A Day in the Life of Chaos

"THEY CAME FIRST for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. THEN THEY CAME for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. THEN THEY CAME for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. THEN THEY CAME for me and by that time no one was left to speak up." Martin Niemöller We are now 6 months out from the next election cycle.  America will again look at itself in the mirror and maybe 30% of those eligible will actually vote.  The vast majority of those will vote based on their fears and misconceptions, few will vote for a vision or a future.  Negativism will overwhelm us as corporate money will flood the airwaves with messages by inauspicious sounding groups like "Citizens for a Clean America" funded quietly by the oil industry.  If there should be any lesson learned from the catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico, it is just how much power corporate America an

In Santa Monica California there is a long street promenade spanning blocks. It is a people place in a city built on cars, freeways and the isolated communities they spawned. Spaced out in increments musicians play, girls sing, clowns tie balloons and even the freakish contort their bodies in ways that defy sense. On one short stretch a young woman stood with guitar in hand. She sang from her heart, a smile piercing her lips. Her eyes were filled with joy as she seemed to turn this public space into a cathedral of her own.  With her talent on display for the world to see she was comfortable, almost serene.  There was no hesitation, no modesty, only a smile and an expression of joy painted with natural color across her lips. Santa Monica, is a wonderful part of Los Angeles mercifully rescued from the cycle of destruction and renewal. Los Angeles is a city that in truth is quite ugly however, little by little it is remembering that it has a soul. Lost among the maze of immigrant nei

When I was a child growing up on MacINNES St. in the frozen northern town of Anchorage, Alaska, my world seemed like a world unto itself.  It was a clearly defined nation state with borders I needed a passport stamp from my parents to cross.  Wide roads acting as frontiers ringed the nation with seemingly impenetrable traffic.  Around my house there was a vast menagerie of streets that seemed to wind their way through all forms of terrain, perfect for a bicycle.  There were hills, gravel areas, circles that safely went around and returned to where they started.  Best of all, there were trails that skirted houses.  They led to areas that seemed vast and wild.  We gave them names like Burlington Woods and the Swamp near Geneva Woods.  Each had their own characteristics, places filled with secret trails, hiding spots and rafts of old wood.  These were the National Parks of our country, places where kids were kids and parents were a distant shout from a porch calling for dinner. My so

My grandfather died about 8 years ago now, he was in his 80's when he passed.  He was the son of German immigrants and spent his life working for Hughes Aircraft in California.  It was the time when Howard Hughes was in his heyday.  Ideas were flowing like lightning bolting from the sky.  Invention fed modernization and modernization fed more invention.   Government led the way.  It established the context, the mission and brilliant minds lined up to provide the answers. When you are a child you never really appreciate the significance of a life, of a talent, until you grow older and place it within the context of your own life.   A micrometer is a tool that allows a human being to nearly create perfection.  It measures the minute and until computers and lasers it was the guide post for human ingenuity when seeking to create the exact.  My grandfather had countless micrometers and his abilities as a machinist created parts the flew with the Apollo missions to the moon.  They answ

I am fortunate in where I live to have property that borders a large wooded area.  To call it a forest might be a bit dramatic, perhaps the name Hundred Acre Wood better suits it.  It is an area green, filled with trees and home to all sorts of critters that occasionally make themselves part of my life.  The other day I smelled a horrid smell on my back deck.  Further investigation of the nasal sort lead me to a planter box where I discovered the smashed body of a bird.  I don't know what smashed it but it was beyond redemption and almost beyond recognition.  I scooped up the remains and noticed that nestled not far away was another bird.  It was youthful and I quickly determined it was a baby.  I left it alone and later in the day noticed the mother tending to it.  She would cuddle up beside the bird before venturing out for foraging runs.  A few days later I looked out and saw the baby walking alone along the deck railing.  I was concerned at first but soon decided it must be its

