When a man does not know what harbor he is making for, no wind is the right wind.

When a man does not know what harbor he is making for, no wind is the right wind.

Lucius Annaeus Seneca (Seneca the Younger)

Seneca writes a letter to Lucillus, procurator of Sicily during Nero’s reign, concerning the topic, On the Supreme Good.

The archer must know what he is seeking to hit; then he must aim and control the weapon by his skill. Our plans miscarry because they have no aim. When a man does not know what harbor he is making for, no wind is the right wind.

Chance must necessarily influence over our lives, for we live by chance.But it is the case with certain men, that they do not know that they know certain things. Just as we often search for that which is beside us, so too we are apt to forget that the Supreme Good lies near us. 

Seneca begins his letter to his friend Lucillus with a caution:

[A] vast stretch of sea separates us. Since, the value of advice may depend on the time when it is given, it must necessarily result that by the time my opinion reaches you, the opposite opinion is the better.

Seneca continues:

The nature of the Supreme Good is not described by many words or long-winded discussions. It is pointed out by the forefinger and not parsed with endless dissection… The Supreme Good is that which is honorable.

The task ahead, Seneca proposes is to conquer our emotions.

I fully understand what this task is. It is a thing …I desire it with all my heart. I see that you also have been aroused and are hastening with great zeal towards infinite beauty.

Let us hasten; and only on these terms will life be a boon to us; otherwise, there is a delay … while we busy ourselves with revolting things.

Let us see to it that all time belongs to us. This, however, cannot be unless, first of all, we ourselves belong to us. … When will it be our privilege, after our passions have been subdued and brought under control, to utter the words "I have conquered!"?

Do you ask me who have I conquered? The answer is neither the Persians, nor far-off Medes, nor any warlike race beyond the Dahab (Sinai); not these. Rather greed, ambition, and fear of death have I conquered, that conquered the conquerors of the world.

Farewell.

Be thankful

Though you seek it 
You’ll never find it. 
What is it? 

Gratitude for what you’ve got

Kansas landscape

 Image taken driving home from Kansas City to Wichita just after sunset.

Walk with St. Jerome

Walk 

If you are young and you are reading this, here is a scary thought – someday you will be married more years than not. To reach this dubious milestone, you will have to learn to work out the problems of living together. St. Jerome, best remembered for his bad temper, says, Solvitur ambulando, – “to solve a problem, walk.”

I have been married to my wife now more years than not. The kids are grown and we are too often alone. It seems like we are a little too quick to criticize, to complain about things that don’t really matter.

I acknowledge, I am the problem.

To solve my problem I follow St. Jerome’s advice – I walk. I load the two dogs up into the back of my GMC Yukon and off we go in search of solitude and adventure. Normal haunts include the old quarry pit at Lake El Dorado where Toby, a mixed Jack Russell Terrier and Mountain Cur, and I like to swim. Toby barks like a seal when he swims. I try to stay out of his way for I liken his constantly moving paws to the killer shark in Jaws. Sammy, a German Shepherd stays mainly on the shore. Sometimes, if it is really hot, she will daintily tread into the water and make a spin before returning to the shore.

There is also Pawnee Prairie Park on the west side of Wichita where we go to chase deer. The deer, flags raised are off in a flash. The dogs give futile pursuit but quickly tire and come back tongues lagging from their mouths.

Finally, there is South Lake where we go when time is limited. It has the clearest water of all the lakes, ponds, and creeks in and around Wichita. It has the disadvantage of being the most crowded spot and, sadly, the most trash, beer bottles, coke cups, and empty bait cups that fishermen and party-goers leave behind. In spite of the trash we still go. The clear water lures us and the hope of finding a kindred soul or canine.

On all of these sojourns, the two dogs and I will occasionally come across someone worth talking to. And if we are lucky, someone will have a dog or two for Toby to play with. Sammy is always leery of other dogs, and so she growls and barks for a time before settling down to an unsteady peace.

 Recently, the dogs and I changed the time that we would arrive at South Lake. In spring we went in the midday sun. Being summer now, we wait until the hour before sunset. It is cooler. It is also prettier. The setting sun casts colors of red, blue, and violet across the lake.

Half way around the lake we came across a pack of five dogs and their three owners. The owners, two women and a man, stood on the shore, while their five pets, ran to and fro. Being ever so polite I asked if we could join them for a while. Toby ran and swam and had a grand old time. Sammy growled and barked, but eventually found her manners. We spoke like strangers do, of dogs and the weather and sunsets.

“Walking is man’s best medicine,” says Hippocrates.

It was nice. The dogs got their walk and I had a moment without giving or getting criticism or complaint. And the sunset was gorgeous.

All is Grist for the mill

Grist may seem a strange topic for an old man to talk about.

But the word is onomatopoetic and the old man likes words that get to the point. Moreover, the week before, while shooting pictures of the Little Walnut Pratt Truss bridge in Bois d'Arc, Kansas, he came across the remains of an old gristmill. Finally, the old man likes grits, which is corn grist coarsely ground.

Hey, old men don't always make sense, that is, unless you think about it.

Remains of the Gristmill at Bois d'Arc, Kansas

Grist is corn or wheat grain separated from its chaff and ready for grinding at a grist mill. It also means the grain that has been ground. It is not too hard to guess that grist comes from Old English, grinden, meaning to grind.

