James Rozoff's Blog, page 26

A Poem From A Soldier To His Mother (Part 2)

Here is another poem I found that my dad had sent to his mother while away from home during World War II. As much as it speaks of a different age, it also speaks to me of a young man I never knew, the man my father was long before I was ever born.

This country of ours is wagingA battle from sea to seaAnd I’m truly gratefulThat the battle includes me.
Though myself, I’m not superhumanAnd though myself I can’t win this warJust think of the effect it would haveTo add to me ten million more.
Some may be majors and captainsWhile us privates acquire no fameBut what good is a pictureIf it hasn’t got a frame.
I stand ready to do my dutyTo fight and to die if there’s needSo that the people I left behind meNeedn’t under a dictator bleed.
When this mess is cleared upAnd when our men returnThere will be celebrationsAnd there will be no need to yearn
The men will then take overTo relieve women tired and illLet women return to her householdWhile men return to the mill.
Let new cars roll out of the factoryLet people have tires and gasLet wives have sugar and coffeeLet sportsmen return to their bass
Let baseball return to its standingAs America’s No. 1 gameLet football and hockey and tennisReturn and again be the same.

Why I Write

I spent the better part of my Sunday playing around on the internet, avoiding the attempt of putting words down into a physical form. And then the words seemed to flow and this is part of what I recorded. This is why I write, to discover that such things exist inside of me. Not sure how well it translates to the reader, but perhaps with a little polish...

     Nevertheless, Doug lifted the old metal latch that was the occupants’ only protection from what was outside their sanctuary and slowly opened the door of rotted wood. Its rusty hinges resisted, as did a certain warning in his heart. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a small human form lying curled up on an undersized bed in the corner of the almost empty room. Doug was full of the fear that the suffering of another of God’s creatures could bring upon a man. He wanted to look away, to say that there was nothing he could do for him. He wanted just to forget, to flee and save himself. But he had a certain amount of pride, a degree of teaching from his parents that dictated that this is not how he should act. He was a human and he would act like one. He was not an animal, deaf to the suffering of others. And besides, even animals had empathy for others, he had witnessed it himself. Swallowing his own fear, he reached out to connect with another living soul.     “Are you okay?” Doug asked into the darkness. The uninterrupted whimpering of the child did not in any way show that he had been heard. Not having any idea what to do, Doug approached the bed and knelt down to the figure lying upon it. The smell of sweat and overripe hay hit his nostrils, the shivering of the child palpable from the short distance he maintained. He recognized him now as the child in the field the other evening, the one who had cut his hand on the sharp blade of the sugar cane. His hand was still bandaged with the dirty rag his mother had torn from her dress. Doug was afraid to touch him, both for himself because it might increase his closeness to suffering and because he might frighten him. Instead of touch he used words.
     “Don’t be afraid. I know what he did, know what Delavois did. I won’t let him hurt you,” Doug promised, knowing his promise to be an empty one. He was helpless to stop Delavois from doing anything he wanted, but Doug knew he would have to find a way to stop him, knew that helplessness was not acceptable. This would have to end and he was the one who would have to put a stop to it. He didn’t know how but it somehow felt that his will would open a rift in reality to permit it. Delavois’ power, after all, was a rift in reality, a wrongness crying out to be righted. Suddenly, this purpose placed itself above all others in Doug’s mind, higher than the urge for self-preservation that was the default setting for all living things. Here, in the darkness, amidst the suffering of a child bereft of his mother, Doug discovered something so beautiful he almost wept at the realization of it. It was the opposite of what had Delavois had gripped so tightly, that fear that so much shaped mankind’s reality. It was a truth at least as powerful as all the darkness and corruption that surrounded him.

