Book Title: Life 101
Authors: John Roger and Peter McWilliams
Date: 1991
Publisher: Prelude Press
ISBN: 0-931580-97-8
Length: 400 pages
Quote: "We call this book Life 101 because it contains all the things we wish we had learned about life in school but, for the most part, did not."
In the 1980s, stores near my school sold a book of practical advice for young students. I don't remember whether Life 101 was in its title, or subtitle, or blurb-on-the-jacket. I remember that it discussed things like changing tires and cleaning filters, and other things people renting their first furnished rooms needed to know.
Many years later, I found this rather large paperback book and wondered whether it was an expanded version of that practical little book I remembered. The simplest way to review Life 101 is to say that it wasn't.
What the McWilliams brothers have to offer is a philosophical outlook on life that was popular with New Agers and the human potential school of psychotherapists in the 1980s and 1990s. By 1991 a backlash had begun. Some Christian groups had pronounced the McWilliams' philosophy heretical; I'd already reality-checked it and found it unhelpful.
"Accept reality." Why is that not helpful? First of all, this phrase uses the word "accept" in an incorrect way. To accept something literally means to pick it up in your hands, as when you pick up a package at the post office and take it home. Neither a situation, nor a person, nor "reality" can be accepted in the literal sense, so what is "accept reality" supposed to mean, and why can't the person speaking use the verb that fits whatever is in his or her mind? The McWilliams brothers are using "accept" as an alternative to "deny"; they're advising readers not to live in denial, like a sick patient who may actually believe that he's gone back fifty years in time and that the grandson to whom he's speaking now is the brother who died forty years ago, or like an alcoholic who won't admit that she drinks too much. The average person reading Life 101 is probably not living in denial. The reader of this book may be more interested in changing tires than in trying to change his or her emotions, but probably perceives reality about as efficiently as the rest of us do.
Several words that describe things most of us do, relative to "reality," would fit this context better than "accept." What about "acknowledge," "perceive," "face," "consider," "evaluate," "understand," or "be aware of"? Those words didn't sound "dynamic" enough for the philosophy the McWilliams brothers are preaching. Preachers of this philosophy wanted a word that seemed to mean something active and cheerful. And why was the subjective emotional tone of the word so important? Because what they were actually about to say was something like "Just tell yourself you like whatever's on your mind, because I'm emotionally enmeshed with your moods but I don't intend to do anything to help with your actual situation."
In a word: unhelpful. I think Life 101 is likely to be most useful to the critical reader who wants to write a study of "Lies My Therapist Told Me, or Feel-Good Ideas That Leave People Feeling Bad." Life 101 is a great source of the quotes, the oh-so-insightful bad puns, and the whole popular philosophy of the 1980s. It is valuable for studying this period in historical perspective.
If you're looking for advice you can use in your life, this web site recommends that you read the Bible.
Wednesday, April 22, 2026
Tuesday, April 21, 2026
Napowrimo 18: Rubaiyat
Why was it called The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam? Because the poetic form used, both in the original verses, apparently, and in the English version, was called a ruba'i. One ruba'i, two or more rubaiyat. The essential feature of a ruba'i is four lines, of which all but the third rhyme.
So the National Poetry Writing Month Challenge for the 18th of April was to write a ruba'i, or rubaiyat. A light, easy form, good for the poetic brain that may be feeling tired by now...
These are the prettiest days of all the year.
The sky is cloudless, azure-bright, and clear.
The lengthening sun calls from the land each day
More leaves, and each day greener they appear.
Some want to be out sailing on the Bay;
Some still wait for the warmer days of May;
For all things have their season and their time,
But these days are the prettiest, I say.
Book Review: High School Confidential
Time for a rerun. This book is now twenty years old. It's unlikely, but possible, that the real high school students whose identities were blurred into this book now have children in high school. I remember seeing in a bookstore, but not buying, a book by a writer in his twenties going back to high school "undercover" in the early 1980s. Google has never helped me find that book, though Google now reports that someone did something similar in the 1960s...somewhere a baby-faced adult may be attending high school classes as a teenager now. Not only do I think this book is still relevant; I think it would be interesting to read all three, or by now four, books and consider what's changed and what's the same in all of them.
Title: High School Confidential
Author: Jeremy Iversen
Author's web page: http://www.jeremyiversen.com/
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Date: 2006
Length: 447 pages
ISBN: 074328366X
Quote: "I had to find out if I could still pass for seventeen."
Jeremy Iversen went to prep school. Then he went to college. Then he decided that, before doing a job, he wanted to go to public high school, just for one year, just for the experience. Also, since he was from the East Coast, he wanted his second year of grade twelve to be in California.
He passed. So, of course, he was drawn into a high school social drama that starts off slowly, with gossip ganked from his friends' blogs. (Thanks to the invention of blogs, high school boys can now "write" credible first-person narratives about high school girls, and vice versa.) The plot thickens, though. By the time Iversen is emotionally committed to one side of one conflict between students and school administration, readers feel involved too.
If you're a high school or college teacher or student and you've not already read this book, you need it. A high school teacher reported to Amazon: "I have never received more polished or more passionate essays than the ones my students compose in response to this book."
The school fictionalized as "Mirador High" isn't necessarily the most typical high school in North America--I would guess much wealthier students, much less supervision, much more efforts in the direction of political and religious conservatism even at the same time that kids carry on the sex and drugs experiments their conservative parents dread, and much more access to sex and drugs for all the teenagers, than you'd find if you went undercover at your local high school. It's real, though. The lifestyle of Jeremy Iversen's friends in the popular twelfth grade crowd at his Orange County, California, school may be beyond the reach of even the preppiest, richest, and most popular students at some schools, but it's what some kids are reaching for.
The book is well written, despite its sprawling length and sizable cast of characters. Lots of laugh-out-loud moments. Some tear-jerking moments, too--little did Jeremy know that, as he joined a high school social clique, he was replacing a boy who'd died a few months earlier, whose friends would remember him all year. Teen alcoholism. Sneaky sex. Incompetent teachers. The recent phenomenon of "teaching to the test." Kids covertly videotaping other kids in bed. Bullying. Kids goofing off on their jobs. Mean girls, who demand a "powder puff football" match because the organizer "just wants to beat the [rude word] out of" another girl; when parents and police show up to watch the game, the organizer whines, "This is so unfaaair...I don't want to play reeeal football," but her buddies force her onto the field saying "This was your idea," and the principal "defensive play" consists of one girl growling, "I'm a lesbian, and I...want...your...body." A boy who's gained such a reputation for troublemaking that even when he's behaving well he's punished on suspicion.
