MOVE FAST, CRASH SOON

MOVE FAST CRASH SOON

 (Comments are always welcome.)

I don't like the concept of “deep truths.” It implies that such are significant with a new, special, and positive understanding of , broadly speaking, a life experience. Instead of “truths”, perhaps let me suggest “a re-framing” of a life experience that is accompanied by a sense of belief in the new perspective, sort of an I-got-it experience. And, I think, it comes as a solution to a problem about which the individual might have been totally unaware.

While I understand what is meant, that such insights are totally personal, that others are not involved I’m not sure it makes sense. Perhaps the I-got-it experience that comes with others is not as significant as the more isolated experience but a positive I-got-it is, whether with others or alone is quite exhilarating. Certainly, the practice of brain-storming a problem can lead to such got-it moments with pleasure intensified when others agree with enthusiasm.

I remember struggling for an idea for my PHD but uselessly. My faculty advisor chided me with, “you're not getting any younger,” and I thought perhaps I'd drop out and sell shoes (Why shoes? I have no idea.) But, doodling with words on my typewriter a tiny, somewhat absurd idea popped into my head. Wife was away and that eliminated interruptions. Mostly for a kind of bitter fun I explored the possibilities; my mind ranged across a number of unanticipated implications and pretty soon I was typing like mad – with an excitement that got me to leap up and dance around the room. I'd rush back to the typewriter with ideas bursting out through my fingers and did more dancing. In truth, I was one with the universe.

When I calmed down a bit, I wrote up a formal statement of the idea and later presented it to my advisor. “Bert, this is crazy; it'll never work.” So I pointed out this part of it and that pert of it and how it tied together some badly understood aspects of personality testing – and persuaded him, at least to the point of suggesting that I do a pilot study. The rest, as they say is history.

But, here is the point – suppose it had been a crappy idea? Suppose I had, out of desperation, deluded myself and created a meaningless melange of nothing? The fact that I truly believed it had absolutely nothing to do with its validity. If you have ever attempted to create a recipe you know what I mean.

Which takes us to religion. Religion is, among other things, an attempt to understand the universe. Where did everything come from? Who created it and why? Does the universe care about me? Why am I here? Such questions, and others seem universal in the human experience; apparently all societies invent creation stories with a god or gods to explain everything around them. And, they receive great comfort from such ideas. They confirm that universe is not a vast, unknowable and chaotic enterprise but orderly and with purpose and guidance for human behavior.

Imagine the excitement when such ideas first popped out, the happy excitement to realize that everything fit together and the comfort in knowing that everything was designed for our well-being and – we would never die! If that doesn't make you feel good, well perhaps you are from Mars. Decent and honorable people believe such; For a long time it was the best idea around. The adults enthustiastically taught it to their kids. All was well.

Still, remember my advisor; he told me to check out my crazy idea to see if it had some virtue. Do a pilot study because it might not work; but had my idea failed, at least it wouldn’t end my quest for a doctorate. Test whenever possible. The message is that we humans are not trustworthy (I don't mean in an immoral sense.). We are not particularly good at sorting out what makes sense and what is, at best, only partially useful. We easily can see how other religions are faulty but retain faith in our own. Politicians leap with joy when they discover the “truth” about how to fix a problem and don't examine it from all angles. Carpenters understand the value of measuring twice; we all would do better living that way.

There once was a fellow named Simpson

With an idea he thought worth a billion

To the bank with a dash

He withdrew all his cash

At his death he had naught to leave no one.

A MARITAL TRAGEDY

A Marital Tragedy

When in the army I met a fellow from Appalachia with one of those slow drawls that can both infuriate and fascinate the northern listener. He explained how the passion of newlyweds superseded almost every other consideration; the sexing was sometimes more frequent than eating. “If you put a pebble in a large jar every time they do it,” he told me, the jar would be filled. At the end of the first year, take a pebble out on every occasion and you won't empty the jar by the end of five years. We laughed. This story is about Clarabelle-Sue Smith.