Grits, which sounds a lot like grist, is simply corn ground coarsely. It is popular in the South and with the old man. And, in case you were wondering, corn ground finely is corn meal, good for making corn muffins.

Gristmills have been around a long time. Strabo, the Greek geographer who popularized the map, reports of a mill in ancient Pontus, on the Black Sea, where Strabo was born. This was in the year 71 BC, about the time when Spartacus was giving the Romans fits, and Julius Caesar was just starting his military career. Certainly gristmills had been around long before this, and maybe Strabo, who traveled extensively and to Egypt, was only mentioning the mill in Pontus because of the connection to home and the mills' familiarity.

William the Conqueror, who invaded England in 1066, thought gristmills important enough to be counted in the Domesday Book. That is grist for thought.

And this thought leads the old man on to the proverb, "all is grist for the mill", which symbolically states what the old man blathers about.

The mill is where the grist is ground, and the miller is the grinder of the grist. A miller ground whatever grain was brought to him, charging a portion of the final product for the service. Therefore, all grain coming to the mill represented income.The miller surely held an important place in village life, for every farmer and consumer came to him, either to sell grain or to buy grits and flour.

We also know that the mill was important by the number of phrases concerning mills that have come into common use. Jut to name a few, these are: "holding one's nose to the grindstone", "carrying a millstone around one's neck", "to be put through the mill", and "run of the mill". All these phrases are so descriptive as to not need further explanation. Read on if you like semantics.

Santa was an Old Man

Santa was an Old Man

What do you see when you look at me?
A jolly Old Man with twinkling eyes?

 An Old Man merry and wise?
What do you think when you look at me?

Will I put presents under the Christmas tree?
While you dream of faraway places.

Oh now, does anyone believe that a few good graces
Should outweigh so many mistakes through the year?

Have you been naughty? Have you been nice?
Have you been kind once or twice?

Never fear nor shed a tear for Santa is forgiving
You see, an Old Man has little time left for living

All that he has is a pipe for pleasure and,
A cup of strong ale for good measure.

Jest if you must for an Old Fool like me
For I trust in the kindness of all that I see.

Source:

This poem is based on a poem by Phyllis McCormick that is out there called Cranky Old Man. The actual poem seems to have been Crabbit Old Woman, with crabbit the Scottish word for cranky. The tale concerns an old woman in a nursing home. The sentiment seems to make the rounds of hospitals and homeless shelters. You can see one version of the poem here.

Life is a Gift

Life is a gift, enjoy each day

Life is a Gift

Life is a gift enjoy each day,
Find something nice to say;
Find someone troubled by sorrow,
Lighten a burden, brighten tomorrow.

Remember those who have less
Try to be generous and do your best;
Do a kindness now and then
And joy will fill your heart again.

I've got just the thing

What follows is a snippet of dialogue from the movie Chocolat.

The movie opens with a shot of a small French village in Burgundy. It is February, the sky is grey,  and a cold north wind blows leaves down a deserted cobble stone street. All the doors are closed, the windows shuttered.

A stranger, a dark haired woman, and her daughter arrive. Vianne Rocher, is the stranger. She proceeds to set up shop as a chocolatier. A chocolatier is not just a chocolate maker, but an artiste, one who makes chocolate seem a most beautiful piece of art. And Vianne makes the most extraordinary confectionaries. Each chocolat is special, each chocolat has its own qualities, each chocolat has a story.

Her timing could not be worse, for it is the season of lent in this most traditional of French villages. Vianne works hard to open the shop. Meanwhile, a parade of curious town characters come to inspect her delicacies. Each of them have a story to tell.

Vianne and a Cranky Old Woman 
[An old woman enters the shop and inspects Vianne's chocolats]


Vianne Rocher: What do you see?
Armande Voizin: Not a damned thing.

Vianne Rocher: Come on, it's a game. What do you see?

Armande Voizin: I see a cranky old woman too tired to play games.

Vianne Rocher: Oh. I've got just the thing for you.

Left or Right

Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, Volume Two (1840), Book One, Chapter II.

In the United States, the majority undertakes to supply a multitude of ready-made opinions for the use of individuals, who are thus relieved from the necessity of forming opinions of their own.

The Old Man would suggest that both political parties attempt to define the debate by definition. Thus, whether one is left or right depends on who is standing next to you.

Questions and Answers

Read it in a book recently - The answer doesn't matter if you don't ask the right question. So true.

Tobie, doing what he loves to do.

I am fed up with political debates where the questions and answers never seem to match. So, the Old Man took the two dogs Sammy and Tobie to the park where the only question that mattered was whether we would see any deer. Sad to say, it was too windy.

On Writing

Ezra Pound by Henri Cartier-Bresson

The Old Man gets criticized for his writing. It is too long, too complicated, too this and too that. But then, the Old Man knows that critics are just failed writers.

But then again, so are most writers.

Reality Distortion Field

Is Summer really here? Not quite, but it seems like it. School is out for the kids. The weather is unseasonably warm. Cranky Old Man's grass is already turning brown despite his best efforts to keep it watered. The hot dry Kansas wind turns the yard into a virtual Gobi Desert - dry and dusty.

Summer is really a great time to pick up a book; and among the books Cranky Old Man is reading is Walter Isaacson's Steve Jobs.