Race hate? Iversen seems particularly interested in exploring this aspect of social life in California, and finds an interesting state of confusion among his friends. The popular clique is integrated. Younger and poorer kids, so far as Iversen can tell, don't belong to multiracial social groups, but then many of them have only one school friend or none--that's not changed. Some of the White students sport "White Power" souvenirs. The general level of confusion about race relations in California has always been pretty interesting, with Valspeakers going, like, "There've never been enough Black people in California for real race problems to develop," while Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Ishmael Reed, Rodney King, and anyone who remembers the Watts riot of 1965, definitely disagree. I'm not sure to what extent Iversen succeeds in clarifying matters for the rest of us, or for himself.
Violence? Not much, but some. Teen pregnancies? Not many, but some. Use of "hard" drugs? Not a great deal, but some. Filthy language? Lots of it. Evidence that teenagers understand how much hate, violence, and obscenity their favorite words communicate to adults? Not so much of that.
If you've ever been a teenager, High School Confidential is a fun read, and warmly recommended. And if you're currently the parent of a teenager, I suggest buying one copy for yourself and one for the teenager.
One reason why teenagers seldom report this kind of stories to their parents is that they don't have the information, the verbal skills, or both. I can testify that even as a teenager who wanted to become a writer, whether I was talking to my mother (very frankly), my brother (almost as frankly), my father (guardedly), my best school friend (almost as guardedly), or my private diary, I was constantly aware of not having the ability to narrate everything I remembered in a way that would communicate what I remembered. I would sit in the classroom taking notes, on students' behavior more than on the teachers' lectures, and still feel that I hadn't written down what had been going on. Parents who want to know what teenagers are up to need to understand that they're likely to be up against this lack of fluency more than they're up against secretiveness with or without reasons. My adolescent efforts to write about ninth grade life as I was living it didn't involve any big secrets--I wasn't the first to know that Jane was pregnant or John had been expelled--and mostly involved the kind of harmless, mildly entertaining school scenes you find in Paula Danziger's Pistachio Prescription, nothing like High School Confidential. But I wasn't Paula Danziger; I was fourteen, so I couldn't (yet) make them read like The Pistachio Prescription. I mention this by way of warning to parents. Reading High School Confidential may prompt your teenagers to express themselves more clearly than they've done before, but it will not give them the descriptive powers of grown-up writers.
The odds are against your teenager ever being able to write like Iversen. Few people are. But, in any case, at least you and your teenager will be able to bond by sharing laughter.
Author: Jeremy Iversen
Author's web page: http://www.jeremyiversen.com/
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Date: 2006
Length: 447 pages
ISBN: 074328366X
Quote: "I had to find out if I could still pass for seventeen."
Jeremy Iversen went to prep school. Then he went to college. Then he decided that, before doing a job, he wanted to go to public high school, just for one year, just for the experience. Also, since he was from the East Coast, he wanted his second year of grade twelve to be in California.
He passed. So, of course, he was drawn into a high school social drama that starts off slowly, with gossip ganked from his friends' blogs. (Thanks to the invention of blogs, high school boys can now "write" credible first-person narratives about high school girls, and vice versa.) The plot thickens, though. By the time Iversen is emotionally committed to one side of one conflict between students and school administration, readers feel involved too.
If you're a high school or college teacher or student and you've not already read this book, you need it. A high school teacher reported to Amazon: "I have never received more polished or more passionate essays than the ones my students compose in response to this book."
The school fictionalized as "Mirador High" isn't necessarily the most typical high school in North America--I would guess much wealthier students, much less supervision, much more efforts in the direction of political and religious conservatism even at the same time that kids carry on the sex and drugs experiments their conservative parents dread, and much more access to sex and drugs for all the teenagers, than you'd find if you went undercover at your local high school. It's real, though. The lifestyle of Jeremy Iversen's friends in the popular twelfth grade crowd at his Orange County, California, school may be beyond the reach of even the preppiest, richest, and most popular students at some schools, but it's what some kids are reaching for.
The book is well written, despite its sprawling length and sizable cast of characters. Lots of laugh-out-loud moments. Some tear-jerking moments, too--little did Jeremy know that, as he joined a high school social clique, he was replacing a boy who'd died a few months earlier, whose friends would remember him all year. Teen alcoholism. Sneaky sex. Incompetent teachers. The recent phenomenon of "teaching to the test." Kids covertly videotaping other kids in bed. Bullying. Kids goofing off on their jobs. Mean girls, who demand a "powder puff football" match because the organizer "just wants to beat the [rude word] out of" another girl; when parents and police show up to watch the game, the organizer whines, "This is so unfaaair...I don't want to play reeeal football," but her buddies force her onto the field saying "This was your idea," and the principal "defensive play" consists of one girl growling, "I'm a lesbian, and I...want...your...body." A boy who's gained such a reputation for troublemaking that even when he's behaving well he's punished on suspicion.
Race hate? Iversen seems particularly interested in exploring this aspect of social life in California, and finds an interesting state of confusion among his friends. The popular clique is integrated. Younger and poorer kids, so far as Iversen can tell, don't belong to multiracial social groups, but then many of them have only one school friend or none--that's not changed. Some of the White students sport "White Power" souvenirs. The general level of confusion about race relations in California has always been pretty interesting, with Valspeakers going, like, "There've never been enough Black people in California for real race problems to develop," while Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Ishmael Reed, Rodney King, and anyone who remembers the Watts riot of 1965, definitely disagree. I'm not sure to what extent Iversen succeeds in clarifying matters for the rest of us, or for himself.
Violence? Not much, but some. Teen pregnancies? Not many, but some. Use of "hard" drugs? Not a great deal, but some. Filthy language? Lots of it. Evidence that teenagers understand how much hate, violence, and obscenity their favorite words communicate to adults? Not so much of that.
If you've ever been a teenager, High School Confidential is a fun read, and warmly recommended. And if you're currently the parent of a teenager, I suggest buying one copy for yourself and one for the teenager.
One reason why teenagers seldom report this kind of stories to their parents is that they don't have the information, the verbal skills, or both. I can testify that even as a teenager who wanted to become a writer, whether I was talking to my mother (very frankly), my brother (almost as frankly), my father (guardedly), my best school friend (almost as guardedly), or my private diary, I was constantly aware of not having the ability to narrate everything I remembered in a way that would communicate what I remembered. I would sit in the classroom taking notes, on students' behavior more than on the teachers' lectures, and still feel that I hadn't written down what had been going on. Parents who want to know what teenagers are up to need to understand that they're likely to be up against this lack of fluency more than they're up against secretiveness with or without reasons. My adolescent efforts to write about ninth grade life as I was living it didn't involve any big secrets--I wasn't the first to know that Jane was pregnant or John had been expelled--and mostly involved the kind of harmless, mildly entertaining school scenes you find in Paula Danziger's Pistachio Prescription, nothing like High School Confidential. But I wasn't Paula Danziger; I was fourteen, so I couldn't (yet) make them read like The Pistachio Prescription. I mention this by way of warning to parents. Reading High School Confidential may prompt your teenagers to express themselves more clearly than they've done before, but it will not give them the descriptive powers of grown-up writers.