Born on the family farm to hard working folk, they lived too far away from any town to easily get there. It took a family outing, but her hard working parents never had outings so they never went so did not Clarabelle. Her father in particular, in addition to his devotion to work also was devoted to God, a being whom he believed frowned of human frivolity. There was little laughter in Clara's life and no radio or television. Well, yes a radio, but turned on only for the farm report; Clara had little idea of the outside world.

The school bus picked her up, deposited her at school and later committed the same feat in reverse at the end of the day. The schoolchildren barely knew her and her awareness of her ignorance kept her separate from them. She grew into a comely young woman and in her teens became aware of sensations located in unmentionable parts of her body. While somewhat slow in many ways, she understood that those sensations had something to do with pleasure and in some way had to do with boys. She wandered the hallways and visited classrooms but her hormones affected her brain so it could not bring itself to think clearly. Her few girl friends clearly had solved the problem but too timid, she could not ask.

It so happened that one day the athletic department gave out free tickets to a basketball game. The team was so bad it was the only way they could somewhat fill the arena. Clara waited with dull interest until the team ran onto the court ... and she saw Zeke. Six ft 1 inch tall and muscular and fell instantly in love. The Italians call it The Thunderbolt and it crashed into her brain and blew her mind. He was only a middling player on a mediocre team but he was the man for her and she went after him. Other girls, as was their wont, went after him and the other players, but none with the zeal that Clara poured into getting Zeke for her own.

She never thought about what would happen, what it meant if she got him. What went on between men and women was only a vague blur. She knew about bulls and cows on the farm but had not the capacity to translate such knowledge into a reasonable facsimile of what happened between men and women. But, she wanted him and she could figure it out later.

Though he had been flirted many times, Zeke had never had a girl so enamored of him. Still, he was slow in responding until she removed her bra and he got the idea. It happened, or, more accurately, he made it happen. She liked the two minutes of foreplay but the culmination was a resounding failure as far as pleasure for her, but she became pregnant and got her man. Poor Zeke cursed his fate but in the small town, Drudgeville, where they lived, the young men had to pay the piper and since he had piped her, a wedding ceremony was quickly arranged. Clara's mother consoled her. “Don't worry, dear, you'll probably like it in a few years.”

Her mother need not have worried. They piped away and she became an enthusiast, only reluctantly ceasing such activities because of the birth of their child, a girl. Zeke played basketball at a local community college but quickly was relegated to the bench. A semi-star in high school, he was a dud in tougher competition. They moved back to Drudgeville where he got a job at a body shop scraping rust off damaged cars. He was promised a promotion to real bodywork but that never happened.

So, with the child born and him working, she had nothing to do but care for the child and cajole him into bed. A full time job and sex twice a day, morning and evening and six times over the weekend, began to wear on him and in spite of her eager stimulation, he would fall asleep. This was not Clara's plan for a good life. She had found pleasure, more pleasure that she had imagined and would not give it up without a struggle. But, the struggle failed. Back off,” Zeke growled, “four times a week is enough, I need to rest.

It was then she decided he had to die. She would never break her marriage vows by finding another man to fill the gaps, her vows were sacrosanct. The solution was to kill him, but in such a way that suspicion could never finger her as the perpetrator. She thought of accidents, fake suicide, poison, knives and guns. She even thought of hiring an assassin but all the possibilities had weak points and she panicked at the thought she would have to spend the rest of her suddenly dreary life with only little of that glorious pleasure. But, she found a way. On a visit to the doctor, he was told he had gained too much weight and ate too much fried food. “It's fried food that will kill you in the long run.”

It took a few days for her to understand the significance of that warning. Fried food would kill him. Of course, that was it. He loved fried food and he would now get it, morning noon and night. Fried fish, fried chicken, chicken fried steak, fried zucchini, fried potatoes, hash brown potatoes, cottage fried potatoes, fried onion rings, fried Twinkies, fried shrimp and whatever else she could think to place before him. She understood it would take a few years, but at 21, she had plenty of time after his death for a fulfilled life.

