THE INTRODUCTION: GOD CREATED THE HEAVEN AND THE EARTH.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void;
and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And
the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. Genesis 1:1,2
Allah it is who raised up the heavens without visible supports, then mounted the Throne, and compelled the sun and the moon to be of service, each runneth unto an appointed term; He ordereth the course; He detaileth the revelation, that haply ye may be certain of the meeting with your Lord. Koran XIII:2
THE OPPOSING VIEW: GOD IS A CORPOREAL BEING.
So God created man in his own image, in the
image of God created he him; male and female
created he them. Genesis 1:27
God slumped, sitting on a sidewalk in New York City. He slumped—back bent, head down. The rushing of human beings reminded him of the rushing tides he had created so long ago.
Chink, Chink.
He wore long white robes. Well, not exactly white—with age, they had yellowed and grayed until they were only dirty white robes. A rope cinched his waist. His sandals were worn, barely holding together. The hairs on his chin reached to his toes. If he had been in a red costume, the children would have recognized him as that friendly old man: Santa Claus.
Chink, Chink.
What have these humans done since I was last awake? He thought. He felt the hard covering enclosing mother earth. In fact, the walkway he was sitting on was not as soft and yielding as earth’s natural covering. “My good woman,” he said to the shriveled lady that stood in the door of her shop. “What is this covering I am sitting on?”
The woman, thin as a stick, pursed her lips into a frown. Angry wrinkles had already set around her mouth. “Get off my sidewalk.” She shouted. “You’re bad for business.”
Chink, Chink.
God stood up. The pile of coins, accumulating in his lap from quarters thrown by passersby, fell to the ground.
Chink, Chank, Chunk.
She rushed to the coins, trying to pick them up with her hands. But, the money kept slipping through her fingers. Unnoticed, God walked away leaving imprints in the sidewalk like footprints in the sand.
THE UNDERSTANDING: I ALSO ONCE BELIEVED.
And God saw that the wickedness of man
was great in the earth, and that every imagination
of the thoughts of his heart was only evil
continually. Genesis 6:5
Turtle and Coyote were friends. However this day, Turtle was in his most vulnerable position: his back. His legs and head moved up and down, down and up in frantic and intense movements. If he could find one rock, one obstruction in the smooth surface of the sandy bank, Turtle could flip over—right side up.
“Let me help. Let me help,” yipped Coyote. He laughed and rolled and jumped and just made a nuisance of himself.
Even though Turtle and Coyote were friends, Turtle knew that even Coyote couldn’t ignore his struggling. Eventually Coyote would forget they were friends and remember that Turtle was a nice juicy morsel of luscious protein. So Turtle snapped at Coyote, keeping his friend away.
Finally, Turtle began to tire. Coyote, who had been hopping high in the air to escape Turtle’s snapping jaws, found he only had to move his paws slightly to stay away from Turtle. To Turtle, Coyote looked like a Hindu dancer, using stylized movements and memorized stories to dance for the gods.
“Help me,” gasped Turtle.
In one movement, Coyote pounced on Turtle. He placed a paw on the weak spot of Turtle’s shell, then cracked the shell open. Quickly he grasped Turtle in his teeth.
“I thought you were going to help me,” Turtle said, mournfully.
Coyote swallowed Turtle whole. “I thought so too,” he said. “But after all, I am only a Coyote.”
MY POSITION: GOD IS A METAPHOR OF THE DIVINE MYSTERY.
The Spirit, without moving, is swifter than the mind; the senses cannot reach him: He is ever beyond them. Standing still, he overtakes those who run. To the ocean of his being, the spirit of life leads the streams of action.
He moves, and he moves not. He is far, and he is near. He is within all, and he is without all.
Who sees all beings in his own Self, and his own Self in all beings, loses all fear.
Isa Upanishads from Hindu’s Holy Writings
IN CONTEXT: GOD COULD BE ANOTHER NAME FOR LIFE FORCE.
Then shall the dust return to the
earth as it was: and the spirit shall
return unto God who gave it. Ecclesiastes 12:7
Coyote began to feel a burning in his belly.
“Turtle, turtle, what are you doing in there?”
A laugh came out from Coyote’s belly. Coyote rolled and whimpered. He scratched at his belly. Then, he heard the hammering, the buzzing, the sawing, and the humming.
“Turtle, turtle, what are you doing in there?”
A heat emanated from his belly, becoming hotter and hotter. Coyote looked as his belly: red, red, red. In one great leap, he jumped into the river. The river began to steam. Coyote jumped up and down like a large stick churning butter. “Yip, yip, yip,” he yelped. The fur on his belly smoked.
“Turtle, stop,” he yelled.
But, Turtle inside of Coyote’s belly refused to answer. Finally, the hammering, the buzzing, the sawing, and the humming stopped.
“Here we go!” shouted Turtle.
Coyote felt a heaviness in his belly; then he felt it go through his internal organs. He felt the heaviness getting closer and closer to his anal opening. He knew this was going to hurt. In only a few moments Turtle popped out in a new improved, hardened shell.
Coyote pounced, "DAMN! F**K!" He landed on Turtle’s new shell. The shell didn’t even bounce. Coyote kicked and screamed. He tried to break Turtle’s new shell. Turtle curled up inside—nice and cozy. Finally, Coyote stopped. He sat on the bank of the river, watching Turtle.
“Where did you find such a nice shell?” he asked.
“In your belly, of course,” said Turtle. “You even had an iron forge in there. I spent a day, a night, and a day constructing this beautiful shell. I suppose I should thank you.”
Coyote grinned—his tongue hanging out of his jaw. “Maybe you should,” he said.
Turtle looked back, remembering how he had ended up in Coyote’s belly. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Coyote about the weak spot in the bottom of his new shell.
THE BENEFITS: WE CAN BE ONE WITH THE TRANSCENDENT MYSTERY.
I and my Father are one. John 10:30
God stood on the moon, surveying the earth. What a beautiful jewel, he thought, one of my finest. His robe, sandals, and long beard floated, an impossibility in the oxygenless environment of the moon.
A bird, Raven, flew towards him and settled on his shoulder. For a moment, God had the staff and one eye of a northern god, but he settled back into his shape.
Raven held an egg in his jaws. God took the egg in his hand and gazed at it: such a perfect world in ovine form. “A cosmic egg,” he said. He held the egg in his hand, waiting for the beginning.
*Another essay that I wrote in 2000 for a English writing course. I was experiementing with two forms.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
I am a Rainbow
| You Are a Rainbow |
 You are totally enchanting and intriguing But you usually don't stick around long! You are best known for: your beauty Your dominant state: seducing |
Oh boy... I do love rainbows. And, if I see a double rainbow, it makes my day. I don't think that I am beautiful, just a misty breeze on a hot summer day.
