Global Warming?

Getting hot, however the flowers are blooming and there is no need purchasing bulky winter clothing.

At Eleven

Living in Walled Lake, Michigan, at the age of nine, I started playing tackle football. At ten I played on a team my father coached, and we went undefeated. Our team received trophies at a banquet, which all teams came together and watched old film clips of the Detroit Lions destroying their opponents.

When I was eleven, we, as a team, didn’t win much, but my experience was memorable. Attending that year’s banquet, I was shocked learning every team, regardless win loss record, the players would receive a trophy. The top winning team did have their record showing they were the best, but...

I’m not trying to create a debate, but stating that at the age of eleven and receiving a trophy it first surprised me and then it had bothered me. At the banquet, I questioned my father why I would get a trophy?

When I was eleven, the definition of someone earning something had changed, and my father’s response didn’t really answer my questioning why I deserve something that I didn’t earn. A trophy isn’t what I was playing for. At the age of eleven, I enjoyed its competition and winning, and contributing to a team. We didn't have a winning season, but I learned and contributed toward steps improving myself.

Needing clarification: I treat winning as a measure. A measure on what needs to be worked on and improved, so winning is everything.

Cultural Integrity - Ramble

After twenty years, I have returned back to OSU. My hopes are to allow time striking out on new ideas. Seeking a simple, not complex, way of life. I have tried escaping culture’s grips, eliminating and all of culture’s expectations. A quest of a social non-participating ideology. I don't participate in culture's rhetorical expectation and regulation. I watch, with popcorn in hand, observing as the film roll manifests cultural amusement at 24 fps. Drama and tragedy are at work.

The culture, in regards to its description, is described through its habits. The habits are limited to the edges of its stage or cultural boundary. Each stage is an element of a cultural set, and the cultural set of stages are within a wooden framed sandbox. The sandbox’s borders are regulated, and regulation offers each stage its prompts, and inspires the entities within the sandbox to put-on their performances -- describing their culture. Regulation grants each stage with the prompts and toys for them to select. By granting this selection narrows cultural integrity. Culture can be arisen from within a prison, but cultural integrity will be misplaced. Cultural integrity can only exist when human dominance and regulation isn’t introduced. It is when the sway of air, rivers, and vitality do regulate that Cultural integrity exist. Cultural integrity is misplaced when I empower myself over another or when I form a culture to regulate over another.

Simply put, cultural integrity would be a good idea. It would eliminate all dominance and spur a shift toward culture based off a personal awareness. Allows the land base to be the stage and offers culture it pure existence. Pure existence by offering the prompts and toys, which each culture must notice and know of its existence. Shelters will be made of sod, wood, rocks, leaves, underground, above-ground, etc. Regulation wouldn’t exist enforcing every house must contain a garbage disposal or if children are present, then every house must have running water (not walking water). Dogs may be off leash. Cars may or may not be existent. It will be the decision of the single entity and their interaction with the culture. A culture is a tolerable awareness played out by all its entities through their interactions.

Ongoing question

Ongoing question
How far can I walk before I return.

TOPPER MANIFEST

The temperature in Michigan dropped below freezing. Snow was plowed into large piles, which would take many spring days to thaw. During the day I drove truck for Canada Dry Bottling Company. At night one could spot me crawling into my box with my Carhartt Arctic Thermals, Danner Super Rainforest all-leather boots, and a wool hat to steal a good night sleep. The dogs napped close to my side, curled, balled tightly, keeping their heat from escaping. I slept tucked away in a mummy sack. We all never raised any complaints about the cold.

Topper built on my 1985 Nissan

Before building the box, I resided in a nice Oregon rental. Cycling distance to Corvallis city limits, the rental offered a kitchen / living room, a bathroom, and a bedroom, and was located off a gravel road where star speckled nights pitched deep blackness. Quiet and peaceful, I decorated the place with nice furnishings. The rent was inexpensive, and the management was fantastic. During cold months, gas heat kept the place nicely at seventy degrees. I would invite friends over for dinner and occasional talks, while the tranquil guitarist Stanley Jordon was heard over a set of speakers. I never lived in such a place that I loved so much.

