tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66934711432206818082024-03-13T16:15:35.664-04:00Hats and RabbitsA blog of social analysis, satire and and poetic observation. A place to get to the heart of things with either laughing eyes or a furrowed brow.Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.comBlogger899125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-15901381377212089552022-08-18T12:21:00.006-04:002022-08-18T18:40:42.848-04:00Book Review: Afterworld, by William Matarazzo<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hIpB_gLB13aMjnJwNWoVlyATxKFObHangpquyUs4qKrAm_TVw4ZWAauQaCAYYd9dK10omTmvq1IU1S0Wbp3pNXj1xN5AM4bSIuJj6-l1EO618kk52NDMhjIQ3LTJHUMd3gJPpaOsBKAR9o4XmqsigtyhVVb9pPdVJVlLZRDAiJK4C3EXjNdpaLzAEQ/s1500/OnePageBookCoverImage.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hIpB_gLB13aMjnJwNWoVlyATxKFObHangpquyUs4qKrAm_TVw4ZWAauQaCAYYd9dK10omTmvq1IU1S0Wbp3pNXj1xN5AM4bSIuJj6-l1EO618kk52NDMhjIQ3LTJHUMd3gJPpaOsBKAR9o4XmqsigtyhVVb9pPdVJVlLZRDAiJK4C3EXjNdpaLzAEQ/s320/OnePageBookCoverImage.jpeg" width="213" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">L</span></b>ook, I know it is most unusual. I am about to review my son’s book – a book I helped him with in terms of editing, discussion and input, throughout its creation over his entire high school career. But – there’s stuff I want you to know about it. And you should also know: I didn’t steer him too much. The story is truly his. <p></p><p>The book is called <i><a href="https://store.bookbaby.com/book/afterworld" target="_blank">Afterworld</a></i> and it was published last June. I have just finished my non-editor read-through: just me lying on the couch and enjoying the tale, without grammatical or critical eyes. (For the most part. It’s tough.) </p><p>Here is the back cover overview: </p><p><i>"Erik's innocence faded when his parents were slain in battle and being forced into his princely duties proves to be a much heavier responsibility than he expected. With these responsibilities comes the appearance of a strange, lone Mermaid. The closer the two of them get, the more they uncover the secret of the Mermaid's past, and the mystery of an Orc whose obsession it is to relentlessly hunt her down. Erik unwittingly plunges into an adventure beyond his wildest fantasies. Upon discovering that the man who killed his parents seeks to bring about a second apocalypse to erase Humankind, he takes it upon himself to set out and stop this horrible fate from coming to pass. To defend his father-figure, his friends, and the woman he grows to love, he must muster the strength to save the human race while dealing with the ghosts of his past – all the while trying to survive as the priority target of all the forces of darkness. </i>Afterworld<i> is a novel in the epic fantasy tradition, but with many modern storytelling elements, including romance and intrigue. The perfect "read" for those who love fantasy and adventure."</i></p><p><i>Afterworld</i> is a true “epic fantasy” novel, coming in at over 750 pages and containing a healthy sampling of Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey” elements. It is arranged in three internal “books” and Will is not shy about his inspiration having been Tolkien’s <i>The Lord of the Rings </i>(he thanks Tolkien in the afterword.) Despite the nods to the grand-daddy of all fantasy novels, it is not a <i>LotR</i> copy, in any way. (In order to avoid spoilers, I will simply mention that there is a logical, plot-based reason for any-and-all similarities.) </p><p>The book finds its own modern/classic voice and the characters are relatable in terms of their struggles and self-doubts. The circumstances might be different, but their inner monologues are relatable. Will sometimes elevates the prose for effect, but one never feels the characters are flat – they never read like someone out of <i>…Gilgamesh…</i> Each of them deals with things like embarrassment, awkwardness and even lack of sleep: after one great battle, the main character, Erik, dozes for eighteen hours straight. Will even references PTSD at one point. I just can’t imagine Beowulf falling victim to PTSD, but I can imagine it happening to a battle-tested individual, like Erik.</p><p>One thing that I find very comforting – nay, future-affirming -- in the book is that Will has created female characters who are strong, tough, and <i>of consequence</i> in their own world. At the same time, there is never a whiff of agenda in it. These women never require suspension of disbelief – they are never Lara Croft, armed with a dagger but beating off 700 enemies armed with assault rifles. All I can guess is that Will is of a generation that has seen and, so, believes in the undisputed strength of women. He doesn’t feel he needs to make a case for it: it is his reality. (Maybe the world is doing something right? Maybe his parents did – or his mom is just that reality!) All of the characters, of both sexes, in the book, are, at turns, vulnerable and powerful; you know…like real people. In this fictional world, femininity and masculinity are worn like lounge clothes, not as armor. There is balance. Elaina, for instance, is softly beautiful, gentle, and feminine, but she will wrestle an Orc into deadly waters and slit his throat before you can raise a brow. She is not asked, by Erik, to stay behind for her own protection. If she stays behind, it is to do something he trusts only her to do. </p><p>In terms of plot, there is plenty of world-built depth. Seasoned fantasy readers will enjoy both the lore of the world and the incredibly rewarding Easter-eggs that refer to our own world. However, as I have found with all good fantasy, one could simply read the story for the plot as it relates directly to the characters – a plot which contains romance, adventure and action galore – and sort of let the lore flow by, but the story becomes more rich if one doesn’t. </p><p>The action sequences are worth a mention, as well. As with many modern writers, Will is inspired by both film and fiction and his action sequences are cinematic in nature. Both in his action scenes and elsewhere, he displays a natural articulation, sometimes jumping around a battlefield between separated friends and enemies and sometimes describing fights in tight quarters with multiple characters. His attention to detail is sharp and engaging. Sometimes action sequences in fiction are invitations to skim. Not here. </p><p>One of the most noteworthy things about the plot is that, while hitting many of the required notes of the genre, he also avoids a lot of clichés. Things don’t always happen in the order one would expect. Sometimes, they don’t happen at all…</p><p>Negatives? Try again. I’m reviewing my son. But any literary type who sees the flaws in this young writer's work who can’t also see the shocking level maturity of craft isn’t a literary type at all. </p><p>Will has accomplished something few eighteen-year-olds ever have. It puts him, at least age-wise, in the company of Mary Shelley and fantasy genius, Peter S. Beagle (though Beagle took another year). As a guy who teaches English and creative writing in high school, I can tell you that the boy stands out. (Oh, shut up – I’m being as objective as possible.) If he were one of my students, I’d find myself in that place of not wanting to freak him out too much with my assessment of his potential as a writer. He gets is. Sure, fantasy is not everyone’s cup of chai, but one can’t hide talent nor shine dookie. It’s <i>there</i>. </p><p><i>Afterworld</i> is a book about love and courage – courage driven by love and fear that is often borderline crippling. (Again, no Beowulfs , here…) It is, at turns, funny, violent, harrowing, heartwarming and lovely. It builds on its inspirations by paying those inspirations homage and then morphing into Will’s imaginings. It’s a book in which emotion is a struggle, as it is in real life. Erik fights with his protective instincts; he wrestles with the urge to crush evil – even to seek satisfying revenge by bringing pain to those who have brought his loved-ones pain. Still, he knows that the chance for redemption is a birthright… but woe to him who does not seize that last opportunity… </p><p>You gotta draw the line somewhere. </p><p>...because, subtly…sprinkled throughout: God is watching. As I said, Will is not about agenda in his writing. You could almost miss it: here is this “Afterworld,” so different from ours, and though the rituals have dimmed and though there is never mention of a church or religion, God is peeking around the corners of the story. Not some Sky Spirit; not some retelling of a fantasy god, but the “Our Father” God. Abba. Yaweh. </p><p>I have just put far more emphasis on it than Will does in his entire book. I’m reading like the trained literary critic I am. For the average reader, it would probably slip by. For the careful reader, it is a detail of note. And is shows a young writer with a sense of craft: if you miss it, you miss it and the story stands up. If you catch it, you <i>get</i> it: redemption is His thing and it’s a major theme.</p><p>In the end, the book is a page-turner. Sure, the length can scare off some readers. And, I can tell you, I was a little worried: <i>Can I read this thing again (third time through) and actually enjoy it?</i> The answer is yes. It is a perfect escape; a great late night read with enough thematic depth to keep it from being an episodic Cliff's note. This is not sword-and-sorcery. This is the tale of real people in fantastic circumstances. The dark magic they have to deal with just looks different than ours. Whether we are fighting The Fiendthane, Virion, or being beaten down by a domineering boss or the threat of terminal sickness, all of us lie beneath the covers some mornings, struggling to summon the strength to fight another day. We all do battle with monsters at some point. </p><p>Pro tip: Use a small pillow for support. Sucker’s heavy. </p><p>And, yeah. I'm proud as heck. </p><p><i>Afterworld</i> is available as an e-book and as print-on-demand, <a href="https://store.bookbaby.com/book/afterworld" target="_blank">HERE</a>. Also on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc in e-book form. Hook a brother up. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-87695414433328053162022-08-15T10:52:00.001-04:002022-08-15T11:02:50.623-04:00Eight Days in the Grand Canyon (Supplement 2): On "Community"<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNywE9zKI9fkI-M7f8kl3xx0TKPx6CWoVmEMw7_BqjU214WLXMMS013sON_h0oN30Ayrde6yVBGwTu_wRk1kT9cvqiX_j791IEgqSK3dFilxa0rOjgspaFSrMg2fBm-E_kfoja96v5wlBELOmsNRNEmxMhGqeQzh0zMwUaJzqzGQ6_4Om52D61Fh4lw/s320/teo%20boat.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNywE9zKI9fkI-M7f8kl3xx0TKPx6CWoVmEMw7_BqjU214WLXMMS013sON_h0oN30Ayrde6yVBGwTu_wRk1kT9cvqiX_j791IEgqSK3dFilxa0rOjgspaFSrMg2fBm-E_kfoja96v5wlBELOmsNRNEmxMhGqeQzh0zMwUaJzqzGQ6_4Om52D61Fh4lw/s1600/teo%20boat.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">O</span></b>ne doesn't want to be a curmudgeon as one ages; at least <i>this</i> one doesn't, futile though the effort may be. That said, I have been sick to death of the word "community" for years. With the advent of the Internet, I would be willing to guess that it may be the most overused word in the language. Every site; every Instagram; every YouTube channel refers to itself as a "community."<p></p><p>It all falls flat for me. Can we be in a real community with people we will never <i>meet</i>? One can argue that we can, but it just doesn't feel right. </p><p>In the real world, our towns are often referred to as "communities." This makes a little more sense, I suppose. Other than a few close neighbors, though, it doesn't <i>feel</i> that way to me in my town. It hasn't feven after two decades. </p><p>As someone who is an introvert by nature, being in groups is generally my last choice. Years ago, however, I think I wrote about the film <i>Witness, </i>with Harrison Ford, and a scene, therein, in which the Amish people come together for a "barn raising." <i>That</i> is the kind of community I can get behind: people willing to really <i>help</i> each other -- not people just organizing Little League together or people reporting each other for having too many weeds at the curb -- but people really <i>being</i> there for each other. </p><p>I was thinking about this last week when my wife and I spent eight days, with a bunch of other expedition members, rafting the Colorado River the entire length of the Grand Canyon. (<a href="https://www.hats-n-rabbits.com/2022/08/eight-days-in-grand-canyon.html" target="_blank">The entire, longish, story is here.</a>)</p><p>According to our trip leader, at any given time, there are about one-thousand people in the Canyon. (It's strictly controlled by the National Park Service.) Given the scope of the place, that's not a lot. And what is cool is that all of them are there for the same reason: to experience the power of Nature, to challenge themselves and to escape the "rim world."</p><p>Over those eight days, the common purpose made not just our expedition of thirty, but the other groups we ran across, feel like a real community. Add to that the fact that rafting the Canyon is a kind of filter: most of people go there and see it from the rim, but how many people want to <i>live</i> <i>in there</i> for eight days? -- the proverbial "birds of a feather," that's who. </p><p>Despite different backgrounds, there was kinship in our group. I'm a musician/teacher; Karen is a nurse; one guy works for General Mills. We had a retired bus driver and a Spartan racer; a college student and an air-traffic controller. Our captain works full-time on a ranch and another group member is a retired school bus driver. The trip leader is in construction; one of the swampers is a diesel mechanic. There was a police officer and an airman in the United States Air Force. </p><p>It was like a Chaucer thing: he mixed pilgrims from walks of life who would never have interracted in Medieval society when he wrote <i>The Canterbury Tales: </i>craftsmen, priests, nuns, knights, etc. They had a common purpose, though: a pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral. Of course, Chaucer was doing a literary experiment, but the situation was not implausible. On such a trip, a knight might find he had much in common with a lowly carpenter or a housewife -- people whose circles he would never otherwise have run through.</p><p>We were in the Cathedral of Nature in that Canyon -- pilgrims with a common purpose. (And we got along much better than Chaucer's pilgrims did.) It's yet another proof that what we <i>do</i> isn't who we <i>are</i>. (I once heard a wonderful quotation: "We are not humans doings; we are human <i>beings</i>.")</p><p>This trip was, as I said, really a filter for people. First, it had to be people who had evern <i>heard</i> of this kind of trip -- real delvers who did their research and didn't just settle on a fifteen-minute gawk over the rim. Second, it had to be people who were willing to inconvenience themselves for eight days with no showers in intense heat and sun. Third, it had to be people who were willing to shell out the money required for this experience -- similar money for a trip to a resort, but without the comfy hotel, swimming pools and room service. And...no cell service.</p><p>The result: people like...us. A <i>true</i> community, if you ask me. </p><p>Ben, our trip leader, said (and exemplified) numerous times: "We take <i>care</i> of each other down here." And that might be the final ingredient for, at least, the kind of community I respect. </p><p>There was no hospital; there were no police or fire organizations, but there were plenty of opportunities to get hurt or lost or stuck. Who was going to do the rescuing? </p><p>Us. We depended on each other. </p><p>Even when there wasn't a need for dependence, the general attitude was complete camaraderie. If you saw boats from another trip, it was all smiles and waves and Grand Canyon yelps of joy; it was all wishes of "Have a great day," or "Have fun at Lava!" </p><p>So, yeah -- I don't really want to hear about online communities or groups of people just claiming the title as a result of proximity. Community has to be in the flesh and it has to be real. At least, to me. </p><p><i>This</i> was it. </p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-87849161635780256032022-08-12T11:01:00.001-04:002022-08-15T10:52:29.775-04:00Eight Days in the Grand Canyon (Supplement 1): My Physical Take-Away<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdh8-2wQh5F3b8uwl3zjfz5N2XhJr48LXO_naaQF3oHdmCcos1dN8M04RTBm7o5HuLA3d_TyDR3yIB6KRjUJ7WwMCAfAqxKBpDDff66b6A_6snM2ql9jhe4TYjBottdgLFiuRRoTXax0KScjvXHihVa_wgv9zUEltvL0HS1i-Ir-j5O9dS1MkBayTBg/s1440/BIG%20SKY.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdh8-2wQh5F3b8uwl3zjfz5N2XhJr48LXO_naaQF3oHdmCcos1dN8M04RTBm7o5HuLA3d_TyDR3yIB6KRjUJ7WwMCAfAqxKBpDDff66b6A_6snM2ql9jhe4TYjBottdgLFiuRRoTXax0KScjvXHihVa_wgv9zUEltvL0HS1i-Ir-j5O9dS1MkBayTBg/s320/BIG%20SKY.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">A</span></b> few months ago, I was texting with a friend of mine and I mentioned that I'd been working on getting in shape for our trip to the Grand Canyon. (See <a href="https://www.hats-n-rabbits.com/2022/08/eight-days-in-grand-canyon.html" target="_blank">previous post</a> for a full account of the adventure.) He immediately made fun of me: he had seen the trip and knew it was motorized -- not a paddling trip like one we had taken on the pretty deadly Upper Gauley river in West Virginia, a few decades ago -- so he good-naturedly accused me of being dramatic. I shared a laugh at the joke; but I told him that I really wanted to be in shape for the side-hikes and other physical challenges of the trip. And the heat. (Though, there really was no preparing for <i>that </i>heat<i>.</i>) <p></p><p>For a few months, I went, every day, to a three mile system of trails near my New Jersey home. I'd wait for the hottest time of the day (or, at least, not worry about how hot it was) and I would walk my usual paths and then speed-climb a central hill (the lazily-named "Blueberry Hill") two or three times before going back to the trail head.</p><p>On the Canyon trip, as a result, I was pretty proud of how I held up. I felt strong on the trails, the whole time. My back was good (occasional issues there, in the past) and I suffered no aches and pains. (I had started out taking Advil, preemptively, at night, but I stopped that on the third of eight days.) My cardio was pretty solid the whole time: no excessive panting with climbs and camp setups/breakdowns; no insane heart-thumping. </p><p>It all raises the question of the connection between weight and fitness -- a question that has been a central one for my wife and me for the past year or so. </p><p>I am simply not at a weight I want to be. I'm at least twenty pounds over, by my standards. Maybe, at this point, I have to admit that I have been telling myself a lie for years: that wanting to be thin is not out of vanity. I think it may be, but I also think that might be okay.</p><p>I used to say that my desire to be thin is a result of two things: 1) How I feel. 2) Having this notion that I have a "thin mind," so I want my body to follow suit. It just helps with social clarity. </p><p>Well, when it comes to No. 1: I feel pretty good now and it is because I have been <i>moving</i>. I'm 54. My joints and muscles feel good. My back is fine. I can motor along on a trail or scramble up rocks with the best of them... If I keep my regimen of hiking and stretching up, I should <i>keep</i> feeling this way. </p><p>Then, I see myself in pictures, and I think: Who the heck is <i>that</i>? He looks neither like the guy in my head nor the guy in the mirror. (I can only hope that it's true about pictures adding ten pounds and some quick research shows it is probably true, so I got that going for me...) Sometimes I look at pictures of myself and tell my wife that I look like Peter Griffin, from <i>Family Guy.</i> I say this to be funny, but it also kind of hurts the old pride.</p><p>I do have thin mind. <i>That</i>, I keep in shape with constant exercise. I may not be a genius, but there is certainly no belly flab in the old mellon. </p><p>Maybe I need to see all of this as a prompt for a separation of thought. I used to look at diet and exercise the way we are told to: as partnered weight-loss efforts. For me, it's better to think of them as separate goals: Exercise makes me feel good, physically; weight loss makes me feel good mentally. </p><p>And both are important, right?</p><p>In the end, I guess it is more important to be strong than to be pretty. We'll see where that takes me. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-14417309260439111592022-08-09T11:32:00.028-04:002022-09-28T08:40:26.658-04:00Eight Days in the Grand Canyon<p><span><b><i></i></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoUBDAUcyzjwo5nY4OBPFUnSngtHrJHR-tqbzmSfLLOgD9m9sjSuOSD_Y48p5LGc2WXch_8IRC-XnjW6mu0kNHCXlzSSxfya99nWAZMomqGw0FOj0Z8f-rmYC8_Q9fZGZY1_WyUt_TTnwn-Gsg4ubvVobLEFTIamrIvihdAlY4vkWkUutxKYzNDlzEg/s1440/CLIFFS%20AND%20SKY.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoUBDAUcyzjwo5nY4OBPFUnSngtHrJHR-tqbzmSfLLOgD9m9sjSuOSD_Y48p5LGc2WXch_8IRC-XnjW6mu0kNHCXlzSSxfya99nWAZMomqGw0FOj0Z8f-rmYC8_Q9fZGZY1_WyUt_TTnwn-Gsg4ubvVobLEFTIamrIvihdAlY4vkWkUutxKYzNDlzEg/s320/CLIFFS%20AND%20SKY.jpeg" width="320" /></a></i></b></span></div><span><b><i>PROLOGUE:</i></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>"G</b></span>oooood moooorning Grand Canyon! We got hot coffeeeee, hot tea, hot chocolate..." </p><p>This, in a sonorous sing-song, punctuated by a "barbaric yawp" that would have warmed Walt Whitman's heart, was the way Matteo (Teo), the colorful "<a href="https://grandcanyonwhitewater.com/what-the-heck-is-a-swamper/" target="_blank">swamper</a>" on our boat, the <i>Matkatamiba</i>, would awaken us at five-fifteen, AM, in camp. Answering yawps would then chain-fire from Ben, the trip leader, Dustin, our boat's captain, and James, the swamper on the <i>Fern Glen</i>:<i> </i>the other boat on our eight-day Colorado River journey through all two-hundred-seventy-seven miles of the Grand Canyon. ("Matkatamiba" is Havasupai tribe's word for "horse," but it is also the name of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slot_canyon" target="_blank">slot canyon</a> at mile one-forty-eight of the Grand Canyon.)</p><p>It was the best alarm clock of all time, echoing down the canyon in the dry, grey heat of an August morning: it jarred you awake and made you smile at the same time. </p><p>I have always felt a little...<i>insufficient</i> that I had never seen the Grand Canyon in person. It's kind of like the "American" thing to do, going there. People tend to look disappointed and mildly shocked when they hear you haven't gone. This summer, we set out to rectify that. We'd just planned to visit the rim, but Karen, my wife, found <a href="https://www.gcex.com/" target="_blank">Grand Canyon Expeditions</a>, and after some discussion, we figured, why not <i>live</i> down there for spell? </p><p>That oughta make up for it, right?</p><p>The trip was a mix of luxury and of burden; payoffs and sacrifices. Somehow, through a system of precise logistics, <i>really</i> hard work, and much backstage planning, the guides provided us, nightly, with restaurant-quality meals [I kid you not: filet mignon, for instance...and mahi-mahi...], but the trip was no joke in terms of physicality and tolerance of conditions that we, in the "rim world," are simply <i>not</i> used to: heat, biting red ants, sand, constant wetness, severely inclined (but always voluntary!) ankle-rolling hikes, loading and unloading of boats in the violently insistent sun, and even a few scorpions. </p><p>As our leader, Ben, said: "Make no mistake. This <i>is</i> an 'expedition.' You will be uncomfortable most of the time. But the pay-off is all around you." </p><p>He was right. So unbelievably right. The payoff was perspective; the payoff was beauty; the payoff was wonder; the payoff was a Romantic taste of Wordsworth's much sought-after "sublime" in Nature. </p><p>Let me spin you the yarn...</p><p><i><b>DAY ONE:</b></i></p><p>We'd done orientation the night before but reality set in when our loaded-up bus, after passing through what literally started as roadside construction sites and then just <i>looked</i> like constructions sites, and then transformed into rocky, western beauty, stopped in a town called Fredonia, AZ, to pick up one of our boat captains: Dustin. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYANhwPvKiDcoS9PVdn09uJsusIeSSKsOhO3r5YsYa2ft14j-8RWqFOyAjU1ZU_Kskap8DKi_FWxzJeHw1iJVTYsYdlq_TmIiTziQ_Er5CfljytGQbqS05w2pkZjdmdNR224JymVab5fRvj5eZKowdQA2buAwIHxJO6qhbnR3vDWSMOQ3bghTI9JAgA/s1440/DUSTIN.