The circle of life
an egregious buffoon
what is life, but a stopwatch
the cowbells tinkle
it is all in the hands of the brave
and so we dance
an Irish fishing reel
three shirts and a set of underwear
Douglas is bald
two tutus and a toupee
the knives of insomnia
are there roses in the garden?
but here comes Larry
ba-dum diddy tish
bananas are drumsticks
which makes Vikings turkeys
cauterize your typewriter
blood flows
slurp your lemonade
but not nectarines
the world is steamy
where is my fan?
toot toot!
the inspiration begins
clickity-clack, clickity-clack!
is sherbet sugar?
and around the corner we go
rabbits and dogs
the spires of Constantinople
don't get caught in the spike trap
waterslides are fun
knock knock, there's a doorbell
is this reality?
basil in a plant pot
Valhalla ahoy!
but only in Alabama
chickens eat hay
watch the canary!
kaboom!
one fist, two fist, red fist, blue fist
are those my boots?
sing a song for the sing-along
it's north of Malayasia
polar beers in Antarctica
too much head for a lambic
but was it a typo?
I'll ask Georgina
my belt is on backwards
it's simple maths
count the squares
and add on the trapeze
behold the elephant pig
emails from yesterday
newspapers are due tomorrow
help, it's the weekend
and thus the buffoon
Transactional ephemera
We live in a world where most relationships are transactional. You give me this, and I will give you that. This is sad, but it is, most of the time, reality. It is sad because in a transaction there are seldom two winners. Everyone is trying to gain the upper hand, and come off best, but for that, someone else has to lose. Perhaps in a best case scenario, a compromise is reached, and no-one wins.
I purchase a lot of stuff, if I'm honest, probably too much. If I may say so myself, I have an eye for a bargain. I tend to purchase anything I think I may need in future when I see it going cheap. Sometimes, I can be persuaded to on-sell my goods for the right price. But, I got it cheap, and I might need it, so if you want it, I'm going to want enough money to replace it. I generally drive a hard bargain. Recently, I sold a large power tool to friend. He too, drives a hard bargain. It took him over three months to convince me to sell it. I wouldn't sell for less than I thought it was worth, and he refused to give up that much cash. I only relented when he offered me some stuff that I wanted, as well as the lesser cash. We both came away from that with a good deal. We were both satisfied that we got what we wanted, but at the same time we both felt slightly disgruntled that we got less than we desired. We both won, but we still felt a little like we'd lost.
This is a problem. In a transaction, there can be only one true winner. Only one person whose expectations are met in full. If both feel that they have won, one has likely been deceived. Many transactions are a compromise, which means both sides may still get a good deal, but no-one's expectations are met in full. Do you see how this might cause problems in a relationship?
Talking of expectations, why is it that we see females as higher value in this transactional sex marketplace than males? If she must make sure she is getting enough in return for giving him access to herself, what can he expect in return for giving her access to himself? If one side is to sell themselves dearly, then surely we should expect the other side to do the same? I am not advocating that either side is justified in trying to extort the most they can out of the other, but that is what happens.
In fact, I would like to turn this around, and say that though in many cases relationships are transactional, and failing to recognise that will get you hurt, in the long run, transactional relationships themselves will hurt you. Is there a better way? Perhaps. When you dwell on what you can give rather than what you can get, things can be very rewarding, but it needs to be reciprocated. And I don't mean reciprocal in the present moment, I mean reciprocal over time. Perhaps today, you are having hard time and need some extra care, maybe next week, or next month, it will be their turn. It is a matter of trust, and that carries risk. We don't like risk. And so, our relationships are too transactional, and too ephemeral.
Boots
I think my grandmother is magic. Maybe she's a fairy, but who knows. All I know is that two days after I was born, she arrived on my mother's doorstep and gave her a shoebox. I still have that shoebox. It is a tiny wooden box, painted in flowing swirls with forest greens and ocean blues. It's so pretty, the pattern feels magical, but it's nothing compared to what was within.
When my mother opened the box, she found a pair of tiny leather boots, just the right size for my tiny baby feet. They fit me perfectly, and mother used to say that I stopped crying the moment she put them on me. I seemed to be happier wearing those boots than any of the woollen baby booties knitted by my various doting aunties. I was so small back then that there wasn't much I did, other than cry and kick. No sooner had my mother put those boots on me, she says, than I kicked her right in the chin with them. Those boots were made for kicking.
