James Rozoff's Blog, page 25
March 18, 2015
The Secret Sacrifices Of Scott Walker
Governor Scott Walker is not a complainer. Or a bragger. That’s why most of us are unaware of the personal sacrifices he has made to help keep the budget of Wisconsin afloat the way he has. I've heard people say that he has balanced the budget on the backs of schools, teachers, and other workers. Many people think that his cuts to every program that makes this state a great place to live—from grade schools to the university system, from state parks to Wisconsin Public Radio—placed the burden only on the least fortunate Wisconsinites. I am here to tell you that’s not the case. Many have assumed that Scott Walker’s election commercial showing him carrying a brown bag lunch was a cynical ploy aimed to appeal to the average voter. But I have it on good authority that since the time of his election he has eaten a simple sandwich for lunch every day. Not roast beef on artisan bread mind you, or even bologna, but generic peanut butter on day old bread. A simple Google search will provide you with ample evidence that even when dining with his wealthy contributors from out west or with the heads of state he needs to meet with to make things better for us here at home, Governor Walker is right in front when it comes to sacrificing for our great state. And if you want to sit down with Governor Walker and cut him a six-figure check, you better bring your own brown-bag lunch too. There are countless other ways he has sought to save money, from cutting down on heating bills in the capitol by insulating it with protestors, to forgoing the Governor’s Humvee and choosing instead to ride his white stallion, Rocinante, as he patrols the boarders of our state. I am reminded of a great tragedy by Sophocles—I believe it was Oedipus Rex—when the people are suffering and call upon their king for help. Oedipus tells his people: “Sick as you are, not one is as sick as I. Each of you suffers in himself alone his anguish, not another’s; but my spirit groans for the state, for myself, for you.” Well, perhaps it was not Oedipus I was thinking of, but surely Scott Walker is reminiscent of some great tragedy.
So protest if you must—especially on cold winter days when the need for your body heat within the dome is at its highest. Just remember that our leader would not ask from you any sacrifice that he has not already taken upon himself.
March 16, 2015
Free Book For Kindle For Three More Days
I've got my book, Perchance to Dream, free for Kindle for the next three days. Here's a hastily written intro meant to entice you:
A mass suicide is about to take place, but one mother cannot bear to include her son. She sends him away from the little village hastily assembled on an island far from anywhere, telling him to pick berries and not to come back until his pal is full. He returns hours later, only to find that everyone he has ever known is dead. But the voices of the dead seem to talk to him, whispering secrets only the dead know. Perhaps it is only madness caused by horrors too great for a young boy's mind to endure.It's 20 years later. The boy is now a man.
Perchance To Dream
A mass suicide is about to take place, but one mother cannot bear to include her son. She sends him away from the little village hastily assembled on an island far from anywhere, telling him to pick berries and not to come back until his pal is full. He returns hours later, only to find that everyone he has ever known is dead. But the voices of the dead seem to talk to him, whispering secrets only the dead know. Perhaps it is only madness caused by horrors too great for a young boy's mind to endure.It's 20 years later. The boy is now a man.
Perchance To Dream
March 5, 2015
A New Holiday
I came across this today and felt the need to share:
I felt it today, a certain change in the air, like a spiritual spring has finally arrived. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do: I know that as of today the human race has finally found its footing and is ready to move towards accomplishing the destiny it has always been striving toward. Our record so far has been of struggle and misunderstanding, of hopes followed by disillusionment. But we’ve finally realized both the inevitability of the struggle but also the inevitability of the victory. It’s going to be quite a journey, but we now know where we’re going. We know that while we are free to worship God in whichever way we choose, or to not worship at all if that is what we believe, that we need to respect the practices of others who are not harming anyone else. And if we see another of our brothers or sisters in error, it is up to us to show by example and perhaps by gentle persuasion the path of peace, of hope, of love. I feel it, know it to be true, this burning love for life inside of me. It is a love not only for the life I have been given but by extension a love for all the life that is. For life is life no matter what vessel it resides in. We are all rays of the same sun.And that is why at eight o’clock this evening, March 19, I stood and looked outside from the highest window in my house with a candle in hand. I looked upon all of the houses I could see from this window, and knew them to be filled with people just like me. I knew all of them were capable of love, and that it only needed to be given the proper conditions to flourish. I knew all of them were in need of love, and that I had a vital role to play in giving love. I knew all of them, just like me, were going to err and stray from the path and that we all needed to work together to get to that future that awaits us all.It’s a simple message. It requires no religion or government or corporate sponsorship. It just requires individuals who realize that they are connected to the rest of the world in a very deep and beautiful way. You just need to know that the light will shine through any darkness.I looked out tonight, and mine was the only candle lit. But I would be back again next year on March 18, and every year for as long as I lived, and someday I would look out and see every household with a candle, or a flashlight, or whatever kind of light they wanted to shine.