Steve Jobs is most famously known as the creator of the Apple computer, along with Steve Wozniak. But there is a lot more to Jobs than that. Famously fired from Apple, he went on to create NeXT, fund Pixar, and then recreate Apple when it was on its death throws.

Personally, Steve Jobs came across to those he came in contact with as an arrogant assoholic. Isaacson in his biography tries to tell why. In the process Isaacson gives us a unique look at how Steve Jobs saw the world.

Steve Jobs was adopted. For most of his life he did not know his biological parents and when he did find out later in life, he had nothing to do with his father. His abandonment by his parents is the one significant psychologically factor that defines his personality.  Rejected by his biological parents, he was alone in the world. Thus, it is not surprising that he would be, at the same time, both controlling and suspicious in all his relationships.

Chapter 11 of the book is titled The Reality Distortion Field, Playing by his Own Set of Rules. Isaacson defines this through Jobs' co-workers as the ability to conform reality to your own means. One co-worker explained, "In his presence, reality is malleable. He can convince anyone of practically anything. It wears off when he's not around ..."

So, what about those tinted sunglasses? If you wear a blue pair of sunglasses, does that really make the world somber and blue?

The name reality distortion field comes from a Star Trek episode in which the aliens create their own world through sheer mental force. But the idea is not unique to Star Trek's writers. Albert Einstein observed,“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”  Douglas Adams similarly speculated, “Everything you see or hear or experience in any way at all is specific to you. You create a universe by perceiving it, so everything in the universe you perceive is specific to you.” And one can go back to Socrates and Descartes for the same idea - We create the world around us. We are what we think we are, even if we aren't.

It is a confusing idea, but not if you accept it.Your perception is your reality. "I think therefore I am." Descartes says. And the Old Man would reply, I am what I think. Don't like who you are? Change your story, change your perception, change your life.

We distort reality to make the world seem a little more pleasant place in which to live. Objective reality sucks. The world is full of crime, betrayal, and misery along with the beauty, love and hope. Why not focus on the good and not the bad, the beauty and not the ugliness? Be a positive force for change and not a Negative Nancy.

Cranky Old Man likes this idea. After all, it is at the heart of all self-help books. To make something happen, you first have to believe it yourself. Then, it will come true. So whether it is a new way of making a computer, or a new health regimen, a job, or a relationship, you have to set your mind to the task and do it in spite of everyone else. Steve Jobs in 1985, fired from Apple and wondering what he was to do next in life while standing on a bridge in Paris with his girlfriend commented, "I am a reflection of what I do." The Old Man fashions himself a writer.

"The problem" Cranky Old Man thinks, "is that reality distortion can become impractical and harmful." Take schizophrenics for example, their reality is a paranoid delusion. That is hell on relationships. Instead, we need the ability to go back and forth between our personal reality field and what is really happening out there. You have to get off the bench to play in the game, but you can't see the game unless you are sitting on the sidelines.

Image is reproduced from the cover of Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson. It has been digitally modified to create an inverse image as background. The image is used under the Fair Use Doctrine of 17 U.S.C 107. 

How do we see the world as it really is? Or, should we say, How do we see the world as others do? The Old Man thinks this requires the empathy gene. You have got to walk in someone else's shoes, see the world through their eyes, feel their pain. Cliches, boring as hell, still help us to understand something that is outside our own reality. But most people would acknowledge that Steve Jobs was not a caring understanding soul. No something else drove him. And this was his ability to see the final end product. Success drove Steve Jobs to see what needed to be done. Success is, in a way, like the Law of Natural Selection, what works stays, failures are soon forgotten.

Maybe, the Old man thinks, reality is what works.

A Contest of Wills

It is Sunday, May the 6th, 2012.

The Cranky Old Man sitting on his back porch, here in Wichita, Kansas, quite alone. When one is alone, there is no contest of wills, and that is heavenly. The Cranky Old Man insists that he is not really cranky, but methinks he does protest too much. His family insists that he is and it is their will that seems to prevail.

The family is gone, but the dogs, Tobie and Sam remain, and together, we have the day to ourselves. Where should we go, what should we do?

This Sunday, the weather is mild. It is an English summer day, one where billowy clouds shield the earth from the harsh rays of the sun. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves in the trees. The honeysuckle vine's yellow and white blooms announce that Spring is here to stay. All this suggests to me that a trip to Shakespeare's London of 1599 is in order. My trip is arranged by way of James Shapiro's, A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare, 1599. To make such a trip is simple enough, pour a glass of wine and open the book. Let the breeze stir your thoughts to Elizabethan England.

In Shapiro's England, it is still Winter, for a I am reading chapter one, A Battle of Wills. The chapter begins on December 26, 1598, and Shakespeare's troupe, the Chamberlain's Men, is off to Whitehall to perform The Second Part of Henry the Fourth this Christmas for Queen Elizabeth.

Shakespeare's play, as many did, had an opening prologue and an epilogue. This is a rhetorical device, well known to public speakers. Tell the audience what they are going to hear, tell them again, and follow that up with a summary of what they heard. The rule of three is often repeated - repetition makes for memory retention.