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYANhwPvKiDcoS9PVdn09uJsusIeSSKsOhO3r5YsYa2ft14j-8RWqFOyAjU1ZU_Kskap8DKi_FWxzJeHw1iJVTYsYdlq_TmIiTziQ_Er5CfljytGQbqS05w2pkZjdmdNR224JymVab5fRvj5eZKowdQA2buAwIHxJO6qhbnR3vDWSMOQ3bghTI9JAgA/s320/DUSTIN.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>We'd been told at orientation, by Julie, that Dustin was a "real cowboy." He climbed up into the bus wearing a pale cowboy hat, the sides bent up tight, with a formidable six-inch brim, front and back. But there was no pretense to this guy. This was not a costume slapped on by some cat at a Luke Bryan concert, nursing Miller Lites and pretending he'd worked all week as hard as the song characters had. Dustin works a massive ranch that runs right up to the Canyon rim, "punchin' cows," and he pilots river boats through class-five rapids (class-ten, on the Colorado [just double the number of other rivers to compare]) with a level of skill that made me smile every time. The hat? Arizona sun, man. </p><p>Dustin turned out to be an engaging storyteller, as well as a treasure-trove of Canyon lore and geological information. A man to admire. He had an honest sense of humor and, in conversation, a philosophical outlook on life, death and...<i>living</i> that we could all benefit from. </p><p>After a stop for some ridiculously tasty cookies at a place called <a href="https://www.jacoblake.com/?gclid=Cj0KCQjworiXBhDJARIsAMuzAuxXrQH2bBcO10yLn1xJd93imb-KZZD0q-YE9_W6uUJhLgnjTjKWh_QaAlH6EALw_wcB" target="_blank">The Jacob Lake Inn</a>, we rumbled on for the last land leg of the trip to the river. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tjUDUnXQ4143K1UKXKOxLibBRB3MstxNIhhpj1IW_sDlL6hmk5W3iTMf18vWct7NOzRsibeQF0SdpMdCKqcn8IEDFOX46bUnn2nEbi0oEcgNIs56kBNiBfJ9GeJWdFCjp9d06dR4yT9pL4Aj-QOlVs_kLahzx6RqzYQ5pohMKaSsIHR21gh5CMeAQw/s1440/GUIDES%20AND%20BOATS.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tjUDUnXQ4143K1UKXKOxLibBRB3MstxNIhhpj1IW_sDlL6hmk5W3iTMf18vWct7NOzRsibeQF0SdpMdCKqcn8IEDFOX46bUnn2nEbi0oEcgNIs56kBNiBfJ9GeJWdFCjp9d06dR4yT9pL4Aj-QOlVs_kLahzx6RqzYQ5pohMKaSsIHR21gh5CMeAQw/s320/GUIDES%20AND%20BOATS.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>We met the boats, the <i>Matkatamiba</i> and the <i>Fern Glen</i>, at <a href="https://www.nps.gov/glca/planyourvisit/lees-ferry.htm" target="_blank">Lees Ferry</a>, the beginning of the Grand Canyon -- river mile zero -- after unloading our dry bags and ammo cans, which were filled with our belongings for the journey, Ben, the trip leader, greeted us, standing atop the bow of the <i>Fern Glen. </i></p><p>Ben:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Y376PVJmfvHPyOhdVyXzUI_S9j10kYoxsI_oNFAWgA9b9bGTAVlTTxHfBc879w6ghTZyNvx9RfmoXhjfP5cAjrxBQia2j666LMrO1qPVaByglOyRd9rTu5rjQCfxaiR2YL4ZCJ6n4Q4l6dkrYcHP8u-qeJeEpkwBB2NhJTBpgWUJLCx-Y216lbZbhg/s1440/BEN.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1440" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Y376PVJmfvHPyOhdVyXzUI_S9j10kYoxsI_oNFAWgA9b9bGTAVlTTxHfBc879w6ghTZyNvx9RfmoXhjfP5cAjrxBQia2j666LMrO1qPVaByglOyRd9rTu5rjQCfxaiR2YL4ZCJ6n4Q4l6dkrYcHP8u-qeJeEpkwBB2NhJTBpgWUJLCx-Y216lbZbhg/s320/BEN.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>He wore a baseball cap and shades. His dark, full-coverage beard was flecked with a little grey and he was sun-browned: arms, legs and face. From his first words, you felt you were in good hands. He has a softly-delivered matter-of-factness about him mixed with a gently earnest but uncompromising bearing. He was going to tell you how to stay safe, then hand the responsibility off to you. He respected you enough to implement the widsom he presented. But if you blew it, it was on you... The <i>right</i> attitude, if you ask me. (Later on, Dustin, on our boat, would underscore this type of attitude: "If you fall out on the rapids, you have to be an active participant in your own rescue.") </p><p>When a group member started to walk off to the bathrooms during Ben's "borientation" (his term) he just asked, in a slight North Carolinian accent, "You done? You leaving already?" </p><p>"We were just going to use the bathrooms before we go. Is that okay?" the person responded. </p><p>"Yeah, it's okay, I guess. Talking about safety. Like you to hear it..." </p><p>I liked him from that moment. He handled his passengers just about exactly how I manage a classroom. </p><p>We then formed our first of many "zipper lines" -- a line with people staggered on opposite sides to minimize twisting -- and we passed the dry bags and ammo cans up to the boats. The swampers and captains lashed everything down and we climbed up and found spots to sit. There were some comfy seats back in "the chicken coop" toward the stern, but Karen and I sat in the front. There, you were either on "the couch" (which was just a pile of bags on a line of camp chairs) or on the the deck. This was not going to be a comfortable trip; not if you wanted more fun and more splash. And we learned quickly: more splash is better in the heat of the Canyon, which is, on average, twenty degrees hotter than the temperature at the rim. The <i>Arizona</i> rim. Which is, as you know, already hot. </p><p>We were soon underway, trailing Ben's boat, Dustin piloting ours from the back. And -- whoosh -- you were <i>in the Grand Canyon</i>. (It became a refrain for me, for eight days. I'd be eating or talking or brushing my teeth by the water and the thought would pop up like a text notification in my brain: "Holy Moly. I'm <i>in the Grand Canyon...</i>") The Canyon walls loomed up in their characteristicly diverse desert colors and the they only got higher as we went along. If I spend too much time describing what only makes sense in person, this piece could run a book's-length of adjective overload. We and our fellow passengers went silent, for a long time, just craning our necks and trying to remember we were still on Planet Earth. And, in a real sense, our connection to what we knew on a daily basis was cut: No phones; no news; no daily check-ins with loved ones, for eight days. </p><p>My very first thought was that the Grand Canyon was soul of America and we were going to get to travel through it. If you could take a slow trip through the soul of your best friend, or your wife, or husband, or child, you'd really understand that person, wouldn't you? Really <i>understand</i>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnf7A74h2PIuNHhJIjXA9wpBjTJH2GNB1yGF1jwF8j3Ou7JtQAXpTW8JKcihI3w_BSBk9Sx729xI_igeHxPaOU6uQm0J7aNTD-AEM8YIsFilRnBcIujOwD63pA0zo8gfM9RP-p3nveRVScQc_GiWsH5imDSVoD26slF8jpr9RSUgO-n-CzkpX8nXCBOw/s1440/CLIFFS.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1440" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnf7A74h2PIuNHhJIjXA9wpBjTJH2GNB1yGF1jwF8j3Ou7JtQAXpTW8JKcihI3w_BSBk9Sx729xI_igeHxPaOU6uQm0J7aNTD-AEM8YIsFilRnBcIujOwD63pA0zo8gfM9RP-p3nveRVScQc_GiWsH5imDSVoD26slF8jpr9RSUgO-n-CzkpX8nXCBOw/s320/CLIFFS.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>That first bend in the river felt surreal: This is <i>it</i>. Everything powerful and deep about this country; every Native American or every immigrant to this place who ever accomplished anything profound or good or bad was drawing or had drawn from the energy of this place -- a place that had been patiently carved over five or six million years by a trickle that became a river mighty enough to sculpt stone into whirling curves and caves that are now haunted by the ghosts of former incarnations of the same atmospherically-recycled water that we've all experienced as a drink or rain, or as a swim. The Canyon is the conduit of the proverbial river of time. It is <i>inconceivably</i> massive, even (especially) when you are deep within it, and it contains everything from mile-high walls and football-field-sized boulders perched precariously on tiny Roadrunner-cartoon bases, to the lone, Nerf-ball cactus comfortably crouching on a ledge, living where it should not be able to thrive. It's the diligent and adorable quest of the Bighorn Sheep, sure-footed and never quitting in their snuffling for food, regally turning to watch us pass, with dignity and surity, on the most narrow of footholds. It is an entryway into the bloodstream of a nation. Each of these things felt like the genesis of all that we admire about our country's history.</p><p>Then, Matteo, our swamper, came to the front of the boat to start to learn our names and introduce himself. For many of us, he became the heartbeat of the trip (see our wakeup call above), but on our boat he was diligent, adept at his duties and a first-rate entertainer. You had to love the guy: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGd8ZZq3WpwmDbz6BnfWTl95Jqv5pBdxsq_gQ3g8P1dukneinyrSAdUrA_nSyV-enQqyQkg2m6MiAfFNJv0lQcJm2BCqB00_Rw74B72aGSSlUa8p1ybK1NP6wnY9p7V-diEb7LMxsSTYyEM2Y6ttk-qHA7dzAw1l8RtJq7z8yhvVUppJBTBf8yzQIbQ/s1440/TEO%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGd8ZZq3WpwmDbz6BnfWTl95Jqv5pBdxsq_gQ3g8P1dukneinyrSAdUrA_nSyV-enQqyQkg2m6MiAfFNJv0lQcJm2BCqB00_Rw74B72aGSSlUa8p1ybK1NP6wnY9p7V-diEb7LMxsSTYyEM2Y6ttk-qHA7dzAw1l8RtJq7z8yhvVUppJBTBf8yzQIbQ/s320/TEO%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnQHl17F8TPhBFLleKs5DYP5h0YL8a5hbCrW2xY5455cMsGNO2Iz35d1DO6I9GPWP_GB9NSnwEj93OyGs0z234oU099wfwHesCYCkcsW3UrNYGy0lZb4_W6OD2tJqYXr725L5-NsSVFtCNj_lWgvmB5PlXXjbA0GAHqFlPInTfRUNwBefNmSqOKEdNA/s1440/TEO.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnQHl17F8TPhBFLleKs5DYP5h0YL8a5hbCrW2xY5455cMsGNO2Iz35d1DO6I9GPWP_GB9NSnwEj93OyGs0z234oU099wfwHesCYCkcsW3UrNYGy0lZb4_W6OD2tJqYXr725L5-NsSVFtCNj_lWgvmB5PlXXjbA0GAHqFlPInTfRUNwBefNmSqOKEdNA/s320/TEO.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>At one point we saw a blue heron, so Matteo educated us: </p><p>"You know what it means when you see a blue heron in the Grand Canyon?" </p><p>"What?" we asked. </p><p>"It means you saw a blue heron in the Grand Canyon." </p><p>All this wonder <i>and</i> top-notch dad jokes? It was more than I deserved. </p><p>Matteo was kind, knowledgeable -- he taught us tons about the Canyon and about river facts -- and sweet. You'd think a "river guy" would be nothing but grit and guts, but Teo was a picture of emotional intelligence and concern, showing his kindness and patience with the younger kids on the trip (he let one young man help bake a cake for his birthday) and treating everyone else with constant concern. I saw his face when one of the passenegers fell from the boat as she was getting off: genuine fear for her safety. (She was okay.) </p><p>But he <i>also</i> had grit and guts. In fact, all of the guides had grit and depth, as well. </p><p>That night, we set up camp in a relatively tight spot near a small section of rough-running water. </p><p>At dinner, Ben came and sat with a small group of us. It turns out Ben is originally from our area of the country (Philly area) and he'd once guided a local radio personality on a trip who later treated him to a night out for Donkey's steak sandwiches, in Camden, NJ. Once two guys talk about the wonders of cheeseteaks, a bond is made. We talked a little Philly and a little Grand Canyon until it was time to hit the proverbial sack. </p><p>As Ben walked away, someone pointed out the rough water just beyond our camp. "Are we going to get wet right away tomorrow?" she asked. </p><p>"Oh, that won't be there tomorrow," Ben said, in maybe the best deadpan of all time. </p><p>As I walked to our spot, I thought: <i>Wait...</i>was<i> it deadpan? Will they -- the tiny rapids -- really not be there tomorrow? It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but, I'm an English teacher...what the heck do I know?</i></p><p>(They were there.)</p><p>We were close-together and everyone set up cots on tarps, with the intent of sleeping outside. We snoozed until the rain started falling. Now was the time to start putting comfort on the back-burner for the week, I figured. Karen and I pulled the sandy tarp out from under our cots and draped it over us. I fell asleep for awhile until I heard muttering and commotion and when I glanced out from the edge of the tarp, I saw tents. (<i>"Where the hell did those come from?"</i>) I climbed out from underneath the tarp and, within three seconds, Ben materialized out of the darkness with a completely assembled tent. </p><p>"Need a tent?" </p><p>"I do indeed," I replied. </p><p>Presto: we were in a tent. It was the only night we slept all night in one [tent = oven, in the Canyon], but we set them up every night, just in case. </p><p>It was the monsoon season, after all. </p><p><i><b>DAY TWO: </b></i></p><p>I'm not much of a pancake guy, but when someone offers you blueberry pancakes in the Grand Canyon you take them and you devour them. Teo was a wizard in the camp kitchen, and these were impressive, coupled with a pile of crispy bacon. </p><p>Later, we left the river for short hike to visit a Puebloan ruin: the foundation of an old building that might have served as a meeting house for the tribe (it would have had only a hole in the top from which to enter). Next to it was a coffee-colored rock, about ten feet around, that was covered with ancient petroglyphs -- probably some sort of "message board" for the tribe, according to Ben. </p><p>The rock, Ben, and the ruins behind him:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsgluflIrmNMjD_3CU6zifT83qj7pItlviR9T2IwZQZughYCzLhPkpZU6Y-aB0rYtA0hn-MoCaxJmmSc90zT_ylfJgaxJEQB_mFu7lh34wEmjjO-nZ0kiDKO4-wZtenXZp7V9vvY89S53dLUVXMeUU1L8mM22e04FhEM3Gr2LylQfTzz-chbmn2ob9A/s1440/BEN%20at%20Pueblo%20House.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1440" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsgluflIrmNMjD_3CU6zifT83qj7pItlviR9T2IwZQZughYCzLhPkpZU6Y-aB0rYtA0hn-MoCaxJmmSc90zT_ylfJgaxJEQB_mFu7lh34wEmjjO-nZ0kiDKO4-wZtenXZp7V9vvY89S53dLUVXMeUU1L8mM22e04FhEM3Gr2LylQfTzz-chbmn2ob9A/s320/BEN%20at%20Pueblo%20House.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Ben explained the logistics of ancient farming in the Canyon -- the Indians would plant on the banks of the river in the silt when the river receded -- and about the myth of the disappearance of the "Anasazi" (now, sort of a derogatory term). It turns out they didn't really disappear -- they moved to the rim. And until resources were slim, they lived as a completely peaceful people. Poverty can breed violence. That song is as old as the Canyon. </p><p>As we'd made our way to the ruin, a member of our group had broken off and climbed up to some caves about fifty-feet up on the Canyon wall. Ben was not pleased, but, remember: he is no babysitter. </p><p>"Are you gonna yell at him?" someone asked.</p><p>"I'm not gonna <i>yell</i> at him," Ben said quietly, as if taken aback by the idea of one man yelling at another, pushing some pebbles around with his toe.</p><p>When the guy returned, he joked about having broken away from the group. Ben softly, yet firmly made a point: "Well, this is sacred ground..." </p><p>Sacred to Ben. Sacred to the Indians. Sacred to me, too. I hold other people's religions sacred -- sacred not because I necessarily believe they are accurate, but because I am a human and if my fellow humans believe deeply in something, at the least, I owe that thing empathetic reverance. (Once, I told a group of Catholic school kids who were entering an historical Episcopal church in England, to be reverant and to take off their hats, etc. A fellow Catholic educator on the trip said, "Why? It's not Catholic?")</p><p>I'm pretty sure he was kidding, but some people do hold that attitude. </p><p>Ben was very visibly connected to the Canyon. He <i>felt</i> it -- didn't just thrill-ride through the place. On hikes that challenged us, he'd hop, elf-like, through the rocks in flip-flops. At intervals, he'd step up onto a rock and put his hands out for balance. At the same time, he'd very subtly circle his wrists in a way that reminded me of the motions of Native American <a href="https://www.powwows.com/native-american-smudging/" target="_blank">smudging</a> rituals. I don't know if he was aware of it or if I am imagining things, but I found it moving. The man was <i>serious</i> about the place and he was part of it. On the intellectual side, he'd quote papers he had read on the geology of the Canyon. (He was eager to get home and read one he had not gotten to yet; that's what <i>I'm</i> talkin' about, as the youngins say.) The Canyon was in his head <i>and</i> in his heart. </p><p>Farther downriver, we reached Redwall Cavern. This is a <i>huge</i> shell-shaped opening in the cliff walls that the pioneer of Canyon exploration, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wesley_Powell" target="_blank">Major Powell</a>, reckoned would hold 50,000 people. We debated that number as a group. Most people believe it's an overestimate. I tried, by sight, to imagine the students in my high school (about 1000) sitting in the auditorium. When I multiplied that image, I figured on more like five to eight thousand, but...who knows? Let's just say it would hold scads of blokes. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVuwpNTy0fPsmVKc8DYq4IxLGBA3sRkqd2-HntxwdDH20JIPy02D9bwWFTGPkpQkK4RDyAem8GKDuN-v2ruZ-UKahtOIu_bwuoTHVk5AK6znpscnSkHMfA8oycLRZftTn3iFfhLWihujNTyzK3hMGdH5YL9i6htf7cbv1-NKNWs-WypD6bQYwu8h-gg/s1440/REDWALL%20CAVERN%20OUT.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVuwpNTy0fPsmVKc8DYq4IxLGBA3sRkqd2-HntxwdDH20JIPy02D9bwWFTGPkpQkK4RDyAem8GKDuN-v2ruZ-UKahtOIu_bwuoTHVk5AK6znpscnSkHMfA8oycLRZftTn3iFfhLWihujNTyzK3hMGdH5YL9i6htf7cbv1-NKNWs-WypD6bQYwu8h-gg/s320/REDWALL%20CAVERN%20OUT.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4p3T2kBGsH-qbhhawUVA9cJk9GqoRBKLTLRi7e5xQtATjsuaBgvRSxLnMn_CpB8ZRDrNSkVDRtXkIETsCn_h7HUkO2UK0PeKTPeuJhnt2K3QiPKdhVznoytnckz9pVtNm3a0QytGs57dob7B51z8dM8fXHvuxqOHlL0OjKfAmtyGLz9wBACo2Ap5Q-A/s1440/REDWALL%20CAVERN%20IN.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4p3T2kBGsH-qbhhawUVA9cJk9GqoRBKLTLRi7e5xQtATjsuaBgvRSxLnMn_CpB8ZRDrNSkVDRtXkIETsCn_h7HUkO2UK0PeKTPeuJhnt2K3QiPKdhVznoytnckz9pVtNm3a0QytGs57dob7B51z8dM8fXHvuxqOHlL0OjKfAmtyGLz9wBACo2Ap5Q-A/s320/REDWALL%20CAVERN%20IN.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The scope of the cavern was breathtaking. For some of us, anyway. </p><p>Despite the sheer depth of the place and the Canyon-red glory of the vaulted roof that looked like a stylized microcosm of a sunset sky, members of another group chose to spend their time tossing a Frisbee around. I couldn't <i>imagine</i> doing anything, the entire time I was in the Canyon, that would distract me from the grandeur. I didn't want to <i>kill</i> time, I wanted to slow it. </p><p>I don't want to be judgmental, but <i>man</i> did that make me judgmental. <i>Frisbee</i>? Really? Why not play solitaire atop Everest?</p><p>The next stop was a slot canyon hike to the gloriously cool (literally and figuratively), and neck-bending Redbud Cavern. It was narrow, compared to Redwall, but lofty, with a water-cut window to the sky. A gent in our group climbed so high on the narrow ledges (same guy from the Pueblo site) that I had to just hope he was an expert. I immediately tried to imagine how they would get a helicopter in there if he needed to be "medevaced" -- which was the only way out of the Canyon in emergencies, deep into it as we were. </p><p>(More on medevacs later...) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDutFeEBIDLFJ8vpvt3xWMzyE8iB6b8kwQKDiVM0ZqWbwM2MwP8lqt8OjWkzT5WhFKwURhz4Mma-M8UKVig2tbIGqI3q2x89kh-3YDKeRZrIiVRS08FLqD6_Kpak8lvD5exEzA4jXBi1vwntPq_sT6zXfodO_5j7nPFOQq8EVtZOZALYxWsZ8iCUvLg/s1800/REDBUD%20CANYON.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDutFeEBIDLFJ8vpvt3xWMzyE8iB6b8kwQKDiVM0ZqWbwM2MwP8lqt8OjWkzT5WhFKwURhz4Mma-M8UKVig2tbIGqI3q2x89kh-3YDKeRZrIiVRS08FLqD6_Kpak8lvD5exEzA4jXBi1vwntPq_sT6zXfodO_5j7nPFOQq8EVtZOZALYxWsZ8iCUvLg/s320/REDBUD%20CANYON.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>At one point in history, there had been a plan to build a dam at Marble Canyon. Thank goodness it never happened, but they did get as far as to dig test shafts into the Canyon walls. Good luck for us -- we got to explore one. </p><p>We donned our headlamps. It felt like air-conditioning inside. Once we got to the end of the shaft, Ben told us the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marble_Canyon_Dam" target="_blank">weird story of the plan to build the dam</a> and then proposed we switch off our headlamps and just experience the silence in the cool, complete darkness. It was a mostly beautiful experience of sensory deprivation, except that a member of the group decided not to turn off her phone but to just press it against her leg (again: we had no cell service for eight days, but some used phone cameras). It emitted the tiniest glow -- enough to remind me: you are still in the real world, Chris. This is only temporary. (Another Frisbee in the cavern.) </p><p>Me, heading in, in the light of Karen's headlamp: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQQNeAYsQ1jehfKEgPtcSrjWKCUnR3U1-0ARJm0ZZvUtgPhKBFcU9ZYwYzu4h_fEAyjw3qnuPQIzmW5YFlE_-_JOlz-TKyt52dLCJSQOkqASxVRACO5yrMfVWIcJcnT6LulPLtvOwcVIuAqf8kuUOgAwH2xDCjO8W8I0GlOxGJPv9eilOQooT2CwCYg/s1800/TUNNEL.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQQNeAYsQ1jehfKEgPtcSrjWKCUnR3U1-0ARJm0ZZvUtgPhKBFcU9ZYwYzu4h_fEAyjw3qnuPQIzmW5YFlE_-_JOlz-TKyt52dLCJSQOkqASxVRACO5yrMfVWIcJcnT6LulPLtvOwcVIuAqf8kuUOgAwH2xDCjO8W8I0GlOxGJPv9eilOQooT2CwCYg/s320/TUNNEL.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p>In camp that night we had the best mahi-mahi I have ever gobbled down. A storm briefly moved through, but Karen and I slept out on the cots under stars that looked as if God had dumped out a sandbucket of silver. You could <i>feel</i> yourself surfing on the very visible Milky Way. I felt well-fitted into my own insignificant notch in Creation as I dozed off with a bellyfull of delicious fish. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2FrN7ErE0icZcfDqrDhLCZ4bG8VPtGweVpqv83DG0nNZ479jmeGjg5A_MzGfVXwCfHVkyQO7CScCBMTRPMlqgoClVGKgLB6eDs6zN5K4_NBwvQA65bb31wj_psSR-6m-8PwO7PE0yTdRUzqhvOO7Ng4Krc2WXmPO1y_yB5ATOee_rhb3xXj3PEZQ8g/s1440/CAMPO%20SUNSET.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2FrN7ErE0icZcfDqrDhLCZ4bG8VPtGweVpqv83DG0nNZ479jmeGjg5A_MzGfVXwCfHVkyQO7CScCBMTRPMlqgoClVGKgLB6eDs6zN5K4_NBwvQA65bb31wj_psSR-6m-8PwO7PE0yTdRUzqhvOO7Ng4Krc2WXmPO1y_yB5ATOee_rhb3xXj3PEZQ8g/s320/CAMPO%20SUNSET.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><i><b>DAY THREE: </b></i></p><p>Copious cowboy eggs for breakfast along with about one-hundred and forty-three sausages. </p><p>After breaking camp and a brief stint on the river, we beached up at the site of the <a href="https://www.hikingproject.com/gem/59/nankoweap-granary" target="_blank">Puebloan granaries</a>: storage areas carved into the rocks seven-hundred feet above the river. Fortunately, the day was cloudly. (In fact, we had had several cloudy days, so for the first four days, the temperatures were not overwhelmingly hot.) </p><p>The hike up was a mix of walking and <a href="https://www.advnture.com/features/what-is-scrambling-in-hiking" target="_blank">scrambling</a> and the incline was pretty severe (nearly vertical, at times, really). Being a teacher, I have had off most of the summer, so I had been religiously walking/hiking every day for a few months to prepare for the trip. Karen has not had the same amount of free time. She takes care of herself, but the hike was slow-going. We'd move a little and rest; move a little and rest. I <i>tried</i> to get her to quit, about halfway there, but she said, sitting on a rock, "I came this far. I'll be damned if I'm quitting now."</p><p>And she did not intend to be damned. </p><p>We made it to the top last, as most of the group had started to make its way back down. Ben was sitting on a small ledge, waiting. He had snacks -- common practice on the trip, I think both to replenish electrolytes and to make us want to drink more. Serious dehydration was always right around the corner. </p><p>Karen took some candies and a handfull of trail mix. </p><p>"Pretty sure I have depleted my glycogen stores," she said, panting. </p><p>Ben replied, "Is that a fancy way of saying you got your ass kicked?" </p><p>"Yep," Karen admitted with a laugh. </p><p>Later, Ben would tell me that Karen's effort was inspiring. It was. A tough wench, if there ever was one. This was the view from up there; we'd hiked up from the river: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0jlTebStVOoY6Jipjf0qlZIMlKh_dA1rNFIsLnSaDnA-aCyIfQxA2BjyUISBVEnot-sGUIBOT9VjcZg96Sml5LABMui4Fk-ZAp3cCYheW3knDvoN5diDRgqF84dsnN5Ck2u1zMvunulJbfY55DJqDmPzUaYQHmNTuLcs-OuJimhwfPz4UvUPX02Hgg/s1440/ATOPTHE%20GRANARY.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1440" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0jlTebStVOoY6Jipjf0qlZIMlKh_dA1rNFIsLnSaDnA-aCyIfQxA2BjyUISBVEnot-sGUIBOT9VjcZg96Sml5LABMui4Fk-ZAp3cCYheW3knDvoN5diDRgqF84dsnN5Ck2u1zMvunulJbfY55DJqDmPzUaYQHmNTuLcs-OuJimhwfPz4UvUPX02Hgg/s320/ATOPTHE%20GRANARY.