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Tag: survival

The Ride: blues stanza

Fasten your seat belts, we’re off for a ride.
All of us living, together we ride.
Like it or not, you don’t get to decide.

Maybe we’ll travel and learn to be friends.
Could be the mileage will make us all friends.
The long journey on which the future depends.

There’s just no telling what’s coming up next.
No map for showing us what could be next.
Won’t know for certain just what to expect.

Got no direction, we just need to drive.
Direction don’t matter, just head out the drive.
We’ve got to move if we want to survive.

Hit the ignition and lay on the gas.
Just turn the key and press down on the gas.
If we make it through Memphis, we’ll be free at last.

Fasten your seat belts and turn up the sound.
Travel is better when you float on sound.
We’d best get moving, or end underground.

Maybe we’ll travel and learn something new.
See something different and learn something new.
We stick together, we might make it through.

21 APR 2025

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Expecting Different Results

Krishnamurti once said that it was no great achievement to appear sane and well-adjusted in an insane world. In these interesting times, that’s an idea that resonates with me on several levels.

First of all, it calls into question what we individually, and as a society, consider socially acceptable and non-destructive behavior. Let’s abandon the idea of national standards at this point – because face it, there are not only differing ideas on this subject among the salad bowl of cultures, ethnicities, races, religions, and political persuasions that are tossed together in the Great American Salad, but there are numberless regional varieties across and within each sovereign state. Add to that the idea that how each generation defines what does and doesn’t quality as weird, strange, or aberrant behavior, and you’ll see there’s no real way to come up with a consistent and mutually acceptable definition of terms. And that’s just a very small section of the Americas.

Bureaucratically speaking, normal and sane are the standards by which solid hierarchies are built. Individuals who can sit still, be silent, and be generally agreeable are valued building blocks of successful societies. We praise the artistic, creative, inventive, eccentric, and otherwise abnormal among us, but we don’t really want them among us, living next door, teaching our children, pastoring our flocks, or challenging our status quo. It’s one thing to insist that your child take a few years of piano lessons. That can be useful at cocktail parties. It’s quite another to encourage them to use that skill as a basis for eking out a meager living accompanying television soap operas. Western civilizations, in particular, with the exception of maybe the Celtic, have always looked at the arts as an occupation for the lower classes. Even the Celts, to be honest, seemed to value warriors who could march into battle with visible erections a little higher than they celebrated the average lute player.

It’s been said, however, that Western civilization has been very good at passing from generation to generation the means and technology by which things are done but has not done so well at communicating from parent to child the reasons why it is important to do them in the first place. Society reconstruction projects, like modern Druidry and Witchcraft, as well as a lot of intentional communities of other kinds, seem to if not recognize, at least suffer from, these problems. It’s great to learn and emulate modern anthropologists’ interpretations of rituals with no surviving actual original participants, complete with ancient languages no living person still speaks, and imagine that makes you a Druid. It’s an illusion, of course. Unless you really understand the purpose for an original ritual, and the reasons still exist in that same form in modern day, AND the symbols and language have some current meaning and application, taking a sickle of gold to trim the mistletoe from an oak tree in City Park isn’t really much use. Of course, human beings will always need rituals. But we need our own celebrations, justifications, and recognitions, not someone else’s. If we don’t find our own ways, and find them meaningful in our own time, we’re no different from an SCA group that imagines themselves all reincarnated from royalty, or a vodoun group speaking in French Creole even though they’re all third generation Russian Jews.

But who’s to say what is “sane” and what isn’t? Whatever floats your boat, right? If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad. In an ideal world, maybe some of that works. But in a reality where your right to swing your fist ends at my nose, the restrictive nature of cooperative behavior can stifle even the most unbalanced responses.

Besides, given the nature of generational shifts, the constant pendulum swing between Apollonian and Dionysian ideals, chances are, as Batman learned, if you survive as a hero long enough you will be painted a villain. The world is impermanent, as is everything in it. You, me, ethical standards, philosophies, even gods and demons have expiration dates. Most ideas are a mere generation from extinction. If we don’t find a way to communicate with our children, then our way of looking at the world is gone when our brief candle flames are extinguished. And we spend so much time, like our parents and their parents before them, worrying that our children have no sense, no morality, and no direction. But we never look in the mirror to figure out why that is. It’s much easier to blame the devil than take responsibility for our own lack of evolution.

If Johnny can’t read, it’s because we didn’t show him how wonderful it can be to lose yourself in a book. If our child is distant, angry, resentful, and bitter, remember it doesn’t matter what you say to an apple, it cannot fall too far from the tree.

And who are we to judge the sanity of anyone else? Do we really have our act together? Would a jury of our peers – if we could actually find one – agree with that verdict?

Besides, as Seal put it, “We’re never gonna survive unless we go a little crazy. “

Buckle up, buttercup. At least you’re not along on this ride.

15 APR 2025

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A Thing Survives: byr a thoddaid

So: can a thing survive a fall,
then lift itself enough to crawl
from where it lands to some safe place, to heal
and hide its bruised, scarred face

until the foe that pushed it down
has doubt it ever was around,
then too late, as the counterstrike arrives,
regrets its choice to leave a thing alive?

26 JAN 2017

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This Morning’s Song

The song I sing this morning is not new.
In fact, its birth predates even my own;
yet in between the phrases, now and then,
it’s me, and not the tune, that you’ll hear groan.