As I grew, so did the boots. They always seemed to be a perfect fit. Never too small, never too big, always just right. Soon, I started crawling. I would crawl around on the floor, get under everyone's feet, and make a right nuisance of myself. But I was inseparable from those boots. I would even wear them to bed. I would have had a bath with them, if my mother had let me. That, she refused to do. But I wouldn't let her scrub me unless I could see them sitting next to me on the bathroom bench. And as soon as she finished, and they were back on my feet, I'd go right back to crawling around on the floor, and getting in the way. Those boots were made for crawling.
Once I learnt to walk, they were still my favourite shoes. Whenever my mother tried to buy me other shoes, some mishap would happen to them, and I'd go right back to wearing my boots. They were so comfortable. And I never had a single blister from them, either. What I never told my mother, was that what happened to my other shoes was only half deliberate. I'm a tad adventurous, and the other shoes just couldn't take the beating, while my boots seemed to be indestructible. Those boots were made for walking.
As I grew older, I got other siblings, and then I started school. At school, I learnt to get up to all kinds of mischief. My favourite was climbing the trees in the hedge that encircled the school yard. I loved to see how high I could go. I'd hide up there for hours, even after the bell had rung, and no-one could find me. And then I'd come home and teach my siblings how to climb too. One day, we were climbing the tall yew tree in our back yard, when I slipped and fell out of the tree, breaking my arm. The doctor couldn't keep me in bed for more than two days. My mother caught me back out there, climbing that tree, cast and all. Those boots were made for climbing.
Eventually, I joined the school athletic team. I loved athletics, particularly sprinting. By the time I reached my senior year of high school, I'd aced the local and regional champs, and was competing for a national placement. But I refused to wear track shoes. Only my boots. It's a wonder I didn't get disqualified, but I guess people thought running in boots was a disadvantage. Those boots were made for running.
After I left school, I got a job. I still insisted on wearing my boots, but life wasn't so interesting any more. No-one cared so much if I wore my boots everywhere. But then, I learnt how to dance. I danced to jazz, and I danced to folk, but my favourite was classical ballroom. I loved the swish and the sway of the dances, and the beautiful melodies of the music. One day, I met a handsome, young fellow at a ball, and we danced together for the rest of the evening. I began to encounter him more frequently, and eventually we found love for each other, and married. On our wedding night, we danced through the night, until the sun rose. Those boots were made for dancing.
Now, I am old. I sit here in my armchair by the fire, and tell stories of what I've seen in life and where these boots have taken me. Though once they may have kicked, and crawled, and walked, and climbed, and run, and danced, all these boots do now is keep my feet warm by the fire, and help me remember. I think my grandmother knew, because these boots are made for sitting, too. And for remembering.
The divide
This is something I think about often. I have to. I'm involved in youth work with my church, the local government, and through another voluntary organisation akin to scouts. This a big issue, and it is often a stumbling block to many of our projects.
Unfortunately, I don't believe it is one issue. It is many issues, some big, some small, and some things that really just shouldn't be issues, all intertwined in a big, tangled ball of interconnected problems. A great way of putting it is "integrated complexity" (Uncontrolled, Manzi, Jim, 2012). Our society is so complex that no phenomenon has a single, isolated cause, and no factor would create exactly the same phenomenon, other factors being different. We can't hope to change everything by changing one thing. Changing everything requires changing everything, and that is both almost unachievable, and bound to create new, unexpected problems. So maybe our society itself is the issue? I don't think it's that simple either.
First, let us ask, how deep does this generational disconnect run? Let us take an (almost real) case study. John wants to be an engineer. He enjoys the practical skills of designing and building things in a workshop. Locally, there is a group of men, mostly of a well-matured age, who maintain and operate a working vintage railway. They have a well-equipped workshop and would teach any young person who choose to show interest with passion, happy to have someone interested in their craft. Even if John knew of their existence, which he probably doesn't, he would rather pay to take a class with a bunch of other people and a single tutor, than step into that workshop full people waiting to teach him for free. Why?
Well, first of all, John probably doesn't even know they're there. Older people seem to find it hard to interest younger people in their hobbies and interests. They often move in different circles and connect in different ways. That doesn't mean it's impossible, just difficult. Sometimes older people struggle to learn how to adapt to new patterns, and sometimes no-one makes the effort to help them.
Even if John did know they were there, the same issue crops up. Older people struggle to make their interests relevant to young people. John probably doesn't see the connection between what they do and his aspirations. And if he does, he probably thinks that what they have to teach him is outdated and irrelevant. Sure, it may not be up with the newest technology, but that workshop contains hundreds of cumulative years of knowledge and experience that is worth learning from.