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Around lunchtime, we passed the confluence of the Little Colorado and the Colorado Rivers. Both rivers were running muddy as a result of monsoon season, but the Little Colorado looked like Willy Wonka's chocolate river. You could see the darker swirls intermingling as we motored by: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqyo5HrqwwemvmNjnv5j3HLL_lzNrtpvlJkstIYCzYN87ov_cVJHaXgF90be-FDHRJL-k-hGkOhKi_uBU-P6dI4gl4LTbPFGL2sGOewNX7sIfcO0cEaYkm-ltC0hZuz7g7TPlBygtb4XUJvIF8ufD4Yi-xIv0mMiCvvytnIh58qp_VuMoM9A4YkVmqA/s1440/MUDDY%20WATER%20CONFLUENCE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqyo5HrqwwemvmNjnv5j3HLL_lzNrtpvlJkstIYCzYN87ov_cVJHaXgF90be-FDHRJL-k-hGkOhKi_uBU-P6dI4gl4LTbPFGL2sGOewNX7sIfcO0cEaYkm-ltC0hZuz7g7TPlBygtb4XUJvIF8ufD4Yi-xIv0mMiCvvytnIh58qp_VuMoM9A4YkVmqA/s320/MUDDY%20WATER%20CONFLUENCE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Despite some ominous clouds, and flashes of lightning, a brewing, nasty-looking storm cleared before we got to it. </p><p>In camp that night, we ate pork chops the size of our feet; again, delectably cooked-up by Teo and the guides. Here's a glimpse of "the kitchen," in action:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZBTBOyUa5g5jEBELdWLBW1NoopA6cbC6dSbxga0E_sPHFBvvNiI4pT9cDe6M7irQ_SymgWXogsjS5iJnOhDjPqeDyMmsvPUQ-msC0dqcQKQ7vZr1RoxSL1ykORuZArqttLAO3bILPZ4Fg6c4ZALNSwxwGMC8BH-VMNxIu8qwCHUczwa3hfNrRoWhbQ/s1440/THE%20KITCHEN.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZBTBOyUa5g5jEBELdWLBW1NoopA6cbC6dSbxga0E_sPHFBvvNiI4pT9cDe6M7irQ_SymgWXogsjS5iJnOhDjPqeDyMmsvPUQ-msC0dqcQKQ7vZr1RoxSL1ykORuZArqttLAO3bILPZ4Fg6c4ZALNSwxwGMC8BH-VMNxIu8qwCHUczwa3hfNrRoWhbQ/s320/THE%20KITCHEN.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>After a brief sit in the <strike>kilns</strike> tents waiting for the rain to clear and watching a spectacular lightning show, we slept out on the cots under the silver sandbucket. </p><p>It's worth mentioning, at this point, that we had spent three days covered in sand and coated with muddy river water. (You have seen, in the pictures, that the Colorado was running very muddy owing to monsoons.) For the record, I hate the beach. I hate being sandy. Now I was living and eating on "beaches." My hands were always covered in sand embedded in old sunscreen. My hair, according to Karen, had gone from its usual white/grey to tan, from the muddy rapids. This might make your skin crawl. It would have made mine crawl two weeks ago. But we sort of...just forgot about it. </p><p>After some time in these conditions, I stopped doing "the beach-crouch" to avoid the sand. Setting up the tent, I'd just plop my to my knees. I stopped thinking about being wet. None of us were showered any further than a few quick baths to wash pits and torsos in the muddy river. But...<i>we were in the Grand Canyon</i>. <i>Living</i> in the Grand Canyon. This was enough to push away the constant need for comfort we tend to develop up here in the rim world. The payoff was, as Ben had mentioned, more than sufficient recompense for the inconveniences. We really do get precious about things, up here. This trip was the true example of what people mean when they advise us to venture away from comfort zones. </p><p>Every human should do this trip, if you ask me. </p><p>Anyway, good night. The Milky Way goes blurry...</p><p><i><b>INTERLUDE:</b></i></p><p>I know you want to know, so I'll just tell you about the "bathroom" situation. At each campsite, we had, as Ben so had eloquently put it, "A Poo with a View." The guides would find a spot down a path into a private area and there they'd set up a camp toilet (for No. 2) and a red bucket (for No. 1). <i>Everything</i> has to be carried out of the Canyon. There is no digging holes and using biodegradable paper, as in other camping. When we'd break camp, the guides would seal up the toilet with an industrial-looking lid and stow the whole caboodle in the little hold in the <i>Matkatamiba. </i></p><p>As for daily bathroom breaks, the National Park Service's policy is to "control polution by dilution" as Ben put it, so all "No. 1" functions during the day took place in the river. Talk about getting to know people quickly: the approach was "ladies upstream, men downstream." (The reason for this presents itself, if you really think about it.) Everyone behaved with the maximum modesty possible, but there was no ignoring the fact that your new friends were "doing their business" only feet away. Everyone was respectful and averted their eyes at the proper times. Civility remained, despite the situation. There are <i>some</i> good things about civilizaton.) Again -- discomfort? Yes. But, the payoff... And it served as another question prompt: How important are our little hangups up here in the rim world?</p><p>As for No. 2, on the river, it was best, as Ben had said at the outset, to "get on the camp schedule" but for several of the older gents (not me, for the record; I'd rather have died from some rare bowel disease), this was not possible. The process amounted to a sealable foil bag and hiding behind a big rock. I happened to catch a glimpse of someone handing Ben a...used bag at one point. Ben took it, and blithely said, "Nice doing business with you," and ran it off to some secret stowage place... (A sense of humor was indispensible on this trip.) </p><p>The guides also set up handwashing stations, every time we ate or camped, with soap and a foot pump for clean water. Handwashing, in light of COVID protocols and recent nasty norovirus outbreaks in the Canyon, was <i>constant</i>. Before breakfast, lunch and dinner, the bellowed matra from the guides was, "____ is ready. <i>Wash...your...hands</i>." You had to stand in the handwashing line before touching any plates or food. I washed my hands more often while camping in the Canyon than I do at home, by far. And I wash my hands a lot. </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">DAY FOUR: </i></p><p>We were informed, at the outset, that day four would be a day of rapids. This was good news, because the sky was an unbroken blue. When the sun showed up in camp, it didn't feel like an East Coast sun that taps you on the shoulder in the morning and gradually warms up. In the Canyon, the sun immediately slaps you awake like a bullying sibling and steps right up to high-noon intensity. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIoNG6Cqkk6zq17PEESGzYKFk4s9zDTdFaGlj1lPJ23jXjTE-Og8cGgJwbR1hJxvYJ_zv00PQB_ZXyPbQojNG9Lv1v4eysxEkkmdt9Nj4a4NtJ4KJYH6BlbWFjxsTkaLcYighwaXbHQDi29bqrzf6UN-lsmF6w7PF8Vx4XF2SHiE4EWElJ4zmQSJiqw/s1440/RAPIDS.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIoNG6Cqkk6zq17PEESGzYKFk4s9zDTdFaGlj1lPJ23jXjTE-Og8cGgJwbR1hJxvYJ_zv00PQB_ZXyPbQojNG9Lv1v4eysxEkkmdt9Nj4a4NtJ4KJYH6BlbWFjxsTkaLcYighwaXbHQDi29bqrzf6UN-lsmF6w7PF8Vx4XF2SHiE4EWElJ4zmQSJiqw/s320/RAPIDS.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>After a sweaty (there was still some humidity) camp-breaking and boat-loading, it felt good to hit the river. The temperature difference on the water was surprising. The rapids were numerous and refreshing, and Dustin, our boat captain, piloted us expertly through the most intricate ones we'd yet seen. I told him, later, that, "I don't know much about what you do, but I can tell you are <i>great</i> at it." </p><p>Dustin had high standards for himself. When he made mistakes we couldn't even see, you'd hear a few choice mutterings from under that awning of a hat brim. But it's always such a pleasure to watch someone so highly skilled at what he does. If I could ride, I'd love to spend a day on the ranch just following Dustin around. I'll bet his standards are just as stringent there, and his skills just as impressive. </p><p>After awhile, we passed <a href="https://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging/phantom-ranch/" target="_blank">Phantom Ranch </a>and <a href="https://www.americansouthwest.net/arizona/grand_canyon/bright-angel-trail-bridge_l.html" target="_blank">Bright Angel Suspension Bridge</a>. These areas are accessible from the South Rim, so we saw some people hiking down into the Canyon. Teo wryly warned us, as we looked at the hikers: "Look -- wildlife. Don't make eye contact. It's mating season."</p><p>That night, in camp, in a place called "The Dune," that was backed by a dramatic cliff wall, there was a large area of submerged sand dune out in the river, and we all imitated the guides, setting up our camp chairs in the river and cooling off, sipping from our water bottles or from cans of "river cold" beverages that always stayed all day in "drag bags" that trailed behind the boats, in cans that came out looking like antiques from all the jangling around.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfx9tuQUZmP_89fdwY3e4cpOBsYhgKnoTXh31L_i4WI_tDVRLbjUzMJl3ib-tLsQXMAeRkazkrpmJ_qUZ8vlzyx9XbyHnmaJdHMBSAWZKahBu1pvfCvHPzrKxs9b_xzCFyO2rb4hEOrazJ3xfgdIJB2Obv_cUm6Sc4Xtc2pEiTSrtOKfwr_ntL_Ym8g/s1440/CHILLIN%20WATER.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfx9tuQUZmP_89fdwY3e4cpOBsYhgKnoTXh31L_i4WI_tDVRLbjUzMJl3ib-tLsQXMAeRkazkrpmJ_qUZ8vlzyx9XbyHnmaJdHMBSAWZKahBu1pvfCvHPzrKxs9b_xzCFyO2rb4hEOrazJ3xfgdIJB2Obv_cUm6Sc4Xtc2pEiTSrtOKfwr_ntL_Ym8g/s320/CHILLIN%20WATER.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-N4-UokMvhj4Bn59KjmDdrIPQXxAs3qK-oZaQFkV-LaVUA97llzq1uU3bAgImnE5KaJuAYXs6Cm0JyRBLXij-ssrA5643cApjYZCF_t4lmlbDBtzxU9mfpsZOwbbQpEhP4pBLO04jgRSD-n0ReXg0-nwoBoSrWaxSN_ApymUPs_PiSsDuwzkCcwOQQ/s1440/CAMP%20CLIFF%20WALL.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1440" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-N4-UokMvhj4Bn59KjmDdrIPQXxAs3qK-oZaQFkV-LaVUA97llzq1uU3bAgImnE5KaJuAYXs6Cm0JyRBLXij-ssrA5643cApjYZCF_t4lmlbDBtzxU9mfpsZOwbbQpEhP4pBLO04jgRSD-n0ReXg0-nwoBoSrWaxSN_ApymUPs_PiSsDuwzkCcwOQQ/s320/CAMP%20CLIFF%20WALL.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>At one point, Karen mentioned that she'd like (because of the heat) to be towed behind the boat like one of the drag bags. I announced that, from then on, I would be calling her "my little drag bag." </p><p>Ben looked up from tying a knot and said, "You got some b___s, Chris." </p><p>"I guess not for long," I replied. </p><p>But Karen clarified that we make fun of each other all of the time like this. </p><p>Ben looked relieved. </p><p>After a nice grilled chicken dinner, it was off "to cot" for another night under the dazzling canopy after a choreographic display of dancing lightning over the dark walls. </p><p><b><i>DAY FIVE:</i></b> </p><p>Now it was for real. </p><p>We'd been lucky with (relatively) cooler days, for the first half, but the sun was now unfettered. Arizona, as you know, is famous for being hot as heck. As I have mentioned, in the Grand Canyon, the temperatures are typically twenty degrees hotter than on the rim. </p><p>Over the first four days, we saw temps of around 90-95 degrees down there. On the river, you felt almost cool. On the last four days, though, under the sun, we saw temps of up to about 110 degrees. This was when we started experiencing that famous "dry heat." (In camp, I tried to clean my glasses by huffing some breath fog onto them, as you do. Nothing doing. The glasses would not fog.) </p><p>On the boat, we were all covered up (long sleeves, hats and hoods with thin fabric). Hydration became a mission -- no one <i>fell</i><span style="color: red;"> </span>to dehydration, but a few wound up cursing at themselves in camp for not having done well enough: big headaches and some weakness. I managed about a hundred and twenty ounces a day or more with a supplemental Gatorade out of the drag bag at most lunch stops. Karen and I had no real issues, but hers and many of the ladies' ankles swelled up quite a bit because of the increased water intake. </p><p>The Grand Canyon Expeditions had recommended sarongs for everyone as part of the equipment checklist. These served many purposes out there (bed sheet; changing cover up...), but the most useful was to wet it with river water and drape it around you. With those temps, it felt like air-conditioning -- for a few minutes, anyway. They would dry in a flash, but we would just re-dunk. Teo would wet his and drape it over his wide-brimmed hat, turning him in to a kind of bearded, Virgin Mary figure. Many of us followed suit. </p><p>Karen had had the idea to keep hers dry for other uses, but when I draped mine over her shoulders she became a convert. It was miraculous, if brief, how cool it felt, especialy when dipped in the running, clear water of a recently-flashed slot canyon. </p><p>Below: Teo, near the umbrella, with his sarong in use; me with my sarong below:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVIv8-7RNsIZBHAh-EDftFoJSMaJ6suztN3RKnoYlawuQt9z9TMpHfw98IFqzLa8Xu7w0mxTvIZ0nwenuzbovONQ9KJvtsT7YF5OH36Bk56IANMLX_6YZYxRCeeD6y325hsLhDu8-sYwLd_GIt_R4MxmYd4DQdOdU5rhERz8vv01zRlfgOXnbvu2qlg/s1440/TEO%20WITH%20SARONG.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVIv8-7RNsIZBHAh-EDftFoJSMaJ6suztN3RKnoYlawuQt9z9TMpHfw98IFqzLa8Xu7w0mxTvIZ0nwenuzbovONQ9KJvtsT7YF5OH36Bk56IANMLX_6YZYxRCeeD6y325hsLhDu8-sYwLd_GIt_R4MxmYd4DQdOdU5rhERz8vv01zRlfgOXnbvu2qlg/s320/TEO%20WITH%20SARONG.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip89-1WsUx_Fyi_PexEBuP9wgAOEqS0mu86M4wOc2vN2tJarIwC7nW8L8_1lUsR_nz99C6Z-KVuOW718ga1tACJIFHWyTVo0Pl5MXUialmSui4bCoe6lNuUHGqbFmNep9mNqdowGwNryupC3j57uNcSzQCkWeo91wqd0-2wp6TGGQbraKcIU21DDMNXw/s1440/ME%20SARONG.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip89-1WsUx_Fyi_PexEBuP9wgAOEqS0mu86M4wOc2vN2tJarIwC7nW8L8_1lUsR_nz99C6Z-KVuOW718ga1tACJIFHWyTVo0Pl5MXUialmSui4bCoe6lNuUHGqbFmNep9mNqdowGwNryupC3j57uNcSzQCkWeo91wqd0-2wp6TGGQbraKcIU21DDMNXw/s320/ME%20SARONG.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>If you should decide to go on a trip like this, do <i>not</i> forget the sarong. And pack light. I don't want to brag (which is what people say right before they brag), but I was labeled the "best packer on the trip" by Matteo. Karen hates that. She thinks she was better, but, the expert has spoken and it's my blog and she doesn't have the password. </p><p>As we loaded the <i>Matkatamiba</i> that morning, Teo challenged Doug, one of our group, to a race to see who could thread the rope through the handles of the ammo cans faster. I don't want to say they cheated, but there was <i>much</i> hilarity as they endeavored to <i>gain an advantage</i> by interfearing with each other's progress. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jerJmDWTJzGO3ltreH8WEcJ8KS1wh430jDeDiBMJ0AE52tRpOXv_pgmJUkqV-nMvDSLimNayK39YhTGNS7jWLbk6sxNR5kPXrrOjkErCyXxH8QWeHadHZn6Vr9tB3-ZMq3u3WecDpyrFAB8OcxuNL5zhwWKhkNbWA1dm8eFNa1pd_ZcS4xQacnLO7w/s1440/AMMO%20CAN%20RACE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jerJmDWTJzGO3ltreH8WEcJ8KS1wh430jDeDiBMJ0AE52tRpOXv_pgmJUkqV-nMvDSLimNayK39YhTGNS7jWLbk6sxNR5kPXrrOjkErCyXxH8QWeHadHZn6Vr9tB3-ZMq3u3WecDpyrFAB8OcxuNL5zhwWKhkNbWA1dm8eFNa1pd_ZcS4xQacnLO7w/s320/AMMO%20CAN%20RACE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>There was gloriously-shaded hike up a beautiful slot canyon that afternoon. We had avoided a few slot canyons on the previous days because of the threatening clouds. (Flash floods are a real danger in the Canyon and they will mess you up.) But on this day, the big sky was insistently -- nay, arrogantly -- blue. </p><p>We also visited Deer Creek Falls (regionally, pronounced Deer <i>Crick</i> Falls). We spent some time soaking in a pool beneath its eighty-foot waterfall. It was the first clear(ish) water we had seen since the start of the trip, so it served as a kind of soak bath. The air pushed out by the falls was like Chicago street wind in winter. You almost couldn't face it. </p><p>A fool in the falls: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4nvCZje7qB6WotzkeupAf6b8ymyE8wIXQMMTBxgHvDziYL_FYNd0EV0rZ1uNTCpCJ7NyUWYXNovqDylxd7eQUAnijULmQbMVlvxrOKvI5RjJHhHAx67TBdbHr6IbO6Ul5GVZdDpUntZm7EasjeLWySnj35D-gUrM-ezzpXyLYt79LSZ5xEub_9v3sA/s1440/FOOL%20IN%20DEER%20CREEK.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1440" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4nvCZje7qB6WotzkeupAf6b8ymyE8wIXQMMTBxgHvDziYL_FYNd0EV0rZ1uNTCpCJ7NyUWYXNovqDylxd7eQUAnijULmQbMVlvxrOKvI5RjJHhHAx67TBdbHr6IbO6Ul5GVZdDpUntZm7EasjeLWySnj35D-gUrM-ezzpXyLYt79LSZ5xEub_9v3sA/s320/FOOL%20IN%20DEER%20CREEK.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Dustin informed us that Deer Creek Falls is usually completely blue and clear, but, again, monsoon season had taken a toll: it was slightly brown on this day. We waited in there for a few hours while some of the group went on a hike up above -- half of us were content just to literally chill in this spot. After the first soak, however, it was hard to get back in. It made even me shiver, and I <i>love</i> the cold. </p><p>Quite a bit of sad excitement in the camp that night. Remember the mention of evacuation helicopters? Yeah.</p><p>A few minutes after we had gotten set up and were relaxing on camp chairs with some of our new friends, Doug, Marcia, Penelope, Donna and Genie, Ben nonchalantly ambled over and said that there would be "a show with dinner." A helicopter was coming in to medevac someone from an adjacent camp, but our camp (and our side of the beach) was the only good landing spot. We had to move anything "that wasn't sand or plants" from the area so the helicopter could land and so that nothing would get sucked up into the rotors. The guides from both camps, and some of us, grabbed buckets and wetted down the beach to minimize sand spray. </p><p>As we waited for the rescue, Ben was approached by a young member of the group who thought he had been bitten by a red ant. (They were <i>everywhere</i>. The antidote was to rub the bite with bleach.) Turned out it was a splinter or a cactus spine and the kid needed tweezers. He kept asking Ben, who patiently replied: "I'm landing a helicopter and trying to make dinner on a beach...first chance I get, I'll get your tweezers..."</p><p>The woman piloting the helicopter <i>nailed</i> her target (laid out as a red cross on the sand by our guides). Ben went fairly nuts with admiration for her skill, celebrating like she'd scored a game-winning touchdown. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIVyUemzMGiwHIuJeFDFp5ae0dhcUer9JUeJ8fBfr_gKQG3dRLSPwk8tuGL_jxRV_EzsREVNENZRRa2s0lIGY1dAw1KtwJQGZghgTj0BYa5OyHNns-5ifGTGFjNav-mHJo2xmVwXAm3wmF1MG_DV53pzvr9GU4mevzLjAtfUK1ClutJQlGWyFB67AEA/s1440/COPTER.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIVyUemzMGiwHIuJeFDFp5ae0dhcUer9JUeJ8fBfr_gKQG3dRLSPwk8tuGL_jxRV_EzsREVNENZRRa2s0lIGY1dAw1KtwJQGZghgTj0BYa5OyHNns-5ifGTGFjNav-mHJo2xmVwXAm3wmF1MG_DV53pzvr9GU4mevzLjAtfUK1ClutJQlGWyFB67AEA/s320/COPTER.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>In a few minutes, the people from the other camp crested a dune with a woman on a cot/stretcher. Karen (who is a nurse) went over to check on her. The woman had broken a leg from slipping in the river mud -- an old injury made the leg weaker -- and it just <i>went</i>. The poor lady had to leave without her husband; no room on the evac. helicopter. The mood of the camps drooped a bit, but there was a great deal of gratitude and the other guides thanked us all for disrupting our camp for them. </p><p>"On the river," Ben said, "we take <i>care</i> of each other."</p><p>There <i>was</i> a sense of that. From important things like this to a briefly-baffling stop Ben made, mid-river, to another expedition's boat: </p><p>Earlier, we'd watched, trying to figure out what he was doing and were enlightened when we saw the other company's guide hand over a few rolls of toilet paper. (Apparently, our group was pretty hard on the stuff... But, I guess...big pork chops, big... Never mind.) </p><p>For dinner, I opted for the "Grand Canyon Special:" a flower tortilla, wrapped around a corn tortilla and filled with fajita goodness. James, the <i>Fern Glen's </i>swamper was serving them up. </p><p>"Regular, or 'Grand Canyon Special?'" he asked.</p><p>"<i>Gotta</i> go with the Grand Canyon Special," I said. </p><p>Ben, jogging by with a pair of tweezers, looked at me proudly and said, "I had <i>no</i> doubt!" </p><p>There was a spectacular but short little storm that night, and, again, we slept under heaven's vault. </p><p><i><b>DAY SIX: </b></i></p><p>If you have ever, as I am sure many have, sat naked on a scalding frying pan under a french-fry warming light, you may have some idea how hot it was in the Canyon on this day. Some idea. To really <i>really</i> get the picture, you'd need to have someone iron the wrinkles out the bottoms of your feet with a Hamilton Beach steam iron at the same time. Dante's <i>Inferno</i> hot. None of this was hyperbole. </p><p>But it <i>was</i> overwhelmingly beautiful out there. The walls of the Canyon were <i>spectacular </i>in the bright sun. And they shape-change so much as you make your way downriver -- the forms they take are innumerable and the sculptures the water created over the millenia are, at once, graceful, haunting, delicate and brutal. The view never gets boring. Infinite variation. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq57VsjiqM9ChvlyIQ0zOKnAPHYVZcTq1iPGVWJ9nAuRKPFgS673Kj0fyGw6jTu8qHK0RZZ4YmjOcsTv-dlANduxuBZ3A7bTegkVXcK7icJ9q9XfvVCCmcc-4nrcQJnOVfarMRziOwMMPGcCidPz3mypQ7xoOE3SrFXCDL11B3-uE0laURzDqXOfjL8w/s1440/SUN%20cLIFFS.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq57VsjiqM9ChvlyIQ0zOKnAPHYVZcTq1iPGVWJ9nAuRKPFgS673Kj0fyGw6jTu8qHK0RZZ4YmjOcsTv-dlANduxuBZ3A7bTegkVXcK7icJ9q9XfvVCCmcc-4nrcQJnOVfarMRziOwMMPGcCidPz3mypQ7xoOE3SrFXCDL11B3-uE0laURzDqXOfjL8w/s320/SUN%20cLIFFS.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>For most of the day, we cruised along calmly, spotting tiny waterfalls and the occasional blue heron or Bighorn Sheep ambling by or grazing on the slanting banks. (One of our boatmates, Marsha, had a great eye for catching the wildlife and often directed us when we couldn't find this or that creature.) </p><p>Later in the day, we made our way into a slot canyon that didn't have much of an incline, but that was <i>not</i> easy walking. There was more scrambling and a lot of ankle-breaking rocks that shifted if you stepped on the wrong ones. Residual streams from a recent flash deposited tons of pointy pebbles in my <a href="https://www.keenfootwear.com/p/M-NEWPORT.html?dwvar_M-NEWPORT_color=1001870&cgid=mens_footwear_sandals" target="_blank">Keens</a> as I went. (Those shoes were great all-arounders, but I often wished I had brought more sneaker-like hiking shoes.) </p><p>After about a quarter mile, we reached a small shelf where everyone was resting, and I stepped up. Karen was behind me and asked for hand-up and. As I grabbed on and lifted her, I heard a sound like a carrot snapping and Karen let out a little gasp. </p><p>She tore something in her knee -- an ACL or MCL, we think, now. </p><p>She's done this before, on the other kneee, and she is a nurse, so she knows the feeling <i>and</i> the symptoms. </p><p>I'm not a nurse, but I know knees are not supposed to make that sound. </p><p>The rest of the group moved on. Karen had <i>no</i> stability in her knee, side to side, so we had to make our painstakingly slow way (over those same rocks and scrambles) back to the boat before the rest returned. Our new friend and boatmate, Genie, insisted on staying with us despite our protests, for which I will always be grateful. She carried our water bottles in her pack so I could help Karen. Kellianne and Phil, from the other boat group (a group who had all come together, unlike ours who met on the trip) helped us out, too, scouting out easier paths and grabbing Karen's hand on the other side when she needed it. </p><p>We timed the long slog well -- getting back to the boats just as the others broke out of the slot canyon's entrance. </p><p>Ben sidled over to us, not unlike a spy meeting another spy in a Moscow alleyway during the Cold War: </p><p>"Why do I keep hearing your name?" he said, conspiratorially, to Karen.</p><p>"I tweaked my knee, but I'm NOT leaving. No helicopter, right?"</p><p>Ben shook his head dramatically and said, "Oh, no, no, no you are not. You're not going anywhere. As long as your pain is ok and you are comfortable getting around, you stay. "</p><p>He asked a few well-trained questions about the injury and Karen answered with clear medical terms. It was going to be an ACE bandage and hikeless trip from that point on, but no helicopter.