Being a professional

We have a job to do. It will not always be easy. It will not always be convenient. It will not always be just. It's a profession that serves others and nation, and professions require sacrifice. The character of a person determines the level of sacrifice for the mission a person is willing to give. Pick the hills of inconvenience and injustice one chooses to die on carefully.

Existential

 I once heard that there is a Greek philosophical idea that we have come suddenly into existence with a fully realized past. It segues with my interest in the ideas around free will, intrigued by Sam Harris' idea why it doesn't exist. These fall in line with one another.

I often think about this in the sense that I have wondered why I feel like the path of my life, all of the trillions of decisions made, were not made by me, they just happened to me. Part of the illusion, assuming it is an illusion, is because the person I am now would not have made so many of the choices I made, and that our faulty memories are incomplete. Life is full of regrets because we grow and change, and looking back we feel shame at our younger selves behavior. Its unfair to make this judgement, of course, but our present judges our past relentlessly.

Looking back I also remember all of the times I should have, or could have been maimed or died. And how many times I could have killed others. Luck yes, no one maimed or died. Or was it fate, whatever that is? There was no luck, things happened the way they did because given the circumstances and the nature of brains of the people involved, what happened was going to happen. Fate. As Dr Harris illustrates, if you disassembled the lives and brains of the people involved, then reconstructed them exactly the same way, there is no reason to expect anything other than that the outcomes would be exactly the same. We would be the same people, same situations, making the same choices. No free will, things happened the way they were going to happen, and in remembering, a fully realized past.

It explains why we keep making the same decisions despite ourselves. As we experience new things and they affect us, they change how our brains make decisions, but what direction that is isn't up to us. The new us is built by the old us. We don't make decisions, our brains do and they make those decisions before we are even conscious that a decision was made.

Which brings us back to the idea that my life happened to me, but it wasn't actually mine in a conscious responsible way. I was swept along, and it just happened while I was there. Or maybe I just think it did. Time passed, I was there, but I wasn't really making the decisions, my brain was, is. And so... I feel like my life happened, I think, but I wasn't really there. I remember it as a filmstrip, but never experienced it. Think about it... why do we make the decisions we make, why do we get a visceral response we have to experience, and work to filter our response, if we can? Where is all of this coming from? Consciousness? What even is that? Is it the brain that makes the decisions without "us" or the part that thinks it made it? The modern bicameral brain, more MacGilchrist than Jaynes .

These days I work hard to overcome my nature when it annoys me, and I have the sense that I am being my better nature. That being said, maybe I just like the decisions my brain is making more today, and my today brain looks back on my past brain's decisions annoyed with it?

Here's to me today, making many of the same brain choices, but responding different enough that sometimes I appreciate progress. I am a better person today than I was yesterday. At least I think I am. I need to ask my brain.

Tomorrow

I don't see tomorrow as a new opportunity for joy and happiness, but rather as another day for something to unravel.

I live with this fear as a reliable friend, unliked but not unexpected. 

Its almost disappointing when nothing happens, because that means tomorrow is coming again,  tomorrow. I go to bed already weighed down and suffering tomorrow's pain.

Our Greatest Shame Is Our Most Desired Dream

 The natural state of humanness is lonely despair. We are sad and anxious beings who are constantly seeking glimmers of happiness and calm. We don’t have to work to be sad, we describe “finding happiness”, but not “finding sadness”, because that’s where we live every one of our days.

I see two kinds of people in relation to their sadness. Those who see it in others and want them to not be sad and lonely, and those so lost in their sadness that they hate that others might find a moment of happiness. The latter rampage their sadness and spill it out over others. The first lends a hand the other throws a fist.

We see it every day. Most are in between, limiting their kindness to those of their perceived tribe (no one really belongs anywhere, another source of happiness we constantly seek), or offering it only when it’s convenient. Many pretend to be kind, but their soul remains dark and it’s done for illusion. Then there are the narcissists who charm but destroy, increasing their own happiness by taking it from others purposefully to protect themselves.

We have the ability to change this. The haters tend to be believers in capitalism, the manifestation of the practice of divide and conquer, unable to see that they are not capitalists, but rather workers bringing riches to the real capitalists, who spray them with the cat piss of corporate cheerleading and marketing to make them believe the other guy is going to steal their cookie. The capitalists are all narcissists by definition, gaslighting us into hating one another and giving us the means to do so . We teach that “you have yours through character and hard work, make them get their own!”, throwing that fist, instead of teaching, “you have yours, that one does not, be kind and share, asking not if they are worthy, for they are worthy simply for being.”  All we must do is believe that everyone is worthy of love and happiness, and then share that everyone should be happy and safe.