In The Second Part of Henry the Forth, the epilogue was delivered by the actor Will Kemp. Kemp was perhaps the most famous actor of his day, a bit of a Charlie Chaplin, acting in comedic roles and always center stage. Kemp was also well known for what followed the play. This was a dance called a Jig. Today we imagine a jig as a robust dance, but back then it was more. Jigs, as Shapiro explains, were, "basically semi-improvisational one-act plays, running to a few hundred lines, usually performed by four actors. Kemp's jigs were so popular that in London of 1599, everywhere you turned, you could hear "whores, beadles, bawds, and sergeants filthily chant Kemp's jigs." The word "beadle" refers to a parish constable who was charged with the duties of charity; and "bawd" refers to a prostitute or the madam that keeps them. Thus, Shapiro suggests, those coming to see Kemp dance the jig were the riff-raff of London, those who waited until the end of the play to enter the theatre without paying their penny.

Shapiro's first chapter, A Battle of Wills, concerns the battle of egos between Kemp and William Shakespeare. Kemp had come to believe, with reason, that the audience came to see him dance and sing, and not to hear the staid and lifeless words of a lengthy play. Most plays at the time were dry and humorless. Shakespeare changed that with his wit and wisdom. His plays were topical, his words biting and quotable. The fact that the Queen herself viewed many of Shakespeare's plays suggests that the plays of Shakespeare and The Chamberlain's Men were the blockbusters of the stage.

Kemp was a member of The Chamberlain's Men and an equal owner in the profits of the company. Yet, egos often get in the way of common sense, and Kemp decided that he could take his name and his jig elsewhere for more money. He was wrong, and within a few years died penniless. Shakespeare got the last word in at the Globe.

And as for the Epilogue, take that of The Second Part of Henry the Forth, spoken by a dancer, Will Kemp:

First, my fear; then, my curtsy; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure, my curtsy, my duty, and my speech, to beg your pardon. If you look for a good speech now, you undo me; for what I have to say is of mine own making; and what indeed I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the purpose, and so to the venture. Be it known to you,—as it is very well,—I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I did mean indeed to pay you with this; which, if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here, I promised you I would be, and here I commit my body to your mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some; and, as most debtors do, promise you infinitely.

...   

My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night: and so kneel down before you; but, indeed, to pray for the queen.

Fame, as Shakespeare so well understood, depends on an uncertain audience.

In the Second Part of Henry the Forth, the words of the play center around Will Kemp's character - Falstaff, friend to Prince Hal, son of King Henry the Forth. Although Shakespeare promises to write further of him, he changes his mind. There are no more words for either Falstaff or Will Kemp in Shakespeare's plays and so his audience is gone. For Kemp, "the jig was up."

Note and afterword.

Thomas Platter, a native of Basel, visited England in 1599. The following, from his diary translated from German, describes his visit to the Globe theatre, and the premier of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.

On September 21st after lunch, about two o'clock, I and my party crossed the water, and there in the house with the thatched roof witnessed an excellent performance of the tragedy of the first Emperor Julius Caesar with a cast of some fifteen people; when the play was over, they danced very marvellously and gracefully together as is their wont, two dressed as men and two as women. ...

There are different galleries and places, however, where the seating is better and more comfortable and therefore more expensive. For whoever cares to stand below only pays one English penny, but if he wishes to sit he enters by another door and pays another penny, while if he desires to sit in the most comfortable seats, which are cushioned, where he not only sees everything well, but can also be seen, then he pays yet another English penny at another door. And during the performance food and drink are carried round the audience, so that for what one cares to pay one may also have refreshment.

 Read more from the Norton Anthology of Literature.

"This too shall pass"

"This too shall pass," a proverb that I have heard repeated at various times in my life.

The proverb applies to many things in life, to success as well as travail. Simply understood, it suggests that we bear both success and difficulty with humility and patience. The proverb concerns a great king who is humbled by the simple words. The poet Shelley constructed a poem, Ozymandius, whose theme is about the temporal state of all things. The poem is short and worth repeating:


Ozymandius, by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

 And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Everything has its place and time. And, each of us struggles with challenges in life. These difficulties may seem insurmountable and unbearable, but with time become bearable. "Do you wish to rise," St. Augustine asked. Then, "Begin by descending."

Humility has its place.

History Never Repeats

"History," Voltaire said, "never repeats itself, man always does."

There are three players in this earlier French historical drama. The point of which is that even intelligent adults will find a way to squabble.

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire (1694 – 1778), was a French writer, historian and philosopher, famous for his wit and willingness to tweak the noses of the establishment. He was one of the bellwethers of the Enlightenment, steadfast in his advocacy of civil liberties, including freedom of religion, freedom of expression, free trade and separation of church and state. Madame Françoise de Graffigny, née d'Issembourg Du Buisson d'Happoncourt (1695 - 1758) was a female French novelist, playwright and salon hostess. Madame Graffigny earned her own way though life, but she did so with difficulty. In 1738, needing a temporay place to stay, she managed an invitation to Cirey, the château where Émilie, marquise Du Châtelet, had been living since 1734 with her lover, Voltaire. Two women and one man in one household rarely works well. There were jealousies.  Eventually, a prise de bec, (literally in French a beak or nose tweaking, in English, a tiff or spat), split the two women. Presumably, Voltaire, master of the prise de bec, watched from the side, amused. As an aside, Gabrielle Émilie, marquise du Châtelet (1706 – 1749) was a French mathematician, physicist, and author during the Enlightenment. She translated into French Isaac Newton's work Principia Mathematica. She independently contributed to an understanding of physics that led to Albert Einstein's later Theory of Relativity. She died in childbirth, having been forewarned of its difficulty at her age.