The odds are against your teenager ever being able to write like Iversen. Few people are. But, in any case, at least you and your teenager will be able to bond by sharing laughter.
Petfinder Post: Australian Cattle Dogs, Another Breed the Busybodies Hate
For the next sixty or so weeks, this series will consider the sixty-some dog breeds an unholy alliance of British control freaks wanted to render extinct. Some of them really do get their distinction from dysfunctional genes and you may agree that some dog breeds ought to go extinct, but the position of this web site is that nobody has a right to force that kind of opinion on people who don't share it. I think all cats who show Manx or Rex features should be sterilized so that the breeds die out, but I do not own all of those cats.
So what's their problem with the Australian Cattle Dog, a breed that's become popular in the United States lately?
Where do we begin? Does everyone remember Ajax by Mary Elwyn Patchett? Despite the obvious and childish exaggeration of the original memoir, and outright fictionalization in the sequels, there really was a dingo, the small-wolf-or-big-dog endemic to Australia, who was brought up like a pet dog and became the loyal, trusted pet for an adventurous little girl. And he stood up to anyone who threatened the child, even her unaltered male horse; even the horse had a lot of respect for Ajax. There were, actually, more than one dingo who became fantastic pets, and so people got the idea of crossbreeding dingos with dogs to form a breed, not so big and dangerous as Ajax in the story, but serious dogs, so that every family could have a dog like Ajax.
Although these dogs are typically loyal, intelligent, protective, energetic, and long-lived...one family's list of plus points is another family's list of minus points. It's as if Aussies have their standards for humans, too. They may or may not have time for soppy stuff like snuggling beside you on the couch. They were born to herd cattle. Getting to herd cattle is their reward. If they're not working in synergy with you on a real job, they may not respect you, and may seek satisfaction in things that seem like jobs to them--killing other animals, or terrorizing visitors, or shredding your books...More often, like Roxy in Barking Orders, they'll just become adorably, absurdly, and potentially dangerously bossy as they take over a suburban house or urban flat. They may not bark a lot; they may make it up in growling or even snapping and chivying those whom they want to herd.
This web site has often featured Australian Shepherds, a beautiful (when not genetically disfigured) breed that can be like all the best things about Barkley, Marley, and Lassie...yet they often wind up in shelters because people just aren't smart and energetic enough to bring out the best in them. Australian Shepherds are an American breed developed for qualities that resemble Australian Cattle Dogs. The real Australians present the same challenges Australian Shepherds do, only moreso.
The ideal home for an Australian Cattle Dog, if not a cattle ranch, at least has opportunities for the dog to lead and manage things, preferably by running at high speeds for long distances. Are you a runner? These dogs are hard-wired to train you to become one. There are "dog sports" groups where the dogs learn tricks that use their energy, speed, and agility, which the American Kennel Club strongly recommend for this breed.
And if the dog's favorite human goes away to school or on a job, the rest of the family will at least keep the dog from becoming bored and depressed. Aussies normally live twelve or more years. Adolescent humans' energy levels match theirs so they're likely to bond with teenagers, and parents should not even think about dumping out the dogs, or putting them in shelters, when the teenagers move out. You can't give this type of dog to just any neighbor who does not currently live with a dog.
Some dysfunctional genes are associated with this breed. If you adopt a dog who's already neutered and is healthy, this won't be a concern. If you tell shelter staff you like this breed, however, you may be asked whether you like the breed enough to take a dog who shows the effects of bad genes. The gene that tells some of a dog's hairs not to develop their full color may also tell other parts of the body not to develop their full functionality, resulting in a disabled dog.
So, this is a great breed for the right humans. The right humans are probably a minority. Breeding more Australian Cattle Dogs than are already in these United States is not a good business idea. But there are good homes where these dogs belong.
As always, these Petfinder photo contests call attention to appealing pets who are currently languishing in shelters, hoping the right humans will find them. There's no guarantee that the most appealing photo will be of the most appealing animal, if you go to a shelter and look for a pet. If you are not currently looking for a pet, there are things you can do to boost the chances of these animals--or of others you discover at Petfinder.com, or at a shelter in your neighborhood. Petfinder photos are for sharing with people who might be looking for pets. Some people foster animals at their homes to get the animals out of the unhealthy shelter environment; some organizations will even supply food and subsidize veterinary care if you foster an animal for them. If you trust the organization, you might even want to sponsor an animal for adoption by a good family who may not be wealthy.
This week's categories are Australian Cattle Dogs and crossbreeds--there are unfortunately quite a few of them in shelters--and short-haired, light-colored cats.
Zipcode 10101: Ginkgo from Texas by way of NYC
His web page: https://www.petfinder.com/dog/ginkgo-c6061204-20b4-4d54-9485-fe4118ea1197/ny/new-york/border-paws-of-the-rgv-tx2739/details/
The web page raises some red flags. It's reasonable for people at an animal rescue organization to want to know that people proposing to adopt an Australian Cattle Dog have a reasonable place to keep it, but that doesn't make it a good idea to put photos of your home online, as the organization demand. (You do need a large fenced yard.) They'll also ask for full payment before having the dog brought up from Texas--again, not unreasonable, but you certainly shouldn't make payments online and should use extreme caution about paying in advance for anything. You might want to fly down and bring the dog back, yourself.
Note how different many dogs listed as Australian Cattle Dog crossbreeds look from the breed standard...they may have had a pedigreed parent or grandparent, but their other ancestors were different kinds of dog! Temperament, as well as physical traits, go into the choice of which breed shelter staff list for a mixed breed dog, so although retriever or hound or some other kind of ancestry may show, they're probably listed as Australian Cattle Dogs because they're energetic, athletic, tough, and bossy.
Waffle from NYC
His web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/waffle-556e0f4a-d724-4c42-85dd-7afafd91e3fa/ny/new-york/anjellicle-cats-rescue-ny488/details/
Just a year old, this affectionate little neutered tomcat would love to share a purrmanent home with his brother Pancake and/or shelter buddies Croissant and Benedict. He likes petting and attention from humans and lots of racing and chasing with the other tomkittens he's grown up with, so far as he has grown up.
20202: Miss Rosie from DC
She's a puppy, not yet three months old in this photo, but she's expected to be a big energetic muscular dog, possibly over 60 pounds. Are you athlete enough to keep up with this dog? She seems intelligent, like most dogs rescued by this organization; they recommend at least some formal education.
Lilly from South Carolina by way of DC
Lilly is described as a large cat (over 12 pounds) but wary. She is known to get along well with calm, mature dogs. She wasn't very cuddly at first but has started climbing onto her foster humans' laps. She has a free ride along the Atlantic coast; if you live further inland, transportation may cost extra.