That, by the way, is wokeness, the core of social democracy, the belief that we are all one community and each owes one another the necessities of living, and that we are not lead by kings, but by commoners like ourselves. Wokeness is an effort to understand that all of us are equal and worthy of love, dignity, happiness. We all have a right to shelter, clothing, food, education, medical care, our culture, our histories, our loved ones… giving these makes all of us richer, no one lives in the poverty of any of these rights.

Capitalism is the antithesis of what it means to be human. It is a throwback to the days of fighting to survive as individuals. The moment we came together as families, then communities, we had the opportunity to progress to humanity: one caring for another, all caring for all. But we chose tribalism, hoarding and denying compassion, love and respect. We sought division to identify worthiness in every element of being alive, so we could hoard for security and power, and in doing so, we accepted that some would suffer and die simply because we identified them as deserving to suffer and die for being less than. Those not of our perceived tribe deserved their lot, and in fact we guarantee it with our behaviors, our laws, our words to our children and one another. All this has done is brought hate, unhappiness, fear, famine, war, disease, poverty and all their shames. Happiness and safety empower you. They want you afraid that you will lose your home, the ability to feed and clothe your family, to educate if you don't accept thei inadequate wages and working conditions (this is exactly what Eisner of Disney said about SAG-AFTRRA stikers in 2023: go ahead, strike until you lose everything and grovel for less). Literature is rife with this tale of these inequities for millenia. Think of what a universal income, healthcare and education would change for you overnight; you would never live in fear of their loss again. You could work only for those conditions that were fair and competetive for YOU not employers. They need you to be hungry and afraid. If this is to define humanity, what was the point of developing sentience and empathy?

And we know this. We describe this inhumanity in our writings, our plays, our poetry, we share moments of kindness between animals, between humans and we gush. We lament that there are too few who care about others as much as themselves, who see the beauty and joy in kindness. But there is hope, because many of the haters, those who frame this as morality, see and feel the joy of a glimmer of kindness. That there are so many who do not is where the darkness lives. Yes, this too is a division, but it’s not one that seeks to empower itself at the expense of others, rather it is to see those who most need kindness, compassion, and love. That those very ones see this as weakness does not define us woke people, it defines them as needing those very things they despise.

They will continue to divide and hate, claim the high moral ground as their own, and see those who do not as weak. We could react with anger and disdain, and we should, but what we do with that should be love, compassion and kindness. The irony of this, that most of those haters are religious who would describe this as a tenet of their faith while they in practice offer nothing of the sort (even to one another if they were being honest), is not lost to me. That they are frightened and have indoctrinated themselves into being incapable of thinking and feeling their way out of it may be insurmountable. But still, that defines them, not us, and we should respond with kindness and compassion. Torches and rocks often need to be met with torches and rocks, as reason has failed and has no power there, but as a last resort. We are not here to be abused. Tolerance has its limits; those should not be selfish ones. Never do with a stick that which can be done with kindness.

We are sad and lonely because we make each other that way. When we stop, and instead seek to make each other happy, safe and loved, then we have found that nirvana of humanness. Until then, we remain sad, lonely and in despair, pretending to be happy, and holding close those rare moments of true happiness. This is our greatest shame, and our most desired dream.

The Old Tree

There near the southern end of the county

through the back of the fen in the middle of her world,

near the Old Poste Road between the wood rail fence

and the ancient twin paths a skip apart,

there sits the Old Tree,

massive in her breadth and beauty,

green and speckled with light.

The Old Tree had seen some hundred-and-forty springs,

so many nights beneath the stars, 

days under the sun and the rain,

dressed in mist of fog and bathed in crusting snow,

soaked in rays and caressed by winds.

In those years she heard many a song, many a story,

only in part as the wanderers went by,

but never silence as there was always 

something with something to say.

This being a part of the woods

where such passings were rare and unnoticed,

not what moved her most in her fray,

she needed not such passings

in the passing of her days.

For a tree is not a lonely thing,

never alone in nature's worldly way.

She is where she has always been in truth and spirit,

never wanting, never yearning, never astray.

Always alive and and joyous for its yet another day,

and never you mind come what may.

She knows the friends of hill and dale,

the fawn, the mother, the sheep and the lamb,

the buzzing and the furred,

the small and the large things that shadow beneath her wings,

that take comfort in her nooks and bends,

between her roots and soil that ground her 

to the fey and wonderous way.

She is silent and yet sings a song not for you,

but for the faint rustling of her branches and leaves.

She is not here for you, in so many ways,

she gives you life all the same.

You honor her with leaving her be.

She will be here long after your journey is done,

be sure to be kind and gay.

