Comment on the Art of Conversation (and pole faulting).

The weather is a certain subject of conversation that can break the ice with potential acquaintances and strangers because the weather is a reality we all have in common.

“Nice day!”

“Yes it is. Are you enjoying it?”

“Of course. We’ve been cooped-up over the last week with the rain and…”

You get the point. A good conversationalist finds subjects that are common to the talker and listener, the weather the most common of realities.

Small talk is an art but for some people, small talk is, really, irrelevant conversation, especially when the talker’s subject is they, which can be very irritating.

“What makes you possibly think that your life is interesting to me?”

I never ever actually say this, but it certainly crosses my mind.

A good conversationalist is a good listener.

The relevant nod of the head and the occasional acknowledgement will go along way to making life-long friends, because most people’s favourite subject is themselves.

If one keeps this in mind could possibly win many friends and become influential to those around them. (An old success strategy but a tried and true one) Listen to people discuss their “quiet lives of desperation”, displaying a modem of empathy, and they will be your friend forever.

Conversation is an art form, a true art form that has been lost as it used to be a skill, a necessary skill which people attempted to practice and achieve.

Not all is lost; occasionally one meets a person whom understands the nuances of good conversation, and they are the type of individual that are always remembered; because they not only can spin a good yarn, but can listen intently for hours, despite the fact that the talker is a bore.

Like any art form, however, it takes practice and more practice like learning the violin or pole vaulting.

Conversation is a lost art that one hopes will return for many.

“ Oh for BLOG’S Sake…”

The “Live Journal” phenomenon that has rocketed in the last five to eight years is truly an opportunity to read writers and favourite authors as they live their lives just like you and me. Living, however, sometimes comes down to basics, like paying the gas and electricity bill. Those not so well-read though have a significant underground following, can’t get by on their meagre royalties; the cost of living has sky rocketed while our overall basic wages remain the same.

I truly enjoy one particular author’s BLOG, because he is published, has an underground following; has just received a significant advance for his up and coming novel, but still, he needs to work as a waiter, a coffee server and anything else that might come his way. This author’s wife, who reads to be a special lady, somehow found him a freelance job reviewing porno on the Net. From reading his entries, he went a little back and forth on the idea, but eventually came to the conclusion that writing is writing and would press ahead. Although it has been a while since reading his BLOG, he felt to grow comfortable with the idea, and viewed the job or writing these lurid pieces as just another BLOG entry; a natural warm up to write his fiction.

Then there are those authors who have gained certain notoriety, have sold more books and are close to really making a living from the art of writing. As a struggling writer, this is a good place to be. But what I have found disturbing, in a few cases, is that these authors have a terrible snobbery, a false sense of their place, an intellectual superciliousness, really, as if they had reached the level of Joyce or Poe. In other words they hang crap on popular authors or authors that do not meet their “expectations”.

We used to call this attitude in the eighties as the “middle-management” rut: given title, perks and big wages yet these middle managers were never allowed to make a decision. This of course made them highly cynical and very critical of management and their careers in general. So they would hang crap on everybody else no matter their talent.

The same goes for these up-and-coming-authors, critical because it’s just so close before they happen to hit the big time. It is a self preservation strategy: hang crap, look better, and rise above the fray. Maybe.

Sometimes I think, no success makes you drive on, a little success even further, though more success makes you stop; living in an illusionary world of literary greatness.

Taking this even further, the truly successful authors, writing that touches a large following, a publishing agency that knows how to reveal their writer, and a writer who has a flair for publicity, “Bob’s your Uncle!” A well earned success and, for the most part, a pleasure to read. This particular author’s “live Journal” is a BLOG well worth following, watching a successful writer honestly do what he does best.

My point is that this author never ever hangs crap on other authors…never. It is an unspoken rule, obvious to some and not others, that one does not criticise one’s fellows, one’s colleagues, one’s fellow musicians. This is simply bad taste.

The Net is a wonderful instrument of research and communication. The medium has enabled connections for human beings’ around the planet.

To BLOG is to write, to communicate, to express one’s goals, fantasies and the day to day humdrum of everyday life.

‘For BLOG’S sake, relax as the next BLOGER may teach you something needed.

Until next time…

A Comment on Julian Assange

Assange continues to be in solitary confinement, his health failing, and terribly, his spirit wavering. The UK 'May regime' holds a silly 6 year old bail charge over his head. The Ecuadorian government changed power in their last election, the new one, bowing to the Trump Administration.

Assange revealed the corruption of the American government. More damning, he published thousands of CIA documents, exposing the "gangster tactics" and "war crimes" of this utterly rogue organization. Trump loved Assange during the 2016 presidential campaign, but once in office, like all politicians back to LBJ, followed the CIA, FBI and the entrenched manipulators of government.