There is a beauty to the innocence of a child.  It manifests itself in so many ways however if you don't look for it you might miss it.  The sad part is that over time, the innocence disappears as the child ages, corrupted by the world around them.  Sometimes I wonder, if there was a way you could take a generation of children and keep them away from any adult, is it possible that they might develop free from prejudice?  Would color be unimportant and sex be invisible? When a child is young they see a different world than an adult does.  Any question is based not on assumption or judgment, simply curiosity.  When a white child sees a black man they simply wonder why the person is a different color.  When the child sees a gay couple they wonder why it is different than their parents.  They are not passing judgment, there is none to be made.  They simply want to understand.  When my son was born I held him in my arms.  I cradled him and looked into his eyes.  I told him he could be

Is a person with an obsessive compulsive personality born with it or can it just happen?  I never really thought about the answer to that question as I laughed my way through every episode of Monk, the story of an obsessive compulsive private detective.  Monk is never far from a hand wipe.  Luckily he always has an assistant ready to hand him one after each door opened, each hand shaken.   Recently however a state of enlightened consciousness obtained while sitting on the holiest of holy thrones has provided an answer.  There is not much to do in the moments while you wait for nature to take its course.  Some read, some hum.   I tend to just speculate on who else is in my throne room by the shoes that they wear.  Of course all the while I keep my own shoes well within the boundaries of my stall to avoid any Larry Craig incident. When a toilet flushes you hear them rise to their feet.  They slide the lock to the stall and venture out into the bathroom.  At this point a decision is

I have a scar on my right cheek, or is it my left?  I have to think about it for awhile before I remember.  I have had it since I was a little boy and when I look in a mirror it is invisible to me.  Others may see it but when something exists with you, like the color of your skin, in time you no longer see it.  I used to ask my mother if it was as small as a GI Joe scar yet?  "Close," she would tell me, "close."  When others would look at me the scar is what they would see first.  They would want to ask me the cause yet they would refrain, thinking it was an invasion of my privacy.  Eventually after a long time the topic would come up and they would sheepishly ask.  I would of course tell them that it was caused by some fantastical circumstance like a violent girlfriend, a shark or the slash of a sword.  In truth, I stumbled over some rocks when I was running and a particularly sharp one cut my face. In life everyone carries wounds with them.  They etch our emo

I saw a crazy man this morning. I've actually seen him before but this morning he stood out like never before.  I was riding my Vespa to work feeling quite stylish and quite Italian.  I wore my jacket with the British flag on the back and dark goggles.   While feeling quite chic in my mind I was hoping with all hope I would not be side swiped by a red neck in an F150 or hit on the head with a beer bottle.  I suppose my black visored helmet had that later covered but the former would have been disastrous.  I was motoring through West Columbia, an area that was once a suburb of Columbia and now is seemingly forgotten.  It is run down, dotted by apartments and small houses that should be condemned.  If that wasn't enough, the area is punctuated by a chicken plant that dispenses an odor strong enough to wrinkle the nose.  There is usually a parade of interesting people out on the street but today one particular man stood out.  He was probably in his 60's, of course the appar

Narrator : Winnie the Pooh crawled out of the gorse bush, brushed the prickles from his nose and began to think again. Winnie the Pooh : Think, think, think. Narrator : And the first person he thought of was... Winnie the Pooh : Winnie the Pooh? Narrator : No. Christopher Robin. Winnie the Pooh : Oh.  The world would be a better place if we all took time to think.  It is hard to think, it takes work.  Thinking gnaws at the brain and it can be quite disquieting because often there is no simple answer.  It is so much easier to be told what to think.  History is filled with tragic examples of those that declined to use their mental faculties and the ultimate consequences.  In truth, surrendering your mind is akin to surrendering your soul. In the case of some historical monsters like Hitler or Stalin declining to think was literally selling your soul to the Devil.  Our minds govern all that we are.  They regulate our desire, emotion, feeling, love and hate.  The American N