</p><p>Oh, and Karen would have to get on and off the boat doing the "seal roll" from that point on. (In fairness to her, she did much better than that -- she just needed a hand up from me each time. Most of us had acclimated to a pretty impressive quick-hop up there by then: step on a strap between the boat and a pontoon, left foot on the deckplate, right foot bounces off of the pontoon and....equilibrium.) </p><p>In camp, Karen sat out unloading this time, but insisted on helping set up our cots and tent. Ben brought over the ACE bandages and she did her nursely thing to brace up the wobbly knee. </p><p>We had a fantastic dinner of shrimp and rice with egg rolls -- yeah, they even <i>deep fried </i>out there. It was at this meal that I noticed, with a grin, the height of the piles of food the swampers were eating. With the work they were doing, though, it was much deserved and probably necessary. </p><p>A fifteen-year-old lad named Marcus was celebrating his birthday that night, and Teo let Marcus and his little sister help to bake his cake. I can't overstate how kind and patient Matteo was with these kids -- with all the work he had to do, he still took time to teach them how to bake a cake. Everyone in camp sang "Happy Birthday" to Marcus, and then it was nighty-night time. (It was pretty funny how quickly the camp went quiet, even with the other group winding up their nights in a circle with a few beers.) </p><p><b><i>DAY SEVEN:</i></b> </p><p>This was our last full day. (Day eight would be all about meeting a speedboat to take us to the end of the Canyon.) We took some group pics before heading out. Our boatmates: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4h2Bp7AgtOQCcduVBBeP8ZiLmlkww-2D1-VJyOx-fKaYQUL4SZxCVz1IwaFVvcRp5afmqhh42EBKdKy3BU9j6RtWTaJVOZuY36-3rPS9fjG5vmHagHetf3IKMyhgzJ6BIFLMCMkx9VWtbt9xHHN8G9zQqlWpBv0rXIV01rmdWFkmr8mMreSIpOVJFQ/s1440/group.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4h2Bp7AgtOQCcduVBBeP8ZiLmlkww-2D1-VJyOx-fKaYQUL4SZxCVz1IwaFVvcRp5afmqhh42EBKdKy3BU9j6RtWTaJVOZuY36-3rPS9fjG5vmHagHetf3IKMyhgzJ6BIFLMCMkx9VWtbt9xHHN8G9zQqlWpBv0rXIV01rmdWFkmr8mMreSIpOVJFQ/s320/group.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Teo, with us on the boat:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SWtUmGk7admPSQ3elpeInbUcbW_QnbYnNbeYIgAzwHTMFykffiLMXW6GMdolGZ05C_iv_8InlObmYV0wCnHpiM-AVqV9M3lNyso8r7IFFpn5AxLNXF2OgKZxyD2Xdg6zisa6gSs9Q3-RZlZKfMXhzY2iULtoP7is9CXareW641LY9EG5Coz-HBfwIw/s960/teo%20boat.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SWtUmGk7admPSQ3elpeInbUcbW_QnbYnNbeYIgAzwHTMFykffiLMXW6GMdolGZ05C_iv_8InlObmYV0wCnHpiM-AVqV9M3lNyso8r7IFFpn5AxLNXF2OgKZxyD2Xdg6zisa6gSs9Q3-RZlZKfMXhzY2iULtoP7is9CXareW641LY9EG5Coz-HBfwIw/s320/teo%20boat.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Did I mention the heat? Remember the bit with the frying pan and the heat lamps? This time, fill the pan with lava, and you will have some idea.</p><p>This morning was my only "low point" -- outside of worrying about Karen -- on the trip. Waiting to load up the boat, I felt spent from breaking down camp and pretty listless; I wanted to be elsewhere, too, grandeur of nature be scratched. (Maybe I'd not hydrated enough on the previous night?) After a miserable zipper line, the fog lifted from my mood as we got on the water in the cooling breeze. I drank a ton as we went, and I was back to my old, stinky self again. </p><p>There was a <i>lot</i> of time on the river that day, and Teo lead us all in a trivia match between the front and back of the boat. (Frisbee? Not really -- it was "Grand Canyon Trivia," so we were learning.) He sat perched on the pontoon, between us, with a book of Grand Canyon facts, draped with his sarong and doing his best gameshow host voice. We learned lots of things, including the fact that cameras cause more deaths than lightning or the rapids at the Canyon. </p><p>People often plummet to their deaths trying to get selfies. That factoid made me want to wander off and live in the Canyon. </p><p>In the middle of our game, Matteo pointed: "Look -- a boat is stuck." We looked over to see a small yellow paddle boat, from another group, just sitting still in the river. The woman in it was twisting around, trying to figure out a way off, the rest of her group waiting downstream. </p><p>Ben guided the <i>Fern Glen </i>around a sandbar, to the downstream side, and turned his bow toward it. He handed the steerage over to James, to keep the boat in place, and we saw (from a distance) Ben lacing up actual shoes. He was heading out to help the stranded rafter. </p><p>He grabbed a rope and disappeared into the weeds on the little sandbar. We couldn't see, but Teo scrambled off of our boat onto some rocks, river right, and watched, vocally disappointed that he couldn't help. </p><p>Here is Ben's boat, awaiting his return; the stranded boat is to the right:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hV9U1XyG0xfEY-A9jHu5Ue8AsTIY3dvotXO_TTjyy9X5Ft99YOL5e5BrHbsa3UFgiDRf9ssHLY4fxARkbx4knA6sF33eYbqRf1TpWh1GXtj4MVMkGm_cLPxvcRa_h8bKZHdd1hLx9xRz_nlriOndLmVvfFbhRb0lAgMuFjLd5NdpOgI0ilaRmXYWlA/s1440/BEN'S%20RESCUE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hV9U1XyG0xfEY-A9jHu5Ue8AsTIY3dvotXO_TTjyy9X5Ft99YOL5e5BrHbsa3UFgiDRf9ssHLY4fxARkbx4knA6sF33eYbqRf1TpWh1GXtj4MVMkGm_cLPxvcRa_h8bKZHdd1hLx9xRz_nlriOndLmVvfFbhRb0lAgMuFjLd5NdpOgI0ilaRmXYWlA/s320/BEN'S%20RESCUE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>After about ten minutes, Ben emerged from the other side of the little sandbar island, sitting with the woman in the yellow boat. He jumped out and swam like a demon back to the <i>Fern Glen </i>to tumultuous cheering from the rest of our group and from the group with the yellow boat. </p><p>In camp that night, when I complimented him on the rescue, Ben just poo-pooed it. "Karma," he muttered. "I'd want someone to help me. We all help each other on the river."</p><p>Yeah, we do. From the smallest gesture to the biggest rescue, again, there was a sense of <i>real </i>connection down there. People got stuck. People broke legs. People tore their ACLs. People ran out of toilet paper. People needed a hand up. You just <i>helped each other out</i>. </p><p>After lunch, we beached up next to a place called Pumpkin Rock. You guessed it: It looked like the side of a pumpkin. It was a spring and there was a pool atop it that was filled with a neon green liquid that looked quite unhealthful (arsenic was mentioned...). I spied it on my way past, but neglected to get an inside pic. Karen got this from the boat:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__FQ82pYyfjU5e00IQDRVT2zEIVosg0gDuioi-XcxnuS5s8xISX1Asp5Q38i5Ymw8-hkaBsIPoF1X0-T7CAcknw7sRuORakUbnfbfVUkCcMR2F4Rt_G6PTRjR9c1CP_LLw5DXV1V35INu1p8ez2ryRHs-d16cBWHvdClI5pZgN2NhmDdQnOZLMXbSNA/s1440/PUMPKIN%20ROCK.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__FQ82pYyfjU5e00IQDRVT2zEIVosg0gDuioi-XcxnuS5s8xISX1Asp5Q38i5Ymw8-hkaBsIPoF1X0-T7CAcknw7sRuORakUbnfbfVUkCcMR2F4Rt_G6PTRjR9c1CP_LLw5DXV1V35INu1p8ez2ryRHs-d16cBWHvdClI5pZgN2NhmDdQnOZLMXbSNA/s320/PUMPKIN%20ROCK.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Next to it, though, there were some little cliffs that were perched over a section of the river that was very deep (over 100 feet, I think they said) and a handful of us hiked over to do some cliff-jumping. I thought of staying with Karen, who of course, had to remain on the boat for this one, but she gave me the don't-be-an-idiot look, and that was all the convincing it took. I leaped into the cool water, first from about fifteen feet and then from the higher, twenty foot-ish ledge. We wore life-vests, so the rocket-like popping up out of the water was almost as exciting as the drop. Donna, a retired school bus driver, lauched herself over the edge with a joyful scream of bloody murder. (She didn't miss anything -- undaunted by even the toughest hikes, she was at first going to skip this challenge, but Teo talked her into it. She had a blast.) </p><p>Teo? He did backflips. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUb2LLEJ2yliU8XPXsaKTbeXRPjqiAxl81aaw8ECKiQzfMcxhSmhOj8GUNUOvbquSuJ3kZjIwzYs09iOkAq_XJQqDq2tNNBbibw7IWD_ouCZJrDLChAFHJt4ni_OjidIQoWT5jf3SHSVFDq9gF4ZcCe7Aaa2YccvQ6wPuI-4TftJYk8KO2Hq_QGrx_g/s1440/MATTEO'S%20BACKFLIP.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUb2LLEJ2yliU8XPXsaKTbeXRPjqiAxl81aaw8ECKiQzfMcxhSmhOj8GUNUOvbquSuJ3kZjIwzYs09iOkAq_XJQqDq2tNNBbibw7IWD_ouCZJrDLChAFHJt4ni_OjidIQoWT5jf3SHSVFDq9gF4ZcCe7Aaa2YccvQ6wPuI-4TftJYk8KO2Hq_QGrx_g/s320/MATTEO'S%20BACKFLIP.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I just took a leap of faith:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthEhgKfiCU0M3RrvKCQbTiz-DKgOY_H3ix3YjsP1kqB_Jo1Dgmp88pbc1mu3FNb6Dmcrlitvx9LPlG1jR0m2iCUKMuTNT2RxJM0PGu6fxPuXfymO4ZHa_U89c-TaERdsWh8bI_zZZZgciiVtD_N2HGW48dKWbuaQD-7babUQqhBhy1ds9SqoXXb4ixw/s1440/MY%20JUMP.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthEhgKfiCU0M3RrvKCQbTiz-DKgOY_H3ix3YjsP1kqB_Jo1Dgmp88pbc1mu3FNb6Dmcrlitvx9LPlG1jR0m2iCUKMuTNT2RxJM0PGu6fxPuXfymO4ZHa_U89c-TaERdsWh8bI_zZZZgciiVtD_N2HGW48dKWbuaQD-7babUQqhBhy1ds9SqoXXb4ixw/s320/MY%20JUMP.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><p>Ben had tied a rope to a place where we had to climb back up, saying, "Take a look at the climb before you go. If you don't think you can make it back up, don't jump. We'll <i>leave</i> you here."</p><p>(He wouldn't have.)</p><p>In camp that night, we said our goodbyes to the guides. I shook Matteo's hand and gave him a hug; thanked Ben for waiting on us on the Granary hike: "Hey," he said. "We're a group. We say together." When I told him I had tried to convince Karen to turn back and she wouldn't, Ben said, "That was inspiring."</p><p>There would be no time for goodbyes the next day. </p><p><b><i>DAY EIGHT: </i></b></p><p>This was the day to switch to the speedboat at the aptly-named <a href="https://www.westernriver.com/grand-canyon-river-trip/mile-by-mile-240-separation-canyon" target="_blank">Separation Canyon</a> by 10 AM to take us to meet the bus out. [Not only would we separate from our guides here, but, it was also the very spot at which three men of Major Powell's original expedition decided to leave and take their chances hiking out of the Canyon. Sadly, those three -- Dunn and the Howland brothers -- did not survive. Even more sadly, they were only 36 river miles from the end of the Canyon that day, though none of them knew it.] On the way, Matteo asked if anyone wanted to say anything and a few of us did. (This is when I complimented Dustin on his boatmanship.) </p><p>It was a little emotional -- we had gotten pretty close, pretty fast. We had eaten 21 meals with each other; helped each other onto the boats; cleared a beach for a rescue; shared a profound experience with Nature and really depended on each other for eight days. And we'd laughed a lot, which I find to be a real glue in human interaction. Case in point:</p><p>Downtime on the river, Dustin told a story about a previous trip during which a woman had fallen into a diabetic coma. The river guide in charge helped her by "squeezing one of them honey bears" (meaning a bear-shaped honey container) up into her rear-end. In short, he'd introduced sugar into her (<i>per rectum, </i>as they say in medicine)<i> </i>for quick absorbtion, and she revived. I asked Karen: "Is that a tall tale, or would that actually work?" She looked at me like I was crazy. "Come on! A <i>honey bear</i>? Of course it's a tall tale." </p><p>She'd misheard the story. She thought Dustin was saying the guide tried to shove an <i>actual</i> bear up there. </p><p>There was much side-splitting laughter over that one among the group, especially when I mimed the guide trying to manipulate an actual honey bear. </p><p>After some instructions from Ben as to the transfer onto the speedboat, we went downstream looking for Captain West, who would be taking us out the rest of the way to our departure point at Pearce Ferry. We lashed on to the sides, mid stream, and did our bag line to load up the front of the boat, and climbed in. The guides started off downstream, waving goodbye and give us nice, solid, Grand Canyon, barbaric yawps. They disappeared around a bend as Captian West gave us our safety instructions, and went into his wheelhouse. </p><p>The speedboat slowly came up to full speed and, before long, we caught up to the guides again -- they had another five hours to go. The last thing I saw was Matteo, standing barefoot on the right pontoon of the <i>Matkatamiba</i>, yawping and swinging his red sarong in circles in the air. </p><p>They yawped again and we all yawped back. </p><p>I admit: my eyes got a bit wet...and it wasn't river water. </p><p><b><i>EPILOGUE:</i></b></p><p>Julie, Ben's wife (who usually was on the river with him, but sat this one out) met us at the boat ramp where the bus was waiting, smiling vibrantly (and looking insultingly <i>clean</i>). She hailed us as a "seasoned bunch" (read: filthy) and we climbed onto the air-conditioned charter bus. We transitioned back into civilization by stopping at a little roadside shop for ice cream and/or "tallboys" and then started on our way back life on the rim world. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFFWMxUbunNMMvRFruhJBZ0XSlfzP8esxyKWNFrbXnrVyRFU3Z8urUD1v7RmiOHEhSF9Wxo_DgqmTklabKVVxiUCAy3tR8YARlwhbYP7sOeh0PoH2HrDllt196MIETCZCtuuJ3nMZnWj-EU-fssmnfjChvvEYZeoEKWnLYmeThcM95Axaf-fa7fDLZA/s1440/bus.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFFWMxUbunNMMvRFruhJBZ0XSlfzP8esxyKWNFrbXnrVyRFU3Z8urUD1v7RmiOHEhSF9Wxo_DgqmTklabKVVxiUCAy3tR8YARlwhbYP7sOeh0PoH2HrDllt196MIETCZCtuuJ3nMZnWj-EU-fssmnfjChvvEYZeoEKWnLYmeThcM95Axaf-fa7fDLZA/s320/bus.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Eventually, the Joshua Trees became buildings and the rest was left to memory, pictures and posts. But mostly memory. And my memories will be of a time during which we lived in true reality. So very few of the constructs of rim world life existed down there. </p><p>I have said before that I believe that many of those things we have constructed in civilization are "fake." We have flipped things -- calling those constructs we have dreamed up "reality" (taxes, bills, for instance...) and seeing things like poetry and love and Nature as whimsical. But in the Canyon, those fake things dissipated. The only stuff that we brought in from the rim world were a few pieces of clothing and our sense of <i>real </i>community; the sense of cooperation and civility we have known since kindergarten: "On the river, we take care of each other." Formality disappeared. Makeup? Fashion? Comfort? The rat race? All of these things gave way to a more profound and brightly-colored picture; an HD philosophy; a closer connection with the true reality of the natural world; a first-hand glimpse of the culture of the real Americans, the <i>Native</i> Americans, and a filling of the five senses from dawn to dusk. </p><p>As Matteo astutely pointed out: the river is now in our blood. We drank its water. It literally runs through our veins. We traveled the Canyon's length and breathed its oven-blast air. </p><p><i>Now</i>, we've truly been there. </p><p><i>(Thanks to Karen, my awesome wife, for the all of the photography and for her chronological Instagram posts that I used as my outline for remembering what went with what days.)</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZ0WzqFGnHyyrEOKaSGsRthnR8bRLVYLkkdR-9CG2LUVG4rUzEWaA2WtAicHiJo8wZ2wYXIyGKDgd6izrJn2CjSzt2k8kII8tEqEBz483L2mZs-K8AK5iyWdY7MpBabB0tnBiSjxjJ8sUzz-RDo58azFApB4P0oN3k3UxE-7FzkGr-NaBHIp8MgomPw/s1800/bag.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZ0WzqFGnHyyrEOKaSGsRthnR8bRLVYLkkdR-9CG2LUVG4rUzEWaA2WtAicHiJo8wZ2wYXIyGKDgd6izrJn2CjSzt2k8kII8tEqEBz483L2mZs-K8AK5iyWdY7MpBabB0tnBiSjxjJ8sUzz-RDo58azFApB4P0oN3k3UxE-7FzkGr-NaBHIp8MgomPw/s320/bag.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-35499682880653520142022-03-23T06:00:00.009-04:002022-12-02T11:04:57.441-05:00The Price of Fame: from Rock Shirts to Low-Cut Gowns<b><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpBn5sY6YY5Y8jlSJKNNYWH7roGtvQLUrXCkQwO7OIYciwP9D2DMYinCBh2F5qEmTOl8My4DJNH1zVsrgOWUuqF56zjSFrzZi3h7mgEN4BSo06iD5CAK12woc5C_kc6j6qNvdBXL2V-nNNiIT_oH1l_afkSmmTu4bVdlLWlwB_GXOipz0o06CHZ0qAiA=s799" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="799" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpBn5sY6YY5Y8jlSJKNNYWH7roGtvQLUrXCkQwO7OIYciwP9D2DMYinCBh2F5qEmTOl8My4DJNH1zVsrgOWUuqF56zjSFrzZi3h7mgEN4BSo06iD5CAK12woc5C_kc6j6qNvdBXL2V-nNNiIT_oH1l_afkSmmTu4bVdlLWlwB_GXOipz0o06CHZ0qAiA=s320" width="320" /></a></div>S</span></b>uch a weird soup we've boiled up with this virtual, social, meta-world we have created. <div><br /></div><div>I followed a young lady on Instagram a few years ago. She was a young drummer -- high school aged, I am guessing -- and after she commented on a post of mine, I checked out a video of her playing. She was very talented and I encouraged her in the comments. (I'm a drummer, too.) She was cool: sort of a "tom-boy" totally about the drums; all about the retro-rock T-shirts and classic tunes and playing with endless energy. <div><br /></div><div>At this point, she has a huge following, and I am torn about the results I have seen. I mean, I am happy for her success. But, now, she sometimes puts videos of herself playing in...not rock T-shirts. Evening gowns, in fact, often, and party dresses. Revealing ones. </div><div><br /></div><div>Old man rant alert: What has <i>happened</i>? How did we get to a world in which guys think it is okay to watch her videos and say things like (and I quote) "Please, fall out..." (they are not talking about her hair ribbons) and "A front view would have been mint." </div><div><br /></div><div>Part of me wants to rebuke these jerks in the comments (my fatherly impulse kicks in: "How dare you talk to her like that?") but another part of me thinks, "Why didn't you stick with T-shirts? Your playing said it all, kid!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess the sad reality is that she would not have gotten as many followers if she had stuck with the T-shirts. I guess she knew she'd get these comments. And, yeah, I know she doesn't need me to defend her. In the end, though, it's hard not to fall into dad mode and think about the person behind the Instagram persona. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here we are on dangerous ground. The facile and short-sighted response to this might be to interpret what I am saying as "victim-blaming." Of course, it's not her fault those dudes are sexist jerks. She should be able to wear whatever she wants and not get electronically cat-called for it. The blame is on them: they think it's okay to say what they want because of what she is wearing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The sad part, however, is that she thought she needed to do this to get "likes" and she was right; that's the even sadder part. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stopped following her, because, strange as it may seem for the perverts of the world -- and they pop up in her comments, with pictures indicating their aged, seedy, whiskey-reddened mugs -- I have no interest in ogling a girl who is less than half my age; nor in seeing her ogled; nor in watching her present herself in a potentiall ogle-inducing manner when her talent was enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a shame, because it used to make me smile to watch her play; the youthful energy was inspiring; it reminded me of my early days of playing for hours in my bedroom (God bless my parents' patience) and it reminded me that there is a foundation of joy in what can sometimes start to feel like a job for me, these days. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't blame her for anything. I just wish the world were not so...the way it is... </div><div><br /></div><div>(The picture at the beginning of this post is if Viola Smith, one of the first pro female drummers who, ironically, often played in evening gowns...)
</div><div><br /></div></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-80283103908016864372022-03-16T09:55:00.001-04:002022-03-16T09:55:35.058-04:00No, We Shouldn't Replace "Algebra" with "Home Maintenance" <p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjI0Rz2maeQucsUmoLSNaNrmzC7v4J3sZxzstQ4QfHqPhILTtvJbxDAYFfBKcqu8QhVWghu-sFGKQUWQHsysm4oSMchWA9eAMC5sVuI0aErvgcKB9aqPLdhgaYQAWE8dCP-WqoKZbJsHWUEohX2-WVPsqm-WcNhXQIFbzjy8I5gCnAv108PO9qxgM4hcA=s900" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="900" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjI0Rz2maeQucsUmoLSNaNrmzC7v4J3sZxzstQ4QfHqPhILTtvJbxDAYFfBKcqu8QhVWghu-sFGKQUWQHsysm4oSMchWA9eAMC5sVuI0aErvgcKB9aqPLdhgaYQAWE8dCP-WqoKZbJsHWUEohX2-WVPsqm-WcNhXQIFbzjy8I5gCnAv108PO9qxgM4hcA=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">O</span>kay. Enough is enough with this "they should stop teaching (academic subject) and start teaching ("real life" subject) in school.<p></p><p>No, Social Media Guru, we should not replace Algebra, Physics and World Literature with "Laundry 101," "Home Maintenance" and "How to Balance a Checkbook." (Who even <i>does</i> that anymore, anyway? What's a <i>checkbook</i>? For God's sake, if you are going to be critical, at least be up to date!)</p><p>And, no, the fact that you were never asked to solve a quadratic equation after high school does <i>not</i> prove that you wasted your time in learning about it. Do you really think that any educator ever seriously thought that knowing how to explicate a Shakespeare sonnet was going to either save your life or put food on the table? Not a one, I can assure you. </p><p>The purpose of all of those "useless" classes is to strengthen your brain. (If football players are never asked to do push-ups during a game, why, in the name of Jehovah, would they ever do them in practice?) </p><p>See, miraculously, I was able to figure out how to do laundry, to operate a toaster and to apply for a mortgage without <i>coursework</i> on it. This may be because I can explicate a poem. It may be because I wrestled (admittedly, without success) with the Pythagorean Theorum. Whatever the cause, I can read a box and make macaroni and cheese and I never had one culinary arts class! </p><p>Education is not just about the dissemination of facts. It is not just skills and memorization. It is the development of the human brain through challenge and intellectual exercise and critical thinking exercises. </p><p>And if we want to take it a step farther, what's the point in taking a class in which you learn something you can master by watching a six minute YouTube video? (I never had a home maintenance class, but I have done plumbing and electric work because (1) I can look things up and (2) I can <i>think</i>.)</p><p>The last thing we need is to turn education into an entirely practical and superficial pursuit. I <i>loathe </i>math, and I even had to go to summer school for Algebra II, but I am still glad I had to take it. It expanded my brain. It helped me to grow new synapses. (Synapses? Psychology? When am I going to use that?)</p><p>Would it be nice to teach high school kids how to manage their money? Yes. How to change the oil in their car? Yes. But should these things replace traditional academics? No. Electives? Sure. </p><p>A famous guy in education is Professor Harold Bloom. His learning pyramid is almost sacred in the field. (The lowest levels of learning are at the bottom; the highest at the top):</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYLpo4lZw0xHxCk1CLCQ1uPG2w0zEyUnIP2dJ-jUE5tKMv-7YMBM3gzGbnKN79c20_xMJoAQa6rc1pzTYLwzTpNtbnXNMTgf0Eh5jW23DzrTM-MCu5m-W_yP72QD4g3d-bwvfbHa7obMlPLcCUzpMEtbsjDovv4nnizDbFTtht89516_Zq3BQTqaBjUQ=s281" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="281" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYLpo4lZw0xHxCk1CLCQ1uPG2w0zEyUnIP2dJ-jUE5tKMv-7YMBM3gzGbnKN79c20_xMJoAQa6rc1pzTYLwzTpNtbnXNMTgf0Eh5jW23DzrTM-MCu5m-W_yP72QD4g3d-bwvfbHa7obMlPLcCUzpMEtbsjDovv4nnizDbFTtht89516_Zq3BQTqaBjUQ" width="281" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We want kids to approach the top of the pyramid. Some people need to fix the cars, sure. And there is nothing wrong with becoming a mechanic, don't get me wrong, but we won't get any innovation in cars if kids don't reach for creativity, analysis and critical thinking in school. <div><br /></div><div>There is a reason why the most successful people are readers, lovers of art and philosophical types, even if they are scientists. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once, a local celebrity, Pat Croce, who, at the time, owned the Philadelpha 76ers, came to guest teach my sophomore American Lit. class. When he got there, he asked what we were working on and I told him: The Transcendeltalists. He turned around and quoted Emerson. (What? A <i>sports</i> team owner? Shouldn't he have have stuck to finance and business classes?) </div><div><br /></div><div>If we teach kids nothing but the practical, we're setting up for a pretty lame world. <br /><div><br /></div><div>So stop it. Really. It's a foolish and short-sighted argument. <br /><p><br /></p></div></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-10573353539257207372022-03-10T12:29:00.005-05:002022-03-10T17:30:35.537-05:00Griggl and The Teacher: A Dialogue (Earth, 2200)<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz8EMvVBRMFbGwnu3HeadwPb6d3WKPBQoBXBW_5QzbNpvMIAoETGtckd1T61ckHK2hiQ2rV4_4_fDMMAvfrsF6eivDqKezD0vlAvT_Z6nWSuRAhX1KVEsYqSkVrlVf9YufTYkPM0-DiHnCB-gxQ0V8XfBoFq4P4XvicOOS-bTSGh0Y108KgIr7oqR7HQ=s327" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz8EMvVBRMFbGwnu3HeadwPb6d3WKPBQoBXBW_5QzbNpvMIAoETGtckd1T61ckHK2hiQ2rV4_4_fDMMAvfrsF6eivDqKezD0vlAvT_Z6nWSuRAhX1KVEsYqSkVrlVf9YufTYkPM0-DiHnCB-gxQ0V8XfBoFq4P4XvicOOS-bTSGh0Y108KgIr7oqR7HQ=s320" width="215" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">"S</span>o," says Griggl, the young colonial student from the plant Zorgoz. "Teacher -- what happend to the humans that lived on the planet Earth before we came here?"<p></p><p>"Oh, they were very unevolved creatures, Griggl. The problem with them is that they thoughtlessly pursued goals that eventually ruined them."</p><p>"But," says Griggl, "I thought our Great Book teaches that 'to reach upward is to find Paradise.'"</p><p>"Well," says The Teacher. "That's true. But it depends what one reaches for. Our archaeologists have figured out much -- but not all -- about the extinct Earthlings. They and our anthropologists say the Earthlings were actually ended by what is called call 'cultural suicide.' They seem to have <i>wanted, </i>within their collective spirit, to become extinct. Even before they created the weapons which caused their ultimate end, they seem to have been trying to figure out ways to make themselves irrelevant. For instnance, they created computers that made art, music and literature with what they called 'artificial intelligence.'"</p><p>Griggle grimaces. "What a strange choice, Teacher. Is not creativity the highest function of the mind? Why would anyone want to automate it?"</p><p>"Why, indeed," says The Teacher. "You see, they were obsessed with <i>proving</i> what they could achieve, whatever the cost, even if that cost was their own irrelevance or even their extinction. Our historians think that this is a result of their lack of internal spiritual peace. They never found <i>cheegara</i>, as we have: that innate assurance that our worth as beings is equal. Oh, they <i>talked</i> about it. One great document said that 'all men are created equal, but archaeological evidence suggests that even as they wrote this, some of them were enslaved."</p><p>"What's 'enslaved'?" asks Griggl. The teacher explains. Griggl listens and tears form in all six of his eyes. "So, they wrote what they did not truly believe. That goes against the Great Being's Second Edict: 'To lie is to dishonor the life spirit. To lie to soothe one's mind is the most abhorrent weakness.'" </p><p>"It does, indeed, Griggl," says the teacher, handing the young lad several tissue sheets. "As I say, these Earthlings seemed to have been plagued by an obsession to prove their worth and strength, something we left behind long ago. It even lead to their creating weapons that were capable of a level of damage that made their use unthinkable. Yet, they used them."</p><p>"But -- why?" asked Griggl, wide-eyed. </p><p>"They became crippled. At some point in history, the leader of one of their <i>gracols </i>("countries," they used to call them) committed unspeakable atrocities on another while the rest of the <i>gracols</i> watched. No one wanted to act to stop the atrocities, because it meant possibly unleashing these weapons. But it was counter to their natures to <i>not</i> help others in need. (They were not an all-bad race.) No one knows exactly what happened -- whether the rest of the world thought it was better to die than to watch others suffer; whether one of the insane leaders acted without care... but, at some point, the weapons were unleashed. We take comfort in the fact that, as our historians believe, they actually <i>wanted</i> this cultural suicide. Perhaps they know their time had come and that all civilizations must, eventually, fall."</p><p>Griggl's mandibles had dropped wide-open. </p><p>"Alright, class. You are all in your Second Year from spawn. Time to get serious: Let us turn our studies to the great philosopher, Frezznah-po and his <i>Meditations on Psychophysics</i>."</p><p>The class groans. </p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-14210043640420354492022-03-09T10:06:00.000-05:002022-03-09T10:06:01.279-05:00Soundtracks of Chaos: There's Nothing Good About War (Part II)<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-p2PFd12ha-M_YTbkwr9p1ceJz6WDCSX1ltXUkJNtuLhb7BAP0t5Bmi14yRLk16CQeVZART06YMkmC119I1_t_OqFIPjrLXYJ5mQA9gmy5hdC20MHeXedLWVZXnnvukPgI64CojWd9jj51vKl_gS9XreVlUaCSgwfBETvcEihOeg1EP1_VLZHPyjCUg=s632" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-p2PFd12ha-M_YTbkwr9p1ceJz6WDCSX1ltXUkJNtuLhb7BAP0t5Bmi14yRLk16CQeVZART06YMkmC119I1_t_OqFIPjrLXYJ5mQA9gmy5hdC20MHeXedLWVZXnnvukPgI64CojWd9jj51vKl_gS9XreVlUaCSgwfBETvcEihOeg1EP1_VLZHPyjCUg=s320" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">I </span></b>spent some words the other day trying to convince my readers and the rest of the world (from the perch of a relatively unknown blog, so kudos to me for the positive self-image) that war is an outrage -- an outrage that doesn't make us <i>feel</i> outraged, because it is an ingrained part of our world history. We simply throw our hands up and say: "It's part of life..."<p></p><p>I also posited the idea that war will never end until we can convince our children to see it as an outrage and to, more importantly, <i>feel</i> that it is an outrage. </p><p>It so happens that, yesterday, my son was watching a <i>Call of Duty</i> tournament on YouTube. He plays the game, as well. I have never believed that these games cause kids to be violent (he is not violent, nor are the majority of kids who play it) but, having just written my last piece, it hit me like runaway rhino: this game is part of the problem of the normalization of war -- part of the muffling of the much-needed feeling of outrage. </p><p>As long as people can look at war and at shooting others as a form of entertainment, we will never make the transition into the outrage against war that I called for in <a href="https://www.hats-n-rabbits.com/2022/03/soundtracks-of-chaos-theres-nothing.html" target="_blank">part one</a> of this little anti-war series. </p><p>We all agree that war is a thing best avoided, but, as a species, we humans have a hard time <i>feeling</i> that it is an outrage. It's, as I said, "part of life," to us. History tells us this; literature tells us this; film and TV tell us this; our elder family members may have fought in wars and we admire them (as we should) for their courage. Sure, we are all able to shake our heads and say, "Man, war stinks," but so few of us are able to feel <i>outrage</i> about it; to say: it just is <i>not</i> something we should continute to accept. </p><p>I think I have recounted this before, but I remember my dad telling me about a time when he and some friends were watching the news during the Vietnam War, and, as they rolled footage of the fighting, my dad said, "Hard to believe. People are actually shooting guns at each other." According to him, his friends didn't know what to make of that statement. One of them even called him "a weirdo." </p><p>He was, indeed, a weirdo. A sad state of affairs that more people are not that weird. </p><p>So, there sat my son, watching a game with realistic graphics of shooting and killing and there sat (on the TV) an audience full of people cheering (<i>cheering!</i>) when one of their favorite players gunned down another. (Meh -- no loss. They just have to wait to "respawn.")</p><p>That said, let's process something together: Can you imagine a video game based on rape? -- in which the objective was to rape other characters? Of course you can't. But...why not? </p><p>If any two actions vie for equal levels of moral outrage, they are the taking of a life and rape. (Though, personally, I often think rape is the worse offense.) We would never, however, create a video game in which raping people is the objective. This is because rape is <i>felt</i> to be as outrageous a violation of human morality -- of humaness itself -- as it really is. Everyone on the planet but the profoundly inasane and the deeply evil agree: rape is an unspeakably horrible act. </p><p>This is the state that our thinking about war needs to reach. </p><p>But, imagine the effect over the centuries if we off-handedly started to include rape in our games, films, stories, TV shows, etc. Not as a topic for awareness or as an outrageous act of some hateable villain, but as background noise or as a common occurance that people just shrug off and move on from. Imagine if, over generations, it were presented as an unavoidable occurance in life. Would the perspective shift? Would people say, about this unsepeakable new game objective, as they do about violent video games: "It's not <i>really</i> rape...it's just a game."</p><p>So another proposed impossible solution (which is more of a meditation than an implementable solution, you might have already gathered): </p><p>We eliminate all media in which war is a topic. Over time, kids and adults who don't see violence as entertainment, will again be shocked and appalled by it and they will have developed the outrage for war that is necessary to produce leaders who will avoid it at all cost and citizens who will refuse to show up to fight. </p><p>Sadly, we lose <i>Henry V, </i>of course<i>.</i> We lose great films like <i>Glory </i>and <i>Saving Private Ryan</i>. We lose all war-based video games and all games with guns and killing. <i>The Iliad</i> and <i>The Odyssey</i> need to go. <i>Indiana Jones</i>? <i>Superman</i>? <i>Captain America</i>? <i>The Sun Also Rises</i>? <i>All Quiet on the Western Fron</i>t?</p><p>Chess? (American) Football? Both based on war. Toy soldiers? Those little green army men? Boy Scouting? R.O.T.C?</p><p>I know is sounds ridiculous and I am even more aware that it is an impossibility, but it sure does underscore something: We are conditioned to accept war from the earliest periods of our lives. </p><p>If we could do it, though, would it be worth it? Should some Shakespeare go out the window if it means that our sons and daughters would see war for the outrage it is? If this could all really be done, what would the impact on the economy be (no football)? What about the video game industry? -- the film industry?</p><p>If my solution were to work (probably over a century, if not longer) would the trade-off be worth it? I would argue that, to end war, even the greatest works of literature of all time might worth forgetting. Wouldn't you? Surely a few great movies, too... And some fun entertainment... </p><p>As I said, this is all more of a meditation than a praxctical solution. I'm pretty sure it would work, but I know it could never be applied. </p><p>A last thought, though: books and movies that conjure outrage for war might be allowed to remain... I'm thinking of works like Tim O'Brien's <i>The Things They Carried. </i></p><p>At any rate, as Sting once wrote, "I hope the Russians love their children, too."</p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-88415428381915810402022-03-04T11:43:00.003-05:002022-03-05T11:04:53.753-05:00Soundtracks of Chaos: There's Nothing Good About War<p><span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoaYdHVQamYEURhs3nql80DlfFSFc2XL5Xeork8nakzcotOoCQqzttqlsTGopoa87cWwJkUp9M9UotFvlMODh11pf71L3i_knbTJv9C06PDdY2rjycHh8ds9V0p0V1sngh7Lfh-p5Navh9Rqstni9ht8cysk_MdBRkvQvHVNktPciVqdVPNZvG7gOMtw=s1023" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="1023" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoaYdHVQamYEURhs3nql80DlfFSFc2XL5Xeork8nakzcotOoCQqzttqlsTGopoa87cWwJkUp9M9UotFvlMODh11pf71L3i_knbTJv9C06PDdY2rjycHh8ds9V0p0V1sngh7Lfh-p5Navh9Rqstni9ht8cysk_MdBRkvQvHVNktPciVqdVPNZvG7gOMtw=w320-h168" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I</b></span> can see we are going to keep doing this. This whole war thing. A thing that is truly, completely and ineffably outrageous, but that is so much part of our history that we just seem to accept it as part of the human condition.<p></p><p>The curse of it all is that war is not only something people accept as inevitable, but it is something that can bring about the <i>best</i> in individuals: their courage; their heroism; their selflessness. Movies about war move us for a good reason -- things like <i>Saving Private Ryan, Braveheart, Glory... </i></p><p>And there is nothing as beautiful as the idea of one person laying down his or her life for another. It's powerful. Even the Bible agrees. </p><p>In Ukraine, right now, we see heartbreakingly beautiful grandmothers shouting-down Russian soldiers in full kit. We see businesses who used to manufacture mundane, everyday items making anti-tank "hedgehogs" instead, throwing aside their usual purpose of making a profit. </p><p>We see a laudible President Zelensky brushing aside offers for "rides" and asking for "ammunition" instead.</p><p>I think of my dear-departed Uncle Vince, a little Italian-American welder from New Jersey who signed up for World War II and landed with his "band of brothers" on the beach at Normandy, praying for God's protection as the bullets thudded down, sending up small geysers of blinding sand. I think of him, and I am deeply proud. I love his memory all the more for his courage: a regular guy (a simple welder) who was willing to sacrifice everything for freedom. </p><p>At some point, however, we will need to rinse that stuff out of our minds. Life is hard and it affords us plenty of opportunities to be heroic. We don't <i>need</i> war to bring out those scattered stories of inspiration. They will happen. There are plenty of bad-actors in everyday life; we don't need to set a stage with tanks and bombs and guns and soundtracks of chaos. We don't need to pretend it is okay to decide when to send boys and girls to their deaths, because it simply is not. </p><p>I will say it again: war is an <i>outrage</i>. It's worse than Steinbeck's famously proclaimed "failure as a thinking animal." It's worse because it is <i>deliberate </i>and it is done in the interest of those in power with disregard for the people they are supposed to serve. In the case of Putin, a dictator -- and a bullying, self-serving, egomaniacal piece of filth -- has decided he wants another country and he is simply going to take it. There is no concern for the children he is sending into battle -- and they are and always have been <i>children</i>. Every time we have a war, we send <i>kids</i> to their deaths. (Again -- the outrage in that statement is so obvious, but...we just let it remain the case... We accept the inevitablity of war.)</p><p>By all accounts, Ukraine's problem isn't that they don't have a good military. It's that Russia has so many more boys to send to their deaths. Think about that. An <i>outrage</i>. </p><p>What are we supposed to do? Do we start a world war? Are the sanctions enough? Do we unleash the nukes?</p><p>I'll tell you what we do: we just hope we survive this one and that the surface of the planet does not get wiped clean of our angry, petty, arrogant faces and their grand plans. </p><p>And then, we start a worldwide campaign of subversion. </p><p>We start teaching our children that there is <i>nothing</i> good about war. There is no glory in it. There is no payoff. I know, I know -- you are thinking about honoring those who sacrificed themselves. I am too. How can we not teach about them? -- honor them? But I am going to guess they'd be on my side. I'm going to guess my Uncle Vince would not want any more boys (or girls, now) to go through the torture and the lifelong pain he had to endure. </p><p>We need to teach our kids that war <i>is</i> an outrage, conceptually. More that that, we need to make them <i>feel</i> it. Think of how far we have shifted other things social perspectives. Look at how we have changed perceptions of things like, say, interracial marriage. In my lifetime, I have seen it go from hush-hush scandal to a thing that goes almost unnoticed (except by the last holdouts of racist ignorance). </p><p>A long time ago, Carl Sandburg said: "Sometime they will give a war and nobody will come." It <i>is </i>possible, I suppose, though I do doubt it. It would have to be that every parent around the world would have to be part of the subversion; that every young man and woman alive would say: "Invade who? No, I don't think so, old man. <i>You</i> invade."</p><p>I know it is an implausible solution, but it really is the only one: We need to change how we teach our kids about war. Will we? I doubt it. But a solution is a solution, no matter how hard it might be. Or maybe even how impossible it might be. And even if we don't manage to get everyone to accept that war is an outrage, maybe we will, at least, raise a generation of politicians who think it is. </p><p>Yeah, I know this essay is worth nothing, but, at least I can say I tried. </p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-74567031370464475622022-02-16T11:21:00.005-05:002022-02-16T12:21:15.581-05:00The Wheel of Time: Thoughts on Multicultural Casting in Fantasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span><b></b></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><i><span><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhDzPk_ZThoctfaazqD-GkzK9K-1V4lO0LqE2Q9VleMiuP4iRjM_Ir7BdMT2WPsspx9d_F6w0UBBTbSneTw5UowA5x_cZ1iBsDHYwfAFXAuI9Gq_C8lvHVnBZRhk1DWG0OthThFJz2XneIt54VkQ64KLLMtxmvgU92L7og5nFdaUN9FNV1HAwkTf5Oog=s1600" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1600" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhDzPk_ZThoctfaazqD-GkzK9K-1V4lO0LqE2Q9VleMiuP4iRjM_Ir7BdMT2WPsspx9d_F6w0UBBTbSneTw5UowA5x_cZ1iBsDHYwfAFXAuI9Gq_C8lvHVnBZRhk1DWG0OthThFJz2XneIt54VkQ64KLLMtxmvgU92L7og5nFdaUN9FNV1HAwkTf5Oog=s320" width="320" /></a></b></span></i></div><i><span><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">T</span></b></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">he Wheel of Time</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> TV series begins in a little village in a fictional world. The villagers are (by real world standards) multicultural: Asian, Black, white, Hispanic, etc.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is because filmmakers are consciously trying to diversify casts, which is a good thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, by the standards of a "medieval" world, that sort of multiculturalism is pretty much impossible, since people generally spent their lives within 20 miles of their own home and intercontinental travel was impossible for everyone but the insanely rich. (Also, the village in question is not a center of trade, though, it is at the intersection of some crossroads, in the book -- it has an inn, for that reason. This would maybe explain multicultural visitors, I suppose -- but following the medieval formula, it ain't no London. And even medieval London would have been less multicultural than this town is depicted in the show.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You could argue: "Yeah, but Chris, it's fantasy..." However:</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Coleridge is the inventor of the phrase "suspension of disbelief" -- in other words, we read fantasy and we suspend our disbelief when something happens that does not fit the rules of the real world. So, we could look at the incredibly diverse group of villagers and say, "Meh, it's a fantasy world. Maybe they just come out looking differently at birth."</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Quite a while later, though, Tolkien came along and said that, for good fantasy, we should not have to suspend our disbelief. He called for the creation of a "secondary world" in which all that happens fits the rules of that world and feels like an organic part of it. Example: the Ents (essentially tree-people, if you are not a Tolkien reader) fit in to Tolkien's Middle-Earth. When we see them, we don't say: "There is no such thing as Ents, that's stupid" because, they fit the parameters Tolkien has created. However, the talking trees who throw apples at Dorothy in <i>The Wizard of Oz</i> movie would not fit in Middle-Earth. They would, if you will, break the spell of the secondary world and force us into suspension of disbelief, thereby diminishing the quality of the fantasy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me, the secondary world of <i>The Wheel of Time</i> is flawed (TV version), because the diversity in the village does not make logical sense, and it is jarring.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to be clear, even at the cost of repeating myself, as I am: I think multicultural casting is a good thing; I just think we should think hard about it when creating an artistic context, as in a TV show of this nature. Fantasy really depends on the "secondary world," I think. When that fails, the art suffers. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A more logical choice would be to cast a non-white village, I think. Use only Hispanic actors or Black actors or Asian...etc. Robert Jordan never said (in the books) that the villagers were white. And since it is a fantasy world, I'd argue that non-white cast would be more effective in establishing other-wordliness: white people have been historically in charge in the real world. Why shouldn't non-white people be in charge in fiction? It just <i>might</i> help change things here in the real world.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think is it superficial to say: let's just throw a bunch of nationalities together so we can say we contributed to the cause. It might be more effective (show to show) for kids of color to see people who look like them front and center.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This way we are not diminishing the quality of the storytelling AND we are sending kids a message: the world (a world) <i>can</i> look very different than ours.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> However, for a show done in the present, the cast should look like our world, which most often is an ethnically diverse place. </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">In fact, maybe that should be the rule: to help the audience believe <i>any</i> TV show, the cast of any show should reflect the world is is trying to conjure. It would be foolish to cast Asians as victims of the African slave trade... but, if you make a movie about a suburban high school, chances are everyone is not white... And, make sure actors of all backgrounds have a shot. I think the talk about Ibris Elba being the next Bond is interesting in that regard. (Don't know if it is true that he will be, by the way.) Does Bond need to be a white guy? Why? Did Dr. Who need to be a man? Heck no. The Doctor regenerates. Who ever said he had to regenerate as a man?</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do recommend <i>The Wheel of Time</i>. If you like classic, epic fantasy and were not lured in by the tawdry meandering, amoral world of <i>Game of Thrones</i>, this show will do the trick.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-88348867736734081652022-02-16T07:40:00.003-05:002022-02-16T11:21:43.240-05:00The Wheel of Time: Thoughts on Multicultural Casting in Fantasy<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span></i></span></p><div data-block="true" data-editor="b7i3m" data-offset-key="3us1r-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3us1r-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">See above, please. Craziness happened when I upoaded this one!</div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="b7i3m" data-offset-key="f56p7-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-1701819838677836802022-02-10T18:48:00.011-05:002022-02-11T09:53:09.748-05:00At Least : On Indifference to Abortion<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe8ldV7vRy4jYVwF1oEP1x2sHnldJvMlDL83-jROpESIBxDUSvW33U-8HXHrjPLxU0MthAwA8RdXMf6HEE3ctqA0Aeyk5NDJQonuy3DPGh4hIXQysAg2BT4umpUv78nPTTyAYuTv8ymXYnTx0fv7mvA5j-ist7DHH8WnSM0TlkxGKgBQfdtNm5USlWSQ=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="825" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe8ldV7vRy4jYVwF1oEP1x2sHnldJvMlDL83-jROpESIBxDUSvW33U-8HXHrjPLxU0MthAwA8RdXMf6HEE3ctqA0Aeyk5NDJQonuy3DPGh4hIXQysAg2BT4umpUv78nPTTyAYuTv8ymXYnTx0fv7mvA5j-ist7DHH8WnSM0TlkxGKgBQfdtNm5USlWSQ=s320" width="258" /></a></div>I</span></b> heard this awhile ago on NPR: A woman named Kenya Martin, from the National Network of Abortion Funds, said this to an audience, and it turned my blood into ice chips:<div><br /></div><div>"It's okay to have an abortions after some hot sex simply because you don't want to get pregnant. I just didn't want to be pregnant, and I want you to know that if that's your experience, that's ok, too."