Thursday, November 7, 2019

Surviving the State of the Body Politic




                                              The Survivor's Boat and the Dinghies 

I’ve been vague this year about my opinions, sitting back and letting the world zip by in its own drowning chaos.  Being older and retired has given me a sense of doldrums and a kind of fatalism that it doesn’t really matter what I think about the state of the body politic.  We’re going to hell in a handbasket and nothing I do or say will make much difference.  The problem with that state of mind is that too many of us are in that state of mind.  So, the bully pundits and small-minded bureaucrats continue to make terrible decision based on their purported facts and self-interests thus accelerating our demise.


That sucks.


What I’d like to see is a collapse of the governmental parties that run our nation.  Why do we need to compartmentalize as a people?  Does it really matter if more Republicans win in an election then Democrats? Shouldn’t people of any party have everyone’s welfare at heart?  I recently watched the video on Reconstruction when the Republican party was the good guys and the Democrats were the bad guys—depending on what side of the Mason Dixon line you were on and your opinion of slavery and state’s rights.  


And what about all the other parties that want to represent we people of these United States?  The Conservatives, the Liberals, the Working Party, the Socialist Democrats, the Green Party—and probably there’s more parties than I know.  I’m guessing that humans have divided themselves into separate groups from the time of creation.  Maybe those first few groups banded together for survival, but as they got larger and stronger and wiser and more capable of surviving on their own, they split apart.  Perhaps it was for the survival of the fittest.  That meant that some would be left behind.

Here we are now, all these years later, and it is amazing how humanity has kept that kernel of separatism—someone always being better than someone else.  Maybe we can’t all live together in peace.  Maybe it’s just not feasible.  But at heart, I’m an optimist.  I do believe that for our survival we will find a way through the muck. In my mind’s eye I see all the divisive bullies in small dinghy’s being towed behind the larger ships as those of us who survive the change of climate sail off to find a new land—voting for a small group of people who will serve the majority and not call themselves Congress.

Saturday, January 26, 2019

What I Did When I Turned 70



                                                            Painting by Pamela Schiermeyer
For most of you reading this I’m guessing you are way under 70 years old.  In fact, when thinking about this number in years, I thought, “Wow!  I wonder what it’s it like to be 70?”   

Generally speaking, age is a matter of relevance. If you don’t feel your age, its not relevant! Or is it?  This begs the question of how it feels to be any particular age.  How did it feel to be one or two years old?  That’s silly, right?  No one thinks about it at that age.

How did it feel to be sixteen or eighteen or twenty-one?  Those were pretty special ages and significant in what we perceived would happen in our lives at that time.  And one would have to factor in what was going on around us at that time.  Was it happy or a sad, good or bad?

Why do we even think or feel a certain way about age?  I’m guessing that as civilizations emerged people began to put emphasis on their age.  Sometimes it didn’t even matter about one’s intellectual or physical capabilities.  Young kids were put to work.  Old people were set aside and sometimes even left behind.  Well, I seem to be getting a bit too serious.

I’ve talked to some really old folks, like in their 80’s and 90’s and asked “What was your favorite decade.”  Most of them answered “This one!”  But then they were all rather healthy and mobile.  I was also told that by the time you’ve reached 70 most any horrible thing that will happen in life has happened.  That in itself seemed subjective, but that’s what they said.

So, given the comments and adjectives I got for reaching my 70th birthday—which I’ve been told is actually my 8th decade and totally blew my mind—I decided to get a tattoo.  My kids have always wanted me to get one.  We were supposed to all get a tribal symbol that would link our family.  That didn’t happen, so based on the fact I have had a spirit animal guide since I was 10, (and that’s another story for another time,) I decided to get a tattoo of a sea turtle on my right forearm.

I did some research and creative drawing and came up with a small figure and took it to a professional tattoo artist.  We set up a date on my birthday.  He took my drawing and worked it up a bit and I approved.

I won’t go into details, as most of you probably have had a tattoo, or have seen one done.  It took about an hour.  Maybe it’s because my skin is grandma aged, or maybe it’s because my forearm is more tender than other places, but I will tell you, it hurt like hell!  I don’t think giving birth was that bad.  But maybe.

At one point a very tall and husky bald man dressed in black leather came over to check things out. He had tattoos everywhere—running up his shoulder, his neck, and to the top of his head. 

He asked, “How ya’ doing?” 

I told him it was a bit more painful than I thought it would be.  Then I asked him, “How did it feel to get your head tattooed?”

He said he couldn’t remember, which I thought to myself, really IS a lot like childbirth. 
Raise your hand if you've got a tattoo ---