A Poem From A Soldier To His Mother

I was going through some things at my mom’s house and came across something my father sent to his mother after enlisting. I thought a poem from a son to his mother during World War II might be interesting to more than just me.
There’s a lonely mother somewhereAnd a lonely soldier tooHe is many mile away from homeHe’s thinking this night of you
He may not have been the best sonThat a mother ever hadBut though he wasn’t perfectHe wasn’t very bad
Like a million other mothersTo this country you gave a manFor we now have a war to winAnd he’ll win it if he can
He appreciates his motherNow, as he never did beforeFor he knows that he loves youAnd will forever more.
Someday the war shall be overAnd someday the fighting doneAnd the sons will return to their mothersAnd the mothers to their sons.
Your Loving Son,

Walter

Creatures Of The Night (A Poem)

Every write has a poem or two in his past. It’s funny how the theme in this is a theme I still deal with today. Tonight I offer you a poem, tomorrow, perhaps, I will tell you of the inspirations behind it.
Creatures Of The Night
Within the shadows of the worldHide creatures of the nightThey come alive when darkness fallsBut always out of sight
In older days when darkness ruledAnd real knowledge was rareThey were a cause, or so it’s said,Of both hope and despair
They got their strange unworldly mightFrom those who would believeBelief created fearsome powerBoth above and beneath
As mankind and its knowledge grewThe shadows then recededAnd under reason’s blinding lightThe wise men grew conceited
The people came to disbelieveIn creatures of the nightFor how could something never seenBe wielders of such might
And so sickened, and disbelievedAnd blinded by the lightThey withered under desert sunThe creatures of the night
And all of those that still survivedPrepared for final flightBut there is nowhere left to runNo Shelter from the light
Disproved belief, no longer realCrushed by reason’s iron heel
Creatures of the night

Perchance To Dream Hits The British Isles

Just thought I'd let my British fans know my book, Perchance To Dream, will be on sale at Amazon UK for £0.99. Not sure how much that is, but I think the £ is for lira. Whatever it is, I'm confident my book is worth point nine nine of something I've never heard of before. The sale will be going on for another 4 days, which would be 2/7th of a fortnight. May you enjoy it immensely: Perchance To Dream (The Amazing Morse)

This Poem Is For YOU

I found this poem amidst the piles of papers I keep stashed about the house. I seem to remember writing an improved version of this but I can't find it. If I do, I'll share it. 
I believe in youYes, you.I know who you areBecause I am you too.
I believe you can be what you desire to beAnd that what you most desire is both noble and true.I know this is real because I believe in me too.
We are all rays of the same sunTracing ourselves back to the only One.Travel how we might, we can’t escape our sourceThough shame and shyness and embarrassmentSeek to rob us of our innocenceInnocence cannot die while we yet live.
This is the big yes,The answer with no reasonsFor reasons need reasonAnd reason can only reflect, not be.
Whoever, wherever, you arePlease believe it’s truePlease believe in me,That I believe in you.

Thoughts of the Day (Random Thoughts Part 4)

Thoughts I scribbled down while at work today. Not a full blog, but I thought I'd share what I do at work. Besides work, I mean.
Even our sense of smell is better equipped to judge the outside world than our intellect, but the intellect is better at convincing us it is right. Think about it, if something does not seem right but our mind cannot find a reason against it, we say that “something smells rotten” or “it doesn’t pass the smell test. For one day, abandon reason for scent. Follow your nose and see if it does not make you happier.
Simplistic ideas are the weapons with which the thoughtful are clubbed.
I often hear people ponder about humankind, what is so unique about us that we have come to dominate the planet over all God’s other creatures. What vanity. It is like Babylon pondering what made their civilization superior to all others, or a child contemplating how he got to be king of the hill. It is a thing of the moment.
When we abandon our gods, we cease to be human.
The gulf between liberals and conservatives is not as vast as the gulf between the people and their leaders. But our leaders do everything in their power to keep us focused on the former rather than the latter.

The essential knowledge of the virtues civilization needs is embedded in the great religions. I cannot think of another institution they inhabit.