30303: Lena from Atlanta
It might be hound ancestors that make Lena more willing to cuddle than some Australian Cattle Dogs are. Still, you'll need a good fence around a big yard where she can run about. Lena has done well with other dogs and might work off some of her adolescent energy leading a pack. She's not quite a year old and not quite up to 25 pounds; she probably has some growing to do. Possible deterrent: HSUS shelter.
Oingo (and Boingo) from Texas by way of Atlanta
Her web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/oingo-40e35b23-6a22-40df-b77f-5fdc2fc8de68/ga/atlanta/lears-legacy-tx2906/details/
I do not, of course, agree with an e-friend who said that gray tabbies are the cats all the other cats wish they could be. Gray tabbies are the most common color, the basic cat color; they tend to be very nice cats. In shelters they may seem to lack distinction. So then to give them a suggestion of distinction somebody names them something ridiculous. Seriously? My mouse pad finger hovered over the button for this cat, then thought, no, in that position her camouflage stripes looked a bit weird, and in any case I didn't want to recommend the idea of calling anyone "Oingo." There were more serious reasons why you might prefer to meet Oingo instead of the other cat, though.. She seems ready to move into almost any kind of good home, good with other cats, dogs, and children, and if you have room for her brother Boingo too, all to the good. They're on the small side; they're young and may grow a little bigger. They are in Texas and, as a result, have a preposterous adoption fee. If you go to Texas the price might be more reasonable there.
Web Log for 4.19-20.26
I spent very little time with the computer on 4.19.26. We finally had some much-needed rain during the night between the 18th and the 19th of April, and the 19th was cool, breezy, sapphire clear, and gorgeous.
Books
Muriel Spark was a brilliant minor author, one of the few twentieth century novelists whose work my church college deemed worth reading. She excelled in studies of the consequences of people's behavior, things that make readers say "How bad was that?" and then consider what it led to. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie was made into a movie. My favorite of her novels was the short one sometimes bound in at the end of other, not quite so short, ones, The Ballad of Peckham Rye.
Etiquette
Music
Doo-wop rock version of a Sunday School song.
The Clash.
Tears for Fears.
Flock of Seagulls.
and
Avishai Cohen, whose music is a unique genre unto itself, rather like Priscilla Bird's speculative fiction, which may explain why she often links to his music. A large part of my playlists does come from the daily Meow.
Roger Miller.
Antti Martikainen.
Bland instrumental pop tunes played as background music in stores...this is a recent tape; through the 1980s they still tended to strive for "light classical" effects with violins and wind instruments, rather than drums and guitars. Stop and start, or use for a long workout. "Bargain" cassette tapes ran for 90 minutes and this is one.
Politicians, Pathetic
Gavin Newsome just spent $1.5 million on copies of his less than successful book. It does not sell well in stores but Gavin's self-purchases boosted it onto the bestseller list. You could read the story at
but why pay them? They censor the news anyway. Politicized gloating is at
Restaurants
It just might replace the doomed "splash park" in my town...I think Friday Market is too much a part of my town's identity not to be brought back, if and when we fully recover from COVID-panic. But will food trucks be part of the bustle? Why not, if people like them.
Monday, April 20, 2026
Napowrimo 17: Mouse
The National Poetry Writing Month Challenge for the 17th of April called for poems that describe something in terms of three of the five traditional senses.
Soft, adorable
grey fur, pattering feet and
soft squeaks, bright black eyes;
it's the mousy smell dooms her;
if mice smelled clean, they'd be pets
Book Review: Love and the Pear Pie Wars
Title: Love and the Pear Pie Wars
Author: Emmalynn Paige
Date: 2022
Quote: "I thought we could bake a pie every day, maybe two pies, and that way you'll have some practice."
Tori's grandmother wants Tori to perfect the grandmother's recipe and win the Pear Pie Wars baking contest. Ordinarily, the grandmother says, she wouldn't urge Tori to spend a lot of time hanging around Tori's best friend's ex-boyfriend, but if Tori can find out Dane's secret pear pie recipe...
It's a sweet romance. You know where this must end. I didn't really get into the story, because I kept wondering how the characters burned off the calories from all the pear pie and other oldfashioned food treats they're always eating, but some readers might like that.
Butterfly of the Week: Dark Lady, or Odin's Graphium, or Narrow-Green-Banded Graphium
Graphium schubotzi is another butterfly that looks very similar to Graphium adamastor and Graphium auriger. Not all lists include it as a species; some count it as a subspecies of something else, e.g. Graphium auriger.
The living, flying butterfly is said to be dark brown, as shown, with white or cream-colored bands and dapples that can iridesce pale blue or green at some angles to the light.
Found in Cameroon and all three countries that have been formerly included in "Congo."
This species does not appear to be in danger of anything worse than being reclassified out of existence. It has gone on and off lists of Graphium species; an older name for it was Papilio odin. Why anyone would name a butterfly after the grim, grizzled grandfather of the Norse ancstor-gods, I can't imagine, but here and there a more recent person or fictional character has been called Odin. When replaced on species lists this species was named schubotzi, possibly as a tribute to Professor Johann Schubotz, an early twentieth century naturalist. The butterflies themselves have continued to flutter around central Africa, not knowing or caring whether humans were calling them Graphium auriger schubotzi or Graphium schubotzi.
They are not apparently difficult to find but. due to uncertainty about classification, very few photos of this butterfly have been published online. Pictures that have been taken were taken in museums.
When schubotzi is listed as a distinct species, a subspecies maculata is usually recognized. Maculata is sometimes called the Cameroon Dark Lady.
The video below has been posted, not confirmed, as showing Graphium schubotzi.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
Web Log for 4.17-18.26
There was no time for link hunting on 4.16.26. There was very little time for doing anything beyond cursing Microsoft, the corporation intentionally inflating the cost of medical care, which employs so many bitter clingers to glyphosate and was founded by a son of Monsanto and client of Jeffrey Epstein, and which is intentionally sabotaging "older" computers this year. That, and having a very bad reaction to, I suspect, the newest version of "New Roundup." Still some glyphosate but mostly that stuff that gives me fake heart attacks.
I've had the fake heart attacks many times, and they always subside after I get out of range of the chemical vapors and they've never done any permanent damage, but they are uncomfortable. I suspect the mechanism is mere stomach gas, frothing up more suddenly than it naturally would and pressing on major bloodvessels, but I feel faint; I move in a wobbly way that, more than the faintness, once caused me to fall down flat on pavement. Hot pavement. You can see the heart palpitations through my shirt. Usually I don't have positive chest pains but this time I did have. Having a healthy cardiovascular system, I expect to survive. A lot of people don't have healthy cardiovascular systems. Look for a wave of strokes and heart attacks before we get this poison off the market.