Why is this melody upon my lips
instead of some fresh fragment from the charts,
designed from sentimental, worn cliches
to motivate me and my shopping cart?

Because it has survived, the same as I,
despite the efforts of a younger set
who think of history as just passe,
and find their greatest talent, to forget.

The song I sing this morning, I once sang
as a young boy who’d just begun to dream
that this old world was more than it appeared,
and started peeking in between the seams.

What song will you be singing when we meet?
I hope it’s one where I can sing along;
I’ll share mine with you, if you’d care to try:
in harmony, it’s twice as loud and strong.

11 APR 2006

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After the Flood

The things by which we measure our success:
accumulations from long years of toil,
the pride of equity in an address,
and our precious illusions. How soon spoiled,

in just a moment’s passing, are these goods,
respectability’s crush torn away.
All the great faiths instruct us that we should
in times like these find hope and not dismay,

unloosed from the material that binds
our spirits to mere temporality;
and praise the soul that in such trial finds
a hidden good to salve its sanity.

It’s only stuff, I know; and furthermore,
in recent months I’ve despaired that its weight
has been a millstone lain beneath the floor
that’s kept our fate in chains. But as of late,

I wonder: is it better the veneer
on these rough boards of ours has been removed,
and now, left plain and simple, our path clear,
are we left with a simpler truth to prove?

I am no refugee, except to those
who measure by possessions a man’s worth,
and would put beggar’s hearts in rich men’s clothes
expecting gold from toxic, poisoned earth.

I have all that I need: the rest is dross
that over time accumulates again;
What good is sorrow spent on such a loss,
or worry over endless might-have-beens?

21 SEP 2005

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Back to the basics

Back to the basics: down that trail
bringing us from the ocean’s foam
where we shared space with fish and snail;
back past Europe, far beyond Rome,
before we started keeping track
or had the means to tally score.
If we would find the things we lack
we must devolve, then dig some more
distaining drills and modern tools,
pickaxes, shovels and backhoes;
tricks learned in engineering schools,
and physics, too; they must all go.

Bring nothing with you, pen nor phone
will serve you here in this dead zone;
no trail guides, blueprints, wires or cups —
to walk this path, you must give up
all semblance to your modern self;
and all those volumes on your shelves:
pretend that they were never writ,
that all you know, the breadth of it,
spans just as far as your two arms
and runs the width of a small farm.

Back to the basics: eat and sleep,
hunt and be hunted, kill or die.
Turn back from hills that are too steep,
from rivers too deep or too wide.
Back to the basics: no free time,
no Broadway shows, no top shelf wines;
the Devil’s in such modern stuff,
so give it back, and say, “Enough!”

Forget how far the human race
has come; at least, in any case,
deny yourself the benefit
of what you did not work to get
and take for granted your whole life:
to slice that bread, you’ll need a knife.

03 JUN 2005

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Through Hurricane Glasses

All these years spent riding the eye of the storm,
at the edge of the wind and the rain,
ahead of the weather, before it could form,
you’d think patterns would make themselves plain.

But the nature of the cyclone is spun from without;
subtle shifts in the slipstream can deceive.
You can read the cloud patterns, but there’s always doubt
that the nightfall’s what morning believes.

And the hurricane takes you to places unknown
that the points on the map do not show.
At the start of the season you’re out on your own,
for the doors are all boarded up closed

And the crux of the matter, at the cusp of the wind
where your sense of direction is confused,
is to not fight the current when you feel it begin
if you don’t want to end bent and bruised.

You start in the ocean, just a speck in the sky
building up size and momentum by the mile,
slipping under the radar for the first by and by,
then appearing at the curtain with style.

And the hurricane brings you to uncharted zones
that the guidebooks don’t often reveal.
At the height of the season, you’re there all alone,
for the levees and beaches have been sealed

It’s true, sooner or later, you burn out or make land
and the bluster slacks out of your sails,
ending up just some thunder on a few miles of sand
Filling gutters and storm drains and pails.

And a few busted windows, or a few flooded lawns
are the best you can manage to show
for the years riding shotgun, just carried along
at the edge of the winds as they blow.

And the hurricane’s dropped you so far from your home,
way beyond where the charts start to fade.
At the end of the season, you’re left all alone
with the wreckage that your trip has made.

09 SEP 2003

Maybe this one is about storms, but I doubt it. It’s more likely to be about those people around us who seem so wild and free, little caring about the effect the great maelstrom of their existence has on others – does the hurricane care about the shorelines it devastates, the paradises upon which it wreaks havoc, the homes it destroys? So like the hurricane are so many people, hurrying and hustling through their lives, bulls in china shops, leaving nothing but wanton destruction in their wakes. I’ve known a few. And I’ve often wondered about their purpose in my life — was it to discourage my attachment to mere material things, to a few precious valuables and so-called unbreakable commodities, and seek out things that the vicissitudes of this life cannot damage? Or was it to point out the very unstable potential of each of our natures, that finds expression only in random violence and senseless cruelty, and keep me from “riding that wind” myself, if only to provide a safe harbor for my own more landlocked dreams? Perhaps. I only know that I have longed to be a “storm rider” in the past, and surely have harnessed my share of lightening. Being burned is only half the story. As anyone who has spent a lot of time in the water will tell you, it’s not the current that ultimately gets you, it’s the exposure.

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