If you feel it too, if you know in your heart that we are all connected by the heart, I invite you to shine your light on March 18. And I invite you to share the words I wrote. Do not share a link, or tell where you found these words, just share the idea. Let the idea stand on its own and do not let any other thought or “ism” attach itself to it. It doesn’t matter where the idea came from, it belongs to everyone.
I felt it today, a certain change in the air, like a spiritual spring has finally arrived. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do: I know that as of today the human race has finally found its footing and is ready to move towards accomplishing the destiny it has always been striving toward. Our record so far has been of struggle and misunderstanding, of hopes followed by disillusionment. But we’ve finally realized both the inevitability of the struggle but also the inevitability of the victory. It’s going to be quite a journey, but we now know where we’re going. We know that while we are free to worship God in whichever way we choose, or to not worship at all if that is what we believe, that we need to respect the practices of others who are not harming anyone else. And if we see another of our brothers or sisters in error, it is up to us to show by example and perhaps by gentle persuasion the path of peace, of hope, of love. I feel it, know it to be true, this burning love for life inside of me. It is a love not only for the life I have been given but by extension a love for all the life that is. For life is life no matter what vessel it resides in. We are all rays of the same sun.And that is why at eight o’clock this evening, March 19, I stood and looked outside from the highest window in my house with a candle in hand. I looked upon all of the houses I could see from this window, and knew them to be filled with people just like me. I knew all of them were capable of love, and that it only needed to be given the proper conditions to flourish. I knew all of them were in need of love, and that I had a vital role to play in giving love. I knew all of them, just like me, were going to err and stray from the path and that we all needed to work together to get to that future that awaits us all.It’s a simple message. It requires no religion or government or corporate sponsorship. It just requires individuals who realize that they are connected to the rest of the world in a very deep and beautiful way. You just need to know that the light will shine through any darkness.I looked out tonight, and mine was the only candle lit. But I would be back again next year on March 18, and every year for as long as I lived, and someday I would look out and see every household with a candle, or a flashlight, or whatever kind of light they wanted to shine.
If you feel it too, if you know in your heart that we are all connected by the heart, I invite you to shine your light on March 18. And I invite you to share the words I wrote. Do not share a link, or tell where you found these words, just share the idea. Let the idea stand on its own and do not let any other thought or “ism” attach itself to it. It doesn’t matter where the idea came from, it belongs to everyone.