Animals
Friday was declared Tortoiseshell Appreciation Day. I trust that includes calico and "torbie" cats too, because Serena says it's always Calico Appreciation Day. There is a dear little torbie kitten (you know, a gray tabby with some reddish and white patches) up for adoption, in Louisiana, at
This web site already did this year's Nag about having the operation done if you don't want kittens or puppies. Spaying is more complicated if the cat or dog is already pregnant, so best done in winter before they normally become pregnant...but male animals can be neutered at any time of year.
Silver has been looking sickly, not being able to excrete toxic chemicals from the air through doomed Seralini kittens. I don't know how far she walked or how many weeks she was on her own before she came back to her family, nor do I know how long she can survive this intentional torture. Serena has been looking as if she's up to something, and Wild Thyme has been near enough to the house that Drudge warned him off, so kittens are likely to happen...probably not viable kittens. I used to think a cat who gave birth to kittens who didn't live should be spayed, for her own good, before I learned about the Seralini effect. Some females who don't show reactions to glyphosate and an unknown number of other toxins are able to sequester the toxins in defective, usually stillborn offspring. In no species do females enjoy giving birth to monsters or, even worse, what look like viable babies but their hearts don't beat regularly or they can't digest food or something...but it keeps the mothers alive and gives them a chance to have healthy babies if not exposed to toxins next time.
If rats were bigger than cats...some cats would make pets of them. This cat lives among the large rodents called capybaras in a zoo. Capybaras have calm rather than panic-prone dispositions, eat plants rather than dung and carrion, spend a lot of time bathing, and can become pets for humans, which may explain why the cat is more physically demonstrative with the capybaras than my cats are with their possums.
For the dogpeople...Barkley's heir has a play date.
Blog, State of the
Yup. Lens finds the earliest use at a site called Clean Memes. Earlier versions claimed "well over 20" readers. Actually, sponsors, we're now aiming for 20,000.
Mental Defects, Men's
Whose child is Hogg-boy, anyway? His verbal defeat is worth noticing as an example of how to talk to a left-wingnut if we must, but it's not "glorious." Beating that skinny slob in a debate is about as "glorious" as beating a two-year-old in a foot race. Who told David Hogg he should talk about anything at all in public, anyway? When have we EVER seen the lout WITHOUT his foot in his mouth?
"David" is the wrong name for Hogg-boy. It's a Hebrew name, originally a nickname, meaning "beloved." For an oaf who is probably a source of shame to his own mother, a better name would be Buzi, which is a Hebrew nickname (also found in the Bible) meaning "despised or contemptible." "Buzi" also sounds like an English word that would explain some things about Hogg-boy, though I don't know it's either accurate or valid as an excuse.
Mental Health, Women's
Are young women today sicker and sadder than young women in other generations? Hidden among the misogynist digs ("overeducated girlbosses" who aren't "fulfilled" by anything but being filled full of babies) are the real clues: Young women are qualified for, have trained for, have gone into debt to prepare for, those good jobs that hardly exist any more, and, if they do exist, they're strictly for people the employers know, not for you. It's not that women aren't happy when we have jobs that suit our talents and/or succeed in business. It's that today's young women aren't getting the jobs they want and aren't succeeding in business.
And what caused that? Think it through...babies did. The Greatest Generation won the War, rebuilt the economy...and had more than two children per couple. So we were a baby boom. And when a population of a comfortable size has a baby boom, even if that feeds a national retirement plan in the short term, it raises the population to an uncomfortable size in a few decades. You have more people than good jobs, especially if technological progress has relieved some people of their jobs. Your economy starts to collapse. If you have a welfare system, that speeds the collapse, especially when young people who've never really lived as adults anyway discover that they can stay in their comfort zone of infantile, parasitic relationship, with government replacing their parents.
The one thing young women must not do, if they want sanity and security in their lives, is to have babies--at least before they're fully prepared to bring up one baby in economic comfort. We can't afford population growth. We see governments promoting suicide and tolerating suicidal, homicidal behavior because we need population decline. Just as people are being told that any heirs their beloved pets may leave are mere "litter," so the planners of society are seeing surplus human population as "people-lution" that needs to be cleaned up.
If you are or know a young woman who has a master's degree and is still working minimum-wage survival jobs, which is very depressing especially if she's also renting an expensive city apartment, don't listen to any "sugar daddy" types who say that they personally will provide for your babies. You don't know that they're going to live that long. Don't expect "Uncle Sam" to be "Uncle Sugar" and provide for your babies, either. The welfare state cannot possibly live that long. If you don't own a house, with room for a child to grow up in, all paid for, and an income that has already saved up enough money to pay your and your child's expenses for the next twenty years, then don't have a baby. Make desperate would-be grandparents and last-chance baby-daddies do their bit to make it happen. If it's not happening and you want children in your life, you could try being a foster mother.
Actually, although individual women differ on everything, in a general way I think there's a lot of agreement between right-wing and left-wing women when they start talking honestly about what they want.
--All of us want to marry for love or not at all, let the flames of passion die down, if married, and still at least cycle through times of passion and times of friendship, with a Partner for Life. (Even for active lesbians the ideal Partner for Life is likely to be a man--the difference being that active lesbians settle for what they find easier to get. Some lesbian couples really do become Partners for Life. Most don't.)
--We want to be able to earn our own money, as traditional wives have done at least since Bible days, and also have enough independence to be able to take time off work to have a baby and nurture and cherish it, although in many traditional societies women who could afford it gave babies to nurses and went back to work.
--All women want to be physically safe, at home or on the street; only very ignorant women imagine that being at home is safer than being on the street--statistically, the majority of hatecrimes against women are committed in those women's homes.
--All women want to be respected for the assets that outlast sex appeal; intelligent women want to be respected for those assets first and foremost so we dress and behave in ways that don't put our sex appeal up front. (So far as I know, all those of us who've been towed through life by C-cups would prefer to let lipstick, low necklines, short skirts, and high heels disappear from the whole daytime world. We heard Janet Reno when she wailed that she felt a need to add an inch to her 6'1" just so men could see that she walked like a woman, but that's not a problem we have had, usually since grade six or even earlier, and we want the freedom to dress like nuns.)
--Most women actually enjoy having men moving around in society, although I know of no woman who's never fantasized about managing men the way human society does other male animals and some of us have been burnt badly enough to want to make that happen. I think we can all agree that men who don't like and respect women should be in all-male work camps where they can spit on the floor and be "gay." Not all of us want to be married and the genes of that kind of men don't belong in the pool. They'll never be missed.
--We like living with men who are interesting to talk to, who complement our talents and may be assets in our business, who pull their weight around the house; we don't like living with men who are burdensome, conceited, slovenly, presumptuous, and stupid--as many of them are. We warn mothers of sons, these days, to make sure they're teaching their little darlings to keep the bathroom floor clean.