The Australian government, however, are simply lap dogs to US policy. It has been so since WW2. Australia is an echo chamber, a reluctant slave of American policy. The evidence speaks for itself. So, except for a few brave journalists, Julian's home country has abandoned him.

We wonder about the many trolls, screamers, critics of Julian Assange? What happened is after releasing the John Podesta emails, the FBI, CIA and other US organisations got scared.

Either WiKiLeaks hacked the emails, or more dangerous, their was a whistle-blower amongst the DNC's inner circle. 

After the release of these emails, a top advisor in the Clinton campaign was mysteriously shot in the back. A highly speculative murder, considering the context of time.

Suddenly Russia-gate hit the MSM, the bloody Red's have turned our election to a Reality TV Star with zero morals but a loud voice. Hillary Clinton has been nailed by Vladimir Putin. You know the rest, up to present time.

No, Assange is not a Russian agent. Assange does not work for the CIA. Julian Assange is a whistle-blower. He reveals crimes of governments. If you believe otherwise, do some research.

Assange must be granted safe passage home, or a country willing to grant him asylum. A protection from a US government intent on world domination at any cost. A government intent on silencing him, preventing a man from exposing the crimes of the powerful.

As a people, we need WikiLeaks and Julian Assange, now more than ever, to reveal the truth.

Release Julian Assange.

The Love Letter - an Art Form?

When sitting down one evening with the intent of writing a love letter, a realization occurred that the love letter is almost a genre all by itself.

Another realization soon followed that a love letter should contain a few necessary components in order for it to be true to its form. For example, the piece should describe as detailed as possible the true feelings for the beloved. The letter should also contain a shared moment that the beloved can relate to and share in those feelings of that particular time…a shared experience. The writer should by all accounts be truthful about their love because lies have a way of being found out or at least will come off as false to your beloved.

Really, the love letter walks a slippery tight rope, that is to say, there is a very fine line between true emotions and sentimentality or in the worst case, mawkishness. To be sure, the writer should always attempt to be themselves and not try to be a Shelly or Lord Byron, writing like a 19th century Romantic poet, because without question, even the best of writer’s will fail to pull it off. Why? Because know one writes like Byron anymore and the writer will sound like a lame lunatic. The key to writing a good love letter is to be totally you, and not write any romantic clichés like ‘the moon glistened from your eyes’ or ‘my heart beats like a thousand drums when you are near” or ‘my knees buckled when you walked into the room’ or ‘our souls have become one’, you get the point, stay entirely away from over used superlatives and write what you feel about the beloved.

For many, many years, the love letter has been an industry. Particularly for returning soldiers or seaman, who want to write a love letter to their wife, girlfriend or potential lover. One of my favourite Beat writers, Jack Kerouac, the famous author of ‘On the Road’, while attending Columbia University in New York, would sit in a particular bar and soon became known as the ‘love letter writer’. Word got around the traps that young Jack could write one hell of a love letter, and would only charge $5 per page. Kerouac would ask a few questions, collaborating with his client, and write a tailored letter just for them. As the legend goes, more often than not, the letter had been successful, meaning, it attained the result intended by the client – they got the girl.

In my own experience this is an unusual set-up, destined to fail. Why? Because the one you’re writing to will know that you can’t write like a Jack Kerouac and will someday ask you to do it again. If truly pressed, you’ll try and, well…

The love letter, when written from the heart, devoid of all clichés, and honest, will succeed no matter how terrible the grammar or spelling…if she/he loves you, they’ll at least appreciate the gesture because most people that I‘ve met enjoy a little romance from time to time.

My love letter finally got written and the reaction made it seem to be a success.

Time will tell.

Lancelot and the Holy Grail Edward Burne-Jones (1880-

When one reads the multi-versions of the Arthurian legends, including the originals’, Malory’s and Tennyson’s poetry, there is a predominate theme that moves through all the interpretations: Only those that are pure of heart can discover the cup that Joseph filled with the blood of the dying Christ on the cross: The blood of Jesus Christ. 

In this Edward Burne- Jones later painting, an angel appears to Sir Lancelot in a dream (one of the greatest of all the knights) and tells him he will not find the Grail because of his betrayal, his flesh-bound transgression, his affair with the beautiful Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur. 

One can see that Lancelot has reached his end: he’s exhausted, and is finally told that because of his adulterous affair with the Queen, the wife of his King and best friend, his searching is all in vain, but it is an angel that informs him of this fact. 

If one observes the painting closely can see that the angel has empathy for Lancelot and of course wants him to succeed but, as a messenger, must tell him the truth: because of his betrayal and all the terrible consequences that this love affaire created, the destruction of Camelot itself, there is no forgiveness, at this point in time, thus he must rest, and do what he can as an essentially Good man, but the Grail, this lifetime at least, will not be found.

According to the legend, Lancelot fades out of the story and is not mentioned again.

