Standing by a playground, one sees every color of the rainbow, hears many languages other than English spoken. Then, when these children grow to be teenagers, they're prone to do silly things such as dying their hair maroon, piercing their tongues or getting a tattoo on an ankle, partly to tease their parents.
Americans are a work-brittle, economy-focused people; they appreciate the importance of a strong economy in nurturing individual jobs and steady income, in maintaining a robust standard of living. They support the free market as the most effective means of keeping it intact. As for choosing some occupation one might wish to pursue, an American's options are as high as the heavens. The old saying, "The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker...," must be updated to something like "a lawyer, a programmer, a space engineer." Individual ability is the only boundary.
Of course, some mention must be made of politics. America has mainly a two-party system at the local, state and national levels. Americans can become quite enthused with the entertainment, drama and political passion surrounding a major election—an election which usually consists more of windy politicians vying for power than any valid competition of ideas. Still, they take the ballot box very seriously.
Finally, Americans are conscious of, but a bit perplexed by, the mixed messages regarding America's image sent to them by the rest of the world. On the one hand, the world seems to clamor for America's leadership in helping resolve international dilemmas and tensions hither and yon across the globe. And Americans, being a compassionate people, are only too willing to give their assent. Yet, on the other hand, not infrequently this involvement can take on a bitter tinge, and those calls for help become a seething "Yankee, go home!" "So, what are we to do?" Americans ask themselves sadly. There seems no easy answer. But, as someone once remarked, most telling may be the proportion of people trying to get into America as opposed to those who, once here, decide to leave. That may be the best yardstick of all by which to judge the world's genuine attitude toward the nation. If that's so, then America fares quite well.
So, how does one, from the outside looking in, define and understand the character of the American people? Perhaps, Fatih, the best method might be to hold up a mirror and look closely into the face you see. The years of hard work are lined in the forehead—as are the sorrows for loved ones gone. But there's pride around the eyes, love for your mate and hope for your children's future. And the lines beside the mouth reveal laughter past and song and determination. And the texture of the skin is the texture of survival, of withstanding the adversity of sun and wind. Then look more deeply into the eyes, into the soul residing there. And realize, finally, but for geography, you could be looking into the soul of an American.
Fatih, you asked me, "What is America really like?" Well, I think I'd respond this way.
America is a little, red-haired girl with freckles, smiling, with a big ice cream cone on the 4th of July, the sparkle of fireworks in her eyes as she looks skyward. America is a mother and father of Asian extraction standing beneath the blue skies of South Dakota and explaining the stone faces on Mount Rushmore to their children. America is a black man in North Chicago stepping up onto a bus out of the rain and sitting down in a front seat on his way to a community college. America is a sprawling, diverse land that embraces persons of every description.
And yes, the geography does imprint itself upon the people who live there—the Pacific Ocean waves are in the blond, curly locks of the surfer's sun-bleached hair. The sweep of the Kansas wheat fields and prairies is in the bearing of the farmer as he climbs down from his tractor. The wind-blown snow of a northeastern winter is reflected in the Maine fisherman's beard as he tends his nets by the shore.
But more than this is America's heart. You see that heart in the boxes of food supplies stamped U.S.A. off-loaded from trucks in a drought-stricken region of Africa. You see it in volunteer medical teams flown in to assist earthquake victims in South America. You see it in the face of a young G.I. in Afghanistan fighting to restore freedom to a people who may not fully appreciate or understand his sacrifice for generations to come. So, too, you see the broken heart of a military family weeping beside a flag-draped casket. But what was it that shaped this heart? To reduce it to a single word—it was "choice."
Well over two hundred years ago, the founders of this nation known as America chose a republic over a monarchy. They chose to trust freedom and its consequences rather than the restrictive whims and edicts of a king. They backed that choice with their lives and fortunes, with the commitment of blood and steel. They debated and agreed upon certain rules they'd live by, penned them on parchment for all to see—and stuck by them. That was the foundation of America's heart.
Oh yes, and there was justice, too—that goes along, in the Pledge of Allegiance, with liberty. But justice wasn't always easy to come by. In the beginning there were peoples who were exploited by others and peoples who were denied what was rightfully theirs. At one point a great war, the American Civil War, was fought to rectify some of these wrongs and restore a balance of interests. Yet the quest for justice is always ongoing, and the thing about Americans is they never quit until they get it right.
Nevertheless, that freedom—the freedom to explore and innovate, to test out new ideas, to pursue one's dreams to their fullest—has wrought some astounding results. It's built endless cities and ports, highways and railroads, airlines and rockets to the moon. It's made literature and art and national parks—universities, factories, homes. It's brought medical miracles and technological wonders. And woven throughout the fabric of these accomplishments is a gratitude Americans feel for this bounty, a gratitude manifest in the reverence for their Almighty Source.