March 2, 2015
A Short Excerpt From My Novel In Progress, Seven Stones
Yesterday I shared a more contemplative piece of writing from the same book, today I offer this:
They were entering through the door, obeying the call of their master. It was the stone that was the master, not Delavois, he knew that now. Delavois had put his own twist on the evil that radiated from it, but he was owned by it as well. He was just another meat puppet it commanded to carry out this horror. Doug looked around him, at the shambling beings that entered the house, as well as the jellied remains of individuals that ran together in an obscene soup. Black ooze floated body parts in a semi-sentient slosh. Amongst it all was the sense of suffering. He could feel it now that he had possession of the stone. It was all the suffering the living could feel brought to another level. But as horrible as it was, he knew it was not the evil he felt. Suffering was not evil, it was that which caused it that was evil. He had mistaken the fear he had of suffering with the fear of evil, but he knew better now. He had learned at last—too late—something that would have served him well in life. Still, better than not to have learned it at all. The creatures were almost all through the door. One of the more ragged things was dragging itself through with one good hand and a stump. Doug recognized it as one of the creatures that had frightened him the most, now it elicited the most pity. Its suffering was more palpable than any of the others, though a small thing compared to the overall stew of tortured flesh. The flesh demanded release, but something flowing through their veins obeyed the will of the stone. Doug hazarded a glimpse at the stone and noticed its radiance seemed to throb. Looking away, he saw the accumulated filth that was once human flesh seemed to move in response to the pulsations. It called to them, pulsed within them, sought to command them without the use of the medium that Delavois had been, what it called out to Doug to be. It seemed as though the urge to die and the urge to obey the stone warred within each of them, jerking their bodies in a forbidden dance. Doug could feel the pulse within him too, as if a second heart had taken up residence in his chest, pumping fear and compulsion throughout his veins, but he choked it down as he might nervousness. He saw what he assumed was the last of the creatures enter the door, a desecrated hunk of flesh so obscene that Doug wondered how it made its way here. He had seen animals hit by trains look more possible of motion than the mass of exposed flesh and bone. In some part of it that Doug assumed was its head, two white eyeballs stared in his direction.
It was time. He would go to the gas soaked curtain and light it with his torch. Then he would stand guard at the door as the house burned to ruins. It would be over soon. And as much as he feared death, he knew he was doing the best thing possible. But as he moved towards the window, attempting to avoid contact with the living corpses, he felt a strong grip on the arm that held the torch. The terror he had been able to keep at bay now flooded in on him and he instinctually tried to move away. He was halted by a less than sentient mound of flesh.
They were entering through the door, obeying the call of their master. It was the stone that was the master, not Delavois, he knew that now. Delavois had put his own twist on the evil that radiated from it, but he was owned by it as well. He was just another meat puppet it commanded to carry out this horror. Doug looked around him, at the shambling beings that entered the house, as well as the jellied remains of individuals that ran together in an obscene soup. Black ooze floated body parts in a semi-sentient slosh. Amongst it all was the sense of suffering. He could feel it now that he had possession of the stone. It was all the suffering the living could feel brought to another level. But as horrible as it was, he knew it was not the evil he felt. Suffering was not evil, it was that which caused it that was evil. He had mistaken the fear he had of suffering with the fear of evil, but he knew better now. He had learned at last—too late—something that would have served him well in life. Still, better than not to have learned it at all. The creatures were almost all through the door. One of the more ragged things was dragging itself through with one good hand and a stump. Doug recognized it as one of the creatures that had frightened him the most, now it elicited the most pity. Its suffering was more palpable than any of the others, though a small thing compared to the overall stew of tortured flesh. The flesh demanded release, but something flowing through their veins obeyed the will of the stone. Doug hazarded a glimpse at the stone and noticed its radiance seemed to throb. Looking away, he saw the accumulated filth that was once human flesh seemed to move in response to the pulsations. It called to them, pulsed within them, sought to command them without the use of the medium that Delavois had been, what it called out to Doug to be. It seemed as though the urge to die and the urge to obey the stone warred within each of them, jerking their bodies in a forbidden dance. Doug could feel the pulse within him too, as if a second heart had taken up residence in his chest, pumping fear and compulsion throughout his veins, but he choked it down as he might nervousness. He saw what he assumed was the last of the creatures enter the door, a desecrated hunk of flesh so obscene that Doug wondered how it made its way here. He had seen animals hit by trains look more possible of motion than the mass of exposed flesh and bone. In some part of it that Doug assumed was its head, two white eyeballs stared in his direction.