The only Arthurian Knight in the legend that actually finds the Grail is the young Sir Galahad. Galahad’s motivations are pure: his love of God and to bring back Camelot back to its original glory. 

This, of course, never happens.

Galahad never shows the new so-called regime the Grail or what it means. It is said that because of his love of God, the angels came to him when he was an old man, and carried him to Avalon. 

The blood-line of Christ continued, and Galahad’s mission was to ensure it would…and according to legend the Grail continues.

I find this painting by Burne-Jones very sad.

Sir Lancelot was also a Good man but fell in love with his King’s and best friend’s wife, Guinevere. 

He relented to temptation…I have compassion for Lancelot because like me, he’s human.

The point is Lancelot was always aware of what he was doing, and thought he might get away with it…he couldn’t help himself – love between humans is and continues to be a mystery. 

Edward Burne-Jones was fascinated with myth but what makes his paintings so important, is that he focuses on specific aspects of the story which reveals the entire myths meaning.

I love most of his work though this painting, for me, hits hard.

Review: Rulers of the World - John Pilger

John Pilger has had a long and infamous journalistic career here in Australia and the United Kingdom. In one of his most popular texts, A Secret Country, (1989) he revealed the history of the systematic genocide of Australia's indigenous people. Aboriginal "deaths in custody" had reached epidemic proportions, (Aboriginal "suicides" in prison) and this widely read book pushed those in government to investigate and form laws to prevent further deaths. Pilger also pointed out Australia's two-sided nature, that is, its multicultural diverse and tolerant people, but also its entrenched unspoken racism. He is an investigative journalist who is concerned about revealing the truth, which seems to be a rare attribute in our highly influenced mainstream media these days. In The New Rulers of the World, Pilger reveals American and British imperialism through economic and military actions in the guise of the "war on terror".

The American enterprise of world domination did not start with the current Bush administration, however, they are the current promoters and executers. Pilger discusses the invasions of Panama, Yugoslavia, Iraq and Afghanistan, and the killing of thousands of civilians either by bombing, starvation or disease, due to the sanctions imposed by the government under the flag of the United Nations, and the mainstream media conveniently failing to report these massive deaths. The theme of this book, in Pilger's own words, is to "...compare the actions of politicians in western democracies with those of criminal tyrants." He writes that the central difference between the two is the "distance from the carnage", and the propaganda imposed to make it not a crime if "we" commit it. He goes on to write:

"It is not a crime to murder more than half a million peasants with bombs dropped secretly and illegally on Cambodia, igniting an Asian holocaust. It is not a crime for Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, Tony Blair and his Tory predecessors to have caused the deaths in Iraq of `more people than have been killed by all weapons of mass destruction in history', to quote the conclusion of the American study." (P.8)

Pilger points out our glaring "double standard" where the deaths of the "unpeople", that is innocent citizens in other countries, is somehow not a crime but most certainly is when our own people die. As a result of the sanctions on Iraq in the 90's, for example, up to 6000 children per month died as a result of the blockade. This was the obstruction of $4 billion of humanitarian supplies by the US and British governments, not the actions of Saddam Hussein.

These wars, specifically Afghanistan and Iraq, are about dominance over the richest regions in the world, controlling its gas and oil reserves. Studies have shown that without these reserves, western nations will be without oil in ten years, plummeting the American economy into a third world country. The American government would never permit this to happen, thus the "war on terror", occupying sovereign states, and the loss of so many innocent lives.

The text covers a lot of ground and exposes the intention of governments in their strategy to dominate the world stage economically and by force. Interestingly, the geopolitical and military strategic importance of Iraq and Afghanistan, in terms of natural resources, (Caspian sea) is paramount in the control of the entire Middle East.

According to neoconservatives and the present Bush administration, the blueprint for the new imperialism is already mapped out and well under way. Pilger cites Zbigniew Brzezinski, advisor to several presidents, and his book, The Grand Chessboard: American Primacy and its Geostrategic Imperatives, as the bible for the present Bush administration.

In the last chapter of this book, Pilger reveals the hypocrisy of the Australian government and their treatment and utter "denial" of the plight of the Aboriginal people. While other countries like Canada and the US have reconciled with their own indigenous peoples, land grants, etc, the Howard government refuses to even make a formal apology, as did the Canadian and American governments to the Indians. This is to point out the enduring legacy of imperialism left over from the 19th century in our treatment of the indigenous people.

This is an illuminating book and one all people should read in order to gain a greater understanding of the intentions behind the war and unending deaths around us.

The Nature of Beauty & the Pre-Raphaelites

“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.” Edgar Allan Poe

The battle concerning what truly is the nature of art and beauty continues to rage in universities, galleries and salons designed for those who claim an artistic sensibility. What is beauty? Can it be defined? As the great American poet, Emily Dickinson, once wrote, “Beauty is not caused. It is.” When first exploring these questions, I discovered as many opinions as there are lovers in the world, and all think themselves an authority not to be gained said. It is possible that we will never know exactly what beauty is. Never the less, like a neurotic fixation, this question has haunted me over many sleepless nights.