The Iron Heel by Jack London

In an earlier blog post I questioned why anyone should want to buy my book on Kindle when there were so many of the great books available for free. I first listed a number of books that I would very much like to see everyone read, then attempted to justify my existence by stating that while my work does not hold a candle to that of the great authors, at least it deals with contemporary issues better than books published over a century ago.I was wrong.I’ve recently been perusing The Iron Heel by Jack London and from even a few pages I can grab a blog’s worth of great quotes. And not only of things that were true of London’s time but true of the times we are living in. In fact, Jack London saw the present more clearly than I do, so acute was his mind’s eye. I am in the dirt before him. Everything I’ve attempted to say he’s already said, and better. Having said that, here are some quotes from The Iron Heel.
The mental processes of a man with whom one disagrees are always wrong. Therefore, the mind of the man is wrong.
The press of the United States? It is a parasitic growth that battens on the capitalist class. Its function is to serve the established by moulding public opinion, and right well it serves it.
The swift changes in our industrial system are causing equally swift changes in our religious, political, and social structures. An unseen and fearful revolution is taking place in the fibre and structure of society. On can only dimly feel these things. But they are in the air, now, today. One can feel the loom of them—things vast, vague, and terrible. My mind recoils from contemplation of what they may crystallize into.
“Oh, I am not challenging your sincerity,” Ernest continued. “You are sincere. You preach what you believe. There lies your strength and your value—to the capitalist class. But should you change your belief to something that menaces the established order, your preaching would be unacceptable to your employers, and you would be discharged.
“Our boasted civilization is based upon blood, soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the scarlet stain.”
“And not one of them was a free agent,” he said. “They were all tied to the merciless industrial machine. And the pathos of it and the tragedy is that they are tied by their heartstrings. Their children—always the young life that it is their instinct to protect. This instinct is stronger than any ethic they possess.”
“Tell me,” I said, “when one surrenders his personal feelings to his professional feelings, may not the action be defined as a sort of spiritual mayhem?”I did not get an answer. Colonel Ingram had ingloriously bolted, overturning a palm in his flight.
They were the most hopeless of all I had encountered in my quest. They believed absolutely that their conduct was right. There was no question about it, no discussion. They were convinced that they were the saviours of society, and that it was they who made happiness for the many. And they drew pathetic pictures of what would be the sufferings of the working class were it not for the employment that they, and they alone, by their wisdom, provided for it.
“When they want to do a thing, in business of course, they must wait till there arises in their brains, somehow, a religious, or ethical, or scientific, or philosophic, concept that the thing is right. And then they go ahead and do it, unwitting that one of the weaknesses of the human mind is that the wish is parent to the thought. No matter what they want to do, the sanction always comes. They even see their way to doing wrong that right may come of it.
“The weakness in their position lies in that they are merely business men. They are not philosophers. They are not biologists nor sociologists. If they were, of course, all would be well. A business man who was also a biologist and a sociologist would know, approximately, the right thing to do for humanity. But outside the realm of business, these men are stupid. They know only business. They do not know mankind nor society, and yet they set themselves up as arbiters of the fates of the hungry millions and all the other millions thrown in.”
“They too, were bound to the machine, but they were so bound that they sat on top of it.”
“Here life was clean, noble, and alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ’s own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated but to be rescued and saved at the last.”
“And so it was, instead of in paradise, that I found myself in the arid desert of commercialism. I found nothing but stupidity, except for business. I found none clean, noble, and alive, though I found many who were alive—with rottenness. What I did find was monstrous selfishness and heartlessness, and a gross, gluttonous, practiced and practical materialism.”
“You have failed in your management. You have made a shambles of civilization. You have been blind and greedy. You have risen up (as you today rise up), shamelessly, in our legislative halls, and declared that profits were impossible without the toil of children and babes.”
“No man can be intellectually insulted. Insult, in its very nature, is emotional.”
“Life sums itself up to you in profits. You have a firm and abiding belief that you were created for the sole purpose of making profits.”
“And the absurd thing about it is that you have repeated these phrases so often that you believe them. You want opportunity to plunder your fellow men in your own small way, but you hypnotize yourself into thinking you want freedom. You are piggish and acquisitive, but the magic of your phrases leads you to believe that you are patriotic. Your desire for profits, which is sheer selfishness, you metamorphose into altruistic solicitude for suffering humanity.”
“And why not?” he demanded. “Why can we not return to the ways of our fathers when this republic was founded?”“I’ll try to tell you why not, though the telling will be rather hard. You see, you fellows have studied business, in a small way, but you have not studied social evolution at all. You are in the midst of a transition stage now in economic evolution, but you do not understand it, and that’s what causes all the confusion. Why cannot you return? Because you can’t. You can no more make water run up hill than can you cause the tide of economic evolution to flow back in its channel along the way it came. Joshua made the sun stand still upon Gibeon, but you would outdo Joshua. You would make the sun go backward in the sky. You would have time retrace its steps from noon to morning.”
The above quotes I have found in a few moments’ perusing of pages. There is so much more to be read within the pages of this classic. If you have a Kindle, you can download it free here: http://www.amazon.com/Iron-Heel-Jack-London-ebook/dp/B00847CZZO/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1423453696&sr=1-1&keywords=the+iron+heel+jack
If you don’t have a Kindle, I’m sure you can find it elsewhere.