Émilie Du Châtelet is not necessary to my story. I only mention her because far too few women are given credit for scientific advances. Hers, among others, a recognition of the fundamental law that energy and force are squarely proportionate to the speed of matter. Think of Einstein's famous formula: E = mc2. She is also an interesting study in human nature, for she proves the strong maternal instinct to preserve life, even at the risk of one's own.

I mention Madame Graffigny only because of her association with my family. The village of Graffigny in Haut-Marne,  once part of the larger independent Duchy of Lorraine, is where the French side of my family is from, dating from the Renaissance. The village of Cirey where Voltaire, Émilie Du Châtelet, and Madame Graffigny spent a few idealic months before their prise de bec is also part of the region of Haut-Marne, near Graffigny. The connections are admittedly tenuous, but it is still wondrous to wonder if a family member bumped into any one of the trio on the street.

Fast froward history to the year 2012.

My son is a senior in high school. He has three weeks to go before graduation and then we happily ship him out of state to college. His high school is a private parochial school where visitors are greeted with the message "God's Goodness is Everywhere."

My son is involved in a "spat" in his religion class which contains 28 students, both boys and girls. I call it a spat because I was not there. I don't know what happened. I read the redacted report from the substitute teacher and found it disturbing. Any parent would. Parents hope that they raise their children well. They hope that the school they send them to instills sound values. Then again, history intervenes and boys act up, inappropriately.

Students, boys 18 years old should treat any teacher, especially a female one, respectfully. Allegedly, my son is one of six male students who disrupted a religion class. That it was a class on religion, the letter said, was disturbing.  The disruption was "farting" and tossing tennis balls. One or more tennis balls struck the teacher, and one ball caused a red mark which was photographed by the school nurse. "It hurt!" she remarked. I don't doubt that. I don't like the disrespect. I don't like what happened. I am saddened that the teacher was put though this ordeal by boys who should know better. If I had been there, I would have taken the offending miscreants to the woodshed. That is what they did in my day, and in my father's day, and before that.

The teacher is female and a substitute. And the rule, now as always, is to give substitute teachers a hard time. History doesn't repeat itself, but the inappropriate conduct of the students does. There are inevitably the conflicting stories of witnesses, the involvement of authorities and parents. Eventually, it all gets resolved one way or another. History teaches us that.

There are few saints in life. Father Emil Kapaun, for whom the school is named, is one of them. And even he was a cut up in school. Unless one has been a saint though out one's life, a Joan of Arc, then at one time or another there is a clash with school administrators. Senior pranks, the movie Ferris Buhler, anyone. I for one was involved in incidents in second grade, fourth, and seventh grade. The history of each incident varies, they all do. And the way matters were handled by the school and my parents likewise varied.

The  historical perspective has changed. Now it is parent to child, instead of child to parent. In hindsight, I can compare my parent's reactions to my childhood foibles with my own reactions to my son's. In my case, things resolved themselves, mostly for the better. Sometimes changes were necessary, certainly on my part, and sometimes on the part of the school.

Hopefully, history is a predictor of the future.

Tuchman's Law

In 1978, Barbara Tuchman, Pulitzer Prize winning historian, said it best. The fact of being recorded makes a disaster appear both continuous and ubiquitous. Barbara Tuchman was speaking of ancient records, specifically the few records relating to the disastrous 14th century, an era visited by plague, war, religious dissension, greed, political maladministration, and decay of manners. Thus, an age not unlike our own, or any other age.

She thus formulated Tuchman's Law, "The fact of being reported multiples the apparent extent of any deplorable development by five- to tenfold. (or any figure [one] would care to supply)." By including the parenthetical observation, Tuchman anticipated the development of videotape and the reporting practices of CNN, Fox, and all of the other news reporting media who play and replay a tape snippet, thus magnifying the event twenty-fold and continuing its reportage over days, weeks, and even months.

To take but one horrific disaster as an example, consider the early reporting of the disaster at the World Trade Center in September of 2001. Surely, CNN and Fox and all the other media put on loop the videotape of the two planes crashing into the two towers. Viewers were mesmerized by the repeating scene. This made it appear that New York City and every other city in America was under attack, as plane after plane crashed into building after building. Buildings tumbled into a mass of destruction, smoke clouds rose, and people fled in terror.

In this one instance, editors and newsrooms quickly came to their senses. They quit rebroadcasting the tapes. Showing the destruction only served the interests of the terrorists who want to sow fear and loathing. Instead they focused on the task at hand, aiding the injured, finding survivors, and finding out who perpetrated the disaster.

Since 2001, it has been back to normal.

Just think about it.

It's is the same old thing, being misunderstood, that is. I say one thing, the other person hears something else. Just think about it.

Communication is not an easy thing. We talk, we listen. That is it. But what happens once the spoken word leaves the lips and before it reaches the brain seems to be a mystery. I could give a hundred examples of being misunderstood. We all could. That is why miscommunication seems to rank high on the chart of human conditions that needs addressing.