In my quest for beauty, and I feel the journey could well be an endless one, I came upon a curious movement that seemed to ring of a semblance of truth. It was a certain sensibility, a philosophy of life and art, a literary and artistic wave, culminating in the 1890’s – Aestheticism. For the Aesthete, the quest for unadulterated beauty is recommended as the finest occupation humankind can find themselves during this short “visit” and “indefinite reprieve” from death that we have come to call life. The art of life or the life of art, the aesthete equates with a form of purified ecstasy that can flourish only when removed from the roughness of our stereotyped world of “actuality”. One of the most extravagant exponents of Aestheticism was the Irish writer, Oscar Wilde. He said that, “the seeker of beauty should never accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience” How true.

Closely associated with the Aesthetes was another curious artistic movement known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Such forgotten luminaries as Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais and Dante Gabriel Rossetti founded the PRB in 1848. My personal favourite painter of the later period of this movement is John William Waterhouse. A close net group of art students, painters and poets, they revolted against the canons of the English Royal Academy, and dedicated themselves to recovering the purity of medieval art which Raphael and the Renaissance had destroyed. Inspiring even today, they turned their backs on the realities of the 19th century Industrial society and anticipating Symbolism, merged classic form with the dream world of myth, spirituality and the human imagination.

Any conservative or stalwart of the classical persuasion will tell you that the “death” of art occurred after German Expressionism. This is quite possible considering the work of the Abstract Expressionists.

Be that as it may, the Pre-Raphaelite artist were amazingly proficient in depicting vividly, naturalistic detail, that the Australian art critic described as “…spectacular, beautiful in patches and coldly, provokingly weird in others, sometimes both at once.”

For me, their work provokes uncannily, moods of dreamy melancholy. There is a painful yearning of sentimentality in the work combined with a cold realism that is sometimes quite frightening.

Edward Burne Jones, the dreaming aesthete who cared for Beauty, almost single-handedly brought the English aesthetic movement into existence. His work was the exact opposite of Realism. In a conversation with Oscar Wilde, he rhetorically asked, “Realism? Direct transcript from nature? What does that have to do with art?” Indeed the growing abstraction in his work began to upset some important benefactors at the time. But he didn’t care – Burne-Jones’ quest for beauty continued into the realms of the imagination, attempting to remove the vulgar roughness from the stereotypical world of actuality.

As fashion changes so too does artistic sensibility. However over the last ten years or so, the work of the Pre-Raphaelites are becoming more popular. The art critic Robert Hughes speculates, “Modernism is losing its mandate in our fin de siecle.” I would venture to say the reason painting this century is losing its mandate was its never ending preoccupation with form, lacking in that certain quality the Romantics attempted to explore and strive towards – the Divine.

In an effort to describe what Edward Burne-Jones was striving for in his work, he wrote the following diary entry:

“I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be – in a light better than any light that ever shone – in an land no-one can define, or remember, only desire – and the forms divinely beautiful.



If this is not actual Beauty, it is at least, in the quest alone, beautiful.


Image: J.W.Waterhouse, "The Lady of Shallot" 1888.

Further Comments on the Loss of Love.

To pine for a recent former lover, the sadness all prevailing, one’s desire to even live, one’s greatest goals and aspirations fall by the wayside because that Love that once seemingly existed has now ended – and without this love, one deeply feels life is not worth living.

It has been said that it is a dangerous act indeed to wallow in this lost love, and if you have read Goethe’s novel, ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther”, know that the young man merely wanted to fit in, stumbled into Love and lost, thus, in the end committing suicide. One can forgive young Werther as he was a boy, naïve and a true idealist.

But for one to really Love a new woman with such passion as an older man, reveals that at least the “capacity” to love, so intense and sublime, brings hope that it is even possible for someone who has experienced life on so many levels, can fall so totally in love with a woman.

Sadness, grief and sorrow are emotions connected with a great loss.

Reflecting, however, does not one’s experience, age and inevitable cynicism, (a better word would be jaded) excuse him from this terrible pain?

Well it seems that these passionate emotions are not only intended for the young because one can continue to feel the pain of a lost love whether 13 or 60 – there are no ‘statutes of limitations’ on romantic and passionate love. But it feels as though the older lover, because of their experience in life, will feel the pain in a more powerful way. Perhaps because they realize life is all too short and the experience may never come again.

What is so difficult is to rationalize in one’s head with the emotions of one’s heart. We “know” wallowing in, and feeling this sadness, are to some extent absurd, but the heart pays no attention, and continues pouring forth the sadness and love – the feelings of loss.