Awakened by the sound of a loud scraping noise and flashing caution lights, I could see through the box’s windows that it was early morning. The snowplows were out clearing the road for the start of the new business day. The Michigan night sky had brought down many inches of snow, which my dogs found very exciting as they rolled and skipped through the accumulation. The pickup was running and warming its engine when the dogs and I ventured into the early morning darkness for a refreshing chilly walk. We would return twenty minutes later finding the pickup’s interior cab very toasty warm and its windows defrosted.

In Corvallis, Oregon, I built a 4x6x5 foot wooden box, which would fit on my 1985 Nissan pickup’s six-foot bed. With 2x2 inch studs and ¼ inch plywood, I had screwed together a box for living. Building from penciled drawings and wanting a change -- my wooden box was built within a weekend. With a few friends at each side we lifted the wooden box and placed it upon the bed of the truck. After its completion, people that I came in contact with would call the wooden box a topper.

From five ante meridiem until six post meridiem, I pushed and pulled a dolly through drifted snow mounds and drizzling, freezing snow. At the end of the workday, my toes possessed an achy tingle, which started my feet bouncing a rhythmic step aiding warmth to the sting. Night had come. I found my way to my pickup. Swinging open the topper’s back door, the dogs jumped out and raced around in an open field.

Climbing inside the topper, I found the dog’s bowl of water had spilled -- soaking and freezing deep into the mummy sack and into the dog ‘s bedding. The mummy sack was stiff as a board! Books and papers that were near the mummy sack were also solidly frozen. No problem, it was a Friday and no work tomorrow, I could dry the items tomorrow. We all spent the night sleeping in the cab of the pickup intermittently turning on the truck and warming up the cab.

I stood in the center of the living room slowly turning clockwise, taking note of what items are of use. I rented all this space and never utilized any of it. I spent much of my time in Corvallis: school, working, homework at the local coffeehouse. I stood questioning the space that I occupied. Did I need all this space to live! Why should my questioning of this space be a problem? I was able to afford the rental space. The motto of owning or renting square space in which to “live” was probably a deeply ingrained idea that I gleaned from previous traditions of our culture. The truth being I seldom found myself interacting within the walls that I rented. Definitely -- it was the space that initiated thinking about moving... The box idea was born. Everything I own was organized on shelves in my topper.

Space was the catalyst. The essence of living this way is that you find out the essence of the motion of nature. The truth being that what we are told isn't necessarily true. When I moved into my topper, I started living in different surroundings and started noticing how social images were telling us how to maintain oneself. Michigan was the test of living the way as I do, which I lived very comfortable and tranquil throughout the winter -- contradicting the social and societal addiction (monkey on my back). Learning that many social images were false; this led to many other great insights. I do not participate with the expatiation of the societal image except when its enforced expectations become law.

COMPUTER DATE

Looking at the clock, I have an appointment. I can finish this, a few more lines, a few more minutes, a few minutes, and more minutes. Fingers clicking on the keyboard, displaying new lines – coded lines. Testing and retesting these fresh new lines. I must go, but why am I receiving this error. I must go to my appointment. Wait! No! It didn’t work.

Finally at my appointment, a romantic date, is with a woman whom I had much love for. An evening in a very elegant restaurant, with linens as white as snow and wine sparkling under watching stars.

I softly embraced her hand, and saw lines-of-code in her eyes. Precious black characters lined-up tightly. They give way to spaces whenever valid statements or variable names reflected outward.

Wait, penetrating deeper into her eyes, thinking that’s it! I found a solution! She spotted my breaking intense smile. She smiles, matching mine. Soon afterward my enthusiasm dissipated into thinking: “NO! That doesn’t work! Why didn’t that work? It seems basic, damn it.”