Being an August baby, I understand how important hydration is for plants and animals.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Trash, Eagles, and Coming Home
This picture was in the Nevada Appeal recently. We see these eagles every once in awhile. They soar and float through the air. When one flies high, the little birds stop cheeping. There is a stillness over the land. You can almost feel the other birds tremble.
When the eagle flies away, then you can hear the air relax and the birds resume their business. Seeds, seeds... want to buy a seed. There are a few good seeds on the trashy balcony at the apartment complex in Carson City.
Seeds.... Seeds...
I remember the days when trash was burned in a barrel. The burn barrel was about 50 yards away from the house. We would start the fire and back away from it. My mother would hand me a bag to give to my father to burn. Being the inqusitive sort, I checked it. It was filled with napkins and smelled of ... old blood. I could not imagine why she would have a bag of these things hidden under the sink.
Oh well, I thought, different strokes for different folks.
As I became a teen, the burn duties went to the boys. My father would take the boys to the barrel, show them how to start the fire, and watch for sparks. Soon, it was the favorite duty. Yes, it was much more fun to watch paper burn, then to milk goats. Goats were prone to kick and head butt.
One day one of my brothers was caught with a "dirty" magazine. There was weeping and wailing in the house. My father took this brother by his neck to the burn barrel. My father made this brother rip the magazine to shreds. My brother watched his dreams go up, up...
An eagle drifted lazily in the sky above the smoke. I watched it stroke its powerful wings towards home.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Register
As I sit on a park bench writing this post, the birds are cheeping about love, sex, and nest building. It barely registers. Gray light is all around me. The clouds gather on the Sierras, leaving a light dusting of snow.
Register, register is the word for this week. I want to play with this word. I want to feel its clayness, but my mind has other ideas. It remembers the day I was attacked by a cash register.
It was probably 1977--end of the disco era and the Farah Faucett hairdo. My hair was too fine and too straight for the hairstyles. I remember that my hair was usually in my eyes or in my mouth. More mortifying than my unruly hair was my unruly mother. Everyone who did not know us thought she was my older sister. It was a great ego burst for her.
I worked at the Cow Palace. My first job at this fine establishment was as a counter girl. I took the orders and dispersed the drinks from the soda fountain next to my station. My boss liked my style so much and he lost an employee that I was offered the job of cashier. As I was only 16, he was allowed by law to offer me half what he had to pay an employee. Yes, I think that I was paid around two dollars an hour.
Anyway, I did not mind. I was going up... I had already become bored with the relish trays, the drinks, the orders, and the vacuous waitresses. One of the waitresses, who happened to be the owner's daughter, would show her belly button with her recent C-section scar to the busboys.
As a cashier, I was in charge of the money, the sacred dollar. My duty was to guard, protect, and to count-back the money--a lost art today.
One day, I reached under the cash tray to put a check. I pulled back my hand and rrrriiippp. Blood spewed everywhere. I went into instant shock. I slid onto the floor gasping, while my boss tried to put pressure on the hand. I think I fainted.
I still have the scar today. Ever since this terrible attack, I have not been able to successfully tame a cash register.
I have a powerful respect for cashiers--yea.
Weekly Anamnesis
Register, register is the word for this week. I want to play with this word. I want to feel its clayness, but my mind has other ideas. It remembers the day I was attacked by a cash register.
It was probably 1977--end of the disco era and the Farah Faucett hairdo. My hair was too fine and too straight for the hairstyles. I remember that my hair was usually in my eyes or in my mouth. More mortifying than my unruly hair was my unruly mother. Everyone who did not know us thought she was my older sister. It was a great ego burst for her.
I worked at the Cow Palace. My first job at this fine establishment was as a counter girl. I took the orders and dispersed the drinks from the soda fountain next to my station. My boss liked my style so much and he lost an employee that I was offered the job of cashier. As I was only 16, he was allowed by law to offer me half what he had to pay an employee. Yes, I think that I was paid around two dollars an hour.
Anyway, I did not mind. I was going up... I had already become bored with the relish trays, the drinks, the orders, and the vacuous waitresses. One of the waitresses, who happened to be the owner's daughter, would show her belly button with her recent C-section scar to the busboys.
As a cashier, I was in charge of the money, the sacred dollar. My duty was to guard, protect, and to count-back the money--a lost art today.
One day, I reached under the cash tray to put a check. I pulled back my hand and rrrriiippp. Blood spewed everywhere. I went into instant shock. I slid onto the floor gasping, while my boss tried to put pressure on the hand. I think I fainted.
I still have the scar today. Ever since this terrible attack, I have not been able to successfully tame a cash register.
I have a powerful respect for cashiers--yea.
Weekly Anamnesis
Friday, April 21, 2006
Great Minds Think Alike
Local weather conditions are warm and cloudy in the northern Nevada region. We may get a lightening bolt or two.Yep, I was wandering through the blogsphere when I noticed that Lord of the Idiots was also talking about severe weather. Check him out.
Great minds think alike.
Today is one of those days that you can see ten minutes of sunshine, ten minutes of light rain, and ten minutes of clouds--looping. But, it is warm enough that I have all my doors and windows open. Finches are serenading me on my balcony and seagulls are floating above the apartment complex. It can't get any better than this. Spring has finally hit us. I am just waiting for the sage to bloom.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Education-Lite
[Theme Music]
Larry King: This is the Larry King Live show. We are live from New York City. Today we have three professors with us from prominent universities to answer the question, "why should a member of the working community get a higher education?" With us, we have Dr. Bagsamonet a professor of the Business program at Harvard, Dr. Hindsight a professor of History from University of Maryland, and Dr. Clairemoré a professor of Religion from the Southern Baptist Institute.
[Pause. Professors smile at the camera.]
Larry King: Dr. Bagsamonet. Why should a we, members of the working community, get a higher education?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Well, Larry. Please call me Don. I believe since we live in a vigorous economy that a student should acquire education so that he or she can successfully prepare for a career and do his or her patriotic duty in our consumeristic society.
Larry King: Don, what patriotic duty are you referring to?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Cause and effect, Larry. Cause and effect. Our economy needs newer and better consumer goods. But, we also need a market for those goods. Once someone acquires a well-paying job, he or she becomes a productive member of the market economy and not only supplying new goods but also buying them. Only fair.
Larry King: Yes, sounds very logical.
[Pause]
Larry King: Dr. Hindsight. We've just heard from Don about his reason for our working class to acquire an education. What do you think the purpose of a college education is?
Dr. Hindsight: My esteemed colleague has allowed you to call him by name. Please my name is Artemis, but my friends call me Art.
Larry King: Well, Art what do you think is the purpose of college?
Dr. Hindsight: Of course, the purpose of a college education is to transmit civilization. Civilization is contained in our books, our full knowledge of the past. Without education all of our knowledge would fade away like the Aztecs when the Spaniards suppressed the history and knowledge of these indigenous people.
Larry King: Do you think we are in danger of losing our civilization?
Dr. Hindsight: Every day.