Love is a mystery without any clear-cut answers…


Rainer Maria Rilke
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

Francois de la Rochefoucauld
When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe.
When wanting to withdraw from life because of some pain or sadness, I often remember a line from a poem by Emily Bronte:

“No coward’s soul is mine.”

Marc Chagall & Plato’s The Symposium

It can be observed that most of Marc Chagall's work is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events."(Wilson, 2007)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as the author, Jonathan Wilson, writer of the latest biography of the artist states:

"Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (ibid)

This notion is apparent in the painting depicted above; the merging of “two into one”.

Chagall's life, Wilson suggests, was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort at universalizing or merging opposites, he writes,

"In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (ibid)

Chagall was a man with an extraordinary imagination, an astonishing amount of energy and ambition, and considered by art historians as one of the true icons of Modernism along with Picasso and Matisse.

The Singing Thanks of a Lady Bird.

It was a day one would like to forget. Sick with a temperature, my sinuses infected, in pain and feeling guilty because I needed to be at work, end of year school reports, last minute grading, the troubles of individuals – but I could not get out of bed. I took a pill and went back to bed. Then my mobile phone rang, disturbing a crazy dream.

“Sorry Craig, I hate doing this but it’s important.”

My boss, one of the Assistant Principals, a good person and a very hard and loyal person, someone who has never phoned me, no matter what the crisis, was on the end of the line.

Through my nasal infected head, my voice sounding like a hay fever advertisement,

“It’s ok Jude, what’s up?”

“There is a problem with your Year 12 reports…”

At that precise second a bird flew into my bedroom, frantically circulating the ceiling above my bed.

“You’re not going to believe this Judy, but there’s a bird flying around my bedroom!”

“I know…I can hear it!”

“Listen, I’ll call you back.”

The little bird had been taken into the house by Molly my little cat, because I had forgotten to feed her, dazed in my sick physical state.

After hanging up, the little red bird with huge green eyes landed on the top of my bookcase next to my medieval helmet.

The little bird sat there, motionless, except for a turn of her head, looking at me.

Molly had disappeared thus the little flying being seemed to have calmed down, moving into shock mode.

Grabbing a towel, I approached the little one with silent caution.

Whispering, I said, “Let me see…well your feet look in good shape. There doesn’t seem to be any major wounds and your wings are in good shape as well, which is the most important thing.”

The little bird cocked her head to one side, relaxing and curiously settled.

“This is what I’m going to do. I’ll wrap you in this towel and set you free.”

The bird’s head tilted the other way, looked at me with her other eye, not really understanding what I was communicating, though my tone, to her, seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

“Ok, here we go…”

She let me wrap her body in the towel, only squirming a little. Walking to my front door, opening the screen with my foot, opening the towel, the bird shot straight and fast like a rocket – the fastest flying maneuver I had ever seen in my life!

Needless to say, I went back to bed and called my boss, hoping we could solve the problem over the phone.

Then only a few days later the miraculous happened.

After dinner, writing emails, at dusk, the most beautiful singing from a bird could be heard outside my front door.

Walking outside, there she was, the same bird, perched on the chimney next door, singing a beautiful song.

Her singing was pleasant to the ear, an intention behind the song, something truly beautiful.

Thinking I was most likely being crazy, at the exact time the next evening, there she was again, singing the same mesmerizing song. I sat down on the porch with my wine and listened until she finished and flew away…like a rocket.

The little bird has not returned because I’ve been watching out for her...

I told this story to my special student class at school and they now call me the “Bird Whisperer.”

The little lady bird thanked me for saving her life, and I believe this because it is true.

Life.

From my Journals - August 2009. "Forgetting One's Life."

To live a full life, a life of goodness and kindness, faith in God and driven to spread the Good News, is a CALLING.

As child, I dreamt of becomimg a Monk, giving myself to God and God only.

As I developed into puberty and later, adolescence, my sex-drive clouded any dreams of becoming a priest.

Sex was a sin unless you were married; I committed this sin, too many times.

As an adult, somewhat an old man now, my views have changed.

Young Love is the closest to God one can ever experience.

What makes me happy is the JOY in some one's eyes; two people in-love, holding hands and that indescribable energy that emanates around them.

I think, " Love is Real and very close to God."

The light is pure and also so bright...

I grew up to believe that there are GOOD men on this planet. Women and men who go out of their way to help someone in need.

This belief makes my life worth living.

We live on a very strange planet, however.

Why would a man devoted to his family and a minister of a church, who only preached the value of kindness, develop a devastating disease that makes one lose their memory? This disease aggressively pushes the memory of your life OUT, to the extent of forgetting your family, one's son, one's wife, who YOU are...

For the last week, my mind was constantly on my ex-brother-in law's father, a Minister of a church. He had been diagnosed with this particular disease four years ago; a quiet conversation between his son and I some years ago , he said, "I'll know it will only get worse and everyday I pray for the guts to deal with him."