It was time. He would go to the gas soaked curtain and light it with his torch. Then he would stand guard at the door as the house burned to ruins. It would be over soon. And as much as he feared death, he knew he was doing the best thing possible. But as he moved towards the window, attempting to avoid contact with the living corpses, he felt a strong grip on the arm that held the torch. The terror he had been able to keep at bay now flooded in on him and he instinctually tried to move away. He was halted by a less than sentient mound of flesh.
March 1, 2015
A Sample of My Writing
This is the kind of writing that I really love to do, and I'm increasingly convinced it's the kind of writing people are uninterested in reading. If I had to describe it I would say it was Victor Hugo smoking hash. I'd really love to hear you opinion of it:
A knock upon the door of the man the entire neighborhood knew only as Ashavan awoke the old man from a long bout of contemplation that had been taking place over a book resting open on his table. At some point the conversation he had been having with the writings of an ancient writer had abandoned the book’s pages and taken up residence within his mind. So frozen had he been that it almost appeared he had found some spot outside the stream of time. Such places exist among the endless abodes of every major city, places that seem to be sanctuaries from the present, immune to the hustle and bustle, the sound and fury that in the end change nothing. Like long unopened books sitting upon dusty shelves, there exist people filled with knowledge that has somehow been saved from extinction. But buried as they are by time, there abides in them yet a seed awaiting the proper condition for germination. There is some process that occurs in dormancy, some subtle shifting of the fabric of reality that science has yet to discover. From such forgotten places as these occasionally springs, in some unseen future, a gigantic oak whose day has come. He had been on the verge of something, some subtle thought that he could sense was true, profound. It was a butterfly that fluttered towards a deeper understanding, a new way of perceiving the world. He had experienced it often enough in his life, this briefest glimpse of something at the edge of consciousness. He had experienced it enough to realize that this was how all great discoveries began, like discovering the first thin tendril of a vein of gold that awaited mining. To be dragged away at such a moment was being awoken from a very pleasant dream. But as much as one tries, one can only stay so long in the world of reverie before returning to the far more unpleasant world that the collective mind had so far been able to cobble together.
Annoyed as he was by the interruption of someone at his door, he managed to realize there was some connection that existed between what he was reading and the person who stood outside. There was, after all, some purpose to his long searches into the past. Flowers would someday bloom from the roots he followed downwards towards nourishment. Such a flower perhaps now awaited him.
A knock upon the door of the man the entire neighborhood knew only as Ashavan awoke the old man from a long bout of contemplation that had been taking place over a book resting open on his table. At some point the conversation he had been having with the writings of an ancient writer had abandoned the book’s pages and taken up residence within his mind. So frozen had he been that it almost appeared he had found some spot outside the stream of time. Such places exist among the endless abodes of every major city, places that seem to be sanctuaries from the present, immune to the hustle and bustle, the sound and fury that in the end change nothing. Like long unopened books sitting upon dusty shelves, there exist people filled with knowledge that has somehow been saved from extinction. But buried as they are by time, there abides in them yet a seed awaiting the proper condition for germination. There is some process that occurs in dormancy, some subtle shifting of the fabric of reality that science has yet to discover. From such forgotten places as these occasionally springs, in some unseen future, a gigantic oak whose day has come. He had been on the verge of something, some subtle thought that he could sense was true, profound. It was a butterfly that fluttered towards a deeper understanding, a new way of perceiving the world. He had experienced it often enough in his life, this briefest glimpse of something at the edge of consciousness. He had experienced it enough to realize that this was how all great discoveries began, like discovering the first thin tendril of a vein of gold that awaited mining. To be dragged away at such a moment was being awoken from a very pleasant dream. But as much as one tries, one can only stay so long in the world of reverie before returning to the far more unpleasant world that the collective mind had so far been able to cobble together.
Annoyed as he was by the interruption of someone at his door, he managed to realize there was some connection that existed between what he was reading and the person who stood outside. There was, after all, some purpose to his long searches into the past. Flowers would someday bloom from the roots he followed downwards towards nourishment. Such a flower perhaps now awaited him.
