all overdone

Found by way of this post, an excellent commentary on just where paranoia lands us:

If you ask amateurs to act as front-line security personnel, you shouldn't be surprised when you get amateur security.

...[S]top urging people to report their fears. People have always come forward to tell the police when they see something genuinely suspicious, and should continue to do so. But encouraging people to raise an alarm every time they're spooked only squanders our security resources and makes no one safer.

I agree, his examples are "attack[s] on the unique, the unorthodox, the unexpected," and when you're hypersensitive to lurking evil-doers, just about anything will qualify. At the same time, I have to wonder about another motive. Despite the exasperating mantra, "better to fight them here than here," it appears people are chomping at the bit to fight "them" here and are willing to fabricate "them" so they can do just that. Or maybe folks just want to see a good taserin'. Compensating for insecurity, real or imagined, personal or political.

Overreactions.
Overt.
Overdone.

And with that, I leave you, once more, with Paul:

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland
But I think it's all overdone
Exaggerating this and exaggerating that
They don't have no fun

I don't believe what I read in the papers
They're just out to capture my dime
I ain't worrying
And I ain't scurrying
I'm having a good time

. . .

Maybe I'm laughing my way to disaster
Maybe my race has been run
Maybe I'm blind
To the fate of mankind
But what can be done?

hello and goodbye

I saw my uncle in a dream just before I woke last Saturday. It was one of those dreams where I wake up with a taut lump in my throat—on the verge of tears, but not able to cry. He appeared out of the blue and out of context, and I was really happy to see him—could feel it in my heart. I gave him a hug. He looked content.

I saw him two months ago for the first time in years. A small contingent of my ma's side of the family converged with uncanny timing at a borrowed cabin up north. None of us knew exactly where we were going or when we should arrive. We followed different meandering paths—in state, out of state, north, south, east and west—yet more than half of us ended up at the same point within minutes of each other. That's about how the weekend went, too. Things just fell into place. It was impromptu, easy, and light, full of conversation and belly-aching laughter.

My uncle arrived a little later. His health was not good and he hadn't been sleeping well so he'd delayed a bit, hoping to get a little more rest before making the drive. He was low-key, chatted some and played cards with his granddaughters. When it was time for us to go, I hugged him and said hello and goodbye. We hadn't spoken much, but I was glad he was there. Gatherings like this are few and far between.

About six weeks later, I was attending his funeral. At first, I wasn't sure if I should even be there. I felt incidental. I remembered him fondly, but as a subtle presence. When he and my aunt divorced the familial tie was stretched thin and...life went on. Maybe I felt a little guilty for that, and that I didn't really deserve to be there.

But I went, and I got to say hello and goodbye one more time. Old photos and stories introduced me to a man I'd never known, and revived memories of kindnesses that I had known. I learned what he meant to my cousins. How often does "My dad is a great dad because..." come up as a topic of discussion before something like this happens? He was a considerate and caring father. He wasn't ostentatious. He gained respect and obedience quietly. No one wanted to disappoint him.

After the service, we converged again, this time from one direction, following one path to the long-held family home. My cousins' children climbed the apple tree, polished and claimed stashes of apples as their own. Adults plucked and shined memories from the home and yard, some to share and some not. Remember playing Capture the Flag? Remember when your brother peed off the top of the haystack? Those woods...remember how we stayed gone for hours out there, just exploring and playing? Remember lip syncing to Roger Whittaker ("..and the first time that we said hello, began our last goodbye.")?

My family moved many times when I was growing up. On more than one occasion, my aunt and uncle opened their home to us as a port in the storm or an extended pit stop between ventures. As I wandered the house, I realized that I was also saying goodbye to their home, my last accessible hold of memories. It was the last place from my childhood that was still available to me. I could walk from room to room and point...I didn't have to close my eyes and imagine. My aunt sat over there in the living room to knit and crochet. I sat in that tub, playing until my fingers wrinkled with kitchen utensils—measuring cups, Tupperware containers, a funnel, an egg beater—as bath toys. We put on performances there, at the top of that stairwell, for our parents who lined the steps. We hid in these cavernous closets and cubbies during games of hide-and-seek. The house seemed so small now. I could hardly believe all of the memories it cradled.

Such a day of loss, but I hadn't felt so at peace in a long time. When I dreamed of my uncle, he asked, "Are you going to use...?" That was it, but I knew what he was asking. I knew that I needed to write this, remember this. Again and again, I come back to this concept of seeing the invisible and welcoming the unexpected. It is a true challenge for me and goes against nearly every learned inclination. But when it happens, when all else falls away and I have a bit of clarity? It's stunningly sweet and mollifying.

one last halloweenie-ish post

If you haven't visited Jail Finds, it's worth a look.

hee-hee!

From here via here.

who put a nickel in henry?

Well, I guess I did. 400 or so, actually. I went to see Henry Rollins do his spoken word thing, "PROVOKED", and I do believe I got my money's worth. The man stood in one spot and spoke for three hours straight. No intermission.

I knew some about Henry, but not a whole lot. He's been in a band or two of the heavier variety. I'd heard "Liar", and know exactly 4 words of the lyrics: "'cause I'm a liar!" I'd also heard tell that he was politically outspoken, but I had no idea that he was doing a spoken word tour or that he had done more than one until it was mentioned here by Jagosaurus. She's a fan of Henry's. I'm a fan of hers. It followed that given a convenient opportunity, I would check out.

About ten minutes in, I was concerned—not about subject matter, but about style. He started out talking about the typically poorly written and unsigned hate mail he's received. One letter in particular was from someone who disapproved of his live-and-let-live stance on homosexuality. The writer asked something like, "What's next—men who marry horses?" Henry's point was funny enough: the phobe spoke as if homosexuality were a "gateway" orientation. Experiment once and there begins a progression through various animals that ends with an exchange of vows with a horse. Absurd.