The nation's founders were individuals not only of intellect but also of the sincerest piety, and that religious faith has remained a constant throughout America's history. The evidence of this fact is in the vast numbers of churches, synagogues, temples and mosques one finds throughout the land as well as in the congregations flowing freely to and from their doors on days of worship. Not to mention the motto "In God We Trust" on the coinage.
That's not to say, however, that Americans can't be a fun-loving lot—oh, quite the contrary. The carnival tradition of a Coney Island has been with them for generations, now more than ever. They love Disneyland and motion pictures and rock concerts and baseball. They love walking the dog, shopping, sight-seeing and eating out. And they love the gifts nature has abundantly bestowed upon the land. The beauty of watching a desert sunset. The exhilaration of climbing a mountain trail. The awe of staring down into the Grand Canyon. The quietude of meditating in a redwood forest. And Americans are generous and love to share these pleasures with visitors from other lands. They're there for all to experience and enjoy.
The little girl with the ice cream mentioned earlier—that's how American children are: bright-eyed, full of energy, laughing, running, alternately well-behaved then full of mischief. Standing by a playground, one sees every color of the rainbow, hears many languages other than English spoken. Then, when these children grow to be teenagers, they're prone to do silly things such as dying their hair maroon, piercing their tongues or getting a tattoo on an ankle, partly to tease their parents.
Americans are a work-brittle, economy-focused people; they appreciate the importance of a strong economy in nurturing individual jobs and steady income, in maintaining a robust standard of living. They support the free market as the most effective means of keeping it intact. As for choosing some occupation one might wish to pursue, an American's options are as high as the heavens. The old saying, "The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker...," must be updated to something like "a lawyer, a programmer, a space engineer." Individual ability is the only boundary.
Of course, some mention must be made of politics. America has mainly a two-party system at the local, state and national levels. Americans can become quite enthused with the entertainment, drama and political passion surrounding a major election—an election which usually consists more of windy politicians vying for power than any valid competition of ideas. Still, they take the ballot box very seriously.
Finally, Americans are conscious of, but a bit perplexed by, the mixed messages regarding America's image sent to them by the rest of the world. On the one hand, the world seems to clamor for America's leadership in helping resolve international dilemmas and tensions hither and yon across the globe. And Americans, being a compassionate people, are only too willing to give their assent. Yet, on the other hand, not infrequently this involvement can take on a bitter tinge, and those calls for help become a seething "Yankee, go home!" "So, what are we to do?" Americans ask themselves sadly. There seems no easy answer. But, as someone once remarked, most telling may be the proportion of people trying to get into America as opposed to those who, once here, decide to leave. That may be the best yardstick of all by which to judge the world's genuine attitude toward the nation. If that's so, then America fares quite well.
So, how does one, from the outside looking in, define and understand the character of the American people? Perhaps, Fatih, the best method might be to hold up a mirror and look closely into the face you see. The years of hard work are lined in the forehead—as are the sorrows for loved ones gone. But there's pride around the eyes, love for your mate and hope for your children's future. And the lines beside the mouth reveal laughter past and song and determination. And the texture of the skin is the texture of survival, of withstanding the adversity of sun and wind. Then look more deeply into the eyes, into the soul residing there. And realize, finally, but for geography, you could be looking into the soul of an American.
December 16, 2019
Everybody’s an Author in a World Where Nothing Works
Over the past year I’ve developed two new mantras: “These days, everybody’s an author,” and “Nothing works anymore.” These insights have come about through some turbulent personal experiences—and a good deal of frustration. And I’m thoroughly convinced they’ve never been more apropos.
Last spring when I was spading the garden, the neighbor lady across the alley came out and inquired what was new with my wife and me. I related how excited I felt that my new book, And Eve Said Yes: Seven Stories and a Novella, was going to be released the middle of next October. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she replied. Then added, “Did you know I too am an author?” Well, I didn’t, but in the bat of an eye she departed and returned with a copy of her book, autographed it and handed it over the fence to me with best wishes. It was titled Snippets of Life, Mine in Particular, self-published by Xlibris, and, I would discover, quite professionally conceived and well written, a memoir relating her experiences as a missionary in Africa.
The gist of that neighborly encounter had become the norm rather than an exception. It seemed every time I’d mention my forthcoming book to someone, they’d respond with the factoid that they—or their mother or their son or their aunt or their uncle—was also an author. Kind of deflating after a bit, to say the least. Whatever happened to the good old days when an aspiring writer getting an acceptance from an editor like Maxwell Perkins seemed like winning the lottery? Well, the internet, Amazon and Kindle Direct for one thing. And POD for another. My publisher, Waldorf Publishing, informed me that every day, worldwide, 4,000 new titles come off the press. So—how can a new author reasonably expect to gain any serious broad exposure? After all, as they say, everyone has a story to tell.