</div><div><br /></div><div>Is it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's travel back in time...<br /><div><br /></div><div>Once, women were locked away for getting pregnant out of wedlock. Once, women sought out unsafe terminations for unwanted pregnancies for fear of the shame they would have to endure. Once, women who got pregnant at what society or religion deemed "the wrong time" were made to feel dirty and low.<p></p><p>Then, things changed. Intelligent and caring people developed sympathy, even when they thought the behavior of others was wrong (not unlike the example of Jesus with the prostitute in the Gospels: You guys don't get to judge her as a person, but, He does tell her: "go forth and sin no more."). In my own experience, even in my teaching in Catholic schools, girls who got pregnant were supported and encouraged to graduate and, yes, to have their babies. They were not shunned; they were supported. Sure, pregnancy outside of marriage is a no-no in the Church, but the sacredness of life wins out over flat rules: the baby needed to be taken care of. If this is a violation of what you see as a woman's rights, <i>at least </i>you have to admit that there is a morality guiding it, even if you don't agree with that morality. There is an attempt (<i>at least</i>) to do what is <i>seen</i> as right. </p><p>In the litigious realm, one reason abortion was legalized is so that women do not endanger themselves with unsafe abortion providers. Of course, there was and is debate over the morality of this...but that is the nature of the beast. If you think abortion is an abomination, in any or all circumstances, <i>at least</i> you have to admit that the laws were decided upon with the intention of benefitting women "in trouble," as the old phrase goes. Sure, you might believe it is downright wrong, but, <i>at least</i>, there was an <i>attempt</i> at promoting what is deemed fair and just. </p><p>Again, it is not about whether you agree or disagree with the policies. The bottom line is, that there is an attempt at fairness and morality. An <i>attempt</i>, if not a success. <i>At least. </i>Because humans try to do what they believe is best for each other. </p><p>Now, here we are in the present, and we get this souless statement, above -- a statement that dismisses much that makes us human, at all. </p><p>Forgive me another digresson, but let me tell you how I feel about sex. (Maybe, also take a moment to evaluate how you feel about it.)</p><p>To me, sex should be a "big deal." It's not a diversion. I, personally, don't believe in "casual sex" and I do believe that sex is a major step in a couple's relationship: You had better be very sure about this person before you commit to that kind of ramping-up of the stakes. </p><p>I realize that, in today's world, many disagree with me. They are welcome to do so. I'm not God. I just know what appears to me to be human Truth: sex is a high-level activity with major spiritual importance and to turn it into a mere form of amusement is to devalue it. </p><p>You may not agree with me, but, <i>at least</i> I am trying to make sense of the world and to try to live a life in a way that seems right, to me. If you think I am wrong, that's okay. But <i>at least</i> I am trying. <i>At least</i> I care enough. </p><p>What's missing from the statement of Kenya Martin? Nothing much. Just every element that makes humans humans. It is an inhuman statement of complete indifference to the subject that so many feel is one of the most important questions on morality. </p><p>What it implies is that we ("we," as in the man and the woman, both) have absolutely no responsibility to even <i>try</i> to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. It says that the desire for momentary pleasure is justification for abortion -- or, as she says, "abortions" (<i>plural</i>, as if doing it over and over is okay) -- as a form of birth control. It doesn't even debate, as the abortion argument often does, when or whether or not the resulting conception is a life. Martin just doesn't care about any of this. No factor but the individual's desire, in the moment, is to be considered. </p><p>I can process and understand the intentions of a person on either side of the abortion debate if that person is weighing in on what he or she thinks is right. But I doubt the vailidity of a person (as a person) who thinks abortion is no big deal. Ask women who have had abortions if they think it was "a big deal." What kind of a person wouldn't, <i>at least</i>, think it was a big decision? (I have known several woman who remember it as a life-altering experience.) </p><p>Martin's attitude seems symptomatic of a loss of all boundries of human decorum. If she represents the evolution of the future of human thought...it's all over. Imagine if everyone pursued pleasure to the exclusion of all sense of responsibility. </p><p>I prefer to (read: "must, for the sake of my sanity") think of her as an outlier. I don't think of those few women who have confided in me about having gotten abortions as inhuman or evil; I don't get to judge them. <i>At least</i>, it was a big deal to them. It changed them in some way. Because they have human empathy. Because, <i>at least</i>, they care about ideas outside of themselves and about the embryo who <i>could have b</i>ecome a walking, talking person. A human considers that possibility, whether she decides to abort or not. </p><p>One could argue that Martin's statement is not without the "at least" factor; that she is promoting this idea out of concern for women and that she wants to end the abortion stigma, and, therefore, that there is morality there; for me, though, it's an "any-means-possible" argument. I wouldn't tell my child to acquire happiness by disregarding responsibility, ignoring the vailidity of another life and pursuing completely hedonistic ideals. One could argue that any villain in history held to certain moralities: Hitler wanted to make things better for the Aryan Nation. </p><p>Am I comparing this woman to Hitler? No. But I am comparing the idea that even villains and the un-empathetic think what they are doing is the right thing to do, so to argue that there was an <i>at least </i>in <i>their</i> thinking doesn't really stand up. There are no Dr. Evils in the world -- people who just delight in doing evil. They either think what they are doing is right or they simply can't control what they do. </p><p>And if you are one of those people who believes men have no right to opinions on issues touching on abortion, I dismiss your position. It's stupid. I'm not, in any way, trying to make decisions for women. I am just saying that they (and men, as well) should, <i>at least</i>, <i>care</i> about their decisions</p><p>And, besides, I am not writing about abortion rights. I am writing about the slow loss of humanity in our culture. </p><p>Elie Weisel once said that "indifference is what makes the human being inhuman." Indeed. </p></div></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-1689111736082500792021-11-05T08:50:00.000-04:002021-11-05T08:50:03.883-04:00"A Walk-On Part in the War"<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bA8Vyj4MAao/YYQQdM3stcI/AAAAAAAAD2Q/sudf_Ob6dBwWT3sYc6ezMgBjKnUkVy37gCLcBGAsYHQ/s304/i6fnkjbbf5uwtgf7g0cw.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="304" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bA8Vyj4MAao/YYQQdM3stcI/AAAAAAAAD2Q/sudf_Ob6dBwWT3sYc6ezMgBjKnUkVy37gCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/i6fnkjbbf5uwtgf7g0cw.jpeg" width="304" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">M</span></b>any years ago, I was having a late-night discussion with a friend of mine about his twenty-something woes. He did have a tough life, mostly stemming from his parents' divorce. I don't know the details. I never asked. But I do know that he even refused to refer to his father as his father. He'd call him "the biological unit," or something like that. <p></p><p>Anyway, I was listening to his problems; trying to be a good friend. It was a humid summer night and we'd just finished playing volleyball on a sand court that was a frequent gathering place for our group. Instead of driving home after the match, we sat there in the car and the conversation took late late-night summer route: meandering from topic to topic. Then, he started venting. </p><p>I'm not sure how it happened, but, at some point, he hit me with an observation that I have heard many times since, and that, honestly, I'm a little weary of. He informed me that I had no right to complain about anything because I had a "perfect family."</p><p>Well, let's start with the fact that I don't, because no one does. Did (do) I have a <i>great</i> family? Yes. I can't deny that. My Mom and Dad were together and they loved each other (my dad died in 2013) and my sister and I were close with them, if not -- back then -- with each other. (Being separated in age by five years had an effect, I think -- the effect being, I found out years later, me basically ignoring her existence, which is something I still feel guilty about. It was not my intention, but it still was not cool. Ask her how that felt. Perfect? Probably not. So, there was that.) </p><p>Yes, our house was kind of a hub for friends in my young adulthood. All of my friends loved my parents and my parents loved having my friends over for Mom's homemade -- okay, <i>this</i> part was perfect -- pizza and none of them ever felt weird sitting and watching movies, even if my parents hung out with us. My Mom was the kind of person who would invite anyone who was in the house within thirty minutes of the event to stay for dinner -- and people would stay, without hesitation, whether we were in middle school, high school or beyond. They felt welcomed. </p><p>Here's the point where I disappoint you, maybe. I am a pretty open person on this blog, but some things are not for sharing. I realize that saying this puts me at risk of encouraging imaginations to see things as either worse or better than they were, but...my life was never perfect. Sometimes, it downright stank. And my family and myself went through plenty of struggles. Some of them were kind of common and some of them were existentially awful. But I'm not going to share those things. Let it suffice to say that they were there and that neither you nor anyone else knows their extent, which might be a reason to withold over-optimistic positions on the perfection of my family life. </p><p>Granted, we had love and closeness, which is the most important thing. This is what some observers most envy when they have been less fortunate, and I understand that. My sister and I had a <i>foundation</i> and a comfortable base of operations for our explorations of the world and ourselves. I realize many never had that. </p><p>But, it really annoys me when people I know dismiss my family life as a fairytale, because the implication is that I couldn't imagine what it is like to struggle. I realize a lot of "street cred" comes out of having had a miserable childhood, but it is never a thing I have envied, so I'm not feeling guilty or underexperienced for not having been in that position. And I am not accusing people who see my youth as a fairytale of wanting that street cred either; I just want to make it clear that I'm not that shallow. I'm not wishing I had more conventional horror stories to tell, believe me. </p><p>A <i>severely</i> dysfunctional family is <i>not</i> the norm, though I think some want to believe it is so in order to comfort themselves. It is a sad reality that parents can be physically and mentally abusive to the extreme, but it is just not the majority. People whose family life fits into those categories might certainly have seen my family life as a fairytale. I have, however, numerous friends and acquaintences whose families were plenty solid: parents together; close to each other for a lifetime; welcoming and open with their homes and generosity. As a teacher, I see tons of (from my point of view, anyway) solid families. I think people sometimes under-report the successes of the American family. </p><p>None of these families, though, I'm sure, was or is an oasis of neverending joy. I don't want people to envy me and I don't want to try to convince anyone I've had it worse than they did. (So many people are constant players in the "Woe Is Me World Series...") But, to twist Roger Waters's words a tad, though I have never had a "leading role in the cage," I refuse to be denied credit for my "walk-on part in the war."</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-59776799002983516552021-09-29T11:28:00.008-04:002021-09-29T14:47:12.938-04:00Thoughts on Teachers and the Profession<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TOvpmaXbM7o/YVSF_u_z5wI/AAAAAAAAD18/hkc-8N1pS4oQGUoIW8OLyukryVmNwCdhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s900/school.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="900" height="232" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TOvpmaXbM7o/YVSF_u_z5wI/AAAAAAAAD18/hkc-8N1pS4oQGUoIW8OLyukryVmNwCdhwCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h232/school.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">M</span></b>y dad was a musician. Full-time. Never taught, never had a lame side-job. I'm always proud to tell people he managed to make a living in music all his life. Maybe because of this, my dad also carried that old "those who <i>can</i>, do; those who <i>can't</i>, teach" mentality. He was especially hard on musicians who taught. He said they were always the worst players. <p></p><p>Who knows? I <i>have</i> known music teachers who couldn't play their way out of a wet paper bag, but I have known a few who could "shred." (I'm a part-time musician, too, as well as an English teacher.)</p><p>I became a teacher by accident. I studied literature as an undergrad, not because I wanted to teach, but because I wanted to learn about books and to become a better writer. I studied literature in grad school, for the same reason. When I was starting grad school, a friend asked me if I intended to teach. My response was (and I quote): "Eeeew. No."</p><p>But then, I was offered free tuition and $20,000 per year to teach writing. Clearly, the proverbial no-brainer. I had no idea what I was doing, but I tried my best and got better as I went along. In the process, I discovered that I <i>liked</i> teaching. Decades later, I am still doing it, on the high school level. </p><p>Maybe because of all of this, when I was a department chair and I was interviewing potential new teachers, I would ask them: "What do you like more, teaching or studying literature?" I wanted them to say that it was the literature they liked most. It always seemed a little artificial when someone became a teacher because they had "always wanted to teach." It's not that there is anything wrong with that...it's just that, in English for instance, I have known teachers who seem like they are in it for the summers off and who never seem to have read a book. I wouldn't want someone like that to teach my kids English. (Side note: In interviews, I would often ask a candidate what his or her favorite book was. If the answer was either not immediate or it became a resultant flood of books he or she could not decide between, I'd pretty much decide against that person.)</p><p>The thing is, though, I don't grant immediate reverence to my fellow teachers. I once saw a bumper sticker that said: "Honor Teachers." I wanted to take a Sharpie marker to it and put the word "Good" in the middle. Why? Because there is nothing more <i>dis</i>-honorable than a teacher who "phones it in" or who gets tenure and spends decades complaining in the faculty room and draining his kids of their love of learning. I have known <i>tons</i> of those. I have also often been dubiously entertained by those who declare "I'm a good teacher," as if the statement makes it so. (My gut is that those who say that are likely not to be very good.) </p><p>I don't think one should get automatic kudos just for picking a profession. One needs to care and to work and to -- when it comes to teaching -- inspire. </p><p>That said, I think many people outside the profession don't understand the challenge of teaching. (My dad: "They get summers off! They lead the life of a child...") If the job is done right, teaching is gruelling. There are a ton of jobs out there that are as tough as -- or tougher -- than teaching, but teaching offers particular challenges that few jobs do. Teachers have to put on five shows a day (on average). You know how worked up you get when you have to lead a meeting or prepare for a presentation once in a while? We do that numerous times every day to a decidedly unprofessional audience that isn't always inclined to sit nicely and let us do our thing. And we have to look happy and motivated when we're depressed, grieving, fighting cancer, etc. </p><p>Clichéd as it may sound, there is also the idea that we are pretty much working seven days -- with grading, planning, etc. (I mean, the good ones.) Not only are we working seven days, but it's hard to feel "done" at the end of the day. Assessment is important, so we often work in the evenings, too. Even when there is not concrete work to do, the good ones are driving around and sitting on their living room couches thinking about how the day's lessons could have gone better.</p><div>The most difficult challenge is that we need to read the moods and deal with the mood swings of hundreds of kids each day -- engage in an exercise of emotional intelligence and play mental chess games to "get through" to <i>each</i> young person in our charge. And, the heartbreakingly moving thing about teaching young people is how much they need us. Each day, I face my students thinking: <i>every one of these people is someone's child; I need to treat them as I'd want my boys to be treated. </i>A self-imposed burden, but a heavy one, nonetheless. It does wear on you. </div><p>In truth, by the time summer rolls in, we're pretty fried. But, heck yes, it is incredible to be able to look forward to two months of down time. Let's face it. Of course, that is, <i>if </i>we get it. I have worked summers, teaching or doing administrative stuff, for almost all of my career. Many of us do. And, then, there are others out there laying sod and serving sandwiches in the summers to make ends meet.</p><p>Among us, though, there are numerous teachers just surfing along; turning their profound moral mandate to help in the development of young minds into a game of figuring out how little work they can do and still garner the respect they think just being in the profession grants them. Having spent time as an administrator, I can assure you: there are <i>tons</i> of teachers out there like that, so <i>they</i> deserve your (or my dad's) most scathing criticism and they should be ashamed. (But we don't do shame anymore; at least, not in the United States.) It's not too strong a statement to say that those kinds of teachers disgust me. </p><p>The ones who realize the depth of their responsibilty? Trust me. They work as hard or harder than you do, so just think twice about the blanket eyerolls and spat critiques of "summers off."</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-79451261472844442372021-07-07T06:00:00.007-04:002021-07-07T09:50:28.222-04:00With or Without Lust?<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XwmiFfCBpXk/YNIFYT_3iuI/AAAAAAAADzs/Vz4o0dlyWGYU1KWU2B3grGaSDORAyCS0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s245/urn.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XwmiFfCBpXk/YNIFYT_3iuI/AAAAAAAADzs/Vz4o0dlyWGYU1KWU2B3grGaSDORAyCS0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/urn.jpeg" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></b>'ll let you just react to this, before I get to my point. <p></p><p>A few days ago, as I was driving home from work through a lovely and very old neighborhood (Haddonfield, NJ -- site of much Revolutionary War stuff and also the place in which <a href="http://hadrosaurus.com/hadropark.shtml">the world's first "nearly complete" dinosaur skeleton</a> was discovered [which is all irrelevant to my story]), I saw, on the sidewalk, a beautiful woman, probably in her late forties, casually dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, walking her dog in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees at the roadside. </p><p>Being a gentleman of the ilk that has always been attracted to the beauty of a woman, I was looking in appreciation of said beauty, when she "caught" me. This all happened in a few seconds. I was driving; she turned to see who was passing; I was already looking at her.</p><p>Our eyes met... (Oh, stop. That's not where I'm going.) </p><p>She smiled at me and I smiled at her. We <i>shared</i> a smile -- as I see it -- between Gen X-ers. The smile of a generation that was, I think, a bit more sexually comfortable than those that went before or came after. (I'm not saying everything was perfect with us; I don't have that kind of nostalgic lens, but, all things being equal, among healthy-minded Gen X-ers, we were pretty secure in our sexuality, by comparison.) </p><p>Her smile was playful ("Haha -- I caught you looking"); my smile was a little sheepish ("E-heh...I uh..."). </p><p>Her smile was a just a tiny bit flirtatious, with, maybe, a sprinkle of thanks, for the wordless compliment I was giving her: "I find you attractive." This phrase, contrary to popular belief, is <i>not</i> synonymous with: "You are an object to me." And the "compliment" goes no further than that appreciation and it was only a compliment because it was devoid of lasciviousness. </p><p>I think of the Bible quotation, that a man "who gazes at a woman to lust after her has committed adultery with her already in his heart." The key component is "to lust after her." It's not about the looking, but the kind of looking one is doing. The <i>intent</i>. </p><p>My smile was playfully apologetic, but it carried -- I hope -- what I felt: a respectful appreciation of her beauty; a small, yet meaningful connection between two humans, rooted deeply within our ancient, natural programming. </p><p>It's daunting to write things like this, because one misstep in wording and someone will find fault based on the standards of some variant of the modern movements regarding sexuality. I've always taught my sons that sexuality is nothing to be ashamed of, but it should be a private thing between intimately involved parties. So, to write about "attraction" can seem counter to that advice, but, I think people need to write about the grays of sexuality (and of everything else), because we are losing any sense of nuanced thinking about...everything. </p><p>In the Age Without Subtlety, ironically, everyone is "okay with" everything except "the game of love" -- hence (dare I mention it?), the demise of Pepe LePew. Modesty is lost in both men and women. Prostitutes and porn stars are afforded the respect of being called "sex workers." Modern pop music lyrics refer to explicit acts of sexuality with demeaning atitudes with no social or economic consequences, but someone who glances at a woman because he finds her beautiful and who looks for no other reason -- and with no ulterior motive -- than to appreciate that beauty opens himself up to all sorts of criticism. </p><p>Admittedly, it all stands on the edge of a knife, though, doesn't it? Shift the smile or perceive the smile just a bit off-center, and it becomes a leer and a leer is certainly an insult and a sign of lascivious intent...but for us two, it was, as the youngins are all saying, "all good." We made each other smile. That is what used to be the magic in the dynamics of the sexes -- the game of attraction was fun to play (as long -- and this is essential -- as the woman had the final say in the outcome). </p><p>Speaking of the comfort of Gen X: yes, in case you are wondering, my wife <i>will</i> read this. But that does not matter, in the least. I already talked about this incident with her and we aleady had a philosophical conversation about it. She is neither threatened nor angry. She knows who I am. She knows I am loyal to her for life. And, under similar circumstances, she would have reacted just as this woman did. My wife appreciates being appreciated for her beauty, as well, and her day would have been brightened just a bit by the "compliment" of being respectfully "looked at" by a man. </p><p>My final point? This, to me, was a healthy exchange -- however brief -- between two people in a similar mindset. I've gone past the point of wanting to tell people what to think, but I do wish the dynamics of the sexes these days wasn't so pre-loaded with paranoia. The safety and respect of women is paramount, but I wish raising awareness about this real issues in male predatory behavior didn't have to create immediate suspicion of the motivations of the every, kind-hearted but sexually healthy male in the world. </p><p>Somewhere along the line, the game of love became a chess match. It's a little sad, that's all. If you don't believe that this has happened, consider: I recently taught Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and some of my high school kids didn't like that the young men were in "mad pursuit" of the young women. </p><p>They didn't see it, as Keats did, as "wild ecstasy." The best they could do was to call it "cringey."