In the 1980s men thought the way to please us was to become Sensitive New Age Guys, a behavior pattern that made many of us laugh out loud. Now they think the alternative to being idiotic SNAGs is to be "bad boys." This kind of emotional reactivity, this furious flinging from one extreme to the other without rationally considering what's in between, shows how irrational, illogical, and unintelligent most men are. Sensitive New Age behavior in either sex--letting a child blacken your eye while you stay on your knees babbling "That hurt" in a soothing tone that begs the child to do it again (because standing up would remind the child of its inferiority), failing to plan around what you knew the circumstances would be and then crying real tears because those circumstances caused you to miss all the fun, thinking you had to vote for Kamala Harris to prove you had respect for all who claim to be Black or women, or for that matter believing that any amount of surgical modification is going to make anything that started out with a positively male body into a woman--has always been cringe-inducing. Men should be sensitive, but not stupid. They're free to cry as adults do, when their parents die, or their pets, or anyone at all who's very young; they're not free to cry as babies do, when they aren't able to use keys or make plans or know what's going on. They're free to laugh at Gracie Allen's or Lucille Ball's lady-clown acts as long as they understand that those comedy acts were scripted by women who were, in real life, intelligent. They're certainly welcome to think logically, if they can, but they should logically know better than to think they can get away with any invocation of the "incompetent because female" stereotype. They're free to write books if they study what works for successful male writers these days, which includes, though it's not limited to, consulting female (and multiethnic) editors, which is what makes it possible for Dave Barry and Stephen King to write scenes involving people who are not White, male, and about the same age, and from the same part of the country and the same economic stratum, as themselves--and not make readers queasy.
And I for one am not opposed to letting men study the sciences, as long as all male science teachers know that correcting the testosterone poisoning of the sciences that allows things like BayerScience(TM) to exist, getting back to a really scientific viewpoint that welcomes women's contributions for what they are worth, is the primary goal of all science education. You can't expect a woman whose science teachers blathered about "preventing feminization of the field" ever to trust men with science degrees, but I'm a liberal in the classical sense of the word so I think we should allow them to practice and teach science--subject to close oversight by women, of course. Instant discipline for any use of words like "girlboss" that presuppose that there's anything normal or even unexceptional about a man deserving promotion to a "boss" position. Most men who compete against women on an equal basis are going to be lucky to keep any job that does not involve heavy physical labor.
We still have a lot of masculinist presuppositions to reconsider. Why don't women just walk out of abusive relationships? Why should the one who's already being abused have to add any more life-change units to her existing stress overload? Why aren't men being dragged out of abusive relationships?
Why do women who succeed feel that they've instantly become less likable? Why do women feel that we need to be likable? What is so difficult about stepping back and letting friends, if they seem to be suffering from envy, suffer and pray until they've overcome their own Deadly Sin?
Why do women favor a "right" to "choose" abortion? Not because most of us are in any confusion about really "elective" abortions being a wrong, not a right. Only because we recognize that there are times when, after a female has freely chosen to start growing new life, her body is not able to sustain that new life, and when that happens nobody, least of all any male body, has any business asking questions or claiming that she "killed the baby," or babies, in the case of species where multiple births are normal. A fetus is not a baby. When abortions are not, in fact, coercive (the "choice" of the baby's father or woman's parents) they're usually recognition of the fact that a particular fetus is never going to be a baby. Sometimes doomed fetuses simply "miscarry" themselves with minimal effort (I'm still processing the awe I feel for my cat's ability, about midway through the Big Freeze, to decide that an early birth was not going to work this winter, walk out to the sand pit looking pregnant, and come in looking as if she'd never been pregnant, in less than an hour; cats' live births usually take most of a day or night). Sometimes doomed fetuses fester in the body and produce blood poisoning. If she wants to have the thing out, get it out. No questions. Females who are able to produce normal young guard their fetuses, and their babies, with their lives. There have been cases when viable babies were saved from inside non-viable mothers, but it's extremely rare for those babies to be normal enough to grow up.
What do all of these points have in common? The obvious explanation that young women aren't discouraged by the successes of "feminism"; they are discouraged by its remaining obstacles. All women find events like the murder of Iryna Zarutska discouraging. Feminism is the ability to pull ourselves together and think of solutions, such as, "A man who's committed a violent crime should be significantly older and slower-moving before he gets out of prison--if he's even allowed to go to prison," and "Unaccompanied males should not have access to train cars with seats; they should be standing up in a bullpen car at the end of the train." Lack of feminism is what causes some unfortunate females to keep on sobbing and quivering and wailing "I'm depressed." So society clearly needs more feminism.
Music Links
This web site once promised to bring everybody a mix of tunes to dance to, back in the COVID years when many people couldn't safely go out for exercise. This web site has been remiss. I've not come to a tremendous lot of music links that seemed really important to share. Mostly I listen to, y'know, just the classic rock tunes through which my generation still tend to communicate, which some of us post daily. Since my home rang with mostly "country" music in the 1960s, some of these songs are new to me; I suspect they're familiar to most readers, and probably most are not favorites. But it's not as if I'm sitting on my playlist and refusing to share it. Here'tis. All danceable music links, no "vlogs" (at least not in this category). Please use the comments or e-mail to let me know whether you want playlists to be a regular feature.
Judas Priest...not a favorite of mine, loud and rude, but they certainly have a beat you can exercise to:
Doro Pesch the Metal Queen toured with JP once and covers a couple of their songs:
Tingling Mother's Circus. You could name a band anything. Still can.
We The People. Video is supposed to be a digital reconstruction of what you might see on LSD. I believe that because it looks like what you see if you squeeze your eyelids tight shut. Just optic nerve effects, probably best enjoyed on a screen.
Band called Big Foot.
Left Banke. Be warned: this link opens the whole playlist from the LP. One of the "extra" tunes is my favorite, though.
Al Stewart.
10cc...yes, that was a band...
Toto:
Unknown lady demonstrating a song in the Algonquin language as spoken in Quebec. People there are seriously trying to interest people of Algonquin descent (that specific group--various indigenous groups in the US are Algonquian, thought to be the same ethnic type as Algonquins) in learning their ancestral language. It's not the same language Powhatan, Shawnee, Yuchi, Lenni-Lenape, or other indigenous Americans spoke; it has resemblances, in the way that French and Spanish have resemblances to English. Anyway, a simple song for children and language learners.
The Dramatics:
Nat "King" Cole, and yes, I hate that he found this song so relatable just because he was born when he was, looking the way he did. It tries to be a cheerful song. I don't hear it as one.
Dan Vasc, singing about a European tribe his ancestors probably never met.
The Temptations.