Scott Walker, Wisconsin Public Radio, and The Taliban

     In the vast cultural wasteland that is commercial radio, I sometimes bounce from one channel to the next in search of something that doesn’t offend me on multiple levels. I go from one station where Ted Nugent is glorifying having sex with underage girls and ZZ Top is singing about having sex with prostitutes only to find the same songs played shortly after on the next station. I hear DJs that can’t seem to find a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve poop or body parts. But then I discovered Wisconsin Public Radio. Sure, I guess I always knew it was there at the end of the dial, but I never really listened. Until I did. And the more I listened the more I realized there was nothing else on my dial that could remotely compare to it. It was intelligent conversation between opposing viewpoints that maintained a degree of respect for the other as well as the listener. It was humor that had a degree of sophistication and a lack of cruelty. I could hear world music, the blues, classical, jazz, folk and all kinds of variety that is lacking elsewhere on my radio dial. It was old time radio programs being rebroadcast and advice on gardens and all the important speeches of the day.     It was all the things that The History Channel and A&E and CNN and others were supposed to be but weren’t. I’ve heard entire hour long programs dedicate to various founding fathers, Aristotle’s influence on science, and Ornette Coleman’s album A Love Supreme.     And it was free! It was free and so it was available to everyone with a radio, which is pretty much everyone. I like knowing that people have this option. I like to think people who are looking for something more than scatological humor and three chord tunes have some place to turn. Not only was WPR free of charge but free of commercials. Think for a moment of how often your consciousness is invaded by commercials and you will appreciate how much that one distinction is worth. Advertising shouts at you from billboards as you drive down the street, call to you from the corner of your Facebook page, and annoy you every few moments while watching TV or listening to commercial radio.     It is the one, the only, alternative to commercial radio. There is nowhere else to go, no other state culture outside the mainstream. And of course Scott Walker had to go after it. Of course he said it was nothing personal, but decisions had to be made.     I can’t help feeling that Scott Walker’s decision to defund Wisconsin Public Radio is comparable to the Taliban’s need to blow up the statues of Buddha in Afghanistan. Seriously. The mindset is: let’s blow it up because we don’t understand it. Let’s blow it up because it offends our small little understanding that we dogmatically follow. And at least part of the reason for both the Taliban and Scott Walker is: blowing stuff up is fun. I like to blow stuff up. It makes me feel powerful, makes me feel like a man.     It’s an overly patriarchal view of the world that believes everybody must be punished. This isn’t an attack on masculinity or men, it is an attack on an unhealthy perversion of masculinity, one nurtured on a philosophy that qualities such as kindness and unity are weaknesses, that everyone is out to get me and that I’ve got to get them first. It’s the belief that even the smallest bit of sharing or charity is a sin that will spread weakness and dependency like ebola.     Scott Walker, if you cannot appreciate the value of Wisconsin Public Radio, there is something wrong with you. Not only is it valuable on its own, it set Wisconsin apart, was a jewel in its crown. WPR provides us with culture, which is something utterly lacking in commercial media. And culture is important to society, as important to society as a pancreas is to the body, although both are difficult to explain to someone who is uninterested in knowing.     Great societies need culture. It is the glue that holds a people together. It provides a pool of knowledge and viewpoints and gives us something from which to build a common vision. But we are heading into a new dark age, and that is not the bold new idea you want to propose.      You don’t have to enjoy something yourself to acknowledge its benefit to society. I seldom drink water straight from the tap but I’m glad it’s there and safe for those who need it. And I’m willing to pay so that it stays that way. For everybody.
     And if you believe in the trickle down theory, that by giving to the top it will filter down to the rest of society, know that it is true for culture. When those interested in history and current events are given a source of information, they will help disseminate that information to everyone they come in contact with. But if you insist on tearing down everything that does not easily fit in with your narrow view of the world, history will more likely compare you to the Taliban than any great visionary. I have the same feeling in my heart now regarding WPR as I did then about the statues of Buddha, that a cultural treasure was being destroyed by narrow-minded fanatics.

