A Day in the Life of Chaos

Rio Mamore, Bolivia Beni, Bolivia Recently I read a book by Charles C. Mann called 1491.  In it, the author spends a significant amount of time discussing the land that comprises the North Eastern side of Bolivia known as the Beni.  To the naked eye it seems to be an endless grassland punctuated by trees that spends large segments of the year under water.  Rivers wind their way through the land like snakes toward an eventual confluence with the mighty Amazon river itself.  At the time when I was flying over it as a younger man I remember trying to make sense of it all.  From my perch in the machine gunners position on a Vietnam era Huey UH-1 Helicopter I looked out and watched parrots fly in pairs over the trees.  While the noise made it impossible to communicate there was something transfixing about sitting in front of an open door watching the ground pass below me.  I remember seeing patterns in the countryside but I had no idea what they meant.  It is a strangely vacant lan

Today as I look out from my window from the 12th floor of a federal building I stare over the top of a picture I hung on my desk as an inspiration.  It is a picture taken not long ago of President Obama sitting in the seat that Civil Rights icon Rosa Parks once occupied on a bus in Alabama when she refused to leave and move to the back of the bus.  He is looking out the window almost as if someone might request the same of him.  It is a sad reminder of a time not long ago when people were not equal in this country.  Yet step by step we move forward yet it is a constant struggle.  It is a lot like a crying child reaching for a candy bar in a grocery store, eventually they will be pulled along and assume a proper course.  It might hurt and embarrass the child's mother in the process but she knows what has to be done and eventually the screaming child will learn as well. Yesterday our President took such a step in acknowledging that LGBT people have a right to join in marriage just

The other night my son asked me to sit with him in his room and help him study.  He typically does this for one of two reasons. First, he really needs help with something. Usually it is Spanish, trying to help him with math would be like asking a two year old for help with English. Guess who the two year old is?  Hint:  It's not Noah.  If it is not homework, the other possibility is that he wants to talk and pretend it is about homework. I went to his room and stretched out length wise on his bed and stared up at the poster of Green Day affixed to the ceiling.  Hmm... I thought, I did a nice job on installing that ceiling fan. Noah had been distressed during an early conversation about money and desires.  To put it simply, his desires far surpassed my money.  I had suggested he get a job. He was fourteen now and for the first time in his life a part time job was a real possibility. At least it was in my generation. Looking over at him we had a conversation about needs and wan

Very young Patrick There is a land far to the north that in many ways seems disconnected from reality.  When you live there it is like living on an island and news from the outside comes in snip-its that leave you at times questioning your involvement with the rest of the world.  It is a magical place and I when I first came to know it,  the largest city was still developing.  Many roads were unpaved.  Television was primitive.  There were only three networks and shows would come up on tapes from Seattle with a two week delay.  Try to avoid a Monday Night Football score for two weeks!  The town was so news starved there were actually two news papers.  How many cities these days can boast that? The people that lived there were as disconnected as the place.  They seemed to all be running from something and everyone had a different and unique reason for their flight.  Somehow in the self imposed exile there was company among strangers.  Everyone seemed to revel in being different, be

Rodney Dangerfield aka Thornton Melon I have never been much of a dieter per say yet as I age my body seems to be adding to itself like the rings on a tree.  I try to ignore it by comparing myself to the rest of America.  As one of the worlds most overweight societies I tend to come out looking pretty good.  To quote the immortal profit Rodney Dangerfield, "If you want to look thin, have fat friends."   Despite the reassurance of the comparison between myself and the general physique of America, with a quick look down I can't help but notice the vague outlines of an emerging pregnancy.  "It's not fair."  I mumble to myself as I look into the mirror.  I don't eat that much.  I hardly ever snack and I try to be as healthy as I can.  I eat very little red meat and try to avoid soda.  Okay, I have a bit here and there and there is of course beer but it is really not excessive.  Despite all of this my 45 year old body seems to want to hang on to far more

There are two distinct forms of people in this world, the faithful and the skeptics.  Then there are a vast number that exists somewhere in-between.  I suppose I fall into this group yet my mind constantly tortures me. It asks me to ask questions, it asks me to doubt.  Relying on faith alone would be so much easier yet something deep inside of me reminds me that to do so would be to deny the very existence of my brain. Not far from my office in downtown Columbia, South Carolina there is a cemetery.  It is a mix of old and new graves that covers a large plot of land.  Often at lunch as a way of exercising I take a brisk 60 minute walk that often leads me to the winding paths, some mercifully shaded by tall trees.  For the most part I tune out the world as I walk by the graves with my iphone in hand and my ear buds in.  My eyes dance from one stone to the next reading the names and dates followed by a mental calculation of how long they lived.  Some names are so exotic, I wonder how th

Why do I do this?  I think it is a question many people might ask.  Why lay yourself out to the world? Why communicate your thoughts, fears and reservations?  Is it vanity?  Is it exhibitionism in a literary form? 1916 Journal The answers to these questions cannot be explained in a simple sentence or a thought.  They are more complex, more cryptic.   For me writing is my only creative outlet.  I am not artistic. I can't paint, draw, sing or play an instrument. I can't compose photographs and I am not good at math. I don't even have any party tricks. I can't make funny sounds from my stomach or turn my eyelid inside out.  About the only thing I can do is touch my tongue with the tip of my nose.  While it is helpful in cleaning the errant cream of a latte I don't think it classifies me as extraordinary.  There is one thing I can do and I think I do it fairly well.  I can word smith.  I can assemble little black shapes into a form that is descriptive and emotion

As we age bit by bit, soul by soul those that we know or better said that we knew go away.  Where they go is a subject for a different conversation.  Some will tell you heaven others will tell you dirt.  Truth be told these are philosophical questions much larger than my humble mind can ponder.  I can say that birth to life to death is a natural progression of organic life and it is only logical that those we cross paths with in life will at some point cease to exist.  While logical in the course of human events it still doesn't make the event any less painful. I don't understand what happens to some people when they grow old. Sometimes it seems like something changes in the mind.  I don't know if it is a way of compensating for the eventual reality or if it is a reflection of true emotions.  Perhaps this is one of the things that makes it so difficult.  In my life and family I have had considerable experience with this phenomenon. It started with a dysfunctional relation