The Left Wing And The Right Wing Are Not Working
I am occasionally reminded we have this thing in our house called a television and that my wife pays some satellite provider money to supply us with channels for this audio-video apparatus. Such was the case today while I ate lunch before returning to playing on Facebook—er, I mean writing. I turned the thing on and sought something to amuse me while ingesting calories. Since the news channels are so spiritually degrading, and since my wife doesn’t pay extra for the naughty channels, I ended up on C-Span. What I saw was an author named Jay Cost discussing his book, A Republic No More. The event was hosted by the Cato Institute, a conservative think tank. As he spoke I could not help but admit that his grasp on American History was vastly superior to my own. And as he sat and discussed issues with two representatives from the Cato Institute, I realized that they too spoke from a wealth of knowledge beyond mine. And from their conversation they did not look to promote any agenda or to obfuscate the truth but endeavored to get to the facts of the matter.Now at this point I have to admit that on the scale of things, I’m pretty far to the left of the spectrum. And when I say “left”, I’m not talking Vote For Hillary left. But beyond the political sides of an issue, I am first and foremost interested in the truth, rather than what information best supports my biases. And the speakers at this event spoke the truth, were clearly digging for facts rather than trying to heap arguments upon a faulty premise. That’s the sort of thing I can respect, the sort of thing all of us should respect.When the author was done with his presentation, there came a time for questions from the audience. Again, I beheld thoughtfully asked questions with an earnest desire for truth rather than confirmation bias. And towards the end there was a woman from some left-wing organization that asked an intelligent question. And that intelligent question was asked respectfully. And then, and this was perhaps the most astounding thing of it all, the conservative writer from the Weekly Standard, brought to speak by The Cato Institute, cited Ralph Nader as the man he has been reading the most lately, stating that Nader had been the earliest critic of Fannie Mae and Freddy Mac, long before the 2008 financial meltdown. He then mentioned that perhaps it would be up to the far left and far right ends of the spectrum to come together under a new coalition (an idea, by the way, that Ralph Nader has also been espousing).
The truth can sometimes be so obvious that you hardly see it, but occasionally it takes the time to smack you upside the head. Those talking heads and politicians that you see and hear all the time through corporate media are not the real representatives of either the left or the right. They are demagogues put there by the powers that be to create straw men for the hard-working but underserved to cast their rightful anger at. The left and the right do in fact have much in common if they’d get beyond the leaders who are allegedly speaking for them. If we began to once again accept the idea that there is a universal truth that we could all reach some sort of consensus about, if we discuss the issues both critically and respectfully, we could work on solving many of the problems that are affecting this country, and by extension, the world. Rather than have our politics resemble two kids in the back seat on a long trip, we could be an example of how a republic could be run. And lastly, and this cannot be overstated, if we were to do this we would never again have a Bush or a Clinton in the White House again.
The truth can sometimes be so obvious that you hardly see it, but occasionally it takes the time to smack you upside the head. Those talking heads and politicians that you see and hear all the time through corporate media are not the real representatives of either the left or the right. They are demagogues put there by the powers that be to create straw men for the hard-working but underserved to cast their rightful anger at. The left and the right do in fact have much in common if they’d get beyond the leaders who are allegedly speaking for them. If we began to once again accept the idea that there is a universal truth that we could all reach some sort of consensus about, if we discuss the issues both critically and respectfully, we could work on solving many of the problems that are affecting this country, and by extension, the world. Rather than have our politics resemble two kids in the back seat on a long trip, we could be an example of how a republic could be run. And lastly, and this cannot be overstated, if we were to do this we would never again have a Bush or a Clinton in the White House again.