REM:
Zazzle
I've posted a few sample Tortie cat images on Zazzle. They've not sold. They're not the customer's very own Torties! They're just public-domain cat pictures from sites like Morguefile and Pixabay. People don't realize that the idea is to plug in your own picture of the animal you want a gift to commemorate. Keep snapping till you have a good clear photo of your friend's pet, then go to
and find the perfect gift item to print the picture onto. Zazzle gifts are, to my eyes, overpriced but they are well rated for the kind of products they are.
Book Review: Healing of the Mind
Titl
Title: Healing of the Mind
Author: Pat Brooks
Date: 1981
Publisher: New Puritan
Library
ISBN: 0-932050-00-X
Length: 141 pages plus index and ad
pages
Quote: “[T]he powers of darkness
have kept the children of God from knowing of their full inheritance in
Christ...The inexhaustible supply of power, authority and joy deposited in their
names by Jesus Christ is unknown to thousands.”
Healing of the Mind is not,
as its title may suggest, associated with the “inner healing movement” of its
period. Brooks has a different approach to inner healing...I almost typed
“unique,” although it’s not unique; it’s from an earlier historical period than
Ruth Carter Stapleton’s Inner Healing or the dozens of “Christian
psychology” books that came later in the 1980s. A different socioeconomic
background, too. This small, cheap paperback, printed for free distribution at
small, store-front-type churches, is addressed to people whose problems seem to
involve demons.
Right...so that’s not most of the
people I know. However, in the 1970s, even as we insisted that The
Exorcist had been merely a metaphor, society became aware that several drugs
(legal and illegal) have effects on the brain that are most easily described in
terms of living with demons. Medication prescribed for deadly diseases had
effects similar to experiments with LSD and pills. Some survivors of this type
of brain injury make up the stereotypical, obvious homeless population; some are
able to live near-normal lives. And what Pat Brooks had to offer was one way
some of these people have been able to cope.
For those of us who’ve not had much
trouble with demons lately, Pat Brooks’ way of spiritual life is not especially
attractive. For people living with physical psychoses, it’s a best-case outcome.
Improving physical health may help, or not. Unwelcome thoughts may keep
returning. There may be a permanent mood disorder; life may be, at best, a cross
to bear. What Brooks can offer is a way to banish the really nasty “demonic”
thoughts, impulses, and delusions.
Are there real evil spirits that
enjoy and exploit the effects of brain damage? Do the demons have any personal
existence outside the damaged brain? Who knows, but some of the things the
voices in these people’s heads say certainly support the claim of satanic
involvement. No matter how much psychology you’ve read or how rational and
skeptical you feel about demons, psychotic patients do have a way of saying
things that make everyone wonder. What the Bible says about any independent
existence these spirits may have is ambiguous and metaphoric. The best
psychological study of “human evil” on the market begins with brief histories of
patients whose behavior I can read as evil, then goes off into a detailed
account of a patient I can only read as reacting to cultural stereotypes in a
hilariously vindictive way...raising the question of whether Real Wisdom might
be able to review the histories of Hitler and Stalin and the followers who
wanted them as leaders, the house of Ahab and the dynasty of Herod, Jim Jones
and Charles Manson, with the same amusement and empathy I feel for the patient
Scott Peck called Charlene. Personally I’d go so far as to say that the Bible
teaches that there is an Evil Principle that has enough personal existence to
“inspire” some of the most hateful, hurtful things troubled souls say, but I
don’t know enough about the Evil Principle to debate about it.
Let’s just agree on the indisputable
fact that, when psychotic patients say things that sound demonic, they’re in a
worse condition than they are when they sound “lucid” or merely “dotty.” For
many of these patients, a spiritual approach—either a New Age embrace-the-shadow
approach or a fundamentalist cast-out-the-demons approach—offers equally
effective, and much cheaper and safer, relief than either a physical or a
chemical lobotomy. The undamaged part of the brain may remain in control
throughout the patient’s life, or not. Some diseases that damage the brain are
progressive; some patients who are able to control their demons for a few years
have to be institutionalized anyway. Other brain damage is the result of trauma
from which patients recover; the relative I’ve called “Aunt Dotty” never stopped
hearing, but always controlled, the demons she acquired from cancer treatment,
for almost forty years. So the advantages of counselling that helps patients
cope with demons, before medication or hospitalization are considered, may be
great.
What about the theory that some
patients are genetically predisposed to develop mood disorders, a few of which
may become severe enough to seem demonic, even without using drugs? People with
M.D. degrees are still debating that. What has been known for a long time is
that physical damage can be done to the brain by prenatal conditions, head
injuries, prolonged fever, food intolerance, toxic chemicals, and/or physical
diseases. I have an intuitive feeling that most, if not all, mood disorders are
going to turn out to be linked to one or more of these factors.
People are probably drawn to the
side of this dispute that matches their own experience. During the years when I
felt depressed, it wasn’t because I wasn’t having sex, or because I wasn’t a
Positive Thinker, or because one of my close friends was a Wiccan. It was
probably only a secondary complication of my being gluten-intolerant. It
certainly was not because my brain was predisposed to have some problem
processing serotonin. It was because I’d picked up a nasty, painful liver
infection from an unnecessary vaccination; undiagnosed gluten intolerance might
have made me more vulnerable than other people, because a few thousand people
had the vaccine and only about one hundred developed hepatitis. I needed neither
prayer rituals nor antidepressants—just time to recover. But at the time nobody
had the benefit of twenty-five years’ further observation of my condition. At
the time, luckily for me, a counselling approach to depression was in fashion. A
young person with the same symptoms today would probably be offered
antidepressants “just to relieve the pain while we look at the other factors,”
and, since a serotonin imbalance would not be the primary cause of that
patient’s depression, a serotonin boost would be very likely to damage that
patient’s brain.
And I think it’s reasonable to use
the phrase “God’s own mercy” when I remember that, around the time my husband
admitted his mood was depressed, a blood test showed cancer—although, by the
time further tests pinpointed the cancer in his bone marrow, he’d reached Stage
IV. A man I was dating when we met had been diagnosed as “depressed” first.
After using Prozac for a few months, he developed a nonviolent kind of Prozac
Dementia before further physical symptoms showed that he also had cancer, a less
fatal kind. Cancer of the bone marrow, which is rare and poorly understood,
caused my husband’s blood pressure and consequently his moods to fluctuate
dramatically in his last years. If serotonin boosters had activated demons along
with his raging and fainting cycles, there’s no reason to doubt that he would
have been one of those murder/suicide statistics...and the most likely targets
would have been me and/or middle school children.
It may sound easier for the average
middle-class American reader to accept the idea, “Your son/daughter/wife/husband
probably has a problem metabolizing serotonin, which is likely to cause him/her
to be depressed if s/he doesn’t take medication,” than to accept the idea, “Your
son/daughter/wife/husband is being attacked by demons and needs to participate
in prayer rituals to cast them out”...but I would urge readers to think it
through before they accept the more dangerous of these two explanations. Both
treatments have helped many people feel better, and prayer rituals are much
safer than Zoloft.