</p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-47294152144306116462021-06-30T06:00:00.018-04:002021-11-05T08:18:01.969-04:00I Want a Funeral<b><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVAzrK5QPrc/YNCXYWkVjHI/AAAAAAAADzk/tpWsDY9S59EVp8IblvKvn-XFuhGCsEozQCLcBGAsYHQ/s302/yorick.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="302" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVAzrK5QPrc/YNCXYWkVjHI/AAAAAAAADzk/tpWsDY9S59EVp8IblvKvn-XFuhGCsEozQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/yorick.jpeg" /></a></div></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"><b>W</b></span>hen I move on to join the invisible choir; when I kick the bucket and, then, quickly following thereupon, buy the farm, just to be sure I did things properly, I don't want a "Celebration of Life." I want a good, old-fashioned, tear-jerking, black-clad funeral. <div><br /></div><div>Have whatever you want for your loved ones. Call it what you want. I'm not judging you. These things are personal choices and no one can be told they are doing things "wrong" and I'm not trying to do that. It's just that, for me, I think the best thing to do when someone dies is to be somber and sad. We're wired to cry when we lose loved ones, and cry we should. </div><div><br /></div><div>I get it, though -- the whole "celebration of life" thing. A while ago, I lost a close friend. He was younger than I am and we lost him to an unseen heart ailment. He wasn't religious, so there was a remembrance...thing. I don't think anyone called it a "celebration of life" but we spent most of our time sharing funny stories. (He was the most obnoxious, irreverant, inappropriate, foppish oaf I have ever known, and I [and we all] loved him for all of that.) The whole thing was full of laughter with a sprinkling of tears. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, it's weird. I find a strange sense of open-endedness in his loss. That's the best I can describe it. Of course, I'm not the important one here. As long as his family got what they needed from the day, that's all that matters. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, I think I want a little more gloom at my funeral: people standing in the rain in sunglasses, looking all pale and drawn; distraught loved-ones having to be pulled away from my coffin so it can be lowered into the ground; a priest who intones like Max von Sydow; low, slow-rolling thunder; Barber's "Adagio for Strings" running through everyone's heads; one of my sons, kneeling under a rising crane shot as the rain falls, yelling "Why!? WHAAAYYY!!??" up to the deaf, leaden heavens... That kind of thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Call me grim. (I'll wait.) </div><div><br /></div><div>My biggest loss, ever, has been my dad. We had a traditional, Catholic funeral. I wrote <a href="http://www.hats-n-rabbits.com/2013/12/joe-matt.html" target="_blank">this</a> and read it, tearfully, at times, and there were many tears <i>because</i> of it. We only moved away from long-standing tradition in two ways. First, there was no open coffin; he had said, many times in his life, that he did not want that, so that was non-negotiable. Second, he was cremated. I have a small regret about this. When I visit his grave, I really don't feel like I am visiting "him." To have known he was under that headstone in his physical form (at least in my memory) would have been comforting to me. Ashes don't feel the same. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, all of tthese post-death procedures are for the living. My dad, being dead, doesn't care about any of this; neither does my friend. In the end, I want my family to do what they want -- whatever they need. But I strongly urge them to consider going about things in the way things have been gone about for centuries: tears, gloom and black clothing. Somehow, we decided, at some point, as a human collective, that this is what we needed. There must be a reason for that...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-56350117806024707532021-06-23T06:00:00.000-04:002021-06-23T10:22:03.889-04:00The Vinyl Word<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S7jt1ZKI9dI/YMDdVKIAoJI/AAAAAAAADzI/bHohJpVDcTgBRXfRKmhwWVxyQjRG9Ev4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s616/johnny.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="616" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S7jt1ZKI9dI/YMDdVKIAoJI/AAAAAAAADzI/bHohJpVDcTgBRXfRKmhwWVxyQjRG9Ev4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/johnny.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> couldn't resist the title. Sorry. <p></p><p>So, records... Old-fashioned, 33 RPM, vinyl records...</p><p>Don't run away -- this is not going to be an audiophile post, I promise. I'm not a fan of most 'Philes, to be honest with you. I am a fan of the Phillies, but not of the 'Philes, just to keep things straight. </p><p>(Too much coffee this morning. <i>Mea culpa</i>.) </p><p>Anyway, records. I like them. I just patched up the old stereo system with a new amplifier -- which gets used mostly for watching movies in 5.1 surround. (Surround just makes movies so much cooler. The first fight scene in the not-bad Gibson movie, <i>The Patriot, </i>will sell you on the merits of surround sound, if you are not already a believer.)</p><p>But, having gotten a turntable a few years ago, I have been rebuilding a record collection. </p><p>There is a camp that argues for the merits of "analog" sound (records and tape), versus "digital" (CDs and MP3s) but, as a musician who works primarily in the digital world, I see the merits of both. (I do think, however, that one can hear a major difference between MP3s and streaming, as opposed to CDs or records. Too much to go into, here.)</p><p>This is not about sound quality, though; it's about the <i>experience</i> of listening to a record. </p><p>When I decide to listen to an vinyl album, I have to put it on the turntable, drop the needle and sit back to listen. There is no easy "pausing" and there is no skipping of tracks without standing up, walking across the room and lifting the needle -- after which, one has to find the notch between tracks and carefully put the needle down in the right spot, which is usually a question of trial and error, laced with stifled profanities. (The other day, listening to Sting's <i>The Soul Cages</i>, I actually sat through "St. Agnes and the Burning Train." Who <i>does</i> that?) </p><p>With a record, one commits to the act of listening with <i>attention</i> in a way one doesn't with playlists. And, halfway through, one needs to flip the record over. This, to me, is a refocusing of attention and an awakening of the body: standing up re-awakens the brain, which is why I sometimes tell my classes, mid-session, to stand up and then sit down again. </p><p>And we can't forget the fact that albums were created as songs grouped together around a central idea or theme or vibe, in the past -- or, at the very least, were written during the same timespan and, so, share similarities, if only as a result of the songwriters' preferences or artistic development at the time. This is a completely different experience than setting the phone on "shuffle." (Around the time of the inception of the iPod, I had a young student tell me he listened to new albums on "shuffle" so he never got tired of the order. But the order was chosen for a <i>reason...or, u</i>sed to be.)</p><p>Undeniably, there is an element of nostalgia for a guy my age in listening to actual records: the large-scale cover art; the liner notes; the lyrics. But, listeing to a record used to be an active process, whereas now music has become more of a background thing for most people. </p><p>I like the connection and the committment of listening to a record. And, yes, sitting between loudspeakers that are moving actual air and hearing sounds generated from a needle traveling through actual grooves in actual material must, in some way, make a difference. </p><p>In case you are wondering, no: I never understood why people were nostalgic about the cracks, pops and jumps. They still suck. Which is why I highly recommend re-releases on 180 gram vinyl. </p><p>Now get out there and spin stuff. </p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-81575474897510280932021-06-16T19:07:00.005-04:002021-06-16T19:08:33.761-04:00A Eulogy for Nuanced Thinking <p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bi9MRlR0Mg8/YMqEB2sXaZI/AAAAAAAADzY/YYEf-uqGeaEwtNTztnfqPnybPWIyoOzhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s495/Swiftr.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt=""Wait...what?"" border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bi9MRlR0Mg8/YMqEB2sXaZI/AAAAAAAADzY/YYEf-uqGeaEwtNTztnfqPnybPWIyoOzhQCLcBGAsYHQ/w162-h200/Swiftr.jpeg" width="162" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">N</span>uance is pretty much dead. On social media, it's so dead that I have recently decided to stop being satirical. People -- even people I think are pretty smart -- just don't seem to <i>see</i> it anymore. Over the past few years, things that I said with shades of blue and tan and green have been stolen from me by the groupthinkers and turned into explosions of bright yellow and, now, any reference to my nuanced ideas are seen as another voice in agreement with the screaming binary crowds. (Heck, I might as well mix metaphors. There are no rules anymore, right?)<p></p><p>(Swift is turning in his grave right now.) </p><p>For instance, I have long criticized the fact that "science is the new religion." You can find posts about it here, going back to 2010. Then, along came the climate-change deniers and, counter to it, the "trust the science" movement. Now, on one side stand those who ignore science and, on the other, are those who blindly follow anything a scientist says -- who treat science as a depository of incontrovertible fact and see lab coated rsearchers as vestment-clad priests and priestesses of truth. So, if I question science, even after doing considerable reading on it, I must be seen as one side by a fool and by the other as one of their own. </p><p>Fake news? Good old Mr. Trump killed that one. Again, for years, I complained about misleading and outright phony news. Now that he, in his inimitably oafish and cro-magnon-like way has appropriated the phrase, if one complains about the news with its biases and clickbaits, one is seen as a conservative who is only doing what the former president did: trying to kill news he does not agree with. </p><p>I have also written about "wokeness," ridiculing it as a complete paradox: people claim to be "woke" -- which should be a state of the highest level of the achievement of rationality -- when, in fact, all they are really doing is subscribing to a pre-written script. But the conservatives killed that, by making it a slur and a joke. Worse, if one doesn't like that phrase, it will be assumed he is a racist. (God forbid someone call a Black man a "thug." Shame -- another very good word dies...)</p><p>I have also long pointed out the need to help our kids to be a little tougher; to allow them to believe in their own strength and ability to get through diversity. Then, along came things like meme of the eighteen-year-old lad storming the beach at Normandy alongside a picture of a "millenial" young man with tattos and stretched earlobes, wearing a pink tank-top and a tutu. (See how much kids have changed!) Now, if I wrestle with the idea of weakness in our kids, I am pretty much percieved as calling them "snowflakes," which I certainly am not. But nuance, schmuance. You're with us or against us. </p><p>For the love of all that is holy (oh, wait, I must be a religious nut for using that phrase and religion is 100% horrible... forgive me, angry masses...), I can't even express an English teacher's concern for the use of the word "they" as a singular pronoun without being implicitly accused of not caring if young trans people commit suicide. I made the mistake of pointing out this awful bit of writing from a local news Instagram: </p><p><i>From Channel 6 News: "Singer Demi Levato has revealed they are non-binary and are changing their pronouns, telling fans they are 'proud' to make the change after a lot of self-reflective work."</i></p><p>My light-hearted quip that "telling fans that they are proud" is confusing and asking trans people to just invent themselves a new pronoun was met with questions about my concern for the well-being of others. I pointed out, on the thread, that "one begins to feel that if one ctiticizes a small thing about marginalized people that one is bound to be accused of dismissing them as humans." I've even been told that my assertion that the truth about a police incident between white officers and Black suspects or traffic stop subjects is <i>not</i> the important thing: one should always be on the side of the cop or the side of the Black citizen. </p><p>How is that a remotely sane attitude? How does change happen with this idea?</p><p>So, and I mean this proverbially: don't put your arm around me. I don't want to be on your team. Teams are the reason people can't or don't think anymore. If you agree with me when I sound liberal, it doesn't mean I <i>am</i> a liberal and if I express a conservative view, it doesn't mean I <i>am</i> a conservative. </p><p>I suppose the fools have always been louder than the thinkers. The problem is, there has never been a free and deafening megaphone like the Internet. </p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-16332778351130747982021-06-09T06:00:00.002-04:002021-06-10T09:36:25.170-04:00Waiting Room Thoughts: Marriage<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-id9cHa9E-j0/YLuavRDnSQI/AAAAAAAADzA/gU3TU_VE5kgT1VvwO0CbVtQusZVszFrIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/be.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-id9cHa9E-j0/YLuavRDnSQI/AAAAAAAADzA/gU3TU_VE5kgT1VvwO0CbVtQusZVszFrIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/be.jpeg" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">T</span></b>he other day, I had to bring my wife to the hospital for surgery. This is usually way more difficult (emotionally) for me than it is for her. As a nurse, she is at home in the hospital and her familiarity with procedures and the overall atmosphere makes her sort of nonchalant about the whole process. (She's home and doing very well now.) <p></p><p>Me? <i>They</i> say: "We have your phone number. The surgery will take about two hours. You can go home or to a Starbuck's and we will call you when it is done. She'll be in recovery for an hour anyway." Nope. Ain't happening. </p><p>I have to stay in the waiting room. Something feels wrong about being farther away from her than necessary during a major operation. So, I spent three-and-a-half hours (she took longer than usual) pacing, watching awful morning TV programming (why are soap operas lighted so <i>minimally</i>?) and absently reading a Star Wars book that a student had given to me. ("You HAVE to read this Mr. Mat. It's great." Any decent teacher knows that this means I really <i>did</i> have to read it. Fortunately, the dude who wrote it is, at least, a pro; the book is what my favorite professor used to call "chewing gum for the brain" -- not a bad time-killer, in the end.)</p><p>It's always an emotional moment, sending one's loved one back into surgery, especially now, at the tail end of COVID, when one is not allowed into the pre-op room. (For my wife, it's "Meh. It's surgery." For me, it's, "Things happen. Anaesthesia is dangerous. People get infections...") I always feel a quick, strong rush of emotion after she is gone. As I sit down, I usually reflexively say an "Our Father" to myself because, while I have never really been the religiously demonstrative type, I have always been faithful. It's at that point that I am generally able to pull myself together. And fret...with some modicum of dignity. </p><p>Sitting in waiting rooms does lead one to think, though. And think, I did. </p><p>We were the first ones there, arriving at six in the morning, so I watched husband after husband bring his wife in. I saw at least five long, affectionate, embraces goodbye. I heard accompanying, whispered, I-love-yous. I saw the husbands sit (they didn't want to leave, either) and wring their proverbial hands, staring uninterestedly at morning talk shows. They <i>cared</i>, as I did. They were in love, as I am. They were <i>married </i>these women, in the truest sense of the word: joined together, body and soul, and the breaking of that connection hurt. Daily life might not do it, but <i>risk</i> (or, at least, perceived risk) brings out the bond. </p><p>Of course, these five husbands and myself are only anecdotal evidence (only a sample of the massive population of the world) but it raised a question: If these randomly-gathered people and myself are so clearly in love after so many years, how real is the media portrayal of the decline of marriage?</p><p>TV and Internet are dangerous windows. They are, in the end, a tiny portal of information, filtered through a tiny representative portion of the world's population, represented by the producers, writers, presenters, etc. They are the gatekeepers of information. They don't represent the collective voice of the world, at all. And neither do we six husbands represent all of the husbands in the world, but a quick, random sample might just imply that marriage and love are okay and they, the media, who have always favored the grim over the optimistic, might just be forcing a tainted characterization. </p><p>If fifty percent of marriages fail, it doesn't mean the other fifty percent are not good, real, good-old-fashioned bonds, right? There is a lot of love out there. Maybe it's not so dire. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-56857686138477289212021-06-02T06:00:00.004-04:002021-06-04T09:23:39.967-04:00The New Glass Menagerie<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RoRC4KNBlO4/YLYvmV0PLzI/AAAAAAAADy4/0_8Jfl_j8y8P2oEaEyHzGmuYqKGwxreRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s470/6a00d83451688869e20168e61c64ce970c.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="470" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RoRC4KNBlO4/YLYvmV0PLzI/AAAAAAAADy4/0_8Jfl_j8y8P2oEaEyHzGmuYqKGwxreRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6a00d83451688869e20168e61c64ce970c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">M</span></b>y sons are good young men. I am immensely proud of what they have become. And, I am especially proud of how they weathered the COVID storm. My younger son had to do half-online high school and my older son had to start college online. They performed admirably and with grace. <p></p><p>But, a few weeks ago, my younger son sort of reflexively said that his circumstances (being really busy -- new job, school play, etc) was "affecting his mental health." I quickly pointed out that being miserable and overwhelmed is not a decline of mental health; it is a natural reaction to a difficult situation. He was quick to acknowledge it and it was obvious that he understood that the lingo of the day had simply crept into his statement. </p><p>I mentioned, to him, a bit by our favorite comedian, Sebastian Maniscalco. Maniscalco talks about people going to therapy for depression and about his father's reaction: "I've been depressed for <i>thirty years</i>." This gets big laughs, but it is a comic implication that the older generation didn't run to therapist when things got tough -- they "dealt with it."</p><p>Of course, we don't want to take this philosophy too far, right? We want to outgrow the foolish bravado of not seeking help when we need it. But, as in all things, we need to seek balance. </p><p>I think we are turning the world into a kind of glass menagerie. We are creating people who feel as if they could shatter at any time; who think that being sad is a sign of trouble; that being taken surprise by emotion is <i>always</i> a dangerous situation. </p><p>The other day, I was listening to a radio program and they were doing a piece on young men who had fallen into prostitution. They introduced the piece by warning the audience that some of the details in the story might be "disturbing." My first thought is: how could it <i>not</i> be disturbing? Isn't that idea implicit in the anounced subject. My second though is...so <i>what</i> if it is disturbing? Is the listener going to shatter to pieces?</p><p>Well...maybe. </p><p>I often find myself, here and elsewhere, lamenting the complete inability of humanity to seem to be able to ever do anything but the extreme. If one listens to the chatter about mental health, one might assume, if you will forgive another literary reference, that we live in a world full of Roderick Ushers. </p><p>Can't we teach our kids and others to be strong when they can and to seek help when they need it? I believe this is the intention of mental health professionals and the media, but I can't help think that it is recieved as: "Seek help, because you can't handle pressure alone." Somehow, in the minds of the many, I thihnk it just becomes a constant stream of rominders that one simply is not strong enough to make it without reliance on others. </p><p>I don't want my sons to swallow their misery. I don't want them to be stoic and incommunicative. But I do want them to be strong enough to deal with stress and high levels of difficulty. What I don't want is for them to feel like any breeze of sadness is going to blow them off of the shelf to shatter on the floor. </p><p>We're not good at balance, though -- this society of ours -- and I think it always comes down to one thing: too much work. Why tread water in the center of the pool when one can just cling to an edge?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-2092726639981965502021-05-26T06:00:00.006-04:002021-05-28T11:12:16.997-04:00On Following Dreams<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RaDjqMrMo80/YKVAGQH4K1I/AAAAAAAADyw/sVnoCGlcyTI0Uu1tIC5B98xfk_u5HnVhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s700/pan.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="495" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RaDjqMrMo80/YKVAGQH4K1I/AAAAAAAADyw/sVnoCGlcyTI0Uu1tIC5B98xfk_u5HnVhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pan.jpeg" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></b> have recently seen a few people post a question on social media: "What would your career be today, if you had followed your childhood dream?"<p></p><p>If I'm being honest, or if we're really talking <i>childhood</i>, when I was seven, I wanted to be a construction worker. I dug the utility toolbelts, I think. Other than that, I find this question a symptom of an unhealthy paradigm. </p><p>I have followed all of the things that I have loved since my youth and I have never stopped. It was always about stories and music for me. Did I dream about being a high school English teacher and writing a blog? No. Did I dream about playing drums in bars? No. Did I dream about writing music for music libraries? No. </p><p>My dreams were more lofty. I wanted to be Sting or John Williams. I wanted to be the next Tolkien. So far, it hasn't happened. But, "so far" is the key phrase. Between you and me, I don't think any of these things will happen, but I can say "so far," because...I followed my childhood dreams and I still do. Could I still get that call from Spielberg? Probably not, but if my chances are 0% if I don't keep writing and releasing music, they are at least .00001% if I do. </p><p>I'm not sure when it happens to people; when they put aside the things that bring them joy and replace them with what they think will bring them maturity. It's probably because of all the well-meaning types trying to convince them that there are easier ways to make a living -- more secure fields; more reliably lucrative fields. Comfort is a real temptation. </p><p>But there is also this: Would I be a traitor to my dreams if I had decided to be a lawyer who writes music and prose on the side? I think you can argue two things: I'd still be "following my childhood dreams" and I'd also probably have a much nicer studio. </p><p>As usual, the question is an oversimplification. What does it mean to have "followed your childhood dreams"? It means a million things. But let's not ridicule those dreams by pretending the best thing we could have done was to have moved on from them and let's not drown them in the tears of nostalgia and lamentation for our lost youthful energy. </p><p>It's always been important that little me be proud of big me. I once saw a picture of myself as a toddler and the only thing I could think was: "Did I let that little guy down, or would he be proud." I think he'd know I did the best I could, at least. </p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-68229425717685697152021-05-19T10:27:00.001-04:002021-05-19T10:27:27.700-04:00The Kind of Man I Want To Be<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8ndH3XsnaY/YKUd9t3IhfI/AAAAAAAADyo/HdWGVMkX168aQ5UH16RNh6CJOIupZujNACLcBGAsYHQ/s800/longmire.