February 27, 2015
A Message To Those Who Voted For The Right To Work Law In Wisconsin
To my Republican representatives: Thank you very much for passing the Right To Work Bill but, you see, I already have a job. In fact, I have been working my entire adult life. If that is not what you meant by Right To Work, I urge you to speak plainly, because those who do not are apt to be mistaken for liars and charlatans. I would thank you for listening to the concerns of Wisconsin workers in passing this bill, but I don’t recall any general call for this bill to be passed. As a matter of fact, even the wacky neighbor that puts signs and hand written notes on his front lawn has never mentioned a need for a Right To Work law. So what exactly put this thought into your head and what made the need for it so immediate? Perhaps it was the sound of hundred dollar bills rustling into your campaign coffers that you mistook for the murmur of your constituents. Perhaps those out of state contributions given by billionaires anxious to drive down wages here and everywhere else temporarily blinded you to the ideals of representative democracy. So next time please ask me, John Q. Public, before passing a bill. Because I have plenty of suggestions for you, as do many of my neighbors and coworkers. Here are a few: Instead of a Right To Work law, how about a Right To Have Off When I Need To Take A Family Member To The Doctor law? How about a Right To Job Security law? Or a Right To Only Have To Work Five Days A Week Law? Ask any of the fine folk in your voting district and I’m sure they’d have an idea that would be better than what you just voted on. Of course, we do like to see you in office actually doing something other than attending fundraisers, so I hesitate to complain. We’re glad to see you on the job, and we all know it’s not your fault the system’s the way it is. All we ask is that when you spout off about wasting the tax payer’s money, that you realize that most of what we begrudge is giving our hard earned wages to people like you.
There are many things you could do to help a hard working, taxpaying citizen such as myself: taking away what little voice I have in my work environment shouldn’t be at the top of your list. But it seems when you are among us working guys you don’t listen so much as talk. Instead of listening to what we say, you are eager to tell us what you are going to do for us and how your solution is the best solution. It’s only when you’re with your rich competitors that you seem to be all ears. Forgive my cynicism, but I can’t help thinking that is because you are listening to the cash falling into your campaign chest.
There are many things you could do to help a hard working, taxpaying citizen such as myself: taking away what little voice I have in my work environment shouldn’t be at the top of your list. But it seems when you are among us working guys you don’t listen so much as talk. Instead of listening to what we say, you are eager to tell us what you are going to do for us and how your solution is the best solution. It’s only when you’re with your rich competitors that you seem to be all ears. Forgive my cynicism, but I can’t help thinking that is because you are listening to the cash falling into your campaign chest.
February 26, 2015
Stream Of Consciousness Entry Part 1
Twenty years ago, while in Advanced Composition, we were given the assignment of writing everyday in a journal. It was the first time I had the need to write without being given any idea what to write about. What it turned into was a stream of consciousness writing that opened up new doors inside of me as I shut down the inner censor that was always hampering my inner voice. It started slowly, eventually opening up something inside me that was revelatory. I cannot say you will have the same effect reading it as I did writing it, but I’m willing to see. The process is gradual, so you will have to be patient. No attempt has been made to correct any errors except for spelling.
12-12-95
Writing without having a clue about what I’m supposed to write about give to me an amount of freedom. I cannot possibly run out of things to write when I have no…Or at least I thought so. Stream of consciousness thought is easy to do but hard to put on paper. The thoughts flow freely, but the hand that records c an only move so fast. Thoughts are lost, often forever, as the slug-like fingerscrawl across drag the pen across the page. Then again, there is the part of me which wishes to edit, to conceal whatever defects I may show. AS much as I don’t like to admit it, I am proud, with plenty of petty vanities. Stream of consciousness shows my thoughts as they occur, not as I would like someone to think they occur. I can only imagine, though, that others feel the same way, that no matter how honest we think we are, we hide ourselves behind little masks, many of which hide ourselves from ourselves. I don’t particularly like where my thoughts are headed, but feel compelled to continue this line of thought. Jack London writes in John Barleycorn that there are two levels of truth, the healthy truth and the higher level. The healthy truth teaches us to cherish the things that help us survive. The higher truth simply is, without concern for us. Jack London said he glimpsed truth unrobed and turned in horror. I feel compelled to look at what London could not deal with. And yet I am afraid to relate that which I see. I am afraid to confess my fear, my weakness, myself. And without other people’s input, I think my vision is skewed by who I am, that others might see things in a different light. There is a fine line, I suppose, between honesty and an over willingness to burden other people with one’s problems. I mean, everybody has problems, right? Nobody likes a whiner, and it’s not healthy to dwell on negative ideas. Nothing is good or bad except in proportion. A certain amount is good, but too much more or less makes it bad.But here I run from the truths I wished to find. And even now I am thinking I will destroy this paper before anyone sees it. I am ashamed of my unguarded thoughts. Ashamed more of their bizarreness or mundaneness than anything else. But perhaps just there I lied. I am afraid that anyone reading this might find me strange. I feel an unguarded me is an unpleasant one. I am here unguarded by the civilized me and am face to face with baseness, cowardly emotions and base desires.It’s funny, but I am merely a collection of things, none of which is the true me. There is no indivisible whole that I can point to and call “me”. Whatever. I do not like where this is leading. Should I terminate this line of thought? Run from truth laid bare? Because it is true, you know, all of it.