He loved her newfound enthusiasm for cooking and he loved fried food. Every year the doctor warned him about weight, blood sugar cholesterol and heart attacks, but when Zeke expressed some concern she would place before him deep fried cantaloupe slices and he was doomed.

At twenty-three, she could see that he had only a few more years to live and rejoiced. His increased dehabilitation made sex almost impossible for him and his belly fat repulsed her but OK, she could wait. She made up for her loss with fantasies and self-gratification. All was well; the plan was working and she could wait.

Until he came home one day. He explained that he had spoken with twelve-year-old Tommy Jones, the youngest preacher in the county. The pre-adolescent had told him that eating meat and fish was a sin and that starting that day, they were vegetarians. She smashed in his skull with the frying pan.

She could not enjoy life without sexing

Its absence in life was perplexing

To her it was balm

Without it no calm

No sex was simply quite vexing

PISSING ON THE ENEMY

PISSING ON THE ENEMY

There are some people who are convinced that world wide violence is gradually diminishing and they provide data to support that idea. I am not convinced even though the data appear solid. Their idea is that warfare is an aberration, something left over from ancient times when killing others meant survival, just a bad habit, thus expungible.

While it is a hopeful plausibility, it ignores how evolution shaped us. Fear and anger are built in, run like hell or fight like hell and survive until the next encounter. Pretty early on, bands of people, probably kin groups, realized that uncontrolled running or fighting easily disrupted the group and established rules of conduct. The kids, human kids, had to learn how not to run and not to fight when things went wrong; it makes little sense to kill someone who scowled at you though, alas that happens. After all, it could be caused by a distressed stomach. Still, the impulses are still there; civilization and religion have worked hard to tame the beast but outbursts abound. Another attack on a school, I forget where, occupied the news this morning. It's too early to know why, but you can be sure it has nothing to do with survival. It is most likely a version of: “Things should not be the way they are.” Most people feel irritated when caught behind a slow driver, but how many people wonder at that? Why the irritation? “He/she should not act that way.”

I remember discussing things with men who faced bitter guerrilla warfare. These were young American men who were trained by our society to treat people with respect, not to hurt others and to get along with the world. Alas, put them into combat and they are transformed into killers and often cruel killers. Desensitized to human anguish and pain, they participated in abominations and loved it. You may remember that some soldiers cut off the ears of the enemy dead and made necklaces of them. One of them, an old soldier of many campaigns could not believe that he acted that way. He and his buddies wore their necklaces and danced around blazing fires. Or, if an officer was disliked he might be “fragged.” Roll a fragmentation grenade into his tent and blow the sucker up.

All acted that way? Certainly not all, but such happened and became the liet motif of the Viet Nam war. Guerrilla war is sneaky, dirty and frightening.

We won the set-piece battles but dealing with the no-good, rotten MFs was personal. You see the cruelty of what they did to a friend's body and all you can think of is murderous revenge. A soldier had married a Viet Namese woman and had a child, both of whom were slaughtered by the Viet Cong. He dropped all the rules and became a fiendish killer. And, years after the events, he justified his response.

It may surprise you to learn that these are issues of personal freedom. Civilization restrains us. We know not to assault drivers who don't obey our rules of conduct, at least most of us know that. But, we have the urge. How many times have you said: “I'd like to . . .,” describing some form of cruel mayhem, but typically we don't. Rarely do we say: “I'd like to treat that person with respect” because he/she must have problems. I remember, in a novel, someone musing about his lack of freedom. If someone knocked off his hat, he would have to knock him down. His society would have contempt for him otherwise.

So, the marines pissed on some enemy dead. Hell, staying alive in a fire fight is a triumph that leaves one with surging adrenalin. Sometimes whooping and hollering, sometimes boasting and yes, sometimes desecrating enemy bodies is is a result. Guerrilla warfare leads to such.