However, things don't end here. Despite any impressions that John may or may not have, they're not the only factors at play. There are plenty of older people that think young people are irreverent, obnoxious, and self-obsessed. Unfortunately, sometimes they are right. But, at least as often, they are not. These people can tend to be very vocal about their opinion, which further clouds young people's perception of the older generation. Whether or not the men in the railway workshop hold this opinion, John may expect that they do, and so keep away from them.
And so we see that young people may think that older people are irrelevant, stuck in the past, and judgemental. While older people, in turn, may see younger people as lacking wisdom, impulsive, and disrespectful. Those who are young need to learn to appreciate the wisdom of the old. While those who are older need to learn to appreciate the energy of youth, and consider how to harness and temper it effectively.
Wait, you ask, what about the generation between? Surely they appreciate both the wisdom of age and the energy of youth? Let them be the mediators. Spot on, well said. I could not agree more. But why isn't it working? Well, my observations would suggest that the current generation of young people feel let down by the previous generation. If you think someone has let you down in the past, why would you listen to them now. So exactly how have they been let down? And why?
This is another issue with no straight-forward answer. Let's briefly look at what I think are a few of the issues. We all know that the cost of living is rising. Pressure to have the newest and best, along with the never-ending onwards race of technology has pushed more and more parents into working longer hours, and spending less time with each other and their families. Young people may feel sidelined or forgotten, and the newest tech seldom truly makes up for the lost bond of time spent together. This, along with other issues related to how our society perceives marriage relationships (@voiceinthewind has some relevant thoughts here), have lead to increased break downs in family stability, which also affects young people. Further, we encourage young people to break free from anything perceived to define them, to decide their own identity. Perhaps we force this choice upon them at too young an age, before they are ready to understand and choose their own path. (For more on this, see my recent post The problem of choice). This results in our young people growing up disconnected from faith, gender, race, and family, among other things. In short, the things that provide them with a framework for their identity. Lastly, some parents have allowed technology to parent their children. They are not made to learn any social skills or life skills. Their devices become more familiar to them than the physical world. All these things add up. Not every family is affected by them all, and there are plenty of good families out there. But perhaps young people are simply disillusioned about how they have been raised, and what they were taught (or not). Perhaps they feel that it does not match the reality of the world.
Finally, this is not entirely new. The issue runs generations deep. Different factors, different issues, but a similar result. We are trapped in a vicious cycle, each generation letting down the next, and then criticising when they do the same again. But to change everything requires changing everything, and that is both almost unachievable, and bound to create new, unexpected problems.
Mister Tallinn and the virgin
To the tune of "Montezuma", by D.F. Alderson
Mister Tallinn
Met a virgin
On a Sunday noon.
Handsome Tallinn
Made the virgin
Have a heady swoon.
Transportation.
Strange location
Met the woken girl.
Wall cobblestones.
A floor of bones.
Smells suffice to hurl.
For that Tallinn
Was a felon,
Master of a cult.
Motives shady.
And the lady
Sacrifice occult.
Preparation.
Incantation.
Hooded figures glare.
A silver crown,
A purple gown,
She is made to wear.
Long procession.
Slow progression.
Come to the alter.
Mister Tallinn,
Nasty felon,
Reads from a psalter.
Insatiable!
Sensational!
A man of vision!
Mister Tallinn,
The hegemon,
On television.
Fate is spoken,
The death token
For the poor woman.
She sits in place,
With air of grace,
On her silk cushion.
Loud commotion!
Strong emotion!
Behold her betrothed!
Dedication,
Obligation,
Solemnly oathed!
Upon swift horse,
With gentle force,
He saves from the fire.
Then, heavy clout!
A mighty shout!
Tallinn on the pyre!
All mouths agape!
Lovers escape,
Amid cult surprise!
To see Hades:
Kidnap ladies.
Thus Tallinn's demise.
The problem of choice
In this post, I intent to reflect on a theme that is a little taboo in our current society. Let me be clear, this is not a personal attack against any person or group of people. These are some of my reflections upon the state of society and the world. If this does offend you, perhaps you should question why, and reflect on that too. With that out of the way, let's begin with a thought experiment.
