Morningthots on March 21

I want REAL life, not life filtered thru a computer. Our age is dominated by so-called social media, and I’ve tried using a few of the networks — Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter — but I eventually abandoned them all, and now all I have is this blog that I weep on. 

I believe in the mind, I believe in the imagination: these things are important, and I want to contribute to them — I want to share my thoughts, and I want to write essays, stories, poetry. These things are able to come into existence by way of a blog; so I have not yet found the act of blogging to be a roadblock to creativity — in fact, for me it’s the opposite; because the alternative to blogging online would be writing in my notebook at home; and this notebook would be seen by no one but me, because I live as a recluse; whereas, when I share my writing on the Internet, via this blog, at least it has the chance of finding a reader: Even if it’s unlikely that anyone actually sees what I’ve written here, the address is public; so there’s always a possibility that it will come before the eyes of one of the Happy Few; and, if it turns out that I remain hidden, at least I’m not hiding.

That’s all I have to say about that. Let me change the subject. 

Now I’m thinking about how sad it is that regular people — civilians without any power, who simply wish to live their lives — are the ones hurt the most by warfare. We live in a time of war. It’s hard to believe that this is our reality. I grew up in the 1980s, in the USA; I was taught in school about World War One and Two, and I thought to myself: I’m lucky to live in a time when that level of violence and chaos could never happen again. Boy, was I wrong. I also remember learning about the Great Depression, to which my reaction was similar: it seemed to me that such an ugly state of living would be, forever after, impossible. Now it seems that far uglier conditions are not only possible but inevitable.

I’m surprised how easy it is for people to take opposing sides, and how willingly they accept propaganda — it’s almost as if they LOVE to be propagandized — and how quickly War Fever spreads. I was in my twenties when the World Trade Centers were destroyed, and I remember the aftermath, by which I mean the general spirit of the public in the days and months that followed — how common, normally peaceful United Statesians were whipped up into a frenzy and willing to go to war with anything that moves. That’s exactly how the present moment feels (around March of 2022), here in the U.S. — everyone’s off their rocker.

I don’t care what the masses are doing; the multitudes, the mob. I feel a genuine liking for everyone — the good guys AND the bad guys: I like them all. That attitude might get me in trouble; I hope it doesn’t. I find people who are gung-ho for war extremely interesting. I wish I could interview them — not for a magazine or newspaper, but just for my own curiosity: I wish I could find out what makes people tick.

Who are these arms dealers, also? Do they have friends and family? Who benefits from the manufacturing and use of nuclear weapons? — Why am I, a bookish nobody, condemned to solitude, while people who make world-destroying bombs are hobnobbing at cocktail parties? I bet the answer is blowing in the wind.

I heard people talking about statues yesterday: They were discussing whether a town should tear down statues depicting historical personages who stood for inhumane ideas. The conclusion that these talkers reached was that the old Hebrews were correct to ban all representational art — one of the Ten Commandments sez: 

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.
(Exodus 20:4) 

So the point of this talk that I overheard was that if towns were to follow the above commandment, then nobody would be honored with a statue for his or her heroism: neither Good Guys nor Bad Guys. — But I myself have a different opinion: I’m attracted to statues, and I wish that, instead of banning all representational art, we would give every single thing that lives its own commemorative statue; thus marble statues would appear all over the place. It would be difficult to walk anywhere without running into one of them. Clothed statues, nude statues: everyone is welcome. Nature itself would be like a crowded museum.

I would like, as well, to see statues of squirrels, rabbits, and ducks. Etc., etc….

§

Maybe now would be a good time to switch gears again and dream up a short cop story. Alright, what should I name this entry’s officer? Michaela? Gertrude?

Exit Music
(Cop Story)

I heard the gentle “ding dong” sound and went to answer my front door. — There was Officer Jenny, standing and smiling and holding two white takeout bags of fast food. 

“Is that an enlarged replica of Michaelangelo’s Moses in your front lawn?” she said. “I really like that!”

“Thanks,” I said, “Please, come in. Pardon the immaculateness of my house’s interior — feel free to mess things up — don’t let the tidiness intimidate you: I love life, and I also love cleaning up after debaucheries; so whatever you bonk out of place, I’ll enjoy amending it later. What did you bring us to eat? Coleslaw? Potato salad?”

“I brought two extra-large orders of French fries,” said Officer Jenny.

“Ooh! French fries, my favorite!” I said, as we took the food out of the white bags and began to squirt ketchup and mayonnaise on the tabletop, in preparation for dipping.

“These are perfectly salted and crisp,” said Officer Jenny, after taking her first bite.

“They are; they are,” I said, while tasting a fry and gazing abstractly into the distance. (I am a French-fry connoisseur.)

When we were finished eating, Officer Jenny said: “If you want to eat some coleslaw now, we can take a pit stop at the wet market, while driving in our patrol vehicle to our first distress call. It’s not out of the way.”