Finishing dinner, enjoying desert, we strolled out under street lights and running cars. A few blocks down from the restaurant, we meandered along a calm, spacious river. I hugged her so gently.

Hold-on! thinking, If really that line of code iterated that many times, counting to ten, so why is it eleven? Yes sir, In my excitement pulling her tighter, I kissed her soft tender neck. Yes sir alright, thinking that is the solution. It is the answer that I had silently contemplated all night. Tightly fisted,  looking up at the overhanging stars, yes sir!


Swiftly, I guided her smoothly back toward the car, the night is late, and I have an appointment. Lips pressing tightly, my eyes roll up, star bound. I know it is the answer. Good night my love, I had a wonderful evening.

Now it is early morning the keyboard keys rapidly clicking, sleeping not a wink, absorbed, I felt completely happy. Oh yes, that was the answer.

WHERE ARE THE ROOTS?

A woman carrying flowers wrapped in plastic wrap. Smiling, she proudly places the flowers in a vase, and sets the vase where everyone who visits her home can see them. The flower’s petals emanate a rainbow of color, so vibrant that her visiting friends pause with admiration. The woman’s ritual of buying, displaying, and discarding the flowers continued throughout the summer months, until one visiting guest paused to admire the freshly displayed flowers. The gentleman heard moans and groans of pain emanating from around the flowers. Trying to figure out where the noise is coming from, the gentleman asked the woman if she is hearing painful cries. As they both stood quietly, the woman intently listens. After a minute, silence is broken as the woman responded with a NO? The gentleman insists that something is in great pain and is in need of help, which then he suggests that the police should be called to investigate. The police are called.

The police separated both the woman and the gentleman questioning what actually either of them hears. The woman tells the police she hears nothing, while the gentleman tells of the painful moans and muffled crying. A search is conducted -- nothing is heard nor found. The gentleman disturbed by the weeps of pain could not stay and visit with the woman, so he said his goodbyes to the baffled woman and left with the police. As he left, he was still explaining the sound to the police.

The gentlemen disturbed by the cries decided to liven up his day on his way home. He purchased a nice bunch of selected flowers from the local store. The gentleman proudly placed the flowers in a vase, and set the vase where everyone who visited his home could see them.

A week later he was admitted into the Psychiatric Ward for evaluation where his room was decorated with fresh cut flowers.

The gentleman remains as they have concluded he is crazy.

Living flowers -- make individuals happy, but cut flowers can make you crazy. The woman cannot hear cries from the cut flowers, where the guest was conscious of the moans yet unaware as to where the cries came from. Only when an individual tunes into specie’s pain can vibrational whimpers be instinctively sensed or experienced. Neither of the characters were attuned to the species cut at the throat.

SPARROW HAWK

While eating midmorning lunch, I observed a blazing event.

Watching a small shrub's movement by singing and dancing sparrows, I was captivated by the sparrow’s joyful social gathering, yet I was unaware that a sparrow hawk was also intently watching too.

Soon I drifted inward, slowly sinking deeper in unexpected thought which the whole chirping commotion had come to be a blur. While I calmly examined their play, their high spirits bent a lofty scrutiny. All was disrupted by a feathered flash, an eye opening interruption that quickly shifted my examination away from my blissful haze.

Wow, diving claw first, the hawk’s wings spread the width of the bush. Sparrows were noticeably diving from the bush, flying away, hovering only a few inches from the ground.

Remarking only at its beautiful tan, white and brown markings, as the hawk, as fast it had come, had swiftly twisted through the tightly woven branches and flown away out of sight.

My only verbalized words were WHAT! I guess because the whole event was an obscure answer to the many questions that I was vaguely studying.

Later, after many minutes, I wondered if the hawk was successful in doing what it had flown in for. I had not notice any capturing; cause of the hawk’s wings obscured any noticeable taking.

Thank you