I tried to contact the Uncle of my son, to no avail.

My mother found the Minster's number and I made the call.

I was, of course, a little angst but made the call any way.

Surprisingly, He answered the call.

The man is Scottish, thus, because of his accent, I knew I was talking to the right man.

"My name is Craig, your old grandchild's' uncle!

"Who?"

"Remember I came to your church one time and listened to your sermon about love and kindness."

Silence.

In his thick Scottish acsent, he said, "No, I do not remember you."

"I know it is you. You have a son named, Paul."

Silence- at least 15 seconds...

"No, I do not have a son named, Paul."

The poor man's mind was gone.

"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."

"That's okay", he said,

"It's nice to hear a friendly voice."

Then he hung-up the phone.

I have to admit it, I'm a wimp, and cried after the phone call.

To have lived a life devoted to helping others' to strive to become good people, to then have one's memory taken away is... cruel.

Life is a beautiful and cruel mystery, yet somehow in the deepest recesses of My memory, we are MEANT to FORGET.

At least for a time.

Bullying, Intimidation & Power

The title of this BLOG starts early in life...for many of us.

My first recall was of a teacher, in first grade, having me stand in front of the classroom and ridiculing me because of my accent, that I talked too much. In fact, at the age of five, I hardly talked at all. She was one of the reasons I became a teacher, to seek out these anti-social pathological individuals, and reveal them to the world…stop them.

My second remembrance is walking home from school in Surry Hills and suddenly attacked by several boys, beating and kicking me for being a “Mick”, a Catholic and luckily, the big “Micks” were around and saved my life.

Once moving to the U.S., again, on my way to school, punched in the stomach for having a weird accent – at the time, my short life had become something between a rock and a hard place.

In our little suburb of Northglenn, Colorado, power over territory and who was the best fighter was the central focus. Bravado, machismo, muscles and fast cars placed you in the social hierarchy – the bigger, fastest, loudest and meanest ruled the streets of this little suburb. One always had to be on one’s guard, vigilant and ready for anything.

Now in adulthood, nothing has changed.

Although seemingly more sophisticated the intimidation and will to power is the same: bigger, faster, smarter and mean without appearing so is the office politics of today.

We call it “politics” but just the same, it is no different than the fat loud mouthed bully down the street – the goal is similar: power over others.

We’ve come to recognize a percentage of these self-seeking individuals as psychopathic or sociopath.

In my own experience with these people, there are blatant similarities: no conscience, narcissistic, covert, hostile with always a supercilious smile on their face and relentless towards their goal… until found out.

Once discovered, more often they will run, resign and do it with as much destruction as possible, leaving broken businesses; broken relationships, broken people in general, because the bully is not interested in the welfare of all but only themselves.

Evil is one of the hardest things to confront because we want to believe that humankind is basically good.

Confront those head on letting them know that you know who and what they are: and nine times out of ten, they will run for the hills.

Be strong.

Divine Chance - A Short Story

At a time shortly after WW1 in the city of Moscow a middle-aged man, appearing close to death, is in dire need of warm clothing, food and shelter. Because of the winter months in Moscow, the temperature can drop as far as 100 degrees below zero; it is not so much the temperature of the air but the scathing winds that blow through the streets that can turn an unprotected body into a brittle object of ice. Uri, walking aimlessly through the streets, found a small alleyway, curling against a brick wall to escape the wind.

Since deserting the Red Army a month ago, he wore only a thin sheepskin coat, a cotton shirt and worn leather boots that barely protected his feet from the small pebbles along the road, let alone the cold. As the wind continued to whip through the streets like a swipe of the hand from the devil, Uri prayed to God for a small respite for his misfortune.

Freezing to death is a long, painful experience; as time travels forward, as consciousness weakens, one’s awareness moves dangerously close to that irrevocable slumber; death was stalking the streets, seeking out Uri.

Uri peered upward and in a whisper, uttered a prayer:

'Lord, I know I do not deserve to live, but please spare me, and with all my soul, the rest of my life will be devoted to you!'

Uri believed the Revolution and the fall of the Czar would change Russia for the better. The two-year drought, however, seemed to never end. Many good families died from starvation. Then the unexpected Civil War broke-out between those loyal to the Czar, the “White Loyalists” and those revolutionaries’, intent on change for all “workers”, joined Lenin and Trotsky, calling themselves the Red Army. The Russian people were dying by the millions, and for Uri it was a confusing time, not only for him, but the entire Russian people.

Uri’s life changed forever, when Trotsky’s Death Squads raided his home one early morning. The memory was chaotic, flashes of moving disjointed images, only echoes of shouts, gunfire and pleas for mercy. He does remember his beautiful wife, Ivana and his son, Vadim ruthlessly shot in the back of their heads. Confused, the rest of the memory is only a haze. He could not recall his youngest, Svetlana, a mere four years of age, receiving a bullet before he was handcuffed and dragged away from his home.