I guess the problem stems from the old cliche that we hear what we want to. After all, if the message is not one that sings to the ear, change the tune. A mother listening to her child's plaintiff cry, hears a cry for help. A stranger hearing the same thing, finds the cries annoying, that is, unless the stranger has his or her own small child and has a visceral transfer of emotion.

If I had to put my finger on the problem, I would chalk it up to a lack of empathy. Empathy, the ability to feel someone else's pain. Speaking of which, isn't that what the life of Christ was all about. Jesus is born to humble beginnings, preaches a message of love and understanding, is betrayed and crucified. His crucifixion symbolizes an atonement for the sins of the world. But Christ did not commit those sins. Why then did God demand that he be sacrificed for our sins? Well, just another example of transference. Let someone else deal with it. It is another day in Paradise for those of us who are well off.

Excuse me, if for a moment I become political. Mitt Romney, Republican candidate for President of the United States says in an interview "I don't care about the poor." Yes, I know, he followed that up saying that there is a safety net, and, if that is broke' he'll fix it. Nor does he care about the rich, he just cares about the hard working Middle Class whose votes he needs to get elected.

I like Mitt, he is a likable guy, and if he had a Facebook page, I would press the like button. Mitt's problem is not just his choice of words. How, after all can a candidate announce that he doesn't care about a voter. And sure enough, silver-tongued Newt Gingrich announces the next day that he cares about everyone.

I guess it is another example of Mitt not feeling the pain. I can sympathize with him. He is well-to-do, never wanted for anything, except votes, and has a hard time understanding what it means to struggle day to day. If he is going to communicate to the electorate, he better get the message. We are all struggling, we all have problems, and we all need to be heard. Empathize.

Enough of politics.

So, I am over half way into this essay, and I find myself talking about how others fail to relate to me. That, in itself, points to the problem. The major problem with communication is not with the talking or the writing of words. Rather, it is with the listening. Christ spoke rarely, saving his words for important occasions. Most of the time he was all about dealing with the problems of others. His most famous words, "Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you." is itself a role reversal.

So, I will try to listen, and then, maybe in understanding, I will be understood. A good start is Phil Collins song, Another Day in Paradise. Here are the lyrics, You can also listen to it on Youtube in another window.

Just think about it. No, do something about it.

Another Day in Paradise, official version.

She calls out to the man on the street, "Sir, can you help me? It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep. Is there somewhere you can tell me?" He walks on, doesn't look back, he pretends he can't hear her He starts to whistle as he crosses the street, seems embarrassed to be there Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise.

Just think about it She calls out to the man on the street, he can see she's been crying She's got blisters on the soles of her feet, she can't walk, but she's trying Oh, just think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise Oh yes, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise

Just think about it, uh - huh, just think about it.

Did I Learn Anything Last Week

Osama bin Laden was killed on Sunday by a special operations unit of  U.S. Navy SEALs. The killing took place at 1:30 in the morning. Four Chinook helicopters flew into Abbottabad a military town and home to three Pakistani regiments. Abbotabad is not in the rugged border area where bin Laden was thought to be hiding, but a mere 30 miles from Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. The mansion where Osama bin Laden and his family was hiding out was the largest in town and 10 minutes by foot from a major Pakistani military post.

The Navy SEALs were done with their task in under an hour. A local resident unknowingly tweeted the event as it occurred. The soldiers went from room to room searching for their target. The President and his National Security Team watched the events in real time. The SEALs located their target and uttered the words the President waited to hear, "Geronimo ekia," or Osama bin Ladin enemy killed in action. Three other males were killed in the action including bin Laden's adult son and one woman who was caught in the crossfire. The others in the compound were escorted to safety and released to the Pakistani authorities.

Osama Bin Laden was killed in a hail of bullets. Osama bin Laden, if he were asked, would probably claim to be a martyr, suffering death for his religion. Most Americans simply viewed bin Laden as a coward. For what is holy and right in using innocent men and women in airplanes to kill other innocent men and women in buildings?

America's spontaneous reaction to news of bin Laden's death was to celebrate. First, it began outside the White House as hundreds and then thousands of young college students gathered to hear the news. They came from nearby George Washington and Georgetown Universities. Their collective voices joined in song and prayer. On 9/11 they were but children. They have not known of life without airliners as bombs, suicide bombs, underwear bombers, and constant security checks.Will a post-Osama world be different?

Like an ember this spirit of hope rose into the air. It lit at the site of the World Trade Center in New York the site where two planes crashed into buildings killing almost three thousand innocent souls. By this time, the President had spoken and news reporters were confirming the death of bin Laden. The joyous celebration spread from campus to campus and city to city across the United States.

Earlier in the day, before I heard the good news of Osama's demise, my son asked me if I learned anything this week. He, of course, was talking about something completely different, but the question stuck. Do we learn anything from this?

I learned that the President is one hell of a good speaker. Other politicians came on later and spoke, but none spoke with the authority or demeanor of our President. The ancient Romans would use the term "gravitas" to describe Obama's ability to connect with the public. Obama takes seriously his responsibilities, but handles the criticism he receives with good humor. This is a rare gift.

I learned that terrorists can run from justice, they can even hide for a while, but you can't hide forever. Goodness and justice triumph in the end, for that is the dominant nature of mankind. What has happened in Tunisia, Egypt, and now Libya, revolutions in which bin Laden shared no part, demonstrate the power of good people everywhere to make a difference. The reality of life is that we seek a better life.