A Scene Is Where You Make It

     There are eras in history in which people desire to be something more, times that shine like jewels in the history books. Ancient Greece in the 5th Century B.C., The Renaissance, 1976, or the Civil Rights Movement.     This is not one of those eras. Perhaps for some people it is, people who like 3D movies or body art, but not for me. From my earliest awareness of such things I’ve felt that I never really fit in with the times I was born to. Perhaps it is because I was the youngest child by eight years in my family. At the age of four, in 1970, I’d already been introduced to The Beatles, The Kinks, and The Animals. And Cream. Sunshine of Your Love was amongst my favorite songs at that age, as was Hey Jude. I’m sure the Batman Theme Song fell in there somewhere too, but I was very much influenced by my older siblings.      London in the 60’s and early 70’s, that’s where I should have been as a young adult. I missed it by about 15 years. But just imagine in 1964 that I Want To Hold Your Hand came out and sounded so completely different than anything that came before it. Now think that in three short years Tomorrow Never Knows and Are You Experienced? hit the airwaves. Add to that Whiter Shade of Pale, Itchycoo Park See Emily Play, Paper Sun, and a hundred similar songs. Try to come up with some other era where music was developing so rapidly.       I missed the party. It always seemed to be that way for me. I always dreamed of the day when some movement would come along and sweep me in its great wave. Even a small wave would have suited me. I would have loved to have been in college in Madison when somebody dreamed up the satirical newspaper The Onion. Or Minneapolis when Mystery Science Theater 3000 was started. I can just imagine how it would feel to love going to work, to feel fortunate to be getting paid for doing exactly what you want to do.     But it has not been my fate. I have never met the right people, never been in the right place at the right time.     Or perhaps, perhaps a scene is where you make it. Maybe if you are just so certain of what it is you want that eventually you will find what it is you are searching for. Hell, maybe you will make it happen. Because after all, a scene always has to start somewhere, and every one of the situations I described began with someone openly searching for something more.     That is what I choose to believe. All my life I have wanted someone to find the right scene, but perhaps it is up to me to get things started. Don’t get me wrong: what pushes me forward is not my own desires but the desire to keep alive all the greatness that I have been fortunate enough to encounter. Everything I’ll ever do will be influenced by Jack London, James Warren, Victor Hugo, and a thousand other influences great and small who inspired me to do something more with my life than merely exist. So in a sense, I already belong to a scene and always have. My heart beats in sympathy with a great tide that has insisted not only that I could be something more but that the human race can be something more than a knot of squirming creatures all fighting each other for their own pitiful existence.     And so I plant my flag today. Let it be something for others to rally around, humble as it may be. Let it be a reminder to everyone who chances upon it not only that they too may work towards greater, nobler goals, but that society as a whole is filled with individuals who are only lacking a spark to ignite a fire within them. Welcome to my blog. It is small, but it is part of something larger. I reach out to you, whoever you may be. If I can light a single fire, it shall be worth it. If I can preserve that spark that has been passed on from torch to torch for time beyond reckoning, I will feel myself to be some small part of that which has inspired me.
     Feel free to leave a link to your website, an e-mail that we may keep in contact, or a Facebook page. It helps to stay connected with those who are on a similar path. And whatever you are interested in doing, best of luck to you.