Dr. Bagsamonet: (clears throat) I have to disagree with Art's reasoning.
Larry King: What do you disagree with?
Dr. Bagsamonet: As long as we have a thriving country, with a thriving economy, and a thriving export model, we are in no danger of losing our society.
Larry King: Art, what do you have to say about that?
Dr. Hindsight: Larry, [a glance towards Don] a thriving economy does not indicate whether a civilization is weak or strong. The people of a civilization indicate the strength or weakness of that civilization through their knowledge and actions. Through recent events such as the Columbine shooting and L.A. riots (which were not that long ago), we can see a breakdown in our current society.
Larry King: Umm. We haven't heard from Dr. Clairemoré. Doctor what do you see as the purpose of education?
Dr. Clairemoré: I am fascinated with my colleagues opinions. Dr. Hindsight is not showing the breakdown of civilization, but a lack of morals within the social structure. I believe that a college education must plainly teach morals so that we can live together in a mutually beneficial society.
Larry King: Sharon. May I call you Sharon?
Dr. Clairemoré: Mr. King. I would prefer you to call me doctor.
Larry King: Doctor. What is your definition of a mutually beneficial society?
Dr. Clairemoré: A mutually beneficial society is one where the individuals in this society behave with the morals described in the Ten Commandments, while living lawful lives.
Larry King: Will there be any dissension or protests in this society, doctor?
Dr. Clairemoré: Oh absolutely not. That would be unlawful, don't you think?
Larry King: Art, Don do you think dissension should be outlawed?
Dr. Hindsight: Larry, absolutely not. We find in history that the people who dissent add another "voice of reason." Think of Susan B. Anthony for women's rights. Or Martin Luther King. Without protest our civilization would stagnate and eventually crumble.
Larry King: Don?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Larry, I have to agree with Dr. Clairemoré. Protest and dissension causes loss of working hours and eventually becomes expensive for business interests. A moral, lawful society is good for business.
Larry King: Thank you for your views. We have had an interesting discussion centered on the purpose of education. Though we left off on a tangent. Art, Don, Dr. Clairemoré, we are happy to have you on the show.
[Larry faces the camera. Theme music.]
Larry King: The purpose of education has become the top subject of academia around the country. If you want to learn more about the subject, visit our website at http://www.larrykinglive.com/. We are always happy to get your comments about the show.
[Theme Music fades]
*This paper was written in 2000 for an English literary class. It was my take on how information is disseminated through our culture...very little, but on popular shows. ;-)
Larry King: This is the Larry King Live show. We are live from New York City. Today we have three professors with us from prominent universities to answer the question, "why should a member of the working community get a higher education?" With us, we have Dr. Bagsamonet a professor of the Business program at Harvard, Dr. Hindsight a professor of History from University of Maryland, and Dr. Clairemoré a professor of Religion from the Southern Baptist Institute.
[Pause. Professors smile at the camera.]
Larry King: Dr. Bagsamonet. Why should a we, members of the working community, get a higher education?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Well, Larry. Please call me Don. I believe since we live in a vigorous economy that a student should acquire education so that he or she can successfully prepare for a career and do his or her patriotic duty in our consumeristic society.
Larry King: Don, what patriotic duty are you referring to?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Cause and effect, Larry. Cause and effect. Our economy needs newer and better consumer goods. But, we also need a market for those goods. Once someone acquires a well-paying job, he or she becomes a productive member of the market economy and not only supplying new goods but also buying them. Only fair.
Larry King: Yes, sounds very logical.
[Pause]
Larry King: Dr. Hindsight. We've just heard from Don about his reason for our working class to acquire an education. What do you think the purpose of a college education is?
Dr. Hindsight: My esteemed colleague has allowed you to call him by name. Please my name is Artemis, but my friends call me Art.
Larry King: Well, Art what do you think is the purpose of college?
Dr. Hindsight: Of course, the purpose of a college education is to transmit civilization. Civilization is contained in our books, our full knowledge of the past. Without education all of our knowledge would fade away like the Aztecs when the Spaniards suppressed the history and knowledge of these indigenous people.
Larry King: Do you think we are in danger of losing our civilization?
Dr. Hindsight: Every day.
Dr. Bagsamonet: (clears throat) I have to disagree with Art's reasoning.
Larry King: What do you disagree with?
Dr. Bagsamonet: As long as we have a thriving country, with a thriving economy, and a thriving export model, we are in no danger of losing our society.
Larry King: Art, what do you have to say about that?
Dr. Hindsight: Larry, [a glance towards Don] a thriving economy does not indicate whether a civilization is weak or strong. The people of a civilization indicate the strength or weakness of that civilization through their knowledge and actions. Through recent events such as the Columbine shooting and L.A. riots (which were not that long ago), we can see a breakdown in our current society.
Larry King: Umm. We haven't heard from Dr. Clairemoré. Doctor what do you see as the purpose of education?
Dr. Clairemoré: I am fascinated with my colleagues opinions. Dr. Hindsight is not showing the breakdown of civilization, but a lack of morals within the social structure. I believe that a college education must plainly teach morals so that we can live together in a mutually beneficial society.
Larry King: Sharon. May I call you Sharon?
Dr. Clairemoré: Mr. King. I would prefer you to call me doctor.
Larry King: Doctor. What is your definition of a mutually beneficial society?
Dr. Clairemoré: A mutually beneficial society is one where the individuals in this society behave with the morals described in the Ten Commandments, while living lawful lives.
Larry King: Will there be any dissension or protests in this society, doctor?
Dr. Clairemoré: Oh absolutely not. That would be unlawful, don't you think?
Larry King: Art, Don do you think dissension should be outlawed?
Dr. Hindsight: Larry, absolutely not. We find in history that the people who dissent add another "voice of reason." Think of Susan B. Anthony for women's rights. Or Martin Luther King. Without protest our civilization would stagnate and eventually crumble.
Larry King: Don?
Dr. Bagsamonet: Larry, I have to agree with Dr. Clairemoré. Protest and dissension causes loss of working hours and eventually becomes expensive for business interests. A moral, lawful society is good for business.
Larry King: Thank you for your views. We have had an interesting discussion centered on the purpose of education. Though we left off on a tangent. Art, Don, Dr. Clairemoré, we are happy to have you on the show.
[Larry faces the camera. Theme music.]
Larry King: The purpose of education has become the top subject of academia around the country. If you want to learn more about the subject, visit our website at http://www.larrykinglive.com/. We are always happy to get your comments about the show.
[Theme Music fades]
*This paper was written in 2000 for an English literary class. It was my take on how information is disseminated through our culture...very little, but on popular shows. ;-)
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Was I Ever This Young?
Folks, it is spring break again. House finches chirp on my balcony as they scramble for sunflower seeds. They push each other off the table saw, looking for the nicest, juiciest seeds.
On the lawn, ten or eleven year old girls roam the apartment complex, giggling at each other.