The physical condition of my copy of
Healing of the Mind is a testimony to the way an ordinary couple of
friends-of-the-local-library received it. It’s an autographed copy; Brooks
visited churches and Christian bookstores, and lots of people turned out to be
supportive and buy a book. But it was cheaply bound in a peculiarly oldfashioned
way, unfamiliar to young readers in the 1970s: it came with “uncut pages.” My
grandparents’ generation remembered reading a new book with a penknife in hand
to separate the pages, although selling books that way was out of style even in
1900. And when I found this book on sale, secondhand, after page 50 I still had
to separate several pages. The people who’d bought this autographed copy read
about one-third of the book and decided it wasn’t for them.
But if you know someone who has
trouble with demons, Healing of the Mind just might help that person...so
I’m not going to refuse to resell or review this book. I am going to say that
most people will not thank you for giving it to them as a gift. Not all of us
even know someone who will. Brooks’ approach can be a valuable counselling or
self-help tool, though, if it’s used with discernment.
|
Bad Poetry: Why Bother?
This poem was the last online writing I did on Friday. It came to mind when I saw the prompt at Poets & Storytellers United, for which the poem is too long. The prompt at Napowrimo.net suggested something much shorter, and is recommended to poets and storytellers with tired eyes. This one is for people who don't mind long intense thoughts.
Sometimes I wake up on a perfect blue-green-gold morning
and know some piece of dreck sprayed poison somewhere
because I feel the way drunks describe a hangover
and I didn't even eat after midday, but who's left to care,
and normally I bolt out of bed, if awake, before dawning
because morning's the most cool and peaceful part of the day
but those mornings I sit up and lie right back down again,
head swimming, nausea, cramps, pulse throbbing the prayer
that the sprayer feels sicker than I do, and longer, and without
any hope of improvement in this world or in the next.
So, music. Caffeine. Water. The thing about cats
is, if they love you, and mine do, they'll wait six or eight hours
it takes to get back on my feet, feed them, and go back in.
They know that I'd rather be gardening. They sense that that's
a symptom, and wait at the door, exercising purr-powers.
On such mornings society does seem to be in a spin
straight down the abyss, with the proverbial handbasket
sold separately. Choices down to the style of the casket
(who'll be able to pay for a coffin?) our ashes lie in.
The next morning will likely be better, as how can it not.
Meanwhile: I've had to watch as too many lives end,
Seen some cringing and howling in terror, which is the lot
of the bitter clingers to glyphosate and (yes, complain;
in visibility, strength; in hiding, all's over)
all such blights on the face of the Earth. Seen some go
to their end in peace, likewise. You never can know
how people you've known in this world will finally go out.
A strong man huddles with face to the wall, moaning,
"Don't let her GET me!" (They had said his mother was rough.)
An innocent animal's final convulsion's enough
to sober a barroom of drunkards. A woman, that morning
recovering from a stroke, busy with garden and house,
sent me home at midday as usual; at three o'clock,
"I must lie down," and then, "Call the nurse-girl back,
and my children, if any of them can make time to come here,"
and I walked five hundred yards to her house
and as I came in she closed her eyes and died, no more fear
or pain left than shown at her high school graduation.
A month-old kitten, who had been lying beside
my knee, woke up suddenly, reached up to me, and died
in that instant, as if whatever awaited her in the Good Place
looked like the human she'd chosen as hers. Meditation
on the last moments of friends may be sad, but face
it, Priscilla: we die, with a little choice of how we go.
I would rather be one of those who stretch out hands to our Fate
as a child reaches up when you reach down to lift it up stairs:
thank you, Death, for that boost into the good things that await
the end of a life well spent! I intend to have cares
and business and plans left, however old I may be, then,
but if all ends today, I've had more life than most humans do
or ever have done. (I can be greedy. We all can, true.)
I know it is not in the particulars of religion
(though, being a Christian, I wish others were Christians too)
and not necessarily in bodies' final condition
so much as good faith in a Good Place beyond the end.
I don't know whether there's solid fact under the vision
into which some of us stride with a laugh and a song
and others collapse in a final convulsion of horror
at what awaits after life has been lived all wrong,
but, if visions are all that there is, let my last one be good.
Let those who see me dead or dying remark on the peace
and joy of my last dream, or the stern resolve of my last fight.
A gentle passage, or furious, into the night
matters less than that there be little cause left for sorrow
other than that people miss me, after final release.
So I bother. About you, I can't say. You must do you.
No petitions for money without merchandise to trade.
The cats must eat, however long I take to stand on my feet.
The time to review books and manuscripts must (how?) be made.
There's always one more book to write, one more poem, one song.
Sometimes lying still, listening to music, is very sweet;
sometimes moving, if only fingertips, keeping the beat
brings healing. Sooner or later we all get through
these low moods, until the day it's all over.
The sun still shines, and the stars do. The children come in,
now young men and women, and one day not even so young.
Joy, love, even the carnal passions, incline to recover
in time. So I bother. I'm greedy. Don't want it to end.
Saturday, April 18, 2026
Bad Poetry: That Snail
On Friday morning, the Poets & Storytellers United site, which links up short writings, posted a prompt that provoked a very long and serious answer. The Napowrimo site, which doesn't specify length except in the sense that finishing a poem in one day tends to suggest starting with a short simple idea, posted a prompt that provoked a haiku.
Well, they asked for poems that respond to our own favorite poems, and then they posted a haiku as an example. The one they chose was a different translation than I've memorized of a classic haiku. It brought to mind another classic haiku I've often quoted, also found in a few different translations:
Doing his very best
the snail takes a long time
to climb the mountain.
My understanding is that in Japanese there's an idea that the snail is seen by a poet climbing the mountain as a Buddhist meditation ritual, so who knows whether in some dim unconscious way the snail's little soul is seeking spiritual growth and enlightenment just as the poet is...
[Image from https://matsuobashohaiku.home.blog/2022/11/28/mt-fuji/ , which also has the Japanese words as written, a phonetic transcription, and a classic Japanese painting. I think the picture may be computer-generated; this is not a science post.]
In English the words are the sort of thing that come to mind when things just aren't working at the speed people reasonably expect and want them to work. Most especially a old laptop computer I treasured, as a gift from a friend, even as the version of Opera it could still run was locked out of more and more web sites...I called it the Sickly Snail. It was slow, but it always seemed to be doing its very best.
Nevertheless.
If the snail lives to
reach the summit, cheers! if not,
he had a good climb.
If you think of the snail in the same way I do, I suppose you might call this haiku a summary of the long poem that should appear here tomorrow morning.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)