Imagine you are a child, this should not be too hard, as we were all once children. Now imagine you go to visit a friend. On top of their fridge, out of your reach, is a cookie jar. If you are normally a well-behaved child, you will probably not think too much more of it. The jar is out of your reach, therefore it is not for you. On the other hand, perhaps you are a bit of a naughty child. Maybe you would try to reach the jar to grab a cookie, despite it being placed out of your reach.
Now, imagine an adult comes in and tells you that it is normal to think about stealing cookies, and you shouldn't be worried about it. Let us consider what happens next, if you are naughty child, even though the adult did not actually give you permission to steal a cookie, this is probably the way you will interpret their words. The adult will probably also have little sympathy for you if the cookie jar turns out to be full of pickles. On the other hand, if you are a good child, the idea of stealing cookies may not have occurred to you, and thus a seed has been planted of something you might never have otherwise done.
Perhaps you can already see where I am going with this. I am aware that there are numerous ways in which this analogy breaks down, just as any analogy does. Please hear me out.
First some context. These days we are very concerned about mental health. This is generally a good thing. We are worried about the number the number of young people committing self-harm or suicide. We are asking how we can help them open up, be themselves, and feel secure. This is good. But perhaps some of our efforts have gone astray.
We tell our children at a younger and younger age that they have choice. Choice is good. But what about too much choice? Have you ever been to a restaurant where the menu was a 30-page book? Does it feel overwhelming, too hard to read all the options, let alone choose? We tell our children that they are not defined by their family, or their race, or their gender, or a bunch of other things. While these are all true, perhaps we should be encouraging them to discover these principles themselves, rather than force-feeding them to everyone. Perhaps our young people are getting lost among the choices we thrust upon them before they are mature enough to choose. Perhaps we should encourage them to break the molds placed around them, rather than open the mold while the cast is still molten and let it run.
A car crash and its consequences
It was a quiet afternoon. "Was" being the key word. It had been a quiet afternoon until ten minutes ago, when the whole neighborhood had heard an astonishingly loud crash, preceded by several almost equally loud thuds and bangs.
The old man took a step back from the sports car, now embedded in his conservatory window, and turned around. He was a mature gentleman, with what would have normally been a cheery face, now puckered into a frown atwixt his well-groomed beard and mustache. [Let me interject here. The description here is a little too flattering, to my mind. He looks to me more as if a warthog had miraculously learnt how to stand on its hind legs, and donned a plastic beard.] The occupant of the car was obviously deceased, having collided with a fence and two trees on their way into his conservatory. The elderly gentleman [Correction, ugly warthog.] walked slowly back inside, picked up his telephone, and dialed the emergency hotline. Having notified the police and the fire brigade, he hung up again and went back outside.
As he considered the damage to his conservatory, he pondered upon the recklessness of youth that had lead this unfortunate to crash into his house. Though he could remember his younger days, he doubted he would have ever done something so risky and ridiculously out of control. [I interject again. As well being ugly, this fellow is definitely a hypocrite. I'm quite sure he would have ridden his diplodocus full-tilt into a bank, given half a chance.] The damage would have to be repaired, or it would cause a nasty draft inside. [Hah! Yes, let it freeze his ugly toes, and make them drop off!] However he doubted that the glazier would be very disposed to drop everything and fix it today, especially by the time the police were done with their chin-wagging and the car was removed by the tow company.
Despite his calm pretense, the gentleman [I object once again. The "anthropomorphic warthog" would be more appropriate.] was rather disturbed by the whole ordeal. If this was the state of the world, then what was stopping another crazed youth recklessly crashing another expensive automobile into his conservatory tomorrow afternoon. And right at siesta time too, people were so inconsiderate. As he pondered these things, he headed back inside to his typewriter.
Ernest, for that was the gentleman's name, had just the previous afternoon begun writing his memoirs. [Excuse me a minute, this is preposterous! He's stolen my name! This is unprecedented absurdity! The dirty skiving thief!] Despite this highly inconvenient interruption, he was determined to continue.
[Thud!]
[Bang!]
[Bang!]
[CRASH!!]
[If you will excuse me again, something urgent has come to my attention. I will have to briefly absent myself, and will continue to narrate the story about this repulsive, thieving warthog, as is my allotted duty, when I return.]
[What in a thousand tarnations has happened to my conservatory??!!]
Behind the see-through door
X-ray vision is a curse. Why, you ask? Because I see everything. If a door is closed, it's generally closed for a reason. I see straight through it. My least favorite places to go, include: hospitals, hotels, bars, and university hostels. People are weird. And gross. Don't ask me. And most importantly, don't invite me to any sleepovers. Please.