"Oh yea, Bob," says one of these interchangeable barbie dolls. "He's cute."
"And," giggles another "Tyler's so ugly."
I clomp up the stairs, holding on to the railing. The girls behind me are waiting for me to reach the top of the stairs so that they can rush up them. They are in the next apartment long before I have the keys out.
Ouch. Was I ever that young?
I suppose all adults feel the same way. Where is that rush of adrenaline that we had in our pre-teens and teens. Dang it. Is it only once and then we wish for it forever and ever?
Is youth wasted on the young?
Well, here is the proof that I was young once. About seven years old and citizen of the month. If I remember correctly, you had to finish your assignments and not chew gum. Yes, Mrs. Tetamore hated that substance, especially when she reached under her desk and found a glob. I was shy. I was ill-kept. I think that my teacher had to brush my hair before this picture was taken.
Back to the giggly girls. Geez. I remember looking at boys and wondering what it would be like to talk to one. They were from a different planet. I had brothers, but they were babies. All they could do was drink milk, spit up, and poop. It has only been recently that I could look at my thirty year old brother without remembering the diapers. Yea, Calvin... uh, huh.
So, how can I relate when I look at these little girls? They are from another planet. They have so much free time. Maybe a little indulgence on my part? Heck no.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Illustration
Words are black and white scratches on a white surface. They can barely illustrate the life of a man, a man like my great-great-grandfather Joseph Robert Meservy.
Grandma Jane was a bony woman. Some days she could barely climb out of bed. She had stomach cancer. The medications and the disease were so harsh on her body that she looked skeletal. She lived in her oldest son's house, my grandfather.
On her wall, framed, was a calligraphy drawing of a peacock in turquoise blue, red, yellow, and green. The peacock grew out of the words Joseph R. Meservy.
"Who was he," I asked. Grandma Jane touched the glass, covering the drawing.
"My father," she said. Next to the drawing was a photo of young girls in front of an old building. "He was a schoolteacher, an artist, a missionary, and a good man."
All that was left of him was the calligraphy and the memories of Grandma Jane.
I sat next to her as she knitted a pair of baby booties. She told me of the time when she had four babies and her husband, a good Mormon, brought a woman to her house.
She can live with us, he had told her. Grandma Jane did not hold with that polygamy stuff. She threw him and that woman out of the house. She packed up her children and took them home to Papa. He and her brothers helped her build a house and homestead property near them. They barely had enough to eat, but they made it.
I knew that my grandpa had been a bank examiner. I knew from the stories my grandpa told that he worked in a lumberyard as a young child, making a quarter or two sweeping up sawdust. It was hard living without a dad. I had heard members of my family wonder why she threw out such a good Mormon man. They figured that she was just hard to live with.
I listened to Grandma Jane tell her stories in a dusty voice. Her past came alive. She was a strong independent woman, living in a hard world. Through her, I met my great-great-grandfather and I met my distant past.
Weekly Anamnesis
Bagley, Jane Ophelia, b. 11 Feb 1888, d. 09 Jul 1983
Grandma Jane was a bony woman. Some days she could barely climb out of bed. She had stomach cancer. The medications and the disease were so harsh on her body that she looked skeletal. She lived in her oldest son's house, my grandfather.
On her wall, framed, was a calligraphy drawing of a peacock in turquoise blue, red, yellow, and green. The peacock grew out of the words Joseph R. Meservy.
"Who was he," I asked. Grandma Jane touched the glass, covering the drawing.
"My father," she said. Next to the drawing was a photo of young girls in front of an old building. "He was a schoolteacher, an artist, a missionary, and a good man."
All that was left of him was the calligraphy and the memories of Grandma Jane.
I sat next to her as she knitted a pair of baby booties. She told me of the time when she had four babies and her husband, a good Mormon, brought a woman to her house.
She can live with us, he had told her. Grandma Jane did not hold with that polygamy stuff. She threw him and that woman out of the house. She packed up her children and took them home to Papa. He and her brothers helped her build a house and homestead property near them. They barely had enough to eat, but they made it.
I knew that my grandpa had been a bank examiner. I knew from the stories my grandpa told that he worked in a lumberyard as a young child, making a quarter or two sweeping up sawdust. It was hard living without a dad. I had heard members of my family wonder why she threw out such a good Mormon man. They figured that she was just hard to live with.
I listened to Grandma Jane tell her stories in a dusty voice. Her past came alive. She was a strong independent woman, living in a hard world. Through her, I met my great-great-grandfather and I met my distant past.
Weekly Anamnesis
Bagley, Jane Ophelia, b. 11 Feb 1888, d. 09 Jul 1983
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Shiver
The word, shiver, invokes a lot of primordial feelings that reach back into my childhood. I remember lying on my bed in the dark, hearing voices speak, seeing colors under my eyelids, and feeling a hand around my throat. I would wake hard, searching for whoever, whatever was in my room.
The small rocker in the corner would rock slightly back and forth. I would force my face into my teddy bear, looking for comfort.
By this time, I had had so many nightmares that my parents would not let me come into their room for comfort. Even so, after I checked to see that I was alone, except for my sisters snoring in their beds, I would slide from the top bunk to the floor. I would slip down the hall, then try the door. It would be locked.
I would slide down to the floor, my arms wrapped around me--shivering and shaking. Now I would have to go back to my bed. I would rather fall asleep on the floor near comfort. They would find me in the morning--cold and wet.
Nevertheless, these experiences would only happen in the dark of night.
One day, after Sunday School near Halloween, some friends and I were in the kitchen playing a board game. This game featured pumpkins, witches, and ghouls. The first one to get to the end of the game would be pardoned from washing the dishes. It was competitive.
I had to go to the bathroom. I waited until I couldn't wait any more. I ran to the bathroom near my bedroom. I could hear my father outside mowing the lawn. I saw my mother on her bed sleeping next to the baby.
After I flushed, I walked out the bathroom door. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Nothing. I stoppped.
I could not hear the children in the kitchen. I could not hear my mother or father.
I ran to the bedroom and my mother was not there. I ran to the kitchen. The children were gone. The kitchen was clean.
I went to the front door. By then, I was shaking, my shoulders were tense. I touched the doorknob. It was then I knew that if I walked out that door that I would never come back again.
I drew back from the door and ran back to the bathroom. It was the only safe place in the house. I sat on the toilet. I flushed. I prayed that when I opened the door that I would be back...back to my place.
I opened the door.
Weekly Anamnesis
The small rocker in the corner would rock slightly back and forth. I would force my face into my teddy bear, looking for comfort.
By this time, I had had so many nightmares that my parents would not let me come into their room for comfort. Even so, after I checked to see that I was alone, except for my sisters snoring in their beds, I would slide from the top bunk to the floor. I would slip down the hall, then try the door. It would be locked.
I would slide down to the floor, my arms wrapped around me--shivering and shaking. Now I would have to go back to my bed. I would rather fall asleep on the floor near comfort. They would find me in the morning--cold and wet.