Uri thought: ‘Can my darling daughter be alive? No, it is not possible. She would have been sleeping with her mother…. Svetlana must be with the Lord.’

Uri was taken to a camp, an area of tents and small fires that in their sheer numbers resembled the sparkle of the night sky. He then was fitted with an odd uniform, though very warm, and given an old, rusted rifle used in the 18th century. Along with the antiquated firearm, he was handed only three bullets.

“Make these bullets last and make them count! Because supplies are low, you must show the generals’ that you are a true patriot of the revolution. Otherwise, (he sniffed, spat in his hand and wiped the snot on his trousers)…you will be shot like a dog.”

2.

The Supply Officer appeared to Uri like an over-sized bulldog; a frosted beard, and his left ear stuck-out like an odd branch of a tree. He spoke in a gravely voice like a demon or a heavy drinker that smokes too many cigars.

Lost in the pangs of hunger and post-trauma-induced haze, Uri was brought back to reality to the shouts of the General in charge addressing a haggard, limp group of peasants with rusted rifles and only three bullets each, and were expected to perform like trained soldiers – a pseudo-battalion of misfits and starving men.

In an unusually loud voice with the accent of a Ukrainian, he began:

“Comrades, you are all very fortunate men. Now that the Evil Regime of the Czar and his family has been, well, eradicated, we now face new enemies. Listen carefully; these men are the manifestation of the devil himself! The workers’ of the world will unite because of the greatness of Comrades' Lenin and General Trotsky. Tomorrow you will fight our enemy’s with true vengeance and, will most likely die in the attempt. At the least comrades’, you will die for the Cause and be remembered with honour!”

“Dismissed!”

The General turned with his hands clasped behind his back; his face turned downward, his lips moving as if praying. He entered his tent, and all could hear his booming voice echo throughout the camp:

“VODKA!”


*


The dawn cracked revealing a thick fog, an eerie mist, that hovered over the battlefield like a rising damp from Hell.

General Demedov shouted orders out into the semi-darkness to his troops to fall into formation: those “loyal to the Cause”, formed a line in the back, their guns loaded and ready. Those men like Uri, farmers, peasants, poor shop owners, factory workers, who’d been forcefully conscripted, who could not be trusted, were ordered to form along the front line, facing the White Army, eye to eye…

Sitting on a magnificent white horse, General Demedov galloped back and forth at the head of the front lines, the mist from Hell clearing, stopping directly in line with Uri and the other starving misfits.

“Because the enemy is all around us, perhaps even the man beside you, could well be a traitor. General Trotsky’s orders are clear: if you hear anything, one word of treason against our Cause, you must kill them without hesitation.”

3.

The General then ordered something to his second in command. A man was dragged out in front of Uri in chains, his face unrecognisable from the beatings the night before. It was obvious to Uri that this man was an aristocrat, royalty because, despite his horrible wounds, his demeanour reflected a quietness, a man educated and privileged – a loyalist from a long line of family that ruled over Russia for over half a millennium.

The general yelled at the prisoner: “Who are you loyal to? The revolution and the people of Russia or the pigs that have treated the people with disregard and contempt?”

General Demedov then pulled out his pistol, pointed the gun to the man’s head, but did not pull the trigger. “I’ve changed my mind, bring me a sabre!”

In a few moments, Demedov was handed a sword and, after forcing the aristocrat to his knees, took aim and be-headed the loyalist; the mouth of the head began to move as if he was trying to speak, rolling to Uri’s feet.

“Our enemy’s are legion, and General Trotsky has ordered to kill all those that oppose us; kill them without a second thought. Do you understand?”

There was no response from the battalion, only a silence.

Demedov continued: “If you choose to run and not fight the enemy, our trusted one’s will be behind you, ready to shoot any coward in the back!”

Uri followed those who’d been ordered to the front lines. He felt nothing except the terrible thought, ‘We are merely human shield’s against the enemy.’

He crossed himself and said the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.

As the stench from Hell lifted, in the distance, Uri could see the out-line of thousand’s of troops, marching in unison, all singing a familiar song of loyalist patriotism to the Czar.

The battle would soon begin.


*


Minutes passed, the mist had disappeared, and the White Army stood in perfect formation no more than one hundreds yards away. The eerie tone of a thousand men singing their praises to the Czar only added to Uri’s empty terror…that feeling which most soldier’s feel before a battle is about to commence.

Across the short expanse, Uri saw a solider on a white horse raise his gleaming sword into the air; the solider dropped his sabre and screamed, “Attack!”

4.


The Cossacks, once the Czar’s personal body guards, galloped on their white horses at full pelt, their sabre’s drawn, screaming an old Russian war cry…

The Red Army’s captain, Demedov, rather than send his own Calvary, ordered the front line to meet the well-experienced Cossacks on foot – a suicide command, like lambs sent to slaughter.