I sometimes tend to think that evil is an illusion, that if I look clearly at it I will understand it and not be frightened by it, that there is nothing to fear. Other times, I am all too sure that it is an entity, to be avoided, and if need be, run from. I think at some level, we all run from the truth. I think I have had enough of this line of thought—at least for now.
12-12-95
Writing without having a clue about what I’m supposed to write about give to me an amount of freedom. I cannot possibly run out of things to write when I have no…Or at least I thought so. Stream of consciousness thought is easy to do but hard to put on paper. The thoughts flow freely, but the hand that records c an only move so fast. Thoughts are lost, often forever, as the slug-like fingers
I sometimes tend to think that evil is an illusion, that if I look clearly at it I will understand it and not be frightened by it, that there is nothing to fear. Other times, I am all too sure that it is an entity, to be avoided, and if need be, run from. I think at some level, we all run from the truth. I think I have had enough of this line of thought—at least for now.
February 25, 2015
The Fifteen Hour Work Week
“With the natural resources of the world, the machinery already invented, a rational organization of production and distribution, and an equally rational elimination of waste, the able-bodied workers would not have to labour more than two or three hours per day to feed everybody, clothe everybody, house everybody, educate everybody, and give a fair measure of little luxuries to everybody.”
This was written in 1905 by Jack London, a hundred ten years ago. What has happened since then? Mankind has invented the airplane. He has invented the cartridge pen and later the ball point pen. He has invented the electric typewriter, the word processor and now the computer. Where it once took weeks for news to circle the world we can now receive it almost instantly. Documents that once needed to travel by rail, by ship and by horse and buggy are now zipped by satellites effortlessly and instantly. And the machines of industry have increased almost unbelievably as well. The machine I now operate is twice as efficient as the one I used to operate, is ten times more efficient than the ones in the memories of people I work with. Easily, production has increased tenfold since the time Jack London wrote those words, proclaiming that there was no need for able bodied workers to work more than two or three hours a day. That should put our workday at somewhere between 12 and 18 minutes. So what has happened since then? How did we go from a married man working 50-60 hours a week to a couple averaging 100 hours or more a week? There are the labor saving devices we have to pay for, I’ll give you that. A washer and a dryer, dishwashers and garage door openers save us some time working at home. But they save physical labor, the kind that is healthy and for the most part stress relieving. Because we now sit at desks for 50 hours a week instead of doing physical labor, we now have to run to the gym after our 10 hour work day and get a workout in. So in the long run our riding lawn mowers and our snow blowers have not really saved us any time. What has happened to us since then? How did we end up a society that pays someone to walk our dogs so we can drive our SUVs to the gym to hit the treadmill for an hour? How did we get here from there? Sure, we all have televisions nowadays. Really big ones. But a hundred years ago, people would go out to see a play or sit on the porch and talk to our neighbors as they happened by, or played cards with parents or children. Was that a good trade we made? Granted we have food from all over the world now, and we can eat the most tropical of fruits in the middle of winter. But very few of us now have grandma’s preserves sitting on our shelves. Very few of us eat vegetables picked fresh from the gardens we or someone we know lovingly tended. Very few of us would even know how to raise food from the ground. Very few of us would know how to prepare an animal, to either raise livestock or hunt for our own dinner. We’ve lost something and I don’t know how we let it happen. And we’re all in such a hurry to get things done, I’m worried we’ll never find the time to wonder how it all went wrong. Life should be better than this. We should demand the benefits that our labor saving devices have supposedly given us. We should be humans again, take time to smell the roses, spend time with those we love, do the things that are worth doing and ask the questions that need to be asked:
So once again I ask you--if you can find the time to come up with an answer—what happened?