Nevertheless, these experiences would only happen in the dark of night.
One day, after Sunday School near Halloween, some friends and I were in the kitchen playing a board game. This game featured pumpkins, witches, and ghouls. The first one to get to the end of the game would be pardoned from washing the dishes. It was competitive.
I had to go to the bathroom. I waited until I couldn't wait any more. I ran to the bathroom near my bedroom. I could hear my father outside mowing the lawn. I saw my mother on her bed sleeping next to the baby.
After I flushed, I walked out the bathroom door. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Nothing. I stoppped.
I could not hear the children in the kitchen. I could not hear my mother or father.
I ran to the bedroom and my mother was not there. I ran to the kitchen. The children were gone. The kitchen was clean.
I went to the front door. By then, I was shaking, my shoulders were tense. I touched the doorknob. It was then I knew that if I walked out that door that I would never come back again.
I drew back from the door and ran back to the bathroom. It was the only safe place in the house. I sat on the toilet. I flushed. I prayed that when I opened the door that I would be back...back to my place.
I opened the door.
Weekly Anamnesis
Saturday, April 15, 2006
On Pink
Cherry trees have started to blossom in Carson City, Nevada. As I walk around my apartment complex, the trees which are smaller than this picture are covered in pink flowers.Our trees are immature. But, they still burst with flowers, making known to the world that spring is here.
Just last week or was it a few days ago? Yes. Recently, we had snow. The finches, jays, and starlings shivered on our balcony. The finches were cuddled up together for warmth or for contact. They are gregarious.
Now they chase each other away from their favorite females. Even so, we have not seen a female goldfinch for awhile. The male goldfinches have suddenly molted into a bright gold, leaving their dull winter plumage on the ground.
It is in the 50's and 60's in temperature, but soon we will see 70's, 80's, and then 90's. I should not mention that we sometimes see temperature over the 100's. No, I do not want to think about it. Not, yet. I want to enjoy the sun, the clouds, the birds, the trees. I want to enjoy the spring plumage. I want to enjoy the celebration of pink and white flowers.
Soon, the petals will float down, covering the ground. Then, one more spring will be over.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Springtime with California Quail
We are infested with California Quail, who run through our yards and stand on our roofs.I looked up today at my apartment, which is two stories. Ten quails were peeking over the edge of the roof.
These birds are funny, goofy. They run in front of cars. They stop suddenly then rush through... always scared of what they see and what they cannot see.
I suppose it is because they are the rabbits of the bird world.
Last year when I was taking my walk through the neighborhood, I heard cheeping coming from a tall pine. I looked closer. In the tree concealed against the needles and branches were twenty to twenty-five quails of all sizes.
I walked away so not to scare them.
Where do they go in winter? I only see them in spring and summer. They seem to disappear after the first freeze. What is so important to a quail?
*Picture from Birds of the Pacific Northwest.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Plato Academy
“‘Access to power must be confined to men who are not in love with it’ Plato” announced a small plaque, which hung on the wall in front of the class. The walnut-framed plaque was the only decoration in this simple classroom, a classroom decorated in gray: walls, ceiling, and floors. He stood, a tall man with narrowed eyes and mouth, observing the children seated at long wooden tables filled with books of science, math, and history. The children wore gray and blue uniforms with a gold monogrammed letter on their vest pockets. The boys and girls with their short brown hair resembled peas from the same pod, kernels from the same corncob. The room, the man, and the children reflected a gray picture of sameness.
He stood, observing the children. In an ordinary classroom, the noise would be deafening, a chaotic cross-beat of voices as each child read aloud. However, these children read in the same rhythm, the listener almost believing he could hear a chant of wisdom. For these children were not ordinary: they represented the intellectual and genetic marvels of their generation. We made them, he thought. With science and education, we have made Plato’s philosopher-kings. In their secret meetings, some scientists objected to this experiment. “Why not use children off the streets? Why do we need to use clones?” they asked. But after showing the test results of common children, while comparing the same tests with the created children. . . Well. He smiled. With any other mention of his use of clones, he reminded his partners that of yet clones do not have legal status. The use of natural-born children could be precarious. For, if natural-born children received harm during an experiment, the consequences could not only become expensive but also might end their research. Better to keep this research out of the public eye. His partners began to see things his way. Clones have no legal status; they were lower on the legal scale than animals. His thoughts turned back to the children, their heads bent in concentration. We made them; they are ours. He straightened his spine, raised his head, and looked closely at his charges. They are perfect, as perfect as our science will let us create.
He stood, noticing a change. One child, a golden girl-child, with a blue highlighter in her left hand sat in front of a gray wall drawing a blue cloud. She hummed. The song cut across the chant of the other children—a frisson of dissonance. No, no, he thought, not again. He looked for, despaired over creativity. But not this child, his mind wailed. The child, a natural heir of the Academy, . . . this child’s intelligence scores soared above the others. She eagerly conquered each lesson in history, government, and law. But, they had never been able to complete the experiment with children of her intellectual level. Other children on her same level had had to be returned, their DNA recycled. He did not want to think of the fate of this child, made from his own hands. The children, this child, contained the future of civilization. He had spent hours tracing the genomes in this child. She had the DNA of Churchill and Roosevelt. Her potential shone—a bright hope for humanity. Then she took the next step. With her blue highlighter, she began to mark sounds, words, and verses on the walls. A little boy watching her began to hum his own song. The girl child’s enthusiasm infected the other children, making them forget their duty. Plato had warned about the poet—the individual. He warned that the poet endangered society by seeing the world separately from the mores of the group. And seeing, knowing the truth of Plato, he felt his hopes crashing. His perfect child had the mind and the heart of the poet.
He stood, seeing in his mind’s eye the poet in action: questioning the status quo, questioning traditions, and questioning the here-and-now. He ruminated. I have done this before. I can make another clone. This child can not, will not destroy my life’s work. It would just take one moment, one moment with my hands and this little girl with her little neck will be gone, finished, he thought. I cannot let her ruin my dreams. I must stop her now.
He walked towards her, the little girl—the infection.
© 2002 Cynthia E. Bagley, all rights reserved.
Published in Bibliophilos 2002.
He stood, observing the children. In an ordinary classroom, the noise would be deafening, a chaotic cross-beat of voices as each child read aloud. However, these children read in the same rhythm, the listener almost believing he could hear a chant of wisdom. For these children were not ordinary: they represented the intellectual and genetic marvels of their generation. We made them, he thought. With science and education, we have made Plato’s philosopher-kings. In their secret meetings, some scientists objected to this experiment. “Why not use children off the streets? Why do we need to use clones?” they asked. But after showing the test results of common children, while comparing the same tests with the created children. . . Well. He smiled. With any other mention of his use of clones, he reminded his partners that of yet clones do not have legal status. The use of natural-born children could be precarious. For, if natural-born children received harm during an experiment, the consequences could not only become expensive but also might end their research. Better to keep this research out of the public eye. His partners began to see things his way. Clones have no legal status; they were lower on the legal scale than animals. His thoughts turned back to the children, their heads bent in concentration. We made them; they are ours. He straightened his spine, raised his head, and looked closely at his charges. They are perfect, as perfect as our science will let us create.