And even then one wonders at the logic of Osama Bin Laden. His religion was one of  intolerance. Moreover, toleration was a crime punishable by death.

I have heard Osama bin laden described by some of his family and friends as a good Muslim. Like many other good Muslims, Christians, and Jew, I struggle with this. For how can a good Muslim believe that God justifies the purposeful death of  innocents in any struggle.Yet, this is the teaching in many, though thankfully not all, of the madrasas in the Muslim world.This I will never understand.

If one truly and rightly dates the war on terror, it began not on September 11, but on September 9, 2001. It was on that date that bin Laden carried out the assassination of Ahmad Shah Massoud, Lion of Peshawar and the leader of the Northern Alliance. Bin Laden did this in typical fashion though the use of two suicide bombers posing as reporters.

At the time, Massoud and the Northern Alliance were waging their own struggle against the Taliban and Osama bin Laden. Massoud was a former engineering student and commander of the struggle against the Soviet intervntion in Afghanistan.  "It is our conviction", he said, that,  "and we believe that both men and women are created by the Almighty. Both have equal rights. Women can pursue an education, women can pursue a career, and women can play a role in society -- just like men." On the contrary the Taliban and bin Laden subjected the women of Afghanistan to virtual house arrest and denied them any opportunity for education and meaningful employment.

I learned that friends will be with you not only in times of difficulty, but also in times of triumph. The people who matter, our friends spoke out and hailed the death of Osama Bin Laden as a triumph for freedom loving people in the world. And as President Obama note our fight against terrorism is not based on religion, race, or ethnicity. Our fight is based on principles, those of justice for all. All of Western Europe celebrated the death of Osama. Israel hailed the death of Osama a a great victory. Turkey, Jordan, and other responsible states congratulated the United States and the President.

I learned that recriminations come quickly. For immediately Pakistan was questioned for its role in "hiding" Osama bin Laden in plain site. How quickly we forget that Pakistan has lost more citizens in the war against terror than have we. In 2007, Benazir Bhutto a former prime-minister was assassinated for her views on human rights.During the war on terror, Pakistan has committed more troops, suffered more casualties, and paid a higher price in terms of its economy than the United States.

I learned that the world changes by a matter of degrees. Al Jazeera, the voice of the Arab world, carries a front page story quoting President Obama as saying the world is safer without Osama. At the same time, Al Jazeera in a banner headline implores the Syrian government to find and release its reporter Dorthy Parvez.America may have its faults, but it remains the best hope for a safer and freer world.

I have learned that Americans, as the President noted, pull together in times of trouble and triumph. I only hope that this national celebration of the end of evil that Osama bin Laden represented will give us some respite. For evil does not die with the death of one man.

Did I learn anything last week? Time will tell. Will there be retaliation by those of Al Queda who believe in continuing an unholy and unjust war on civilization? Will partisan politics bring us back to querulous bickering over public policy? Will this era of good feeling evaporates? Time will tell, but, for now, the President expresses the thoughts of all Americans when he simply says, "We can all agree this is a good day for America." .

Hotel California

I mention this song perhaps too much, but Hotel California is one of the iconic songs of the 70's that anyone of my generation has listened to over and over again. Rolling Stones magazine ranks the song 49th on its top 100 list. And Guitar Magazine moves it up to 8th on its list of top 100 guitar solos. The songs lyrics are vague enough to let one put any kind of spin on the words, bringing back the "spirit of 1969" tempered by the disillusionment of the late 70's, and the excess of the drug culture.

"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night..."

Last night my Garmin went blank, I was lost on highway 50 heading west through the middle of Missouri. The Garmin went blank because new highway 50 was not yet registered in the system. I was strangedly paralleling the old Highway 50, now business 50, my car a blue icon floating in grey on the Garmin screen.

It was late at night, I was tired and up ahead in the distance was the sign Motel California. Who could resist? After all, I had to stop for the night.

Cadiz

 (My suggestion is that you should listen to the Eagles' Hotel California while reading this blog. To do so, just clic on this link, Hotel California. The youtube video will appear in a new window, so you can come back, unlike in the song.)

Day three or four, I am not sure for one loses track of time and place on the road.

My overall impression of traveling is a slide show of people and places. The look and the speech of the people varies from state to state, as does the landscape. One sees in Tennessee and North Carolina mountains, then the hollows (pronounced hollars in the south) where weather beaten shacks share space with mobile homes and even newer homes. Judging from the rusted out wrecks of old automobiles parked in so many front lawns that, yes, NASCAR,  is the number one sport in the south. There are also wide open spaces, devoid of people, where the oak trees shorn of their leaves in winter stand tall and straight on the hills like so many whiskers on on an unshaven face. Perhaps the better analogy is one of fingers pointing to heaven as a sublime message of  "He is there." Finally, one comes across the towns and cities whose location often owes itself to the chance that once upon a time someone was too weary to go on.

I too was tired of traveling and so I chose to stop on I-24, just over the border from Tennessee and into Kentucky at Cadiz. The weather finally turned rainy and so it is a good time to pull into port. The name of the town also has a certain appeal to me. Cadiz - it is the Spanish port from which Columbas made his several journeys to the New World. Interestingly, he didn't know that the discoveries he made were "new" and clung desperately to the belief that he had found a short cut to the fabled kingdom of Kublai Khan.