February 18, 2015
A Short Story
Here's the first story in my collection, Stories Light And Dark. Since Kindle allows you to read it for free anyhow, I may as well post it here as well. If you like this, you might want to check out the rest of the book, available here: Stories Light And Dark 1 If you are a member of Kindle Unlimited, you can borrow it for free. I always want to tell people my stories aren't all as dark as this. Or, if it's a spiritual story, I want to tell them they're not all like that. That's why I gave my compilation the title I did.
The Last Hours Of Brandon Kratz
The trail of corpses will lead them here. They’ll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.They will find their man, but they’ll never find the answers they’re looking for. They’ll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor’s dogs. They’ll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there’s the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They’ll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don’t care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don’t care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end. The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.I guess I’m fortunate that I don’t look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I’m good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn’t even notice me. Try it the next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that’s about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger’s eye.The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I’m glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.There’ve been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There’s been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau’s four murders, more than Eric Cooper’s five. Even Ryan Kennedy’s seven murders don’t add up to Brandon Kratz’s total. I’ve been on quite a roll. Let’s see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don’t think anybody even saw me there, although I’m sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I’m forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff’s deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were armed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I’m pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I’m on foot. I’m in the woods so they’ll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road’s coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.It won’t be far now. I’d love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it’s part of the plan. There’s really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can’t be far. I feel it in my bones.I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.“Where’s my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t hurt them.”“Now, Mr. Kratz,” I say “I’ve explained this to you before. There’s been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done.”What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he’s done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.“The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling,” I continue. “A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they’ll be able to sleep tonight.“Now if you’ll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won’t look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?”He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.“No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same.”I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz’s head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I’m tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it’s going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It’s a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He’s lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. “It’s a pity they never count my final victim,” I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.
According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz’s body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I’m busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I’ll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he’ll be accused of.The next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that’s pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.
The Last Hours Of Brandon Kratz
The trail of corpses will lead them here. They’ll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.They will find their man, but they’ll never find the answers they’re looking for. They’ll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor’s dogs. They’ll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there’s the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They’ll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don’t care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don’t care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end. The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.I guess I’m fortunate that I don’t look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I’m good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn’t even notice me. Try it the next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that’s about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger’s eye.The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I’m glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.There’ve been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There’s been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau’s four murders, more than Eric Cooper’s five. Even Ryan Kennedy’s seven murders don’t add up to Brandon Kratz’s total. I’ve been on quite a roll. Let’s see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don’t think anybody even saw me there, although I’m sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I’m forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff’s deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were armed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I’m pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I’m on foot. I’m in the woods so they’ll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road’s coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.It won’t be far now. I’d love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it’s part of the plan. There’s really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can’t be far. I feel it in my bones.I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.“Where’s my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t hurt them.”“Now, Mr. Kratz,” I say “I’ve explained this to you before. There’s been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done.”What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he’s done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.“The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling,” I continue. “A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they’ll be able to sleep tonight.“Now if you’ll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won’t look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?”He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.“No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same.”I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz’s head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I’m tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it’s going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It’s a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He’s lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. “It’s a pity they never count my final victim,” I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.
According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz’s body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I’m busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I’ll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he’ll be accused of.The next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that’s pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.