He stood, noticing a change. One child, a golden girl-child, with a blue highlighter in her left hand sat in front of a gray wall drawing a blue cloud. She hummed. The song cut across the chant of the other children—a frisson of dissonance. No, no, he thought, not again. He looked for, despaired over creativity. But not this child, his mind wailed. The child, a natural heir of the Academy, . . . this child’s intelligence scores soared above the others. She eagerly conquered each lesson in history, government, and law. But, they had never been able to complete the experiment with children of her intellectual level. Other children on her same level had had to be returned, their DNA recycled. He did not want to think of the fate of this child, made from his own hands. The children, this child, contained the future of civilization. He had spent hours tracing the genomes in this child. She had the DNA of Churchill and Roosevelt. Her potential shone—a bright hope for humanity. Then she took the next step. With her blue highlighter, she began to mark sounds, words, and verses on the walls. A little boy watching her began to hum his own song. The girl child’s enthusiasm infected the other children, making them forget their duty. Plato had warned about the poet—the individual. He warned that the poet endangered society by seeing the world separately from the mores of the group. And seeing, knowing the truth of Plato, he felt his hopes crashing. His perfect child had the mind and the heart of the poet.
He stood, seeing in his mind’s eye the poet in action: questioning the status quo, questioning traditions, and questioning the here-and-now. He ruminated. I have done this before. I can make another clone. This child can not, will not destroy my life’s work. It would just take one moment, one moment with my hands and this little girl with her little neck will be gone, finished, he thought. I cannot let her ruin my dreams. I must stop her now.
He walked towards her, the little girl—the infection.
© 2002 Cynthia E. Bagley, all rights reserved.
Published in Bibliophilos 2002.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
On White
Seagulls float on the up and down drafts near our mountains and hills. Today, as I was going about my business of picking up my medications and dry cleaning, three birds were perched on the light poles in the Safeway's (grocery store) parking lot.Scree he he he. Scree he he he. These seagulls yelled across the lot. I checked to see if maybe one of the birds was pointing with his wing at my direction. It just sounded like they were making fun of someone and being the only one standing there, it was probably me.
I wondered why a seagull would fly across the Sierras and would live on this side so far away from the ocean. Aren't they sea birds?
My husband painfully explains in a loud voice in slow measures that there is several large bodies of water and that water birds... love water. Uh, huh, I say back with a blank look on my face.
So what? Seagulls should be near the sea. Has anyone told them that little fact?
But, today as the gray clouds rush down and drop rain on our small city, the seagulls look like they belong here.
Scree he he he. Scree he he he. I can almost hear the ocean in their voices.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
On Blue
Each morning, the scrub jays stop by for a peanut. Those peanuts that do not pass inpsection are dropped on the balcony. We gather them up and put them back on the table saw, but we find the same peanuts back on the floor.How do they know?
I have seen blue jays in Montana steal potato chip bags. They strip the crackling silver and decorate their nests. These Western Scrub-Jays are a little different.
One day I put strips of aluminum foil for them to find. They ignored the shininess and went for the peanuts. Oh glorious.
In literature and songs, blue is a sadness that overcomes a person. For me, blue is the bird who sits on my balcony, cocks his head, and flashes his wings... for peanuts.
The birds know me. As I walk through the apartment complex, a pair of scrub jays follow me. They squawk. I walk faster and watch them fly to my balcony. Maybe they want fresh peanuts or maybe they just want to talk. We spread a variety of seeds out for the bird palate--thistle, sunflowers, and peanuts.
So am I glorifying scrub jays or am I glorifying peanuts? Only the birds know.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Announcing a New Major Technological Breakthrough!
Introducing... a new Bio-Optic Organized Knowledge device, trade named: BOOK
BOOK is a revolutionary breakthrough in technology: no wires, no electric circuits, no batteries, nothing to be connected or switched on. It's so easy to use, even a child can operate it. Compact and portable, it can be used anywhere -- even sitting in an armchair by the fire -- yet it is powerful enough to hold as much information as a CD-ROM disc. Here's how it works:
BOOK is constructed of sequentially numbered sheets of paper (recyclable), each capable of holding thousands of bits of information. The pages are locked together with a custom-fit device called a binder, which keeps the sheets in their correct sequence.
Opaque Paper Technology (OPT) allows manufacturers to use both sides of the sheet, doubling the information density and cutting costs. Experts are divided on the prospects for further increases in information density; for now, BOOKs with more information simply use more pages.
Each sheet is scanned optically, registering information directly into your brain. A flick of the finger takes you to the next sheet. BOOK may be taken up at any time and used merely by opening it.
Unlike other display devices, BOOK never crashes or requires rebooting, and it can even be dropped on the floor or stepped on without damage. However, it can become unusable if immersed in water for a significant period of time. The "browse" feature allows you to move instantly to any sheet and move forward or backward as you wish. Many come with an "index" feature, which pinpoints the exact location of selected information for instant retrieval.
An optional "BOOKmark" accessory allows you to open BOOK to the exact place you left it in a previous session -- even if the BOOK has been closed. BOOKmarks fit universal design standards; thus, a single BOOKmark can be used in BOOKs by various manufacturers. Conversely, numerous BOOKmarkers can be used in a single BOOK if the user wants to store numerous views at once. The number is limited only by the number of pages in the BOOK.
You can also make personal notes next to BOOK text entries with an optional programming tool, the Portable Erasable Nib Cryptic Intercommunication Language Stylus (PENCILS).
Portable, durable, and affordable, BOOK is being hailed as a precursor of a new entertainment wave. Also, BOOK's appeal seems so certain that thousands of content creators have committed to the platform and investors are reportedly flocking. Look for a flood of new titles soon!
BOOK is a revolutionary breakthrough in technology: no wires, no electric circuits, no batteries, nothing to be connected or switched on. It's so easy to use, even a child can operate it. Compact and portable, it can be used anywhere -- even sitting in an armchair by the fire -- yet it is powerful enough to hold as much information as a CD-ROM disc. Here's how it works:
BOOK is constructed of sequentially numbered sheets of paper (recyclable), each capable of holding thousands of bits of information. The pages are locked together with a custom-fit device called a binder, which keeps the sheets in their correct sequence.
Opaque Paper Technology (OPT) allows manufacturers to use both sides of the sheet, doubling the information density and cutting costs. Experts are divided on the prospects for further increases in information density; for now, BOOKs with more information simply use more pages.
Each sheet is scanned optically, registering information directly into your brain. A flick of the finger takes you to the next sheet. BOOK may be taken up at any time and used merely by opening it.