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8ndH3XsnaY/YKUd9t3IhfI/AAAAAAAADyo/HdWGVMkX168aQ5UH16RNh6CJOIupZujNACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/longmire.png" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></b> know. It's a cheesy title. But it is necessary. We're not allowed to have opinions about others anymore. That's labeled as "judgmental." So, I'm not allowed to say what I believe is "proper manly behavior," because that implies things that we are no longer allowed to believe, like, for instance, that there is a difference between men and women or that, in fact, there is a such thing as "man" and "woman" at all. <p></p><p>But I have a sense of what it means, for me, to be "a man." I'm not saying <i>you</i> need to be like this or that anyone else needs to care what I think. If you define being a man as standing in a field with a with a propeller beanie on your head and hitting 600 baked potatoes a day off of a tee, have at it. For me, though, there is a combo of stuff that I have seen and respected in men who have influenced me over the years and those things have guided me to where I am today, whether the Interweb groupthinkers like it or not. </p><p><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p><b><i>Crying</i></b></p><p>"Big boys don't cry," some used to say. "Sure they do," people of good sense responded. "Well, they don't cry in front of others," some said. "Well, it all depends," people of good sense responded. </p><p>While my dad was a fan of the John Wayne brand of machismo, he was also a composer. I watched him unashamedly break into tears while listening to Ravel. I saw him wipe tears away during powerful emotional scenes in movies. When my grandfather (his dad) died, I can still see the image of him standing in the twilight-dark kitchen, looking out the window, drinking a glass of milk. His face looked wet. He didn't hide it, but he didn't bawl in front of his son. He didn't sensitivity-signal. </p><p>That's the kind of man I want to be. </p><p><b><i>Courage</i></b></p><p>Back to The Duke: He's been credited as having said that courage is not about not being afraid; it's about getting "into the saddle" even when you are scared out of your mind. Sometimes it's about putting youself last. </p><p>My wife and I have been watching a pretty good show called <i>Longmire</i>. Walt Longmire is a real "throwback" kind of sheriff in Wyoming; cowboy hat, the works. In a recent episode, he decided to go on foot, up a mountain, alone, after a snowcat vehicle full of armed convicts who were holding an FBI agent hostage. When he was told he was crazy for doing this, he said, "If I was a hostage, I'd want to know someone was coming after me." </p><p>That's the kind of man I want to be. </p><p><b><i>Chivalry</i></b></p><p>I treat women with deference; I treat them differently than I treat men, in some ways. I respect them, <i>even</i> <i>though</i> I go out of my way to hold doors for them. (I know that seems impossible, since all of the suspicions point to the fact that this is just cog in the wheel of an insidious plan to keep women feeling as if they need men, but bear with me.) Sure, I hold doors for dudes, but, I might throw the door open wide behind me so they can easily catch it and then say "thanks man" on the way through, but I'd never do that to a lady. I'd stand there and let her go through. </p><p>Why? Not because I don't think she <i>can</i> hold the door, but because I don't think she should <i>have</i> to. What did she do to deserve this? Women, for me, have always represented an ideal that we power-hungry, chest-beating men would do better to imitate. Women have a strength of spirit we only wish we had and that we historically have <i>pretended</i> to have by shooting others by and making labyrinthine rule-systems. Women are the source of life, literally, and they are no less than the bedrock of civilization. </p><p>Least I can do is let them go first through the door. That's the kind of man I want to be. </p><p><b><i>"Head of the Household"</i></b></p><p>I don't want to boss my family around, but I want them to feel like they want to turn to me when things get hard. I want my boys and my wife to see me as a source of courage and strength; of rationality and reliability; of safety. I want to be the captain to whose ship all of the sailors want to be assigned, not the one who is just known for running a tight ship. </p><p><b><i>Bringer of Balance</i></b></p><p>I want to be confident enough in my manliness to be able, occasionally, seek comfort from my wife when things overwhelm me. I have learned to ignore stupid machismo markers like "the man should always drive" and to, instead, focus on doing the things behind the scenes that keep my family happy and healthy -- to expect or desire exactly no credit for being a dad and a husband. As I once heard a mother say on a call in show, I want my children to "take me for granted." My thanks is their respect and healthy develpment, not attention for broadcast-actions of empty toughness. I don't want to spike the ball in the endzone, as if what I did was a big deal; I want to casually toss it to the ref as if I never broke a sweat. </p><p>That's the kind of man I want to be. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-80816787529931874232021-01-15T11:15:00.002-05:002021-01-15T11:26:04.431-05:00The Storming of the Cafeteria<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fcK4JVrY21Q/YAG_bH9USYI/AAAAAAAADxE/9ykKR1YH4HkymQgdBZT8tPUogWNGQESYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s220/show-photo-icon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="220" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fcK4JVrY21Q/YAG_bH9USYI/AAAAAAAADxE/9ykKR1YH4HkymQgdBZT8tPUogWNGQESYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/show-photo-icon.jpg" /></a></span></b></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><span>H</span></b>e was a new teacher in his present school, but he had come from a very wealthy boarding school. Through a series of innocuous circumstances, he'd had to move jobs. To his disappointment, he found himself in a public school with students who were below the standards he was used to, both academically and in terms of social status. He didn't mind the diversity...it's just that some of those kids were just not "fully civilized" as he'd said to his wife over dinner.</span><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The first time he sat down for lunch in his new school, he was disgusted. He was used to real cooking. This food wasn’t fit for second-place State Fair pig, let alone human children and adults. But the lunch was free, so he picked around and tried to eat only the least horrible of horribles each day; each day walking the halls back to his classroom muttering things like “garbage heap” and “no respect" and “a starving pit bull would turn away from…”</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>One day, after having gagged his way through the worst of the meals so far, he came back from lunch in a rage. (His salad had actually been slimy...and, was that a gnat? He shuddered.)</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">He glared, from under lowered eyebrows, at his students, who became afraid. What had they done? What was in store for them? They all liked him this new guy. He was “cool.” He never gave homework. He even cursed a little in class and had once let the “F-bomb” fly. They didn’t want him to be mad at them.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, he poured forth his feelings: For a full class period, forty-four minutes, he railed against the horrible quality of the cafeteria food. For the tax dollars the parents were paying, he argued, they should at least get to eat like human beings.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"If I were you," he said, "I would not accept this slop for another day! Why,” he pointed out, “should you get soggy fries and pink-slime hamburgers day after day? What does the administration take you for, fools? The principal is an idiot, the vice-principal is lazy and the whole administrative staff are dimwits. I also heard that they don't refrigerate their meat properly and that they keep sandwiches out over the weekend and serve them to us on Monday! Several teachers have said so. When you get down to lunch today, you need to make them change their ways! You are not idots. You are pigs at the trough! You've been brushed aside just so they can save a little money! Stand up for yourselves!"</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>"YEAH!" the kids responded. "YEAAAAH!!!" Fists were raised in the air; violent high-fives were given. The teacher's chest puffed out.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They started stomping on the floor and chanting "No-more-slop! NO-MORE-SLOP!"</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>The bell rang, and they spewed out of the classroom door like white water from the dam, chanting.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The supervisors in the hall were powerless to stop them or to calm them down.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In his classroom, our teacher opened a Thermos and poured out a good, strong cup of coffee, from home, sipped, sighing at the warmth and deliciousness.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When the kids breached the dining hall, they siezed the warming trays and dumped food on the floor. They whacked one of the lunch ladies on the temple with a big, metal spoon. Two boys urinated in the mashed potatoes. They toppled tables and spit on the lunchroom supervisors whom they'd forced into corners, all the while chanting: “NO-MORE-SLOP!”</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When called to task by the school's administration, the teacher said: "I didn't tell them to do trash anything. I didn't say one word about destruction or violence. All I did was mention that the food here should be better. It was probably that Roderiguez kid who talked them all into it. He is a problem, that kid."</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All of the kids involved were punished, thank goodness, for their monstrous behavior.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The teacher started bringing his lunch to school after that: delicious sandwiches made at a local gourmet delicatessen.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-54137429541191111692020-11-18T09:21:00.009-05:002020-11-18T10:51:04.827-05:00The Trump Plague<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kmr085NHPds/X7UtuY9UyWI/AAAAAAAADvk/zFiEumb4sdkLlkhzcfQbOjDJUwOBeW5XQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1800/hospital.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1348" data-original-width="1800" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kmr085NHPds/X7UtuY9UyWI/AAAAAAAADvk/zFiEumb4sdkLlkhzcfQbOjDJUwOBeW5XQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hospital.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">E</span></b>arly yesterday morning, our outgoing president Donald J. Trump, tweeted: "I won the Election!"<p></p><p>It was at this point that I decided I had had enough. What? No -- I had enough of that other stuff a few years ago. What I have <i>now</i> had enough of is the people who refer, condescendingly, to the opinion of anyone who dislikes Trump, as "the politics of personality." By this, they imply that (or outwardly state that) you don't have to like the president and that complaining about what kind of a guy he is is childish. </p><p>To me, this argument is something of a "straw man." It reduces how I and many others feel about Trump to a mere impression. It is an attempt to cast our distaste for the man as a superficial thing that is a step above not voting for him because of his face. </p><p>I would have a hard time listing politicians I <i>have</i> liked, to be honest with you. John McCain is one of the rarities. I liked President Obama very much, even when I often disagreed with his policies. As a guy, I liked George W. Bush, though I thought he was a poor president. Bill Clinton? I think he is a cheating, immoral creep, but he was, to me, a decent president, practically speaking. </p><p>So what I don't want to hear when I complain about Donald Trump is that I am engaging in the "politics of personality." Donald Trump is worse than unlikable and rude; his personality and behavior is a virus that has been here long before COVID-19: The Trump Plague. His personality has been and continues to be a disease that has infected the collective psyche of the American people. </p><p>Consider that Tweet: "I won the Election." Putting aside the energy he is putting in to tweeting about the election at the expense of, oh, working as the president, look at what he is <i>done</i>: only through an extended program of legitimizing whining, on the highest level in our country, could he not be called an unmanly ass by an overwhelming number of Americans. </p><p>The image <i>I</i> see is him on the floor of the presidential bedroom, pounding his feet and hands and screaming in a toddler-like rage <i>"I won the Election."</i> He is behaving in the way my father taught me not to. A man, my dad said, does not throw aside all dignity and whine about his losses. </p><p>(By the way: contesting one's losses? Sure. No problem. I support Trump's right to ask for recounts anywhere he wants. The truth is most important. To me. I'd rather suffer through four more years of his antics than have a president in office who was not truly selected by the American people. But, when the proverbial obese woman sings, will Trump accept the conclusions of court and investigations? No. He will continue to argue his case, regardless of evidence...and his followers will believe him over everyone else. Why? Because they believe, now, that it is more likely that one man is telling the truth -- just because they have decided for some reason that this person they never met is 100% trustworthy -- than that scores of courts and thousands of election officials are. This is he Trump infection.) </p><p>At any rate, my dad taught me, as I said, that whining about losses is unmanly. The scary part is that the same thing was taught by parents all over the country in my generation. Yet, somehow, Trump has managed to infect those who believed in such conservative principals about manly (and mature, womanly) behavior into forgetting all about it. What has caused people who traditionally have despised behaviors like his to laud those behaviors <i>when it comes to him</i> is a mystery. It is, if you will, The Trump Plague that seems not to have a vaccine. They simply can't see how this guy is the very opposite of everything they have stood for for decades... He simply is not a champion of true conservative values, yet they think he is. It's like declaring Michael Jackson the poster boy for positive body image. </p><p>Many others have talked about how he has destroyed the norms of the presidency; how he has reduced the Democratic principals to rubble while, at the same time, trumpeting about upholding the Constitution. I won't get into that, especially since I am not as savvy about politics as they. </p><p>His "fake news" tirades ("fake news" being any news he doesn't <i>like</i>) have destroyed the legitimate complaints about the media that I have always had but that I once communicated with a certain level of nuance: the news has always been biased and more interested in headline draw (and money) than in informing the public. But he has destroyed my ability to talk about that because of the black-and-white infection he has caused. If I point out "fake news" people in MAGA hats will be embracing me and liberals will label me as a moronic, rabid Trump follower. He has appropriated and warped the idea of criticizing the media. </p><p>Science? For a long time I have held the opinion -- and written about it -- that science has been slowly transformed into the new religion; that people worship and will not question science, even when science itself admits that it doesn't know all everything; that there are more mysteries than answers in the universe. But Trump chooses to ignore science completely and his followers fall, lock-step, into line. My criticism of science-worshippers probably looks identical to his in the minds of the MAGA hoards. The liberal side? They -- unless they read my work carefully -- are now most likely to see me as an ingnorant dismisser of scientific evidence, which I am not. Again, he has destroyed nuance and reason; he has made buckets into which all people fit -- but only two buckets. </p><p>Through his crassness and artless tenacity, he is now able to say that 2+2 = 5 and within minutes it will be the trending hashtag on Twitter. </p><p>His "personality" spreads like a virus. It is The Trump Plague. Bill Clinton is a worm, but he was not an infectious worm whose disease brought out irrationality and ignorance like a rash on people's souls. To moral people, he was just a pathetic womanizer and a seedy politician. </p><p>No other president has caused such disharmony -- a disharmony that is rationalized by his followers as a result of his "going against the grain" of the establishment. But if Trump had fought the good fight against the "deep state" with any outward degree of dignity or humanity, I'd have been more likely to believe in him. I, too, have, longed for politicians who are more "real." But he is not more real; he is a rude embarrassment whose behavior has been embraced by and that has amplified the worst parts of human nature. </p><p>All of this said, I have friends who, though they despise him as a man, think he has done good things as a president. Our difference is that they think his awfulness is worth it; that the outcomes make his sleazy immorality and obnoxious narcissism a non-issue (or less of an issue than I think it is). In short, they see him as infected, but not infectious -- more of a Clinton. Those people are <i>not</i> his sheep...they just see things differently than I do. I think they are wrong, but I respect their position. I like to say that even if Trump has been good for the body of America, he has been devastating for the spirit. </p><p>So, please, don't say I am engaging in the "politics of personality." That's a cute little deflection but it's about as effective as calling Biden "sleepy Joe." I don't want Trump out of office becuase I don't like him; I want him out of office because I've never seen a Presidential Plague like him. All over the soul of America, the cancer has spread; a cancer caused by arrogance, lies, meanness, and a total lack of human dignity. In the end, it has brought out the worst in all of us. </p><p>I don't hate Donald Trump. I am eminently embarrassed for him and I have a hard time seeing why everyone else is not. Can you picture the moment? He is sitting there with his phone... Was he afraid it had been too long since he posted? Was he trying to think of something clever to say? Was he red with anger? Whatever the situation was, he decided to send out the weakest and most pathetic of statements, after all the bluster and after all the days and days of legal challenges: "I won the Election." And, up to this moment, 251, 000 have seen that worthy of a "like" and 56, 000 have retweeted it. </p><p>That statement impressed them. How do you fight against that?</p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6693471143220681808.post-49919865232628221322020-08-18T11:47:00.001-04:002020-08-18T11:53:48.840-04:00The Incredible Tale of Phineas Schmidt (a Parable)<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gnwxxgm6MCQ/Xzv26QpQPcI/AAAAAAAADus/f7iwDf0euNwLLL-IZulTkA7gcbMj6dVagCLcBGAsYHQ/s700/explorer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="410" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gnwxxgm6MCQ/Xzv26QpQPcI/AAAAAAAADus/f7iwDf0euNwLLL-IZulTkA7gcbMj6dVagCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/explorer.jpg" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>T</b></span>he world was simmering in a new plague called COVID-19 and people shambled about with masks covering their mouths. Neighbors fell ill and the news buzzed with gloom, contradictions, and fear. <p></p><p>Phineas decided it was time to run, so he sold everything he owned, gave the money to charities for children, and spent the rest on a plane ticket and a backpack so that he could access the most remote wilderness on Earth. Better to die in the age-old struggle for survival than to perish a the hands of some unseen spectre conjured and sustained by the irresponsibility, ignorance and mishandlings of others. And, perhaps, he might even find happiness some in thre embrace of primeval, shadowy glade, immersed in silence...</p><p>The forest was thick and deep, and Phineas took only ways that were unmarked by the boots of men or the hooves of beasts. Some days, he moved mere yards forward, but what did it matter? He'd never have to be on time for anything again. The goal of each day was to simpy to live -- to survive, then to sit by a fire and ponder this most human of accomplishments: another day enscribed in the journal of Time. </p><p>For many days he moved through the bush, knowing, per the map of his mind, that he must be approaching the belly of this forest -- a stretch of uninhabited land that spanned millions of square miles...</p><p>One day, he reached a little pond that was shaped very much like a grizzly bear. (In fact, in centuries past, the natives had called it "Bear Cub Lake," but Phineas did not know this.) He took off his pack and paused to drink. He smiled at the shape of this placid tarn. </p><p>Before he put on his pack again, he bent to find a small, white rock, which he picked up and tossed into the cobalt blue. </p><p>As he turned to walk away, a mosquito landed oh his nose, so Phineas squashed it with his hand. He then rubbed his face to be sure there were no more bits of bug gore upon it. Then, he walked away. </p><p>A few weeks later, Phineas lay dead in a field of flowers. At first he'd felt hot; then, he had started coughing and, in his last few moments, gasping for air, he'd fallen in this field of flowers, amazed, as he was fading away, that he could smell none of them, though they surrounded his head in radiant abundance...</p><p>How could Phineas have known that, only a few hours before him, a young man who had also fled civilization, had passed that same "Bear Cub" pond, moving through this brief intersection of paths -- the Cartesian X to Phineas's Y; or that said young man had stood there, also admiring the water, and that a bug had flown into <i>his</i> mouth, causing the young man to spit; or that some of the young man's spittle would land on the very rock that Phineas would later pick up, with his bare hand, and throw into the pond before rubbing his face to clear way the body of the smashed mosquito?</p><p>Anyway, the last thing Phineas saw was the sky in which he saw a cloud in the shape of a bear. </p><p>The other man hiked on to build a snug cabin in a primeval, shadowy glade next to a chuckling brook and he grew fat on salmon and venison and died in happy isolation -- instantaneously, of a heart attack -- at a very old age, completely unaware that the civilized world had destroyed itself, with weapons and political discord, decades defore... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Matarazzohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17885109959459471509noreply@blogger.com0