Lost in history is the reason for naming a town in Kentucky after Spain's most famous port.Cadiz is not a port city and only sports s population of little more than 2000 souls. But, by giving it an exotic name perhaps it has enticed a traveler to spend a day and a night or two.


Welcome to Cadiz. What a lovely place to stay. Welcome to the Hotel California. On a dark and rainy highway somewhere on I-24 in Kentucky.

Lost in Middle America, Day Two

Lately, I have felt that my life was turning into an endless series of dead ends. Each day I would get up - listen to my son argue about going to school on time; go to work - listen to everyone complain about this or that, it really didn't matter what the argument was about, it was just to complain; then go work out - only to find that my old injury, a bad hip caused by years of running, was not getting any better - I tell anyone now that my leg hurts so bad, that if I was a horse they would shoot me. So it is no surprise that I am beginning to feel and sound like a cranky old man even to myself.

This feeling of a death spiral into a miasma of sameness is a big part of why I took this car trip to Asheville, North Carolina. Sure, there is an Arts and Crafts fair at the end of the trip, located at the Grove Park Inn that provides the raison d'etre for leaving Wichita. But surely there is more to it than mica lamps, copper house numbers, and pottery. There is universal need to get away, to recharge the batteries, to reflect a little, and look at life through a different set of eyes.

Traveling by car provides that means of self-examination. A lot of writers have done it. Famously, in Travels with Charley: In Search of America,  John Steinbeck, with death literally knocking on his door, traveled with his dog Charlie in a motor home looking one last time for America and not liking what he found.

Then there was that great series of reports by Charles Kuralt whose On the Road segments for CBS News Sunday Morning show always struck a heartwarming chord. Kuralt hit the road in a motor home for 15 years before parking pen and home for the last time. Sadly neither Steinbeck nor Kuralt are with us any more, and so it is hard to know where to turn to when one wants to find real stories of real Americans in small towns.

I find that the first thing you discover when you travel is serenity. There sitting in the car with over a thousand miles of road ahead of you, you take a deep breath and count to ten before you exhale. The car wasn't a motor home, but it was a GMC Yukon with a front seat like a barcolounger, and a back that in a pinch was big enough to nap. Seated comfortably in my Yukon, all those petty squabbles pop and disappear like soap bubbles. And the routine of life's boredom is broken - drive where you want, stop when you are tired, get up when you want. This reminds me of Rousseau's famous saying, "Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains." Travelling breaks those chains and frees the traveller from any responsibilities. Of course Rousseau was speaking of class distinctions and social conventions, but the idea is the same.

Of course life is not perfect on the road. If it was everyone would hop in a cars and hit the road. No the reality of life creeps back in as you travel. John Steinbeck observed that the isolation of travel is the greatest burden to bear. Charles Kerault was lucky enough to get paid for travelling and every Sunday, he put all of his thoughts together in a broadcast to an audience that only wished that it could do for a living what Charles did.

The other great rediscovery that one makes travelling is that life is not an endless highway of beauty. Mixed into the scenic mountains, lakes, towns, and forrests are the blemishes that like real life remind one that you have to take the bad with the good.

This is day two of my trip and I am following my presumably inerrant Garmin dirrection finder. I plugged in the destination Grove Park Inn in Asheville, and off I go across eastern Missouri. The trip across Missouri is roughly 6 hours in a straight line using I-70, but driving the southern route on Missouri Highway 60 is a different story. Muntains and stop lights, twists and turns make for a much longer trip. I keep looking at my Garmin and wonder if all the twists and turns can possibly be right. We have to trust the big computer in the sky don't we? After all didn't Watson the computer just beat Ken Jennings and that othe guy who doesn't like to talk much on Jeopardy. I have alsways loved the comfort of having a map in hand and I still stop at each Welcome Center to get a new state map. But is Garmin a sign that Welcome Centers are a thing of the past. Google and iphones after all, like Watson, possess more information than all of the humans manning the collective Welcome Centers of all 50 states.

The Mississippi River beckons me and Garmin points me on, directing me to follow Route 60. Strangely though, at Charleston Missouri, I find that I am down to a two lane road. Off in the distance though I see the tall iron towers of the bridge that spans the Mississippi, and so I drive on, trusting Garmin, and ignoring all the signs that disaster looms.  These signs include one small reference to a detour that I didn't fully read speeding by at 75 miles an hour. Only after I recognize my error do I recall that the houses on this last few miles to the bridge have all become dilapidated, the gas stations all shuttered and closed, the road less travelled and less cared for. No, we are all blinded by our pursuit of success. We single mindedly drive on and ignore all the warnings that, only later, were so apparent.

Image from Wikipedia.

I will bring this story to a quick end. The bridge on Route 60 crossing the Mississippi from Missouri to Cairo, Illinois was closed and shuttered. Garmin the computer in the sky is not infallible after all. Funny, I was travelling to get away from all those dead ends at home and still I find one. The moral, I guess, is that you deal with life as it comes at you. You can't escape life by traveling, you just see it from a different perspective. If I had Garmin to yell at, or a highway worker to complain to I would about the misdirection or lack of signs. No, the only person I have to complain to is myself. And that gets one nowhere, like the place I am at.