Unlike other display devices, BOOK never crashes or requires rebooting, and it can even be dropped on the floor or stepped on without damage. However, it can become unusable if immersed in water for a significant period of time. The "browse" feature allows you to move instantly to any sheet and move forward or backward as you wish. Many come with an "index" feature, which pinpoints the exact location of selected information for instant retrieval.
An optional "BOOKmark" accessory allows you to open BOOK to the exact place you left it in a previous session -- even if the BOOK has been closed. BOOKmarks fit universal design standards; thus, a single BOOKmark can be used in BOOKs by various manufacturers. Conversely, numerous BOOKmarkers can be used in a single BOOK if the user wants to store numerous views at once. The number is limited only by the number of pages in the BOOK.
You can also make personal notes next to BOOK text entries with an optional programming tool, the Portable Erasable Nib Cryptic Intercommunication Language Stylus (PENCILS).
Portable, durable, and affordable, BOOK is being hailed as a precursor of a new entertainment wave. Also, BOOK's appeal seems so certain that thousands of content creators have committed to the platform and investors are reportedly flocking. Look for a flood of new titles soon!
Friday, April 07, 2006
My Power Color
| Your Power Color Is Magenta |
 You energize yourself and push others to suceed. At Your Lowest: You feel frustrated and totally overwhelmed. In Love: You are suprised by who you attract. You're a love magnet. How You're Attractive: Open and free spirited, people want to explore the world with you. Your Eternal Question: "What is my next source of inspiration?" |
Yep... I am a LUV magnet. Ok maybe that was too much. I am sitting here on my folding chair, listening intently for my newest inspiration. TA DA!!!
Maybe I should be a comedy writer. No, maybe I should write another poem. No. Maybe I should ride off into the sunset and collect cactus.
Mustang Sally.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Another Rheumatology Visit
My visits to my Rheumatologist, Dr. Scully, is now at one a quarter vs. one a month. Yahoo! He showed me my labs from a couple weeks ago. My SED rate has dropped to about 55. My SED rate was 96 when I changed from Cytoxan to Imuran.SED is an inflammation marker. When it drops, it is time for me to celebrate. I have a glass of FAKE wine.
Some of the medications that I am taking have been giving me a good reason to gain weight. In short, I am chubby.
So my doc, inspired by all doctors in the U.S., talked to me about getting a good physical program that lasts about 30 minutes a day. He also talked about rotating exercise so that I get a good workout between my upper body and lower body.
So ... Mark from LORD of the IDIOTS... you are required to fly to Carson City, Nevada and we will start an exercise program to make that weight disappear. You are not allowed to bring your food processor. Yuck! Hup. Two. Hup. Two.
Or we will have a virtual competition to condition that body. I guess that I can LIE as good as anybody else. ;-)
It was funny. My doc did not promise that I would lose weight. He promised that my body would become conditioned.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
On Spring
Sipping a cup of coffee, I turn off the T.V., light a candle, and listen to the strains of "I hunger for you," which seduce my senses.On the balcony, the house and goldfinches eat thistles and seeds. They fly to the fir tree whenever the scrub jays hop onto the balcony for peanuts.
We are in that transition period between winter and spring. Spring has been hesitant to grace our part of the world. Today looks like rain and more rain, and if it gets colder--snow.
Funny, that I would be crying about the cold and snow. Only a few months ago, the temperature was over one hundred degrees. My air conditioner had died. My sweat soaked the sheets. I was overheated and tired.
Chewee wee. Chewee wee. The finches yell from my balcony. The acoustics must be good. They ignore the cold wet weather and get on with it. There are so many beautiful young finch lovelies waiting to build nests and have chicks. And, they are finch enough to take care of the problem.
Can it be a year? Yes, it has been a year since my husband and I threw all our personal belongings into a Uhaul truck and drove to Carson City, Nevada. One cycle of life...
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
A Blonde Joke
Thank you Patricia for sending this to me. I believe that this joke needs to be permeated throughout the blogsphere.
The very first ever Blonde GUY joke..... And well worth the wait!
An Irishman , a Mexican and a Blonde Guy were doing construction work on scaffolding on the 65th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper.
While they were eating lunch one day, the Irishman said, "Corned beef and cabbage! If I get corned beef and cabbage for lunch one more time, I'm going to jump off this building."
The Mexican opened his lunch box and exclaimed, "Burritos again! If I get burritos one more time, I'm going to jump off, too."
The Blonde Guy opened his lunch and said, " Bologna again! If I get a bologna sandwich one more time, I'm jumping too."
The next day, the Irishman opened his lunch box, saw corned beef and cabbage, and jumped to his death. The Mexican opened his lunch, saw a burrito, and jumped, too. The Blonde Guy opened his lunch, saw the bologna and jumped to his death as well.
At the funeral, the Irishman's wife was weeping.She said, "If I'd known how really tired he was of corned beef and cabbage, I never would have given it to him again!"
The Mexican's wife also wept and said, "I could have given him tacos or enchiladas! I didn't realize he hated burritos so much."
Everyone turned and stared at the Blonde Guy's wife. She said, "Don't look at me. He makes his own lunch."
The very first ever Blonde GUY joke..... And well worth the wait!
An Irishman , a Mexican and a Blonde Guy were doing construction work on scaffolding on the 65th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper.
While they were eating lunch one day, the Irishman said, "Corned beef and cabbage! If I get corned beef and cabbage for lunch one more time, I'm going to jump off this building."
The Mexican opened his lunch box and exclaimed, "Burritos again! If I get burritos one more time, I'm going to jump off, too."
The Blonde Guy opened his lunch and said, " Bologna again! If I get a bologna sandwich one more time, I'm jumping too."
The next day, the Irishman opened his lunch box, saw corned beef and cabbage, and jumped to his death. The Mexican opened his lunch, saw a burrito, and jumped, too. The Blonde Guy opened his lunch, saw the bologna and jumped to his death as well.
At the funeral, the Irishman's wife was weeping.She said, "If I'd known how really tired he was of corned beef and cabbage, I never would have given it to him again!"
The Mexican's wife also wept and said, "I could have given him tacos or enchiladas! I didn't realize he hated burritos so much."
Everyone turned and stared at the Blonde Guy's wife. She said, "Don't look at me. He makes his own lunch."
Monday, April 03, 2006
On Writing
In reality, I have been writing like most of you since I was nine or ten years old. But even before I could write, about four years old, I would scribble letters and "read" them to my friends.
I guess that I was a strange child. My only friends were books. While other children were running and screaming, I was sitting on my pottie with my pants down looking at Dr. Suess books. I was so excited when I learned how to read that I have not quit since. I read all the time.
Sometimes I don't write because I am reading. But I do remember that this essay is on writing.
I never understood how hard it is for some people to write words and then sentences, paragraphs and then essays. I knew that if you put one word after another that finally you would have said all that you needed to say in three pages or less.