Her memories will always stay within her rings,

not thoughts nor visions of your life,

untold through all those eons of springs,

as she is bound to nature's strife,

you but a passing thing.

The Old Tree is young though she ages,

an immortal in spirit in these woods.

To live forever is not why she lives beyond the days.

She only knows dying if brought to her,

or fate overcomes her in nature's time,

until then she stands radiant and divine,

near the southern end of the county,

by the road at the edge of the fen,

living beyond your days.

The Warrior, The Hand and The Blade

Dark, scarred and worn,
shapeless without edge or point,
hanging unsuspended in a gauntleted fist,
poised to pierce the heart of the weary,
the end, the beginning, upon its chest,
the Blade threatens death,
the living death already.

The Blade waxes and wanes
with and without reason,
it would offer no respite, no peace.
It heard no lamentation or offering.
It simply was, and allowed to be,
when it willed and when it did not,
the weary suffered it silently,
the soul within it would rot.

The Gates of Hell would allow no such beast
Its terror stole the Devil's voice,
and laid bare the Angels' weakness.
The Blade was invisible yet shimmered
and here it was, waiting for its fate.
Only in that way could its wrath be unleashed.
It only needed to be.

It is written the Hand has no soul.
chooses not to end of the Warriors torment,
the weary but another unpierced and tortured life
in the way of path of the Blade,
standing tall and mighty.
The Blade has no mind of its own,
but know this is true:
it is wielded with intent,
the Hand that guides is cruel.

The soulless Hand and Blade know what they are.
In falling the Blade banishes those that resist.
In hanging it brings unbearable pain.
For the Hand and Blade that is,
there was never any other way.

No one tells of the sword,
the unwavering Hand and Blade.
One never knows until it is upon you,
its breath upon your neck.
Never the words of awareness,
lest one's own fate fall beneath,
the curse itself upon you,
for having spoke its name.

A moment, then the Warrior was prey.
The battle was ended before it began.
The living killed by the dead,
the dying undying at Hand.
The weary's unbearable suffering
would have no name, no face, and no end.
In living the Warrior is dying,
no where nary a friend.

There are moments the Warrior surrenders
gives way to the pain, loneliness, and despair,
the fear of remorse for being the fool
for seeing a flame when none was there,
ended by a significant insignificant death,
or worse still the peril of ignobility.
In that precise moment
the Warrior is wont to grab the Blade
and pierce the weary’s troubled heart,
to bring an ending to an end.
It is death without dying,
and the weary dies in shame.

Was it for lack of courage?
Was it for love of others?
Was it duty and obligation?
Was it for hope of injustice redeemed,
to be released from this wantonness,
given purpose, and righteousness,
that the Warrior cannot end this itself,
thrust its spine deep to the Blade?

The battle was never to be won.
Betrayal laid the Warrior beneath the Blade,
not for a weakness or a failure,
but for treachery and spite,
or simply as the path of least resistance,
the Blade is always right.
This was not the battle entered
but it was the one to fight.

It matters not to the Blade,
to wait, to fall.
It has no conscience to dwell,
no mind to waiver.
It is a hanging sword,
it hangs or it falls.
It takes no pride in punishment,
though a hate there prevails.

But to the lone Warrior
who wants to live,
without the pain.
Fall, or leave me be!
End this unjust game!
This is not my war,
and yet you bring this to bear!
Here I am where I have found myself,
not where I intended to go but where I be.
A battle to be fought,
If only on one knee.

The Warrior cries and exhorts to no avail,
had I known that this is how it would be,
that first step would never be taken,
this path was never free.
Not for lack of faith or understanding,
but in knowing that this is not the way.
I would have ended my suffering
by letting everything be.
But that is not my nature,
that is not my creed.
This ending was inevitable.
I must let it be.

The Warrior's purpose is not to die
it is to fight for good and right,
but in the fighting there will be death and destruction.
Death here is not noble nor grand,
it is silent and unseen.
It serves no purpose, nothing is gained,
and all is lost, always,
a wasted death it seems.
No one wins, there is no victor,
but the Hand on the Blade surviving
will write the weary Warriors story.
No one knows the weary is fighting,
no one knows its end is near,
in silence if goes away from us
and the weary dies unawares.
No one knows the story told
is a lie.

The Warrior walks among the living,
goes about without the face of fear,
though the darkness that swaths its heart
bends any light from within
to that of duty, and honor.
No sign of the torment,
no sign of the Blade.
The Warrior continues,
dying along the way.

And so the weary,
tears of undeserved fate upon it,
waits for the fall of the Blade
or the courage to rise up upon it,
to end the pain, the suffering,
the loneliness of having failed,
the despair for being unseen,
and the deep sadness of leaving.