What I didn't need to hear was the description of the progression. It was an all ages show, so I was surrounded by stinky college students (an observation, not a judgment—I, too, was once a stinky college student) who sniggered incredulously at HR's crude descriptions of seduction and sex with various animals. I could not suffer a whole show of dick humor. Luckily, it ended there. To his credit, if he was employing a hook to engage those in the audience who came based only on his musical resumé, he likely succeeded.

He covered a pretty broad range of topics, and was a genuinely good speaker: smart, funny, honest, bullshit free, and, while I have a hunch he was largely preaching to the choir (the thundering guttural "YEAHHHHs!" from the gent 5 ft behind me were an indication), he was respectful of other's opinions.

In short, Hillbilly, thanks. Great recommendation & well worth my nickels.

makes me rather tired

Ma is famous for gifts of random miscellany. On a recent visit she left me this garage sale find:

A New Self-Teaching Course in
PRACTICAL ENGLISH
and Effective Speech

comprising
vocabulary development, grammar,
pronunciation, enunciation,
and the fundamental principles
of effective oral
expression

by
Estelle B. Hunter, Ph.B.

It's a box of 15 lesson booklets published in 1938 by the Better-Speech Institute of America. Apparently, they made quite a killing with these courses. In the "personal message to you from the author," Estelle states that while "[a]t first your efforts to avoid mistakes and slovenly speaking may cause you to speak with a somewhat studied expression," one should not be discouraged because "in due time your speech will be both fluent and correct."

Each booklet ends with exercises. Here's Exercise 9 from Lesson 2:

Correct all the mistakes in the following paragraph:
What kind of a time did you have at the club last night, or wasn't you there? I saw Jones, and he sez, "The new club don't seem homelike, but you can't blame it on me--I'm not the House Chairman." Those sort of remarks make me kind of tired. He most always complains, but he don't take a hold and help. He's dark-complected enough to be a Russian or Italian, but he sez he ain't.

Answer:
What kind of time did you have at the club last night, or weren't you there? I saw Jones, who said, "The new club doesn't seem homelike, but you can't blame me--I'm not the House Chairman." That sort of remark makes me rather tired. He almost always complains, but he doesn't take hold and help. He is dark-complected enough to be Russian or Italian, but he says he isn't.

What the...?!?
Never mind fluent and correct if your speech is daft and dull to begin with. What kind of non sequitur is that last statement?

I think I'd rather hang with Jonesy. But don't mind what I sez, I ain't the House Chairman.

chronic introspection, ca 1999

[Embarrassing, yes, but I do like pieces of it.]

another pint-sized ton
again burdened by another
conflict or confrontation
friend or foe
so brash and bold
I shy away
retract, fold
into my cave of contemplation
my home
my traveling companion
blocking, locking out light that
might project through the
prison
prism
scatter the image some
more perspective
under the scope
examined at every scale
dissected and multiplied
compounded
crazy thinking, thinking
maybe too much
p.s. had it right
wise? in sight
can drive a gal
in sane

what did i do was it me
no of course
not sure
it was as always
mountains and valleys, ravines to
mole hills and furrows, creases
and back
dispense with the
discourse within
could I do without?
god please stop and
someone else start
do me that favor
but beware
I'm told
of those red angles
paradoxes perching, lurking
lurching from dark corners
and bright expanses
seek comfort from the wise
they are as confused as I
view scattered image fragments
through compound eyes
what am I to be?
stay strong or
bend or both
the hub and the spoke

I give up
you go ahead
take a snap shot
try to sum it up
this picture's worth
more than a thousand
million single words
phrases, cliches, ambiguities
run-ons
incompletes
sentences.
fragments
take a shot
if I can't do it
of course you can
of course you can
see so clearly
and me, sure
oh, me too
nice and neat
little package
me up of course
you can
Box me in
label sin
wash, rinse, repeat
again burdened by another
reflection on reflection
chronic introspection

qp

Or, questionable provenance. My code for "stolen books". The dirty secret's out. I am an honest woman, a reformed woman (in that respect, anyway), but in my personal library thing, there exists a handful of books obtained through dishonest means.

These ill-gotten items are a remnant of a spell in my mid to late teens (I was a minor, for those of you thinking of calling the po-po or five-o...or homeland security for that matter). I have no justification for my thievery, but I've thought a lot about why I took the books. I used and loved libraries (a few of the books are from libraries) so it's not like I didn't understand the free borrow and return, reusable community resource concept.

Out of curiosity, I did some shallow digging about commonly stolen books. Common, of course, is relative. I'm unfamiliar with all but three of the authors commonly lifted from b&n. Public libraries commonly lose how-to books. Dictionaries and poetry books are the first to disappear in correctional facilities (followed by the how-to's). Folks steal "immoral" books to keep them out of the hands of others. How moral. I wonder if they have ties to the Bible nabbers--another hot title.

Some of my bibliobooty probably registered in my mind as "cool old books", but the majority fall in line with the how-to's and poetry. My motivation was hardly lofty or meant to impress. I see these books as mementos. Anchors. I know that life back then felt incredibly impermanent, and one thing that I felt semi-solid about was writing and appreciating those who did it well. I also had a great English teacher who loved literature and writing. His criticism was constructive, and his praise was hard won, but deserved. He had high praise for Sheridan Baker (RIP).

So, there you have it. Think of me what you will.

[Ha! There are two mentions of stealing in the Amazon customer reviews of The Practical Stylist! ]