Once when I was eleven, I had the opportunity to shape a vase from clay. When I was finished, I painted my misshapen vase blue and it was fired in the kiln. All of the children around me were able to make beautiful decorative cups and vases. Mine could barely stand.
But, I learned something. Words, sentences, and paragraphs are like clay. I shape them in my mind and feel the sentences and words become works of art. My medium is not the physical: it is the etheral.
Also, words have weight, color, and tone. For instance, what would you pick? Walk or amble. Each word means something slightly different and brings a different picture to my mind. I walk around the apartment complex at a brisk pace for exercise. But, when I amble, I am looking at the flowers, and birds, and houses, and dogs. I am smelling and sensing the world around me.
Writing is less picking the right word and more sensing the complete picture and telling someone about it. Writing instructors like to say show not tell. I like to show by telling. Really, writing is the process of telling. You cannot not tell. (My double negative for the day LOL).
The best writing is where your reader falls into your world without ever noticing your writing. No brilliant flashes of frills will ever make a person a great writer. In fact, the best writing is so simple that it looks easy. Believe me, it is not easy. It takes a lot of grit and editing.
So why do I write? There are a lot of reasons which have to do with fame and money. Really I have not found either yet. But, the main reason I write is because there is a haha moment-an epiphany and then I know something of value. I know why I am here.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
My Life is a Black Comedy
| The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy |
 In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh. You may end up insane, but you'll have fun on the way to the asylum. Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho |
This blog hits too close to home. I toured a criminal asylum once and made an important decision. I DO NOT WANT TO GO THERE.
Someday if I ever write my life story and family history, I will be laughing to the bank... in a weird totally strange way.
Vikings rule.
Amateur Radio and Emergency Communications
Pam in Tuscon said the following:
What a wonderful thing you're doing. Sometime, would you post more about what you actually do and how it helps people? I know little about radio operators except that they have been invaluable in emergencies and rescue operations and have kept very distant people in communication with each other.
I will try to answer her question, but just in case I am inadequate, the following link goes to a ARRL manual for public emergency communication for amatuer radio operators. ARRL Public Service Communication Manual
Basically, we practice emergency communications about three to four times a year so that if there is a disaster in our area, we will be able to support our local fire, police, or other officials in supplying them with communication. We practice in case of an emergency communication i.e. the loss of all cell phones, telephones, or other normal means of communication.
One of the clubs in our area Sierra Intermountain Emergency Radio Association supply Amateur Radio Operators to act as spotters for the Pony Express Re-ride every year. The operators watch for the riders and send information of where they are along the route. Some of the routes are in remote areas, which means that many of the spotters need 4-wheel drive vehicles to do the job.
For training, many clubs volunteer act as communication liasons for marathons, Special Olympics, off-road racing, and any other type of large scale public occasion.
Also, there are other ways to be involved with emergency communication other than ARES and clubs. One way is through RACES Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service.
This group trains as emergency communicators for civil defense organizations. To be a member, you have to have an amateur radio license and be officially enrolled as a volunteer to a civil defense organization. They have strict rules on how many hours they can train a year and what frequencies they are allowed to operate if the President invokes the "Emergency War Powers Act."
Another group involved in emergency communications is MARS Military Affiliate Radio System. This group is affiliated with a branch of the military as long-haul providers for communication if the normal communications means such as telephone and cell phones fail. Long-haul means across several states versus in the same area. They are required to meet at least 18 hours a quarter although many members meet more often than the required amount. They usually have a drill or exercise once a quarter. Their means of communication is on the HF bands. To be a member, you must have an amateur radio license, be a member of the U.S. or a legal resident, and be 18 years old. Also, you must have the capability of transmitting on the HF bands.
All of these organizations provide needed services during emergencies. One quality that I have not mentioned about this group of people is their dedication and unselfishness. Not one... of these members are allowed to receive money for their services.
If you want more information, you can either ask or get involved with the amateur radio group in your area. They are all over the United States and are in many countries around the world.
Links to other Amateur Radio or MARS members:
K6HC/NNNOZHP
What a wonderful thing you're doing. Sometime, would you post more about what you actually do and how it helps people? I know little about radio operators except that they have been invaluable in emergencies and rescue operations and have kept very distant people in communication with each other.
I will try to answer her question, but just in case I am inadequate, the following link goes to a ARRL manual for public emergency communication for amatuer radio operators. ARRL Public Service Communication Manual
Basically, we practice emergency communications about three to four times a year so that if there is a disaster in our area, we will be able to support our local fire, police, or other officials in supplying them with communication. We practice in case of an emergency communication i.e. the loss of all cell phones, telephones, or other normal means of communication.
One of the clubs in our area Sierra Intermountain Emergency Radio Association supply Amateur Radio Operators to act as spotters for the Pony Express Re-ride every year. The operators watch for the riders and send information of where they are along the route. Some of the routes are in remote areas, which means that many of the spotters need 4-wheel drive vehicles to do the job.
For training, many clubs volunteer act as communication liasons for marathons, Special Olympics, off-road racing, and any other type of large scale public occasion.
Also, there are other ways to be involved with emergency communication other than ARES and clubs. One way is through RACES Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service.
This group trains as emergency communicators for civil defense organizations. To be a member, you have to have an amateur radio license and be officially enrolled as a volunteer to a civil defense organization. They have strict rules on how many hours they can train a year and what frequencies they are allowed to operate if the President invokes the "Emergency War Powers Act."
Another group involved in emergency communications is MARS Military Affiliate Radio System. This group is affiliated with a branch of the military as long-haul providers for communication if the normal communications means such as telephone and cell phones fail. Long-haul means across several states versus in the same area. They are required to meet at least 18 hours a quarter although many members meet more often than the required amount. They usually have a drill or exercise once a quarter. Their means of communication is on the HF bands. To be a member, you must have an amateur radio license, be a member of the U.S. or a legal resident, and be 18 years old. Also, you must have the capability of transmitting on the HF bands.
All of these organizations provide needed services during emergencies. One quality that I have not mentioned about this group of people is their dedication and unselfishness. Not one... of these members are allowed to receive money for their services.
If you want more information, you can either ask or get involved with the amateur radio group in your area. They are all over the United States and are in many countries around the world.
Links to other Amateur Radio or MARS members:
K6HC/NNNOZHP
Saturday, April 01, 2006
The European City for Me
You Belong in Amsterdam |
 A little old fashioned, a little modern - you're the best of both worlds. And so is Amsterdam. Whether you want to be a squatter graffiti artist or a great novelist, Amsterdam has all that you want in Europe (in one small city). |
Actually, I have never been in Amsterdam, but I have been in the Netherlands. It was beautiful, quaint and a lot of fun. The beer was good and the folks were friendly. I was kind of surprised that I get Amsterdam because I thought that it would pick Coopenhagen, Denmark. Now I was there and it was loads of fun--history and night life.
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