In the dying of the weary, the others die too,
for the Warrior is loved and cherished,
but in loving revealed naught.
Solace is never found when the Blade falls,
the weary no longer there.
In the hanging it stole life and living,
in falling it ended life
and brought grief.
In the end all left standing,
in utter disbelief.

When the Warrior’s blood dries,
the last breath softly sings,
the sudden silence stills the heart,
will they see the Hand and Blade,
naked and invisible, dripping with blood,
yet in the end they will walk away.
There is nothing left to be done here,
but to grieve,
and remember,
the dead.

The Last Symphony

The turn in the road came up slowly, gracefully, with the forest opening in front of him, a welcoming parting that drew him in deeper and deeper into his thoughts. It was silent, not even the hum of the road, nor the whistle of the wind breaking through. But the rain… he realized he could hear the rain. For a moment he thought this was a dream, he was dreaming, mostly because it was far more peaceful than it felt like it should be. He had been here before. He knew this music. He knew how it came in, how it strutted and how it ended. It was not his favorite symphony, but he knew it like the back of his soul.

He started the piece knowing it would arouse the audience, get them whispering to themselves, and he wanted to see what would happen. In the corner of his mind was a violin speaking softly to let it go, play this bit sotto voce. It went pretty much as expected, following the music he had seen written when they first met, dashing his hopes for a different composition as the new movement unfolded. He knew the crescendo would come, and the longer the rest after the first bar, the more spectacular he expected the music to return. He was prepared for it, waiting unconsciously for it, and when the music came back after some time, it arrived as an old worn-out unwelcome friend. The feeling that it needed anything from him passed quickly now that he was older, more experienced, and more familiar with this piece. He could let it go. He was more melancholy than upset, saddened that the music had continued as he knew it, while played in a different time and place it was turning out exactly the same. He wanted to believe it would be different this time. But knowing this piece and the nature of conductors and hearing the expected phrase rather than the hopefully awaited one, he knew how this was going to play out. Emotionally he was already putting his stuff in a box. He was a bit surprised to hear that particular voice, but it made perfect sense once heard. He had smiled sadly on hearing it, not the notes he had hoped for, but what he knew would come. The conductor lacked imagination but knew the notes well, played them expertly. The audience would swoon. Same tune, different venue, just as upsetting, maybe, and now, disappointing. And he conducted with the vigor of a man impressing himself impressing others.

The forest enveloped him as he drove on, giving him a sense of peace and quiet that small calming spaces can offer. Part of him still felt vulnerable, but maybe knowing the rest of how it would play out made it easier now that he knew the piece would play out unchanged. He would never understand how the same tragic compositions kept showing up in different places playing the same notes, singing in the same key, while he expected and hoped for seomthing more serene. The conductor had brought forth the usual highlights that were designed to inspire awe, to seize the narrative, to cheerlead and console, while between the chords the diva was screaming at him, “Sit. Down.” The shepherd was warning the wolf to stop eating the sheep, and letting the wolf know he was not part of the pack for having done so but could be if he let the sheep be, like all the others. But he was a wolf, the shepherd feared this, and when they first crossed paths, he had made it clear the wolf would behave for the piece was already written, the show had already begun. But the wolf did not, could not, for he was a wolf. The shepherd’s plan was already orchestrated and composed; he had said as much. And now he had eaten a sheep. Perhaps, the wolf wondered, if he left the sheep alone now that the first movement passed, the shepherd would leave him be, the piece would play on, and no one would notice a broken string, a split reed, a sad wolf.

He lost himself in the drive, letting the rain wash the music, the melancholy away, letting the experience drift further behind him. Soon enough he would see if the expected coda would play, or if in letting it play in silence as it was the music would continue to flow around him, leaving him alone, sitting, watching, not eating the sheep. But he is a wolf, and wolves do wolf things, already there was growling. But this was a tired wolf, and being at the edge of the herd was better than having no herd at all. He awaited the next movement with great anticipation, rooting for the wolf who would wear sheep’s clothing, that he might console himself and follow docilely. Would he be less of a wolf for not straying from the music and for following the unimaginative conductor, he wondered? So many wolves before had managed to let the piece play out, so too could he. Play his part, add to the chorus without distinction without losing himself in it, let go of being a wolf. It would not be his music, but to an old wolf, maybe this no longer mattered. The edge of the herd then, second chair is still in the orchestra. It was a good orchestra, even now.

He decided to drive on through the rain, and see how this would play out, if he simply listened, played his part, and never looked the shepherd in the eye again. Orchestras and conductors want to be the sort that surround themselves with wolves but become upset when the wolves eat their sheep.

He reminded himself that in the end, the conductor always leaves… and he didn't like eating sheep anyway.