Concurrently another phenomenon has been repeating itself with distressing regularity. More and more things aren’t working properly or failing altogether. Last summer, for example, my wife and I ordered a new air conditioner from Sears for our modest vacation house at Lake Gardner. Perhaps because the billing address and the installation address were different, the process became a nightmare. The A/C never arrived and, after canceling the order, numerous efforts to obtain a refund have failed. We’ve had to lodge a complain with the Attorney General.
In the same vein, our phone bill consistently has charges attached that we didn’t incur and have had to spend hours debating with “customer care” (in the Philippines, no less) to resolve the amount due. Furthermore, when the snail mail arrives, it’s quite common to discover someone else’s letters in the mix. Makes me wonder who’s receiving some of ours? And we’re not alone—I’ve noted similar conundrums related on colleagues’ blogs I follow. To top it off, when dining out the other evening, I was discussing this sorrowful trend with the waiter, and he then described a fouled-up auto repair situation he’d just experienced. However, when he brought us our check, he’d confused it with one for another party! Unfortunately, these anecdotes are only the tip of the iceberg.
Now, I have a theory as to why the culture seems to be disintegrating. (And it has nothing to do with President Donald Trump or Congress.) We have human beings on the one hand, and technology on the other. And the human element relying on the technological one is becoming more and more pronounced. However, the interface between the two is discouragingly imperfect and flawed; hence, an accelerating decline in efficiency and performance becomes increasingly apparent. Or…maybe it’s simply because too many people just don’t give a damn anymore?
In the sixties the artist Andy Warhol purportedly asserted that, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes” (like authors?). And Thomas Pynchon published the short story “Entropy,” depicting a world winding down and coming apart. Perhaps the future they predicted has, indeed, finally arrived!
Last spring when I was spading the garden, the neighbor lady across the alley came out and inquired what was new with my wife and me. I related how excited I felt that my new book, And Eve Said Yes: Seven Stories and a Novella, was going to be released the middle of next October. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she replied. Then added, “Did you know I too am an author?” Well, I didn’t, but in the bat of an eye she departed and returned with a copy of her book, autographed it and handed it over the fence to me with best wishes. It was titled Snippets of Life, Mine in Particular, self-published by Xlibris, and, I would discover, quite professionally conceived and well written, a memoir relating her experiences as a missionary in Africa.
The gist of that neighborly encounter had become the norm rather than an exception. It seemed every time I’d mention my forthcoming book to someone, they’d respond with the factoid that they—or their mother or their son or their aunt or their uncle—was also an author. Kind of deflating after a bit, to say the least. Whatever happened to the good old days when an aspiring writer getting an acceptance from an editor like Maxwell Perkins seemed like winning the lottery? Well, the internet, Amazon and Kindle Direct for one thing. And POD for another. My publisher, Waldorf Publishing, informed me that every day, worldwide, 4,000 new titles come off the press. So—how can a new author reasonably expect to gain any serious broad exposure? After all, as they say, everyone has a story to tell.
Concurrently another phenomenon has been repeating itself with distressing regularity. More and more things aren’t working properly or failing altogether. Last summer, for example, my wife and I ordered a new air conditioner from Sears for our modest vacation house at Lake Gardner. Perhaps because the billing address and the installation address were different, the process became a nightmare. The A/C never arrived and, after canceling the order, numerous efforts to obtain a refund have failed. We’ve had to lodge a complain with the Attorney General.
In the same vein, our phone bill consistently has charges attached that we didn’t incur and have had to spend hours debating with “customer care” (in the Philippines, no less) to resolve the amount due. Furthermore, when the snail mail arrives, it’s quite common to discover someone else’s letters in the mix. Makes me wonder who’s receiving some of ours? And we’re not alone—I’ve noted similar conundrums related on colleagues’ blogs I follow. To top it off, when dining out the other evening, I was discussing this sorrowful trend with the waiter, and he then described a fouled-up auto repair situation he’d just experienced. However, when he brought us our check, he’d confused it with one for another party! Unfortunately, these anecdotes are only the tip of the iceberg.
Now, I have a theory as to why the culture seems to be disintegrating. (And it has nothing to do with President Donald Trump or Congress.) We have human beings on the one hand, and technology on the other. And the human element relying on the technological one is becoming more and more pronounced. However, the interface between the two is discouragingly imperfect and flawed; hence, an accelerating decline in efficiency and performance becomes increasingly apparent. Or…maybe it’s simply because too many people just don’t give a damn anymore?
In the sixties the artist Andy Warhol purportedly asserted that, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes” (like authors?). And Thomas Pynchon published the short story “Entropy,” depicting a world winding down and coming apart. Perhaps the future they predicted has, indeed, finally arrived!
Musings of an Aging Author
Random observations and commentary on writing and the literary scene within the context of current events and modern thought.
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