Despite Demedov’s order to attack, not a single man moved, but fell to their knees, making the sign of the cross, their heads lowered to the ground.

As the Cossack’s approached, the man kneeling next to Uri fell forward on his face: half of his head gone from a Red Army bullet from behind.

The Red Army began shooting their own men rather than the Cossacks. This, of course, made the killing much more simple. Interestingly, however, the Cossack’s ignored the front line as if they did not exist, to then begin slaughtering those men on the back lines, those loyal to Trotsky.

Uri could see nothing but blood and carnage…so much blood! He observed a man screaming at the top of the hill, staggering through the dead bodies, his right arm missing, spurting a flow of blood from the large gape when, mercifully, a Cossack on horseback, walked his horse by the man and cut off his head in a single swoop, ending his misery.

Once the Cossacks were satisfied with their task, the entire Red Battalion dead or severely wounded, made one last round, putting those wounded to death.

Uri crawled next to a man who’d been shot from behind by Trotsky’s men though he was alive and groaning loudly. Uri covered his mouth, whispering, “Be quiet if you want to live!”

It felt like hours before the Cossack’s finally retreated. The sun sat on the horizon; Uri then dragged the wounded man into the dense forest next to the battlefield to safety.


*

The wounded man’s name was Vadim, the same name as Uri’s dead son. The bullet had entered his back only centimetres below his left shoulder blade, missing his left lung. Feeling through Vadim’s coat, he felt an exit wound and knew the only way to save his life was to some how stop the bleeding. Night began to descend along with the godless cold. If something wasn’t done soon to stop Vadim’s bleeding, he would be dead within the hour and Uri would be alone.

In an act of mindless desperation and mercy, Uri removed his uniform jacket, instantly feeling the bite of the cold. He wanted Vadim to live so much, from a place of strength within his
soul; he tore his jacket sleeves off, and the coat in long think strands, creating bandages for the wounded man. He wrapped the ‘bandages’ around Vadim using his own bootlaces to then prop Vadim’s body against a tree, applying pressure to the wound.

The devil’s wind began to blow through the trees, and without a coat, Uri would soon be dead from the low temperature.

When the moon was at its brightest, as the night had a cloudless sky, Vadim awoke and smiled at Uri, whispering, “Thank you. The angel’s of God will be with you.”

Vadim’s eye’s closed as he fell into an eternal slumber.

Soon the wind flew into a rage, determined to kill Uri or any living thing. Then he heard his name called out from the distance.

“Uri, wake up child and follow me.”

Uri opened his eyes and saw a man dressed as a Roman Centurion, holding a long spear, his helmet glistening from the light of the moon.

“Who are you stranger?”

“My mission is not to tell you my Name but to take you home.”

The Centurion lifted Uri to his feet and covered him with his thick crimson cape. At last Uri felt warm again, but an unusual warmth coming from within as well as all around him.

Together they walked through the White Army’s camp, yet strangely no one noticed them.

Soon the Centurion and Uri reached the city of Moscow…Uri’s home. When the Centurion removed his cloak from around Uri he could fell the freezing cold once again.

The Centurion spoke:

“Uri, as a spirit of God, you sacrificed your own life for a stranger. This is Love. Go forth into the city and you will find that Love you seek!”
The Centurion walked through the crowd of the city streets and soon disappeared.


*



5.


Uri’s eyes opened again as he remained against the brick wall of the alley. The snow had stopped falling, and the devil’s wind was now sleeping. He closed his eyes and felt death to be his only option, when two people grabbed him and carried the man away.

Uri opened his eyes to a warm fireplace, the flames rising high and the wood spitting and cracking – a familiar and beautiful sound. He looked to his right and their standing above him was Svetlana, his little girl.

“Papa, you wake!” She smothered her father with kisses.

“Is that you my little mouse?”

“Yes Papa, it’s Svetlana!”

“But my little mouse, I thought I’d lost you to those terrible men.”

Out from the back of the kitchen, a voice resounded:

“You are lucky my brother, Uri! We knew the Red Army had killed your family and we lost hope for you. By the grace of God we found Svetlana walking the streets…a true miracle!” He made the sign of the cross. “Then we find you! My brother you should be dead.” Tear's fell from his eyes.

“What happed to you?”

“I will tell everything my brother, but please let me hold my little mouse by the warmth of the fire. I cannot let her go…I love her too much!”

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door. All in the room jumped to their feet expecting Trotsky’s men to raid their home and murder the women and children.

Mishka, Uri’s brother, reluctantly answered the door.

No one was there, except for a long spear leaning against the frame of the door. Mishka lifted the spear, feeling its heavy weight, and noticing the bright shimmering metal point.

Turning the spear on its side, written in the wood; etched in clear Latin, was the word:


LOVE.