All such behavior is motivated by fear and rage for which we should thank evolution and accept the reality that war is nasty and brutish; we better accept that guerrilla warfare is the future and men, and now women, will act accordingly. Think of what persistent fear and rage do to our psyches; an American soldier apparently slaughtered a number of Afghani citizens. He was in his fourth tour of duty; shall we execute him?

Though I try to do what is right.

How would I react in a fight?

Would I be staunch and quite brave?

Surely my morals I would save

Or be nasty and vicious … yes I might.

PISSING ON THE ENEMY

2-27-12

There are some people who are convinced that world wide violence is gradually diminishing and they provide data to support that idea. I am not convinced even though the data appear solid. Their idea is that warfare is an aberration, something left over from ancient times when killing others meant survival, just a bad habit, thus expungible.

While it is a hopeful plausibility, it ignores how evolution shaped us. Fear and anger are built in, run like hell or fight like hell and survive until the next encounter. Pretty early on, bands of people, probably kin groups, realized that uncontrolled running or fighting easily disrupted the group and established rules of conduct. The kids, human kids, had to learn how not to run and not to fight when things went wrong; it makes little sense to kill someone who scowled at you though, alas that happens. After all, it could be caused by a distressed stomach. Still, the impulses are still there; civilization and religion have worked hard to tame the beast but outbursts abound. Another attack on a school, I forget where, occupied the news this morning. It's too early to know why, but you can be sure it has nothing to do with survival. It is most likely a version of: “Things should not be the way they are.” Most people feel irritated when caught behind a slow driver, but how many people wonder at that? Why the irritation? “He/she should not act that way.”

I remember discussing things with men who faced bitter guerrilla warfare. These were young American men who were trained by our society to treat people with respect, not to hurt others and to get along with the world. Alas, put them into combat and they are transformed into killers and often cruel killers. Desensitized to human anguish and pain, they participated in abominations and loved it. You may remember that some soldiers cut off the ears of the enemy dead and made necklaces of them. One of them, an old soldier of many campaigns could not believe that he acted that way. He and his buddies wore their necklaces and danced around blazing fires. Or, if an officer was disliked he might be “fragged.” Roll a fragmentation grenade into his tent and blow the sucker up.

All acted that way? Certainly not all, but such happened and became the liet motif of the Viet Nam war. Guerrilla war is sneaky, dirty and frightening. We won the set-piece battles but dealing with the no-good, rotten MFs was personal. You see the cruelty of what they did to a friend's body and all you can think of is murderous revenge. A soldier had married a Viet Namese woman and had a child, both of whom were slaughtered by the Viet Cong. He dropped all the rules and became a fiendish killer. And, years after the events, he justified his response.

It may surprise you to learn that these are issues of personal freedom. Civilization restrains us. We know not to assault drivers who don't obey our rules of conduct, at least most of us know that. But, we have the urge. How many times have you said: “I'd like to . . .,” describing some form of cruel mayhem, but typically we don't. Rarely do we say: “I'd like to treat that person with respect” because he/she must have problems. I remember, in a novel, someone musing about his lack of freedom. If someone knocked off his hat, he would have to knock him down. His society would have contempt for him otherwise.

So, the marines pissed on some enemy dead. Hell, staying alive in a fire fight is a triumph that leaves one with surging adrenalin. Sometimes whooping and hollering, sometimes boasting and yes, sometimes desecrating enemy bodies is is a result. Guerrilla warfare leads to such.

All such behavior is motivated by fear and rage for which we should thank evolution and accept the reality that war is nasty and brutish; we better accept that guerrilla warfare is the future and men, and now women, will act accordingly. Think of what persistent fear and rage do to our psyches; an American soldier apparently slaughtered a number of Afghani citizens. He was in his fourth tour of duty; shall we execute him?

Though I try to do what is right.

How would I react in a fight?

Would I be staunch and quite brave?

Surely my morals I would save

Or be nasty and vicious … yes I might.