“No,” I said, tucking in my police shirt and buckling my cop belt; “that’s not necessary — I’m more in the mood for sauerkraut.”

“OK, sauerkraut it is,” said Officer Jenny. And we left my house and drove to the nearby wet market in our squad car.

Then, eating our sauerkraut with silver spoons from the porcelain containers that the cuisine was served in, while driving to our day’s initial mission, we enjoyed the look of the landscape of all the public parks that we passed along the way. (Our patrol vehicle was on auto-pilot, so neither of us needed to steer it — that’s why our hands were free, and it was not necessary to keep our eyes on the road.)

“We’re here!” said the cheerful female voice of our police cruiser’s machine intelligence, once we arrived at our destination.

Officer Jenny and I took a moment to finish our sauerkraut (it was the best sauerkraut we’d ever tasted); and then we dabbed our lips with ornate cloth napkins and looked in our pocket mirrors to make sure that our faces appeared attractive. 

After climbing out of our vehicle’s windows, we approached the front door of the building. I myself pulled the rope that activated the doorbell, and an elderly woman answered:

“Thank you for racing here so fast!” she said. “The reason I called the distress line is that there are tiny songbirds infesting my living quarters. I made the mistake of opening my windows without first re-installing their screens — you see, my habit is to remove the window-screens during the wintertime, so as to improve the view thru the glass panes and let in more light, for it’s unlikely that I’ll desire to open my windows during the colder months; and then I usually replace the screens before springtime arrives, but this year I forgot to do so — therefore the birds were able to fly directly into the house and land on all my furniture: look, they’re everywhere! They seem to be hoping that they will find worms to eat, but all I have is uncooked pasta.”

I exchanged a look with Officer Jenny, and we both nodded to each other, signifying that we knew how to handle a call like this.

“Just give us a few minutes,” said Officer Jenny to the sweet, kind, elderly woman while patting her shoulder-pad. “You’ll be bird-free in no time.”

Officer Jenny and I hastened back to our cop car and popped the trunk. We rummaged thru the heavy artillery that was stored there until we found two gourmet butterfly nets — we each took one and then walked back to the house while forgetting to close the trunk.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, ma’am,” I explained to the worried woman who had called us to help her. “Officer Jenny and I will gently capture each songbird with our nets, and then we’ll walk them out of your house and release them into the wild. That way, you will be saved from your avian attack, and yet none of the little birdies will need to be harmed. — But, here’s the rub: You’ll need to install those screens on your windows as soon as possible; otherwise, every single songbird will simply fly right back in, after we release it. Do you understand what I just told you?”

“Yes,” said the kind, sweet, gentle, elderly woman. “I thank you so much, my son. My son, I thank you so much.” And she bowed and folded her hands in prayer.

I made the “shush” gesture to Officer Jenny, who looked as if she was about to say something after the old lady struck her holy pose. Then we quietly tiptoed thru the house and netted up all the songbirds while the woman continued her prayers. At one point, the old lady began to snore.

Moments later, when we finished de-escalating this bird invasion, Officer Jenny tapped the elderly woman on her shoulder pad again, and the sweet old lady inhaled sharply and cried “Amen”; then Officer Jenny announced:

“Ma’am, your bird problem is solved. Officer Bryan Ray and I are now ready to say a long goodbye to you.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears and she thanked us profusely. We each gave her a hug, and we stood outside of her front door talking for a great while about our favorite poems. As we spoke, the sun dipped below the horizon, and a few songbirds returned to the woman’s abode (we noticed this out of the corner of our eyes) — but there weren’t nearly as many birds that intruded as before; so we hoped that our friendly new acquaintance either would simply remain oblivious to the re-infestation, or that she would realize that it’s not at all unpleasant to have songbirds in your home.

“Another job well done,” I said, while my partner Jenny and I climbed back into our cop car. 

“You were really conscientious about keeping your hand over the open part of the butterfly net, when you carried each bird from the house,” remarked Officer Jenny, as she put the patrol cruiser into gear and began to steer out into heavy traffic on the six-lane highway; “I mean, you knew how to keep each songbird secure in the net, but, at the same time, you were careful not to frighten them by moving too fast or pressing them too hard with your palm.”

“Thanks for noticing,” I said, smiling earnestly. “I’ve pondered long and hard about how best to remove tiny songbirds from various situations and translocate them back into nature. I’m glad that my ideas and technique worked out today.”

“Well, what now?” Officer Jenny removed her eyes from the road, to meet my gaze. “Do you want to take another distress call, or shall we eat ice cream?”

I considered both of these options for a while; then I replied: “Let’s go eat ice cream.”

So we drove to the Ice Cream Shop and ordered our favorite flavors. We remained on the premises for hours after finishing our desserts, because we enjoyed talking with the folks who work there. — Before leaving, Officer Jenny & I exchanged contact info with everyone; and we remain best friends with the Ice Cream Shop’s staff, to this day.