An Illogical Imponderable

I've heard people ask (and have said it myself, sadly), 'Why can't you be reasonable and just do it my way?' I'm not sure the whole "My Mind Is Made Up, Don't Confuse Me With Facts" has ever been more true in my lifetime than it is right now. 

I look at people with Trump/Vance bumper stickers with the same disdain and incredulity that I am sure they have for my Harris/Walz decal. The difference, as my evil twin Skippy would point out, is that I am right and they are wrong. My tongue may have been in my cheek when typing the previous sentence.

My point, and I removed my Blue Wave ballcap so you can see it, is we seem to live in a time when opinions shape facts instead of vice versa (as has been traditional in all thought, since time began). 

I encounter people mostly with red ballcaps who tell me they don't "believe" in Climate Change (as if it were some kind of Santa Claus or Easter Bunny), but who, in their next breath endorse the theory by the Nitwit from The Peach State that 'the government' controls the weather. Somehow these two thoughts seem to exist simultaneously in their heads. 

I'd like to understand and also be understood. To that end, I came across an article online whose title, alone, was a reason to read it: Why People Who Are Wrong Think They Are Right.

But don't just read the article, read the study the article is about.

I've always believed the expression, 'My ignorance is just as good as your knowledge' was a joke. Turns out we're all the punchline.
-bill kenny

As Election Day Nears

We are a culture that celebrates ourselves as unique individuals, except, for the most part, we don't define ourselves by our humanity but, rather, by our utility. We are what we do. Our unique specialness is tethered to our place in the world instead of the other way around. In essence, we already know what we are, all that remains is an agreement on the price.

In economic hard times, still ongoing for many in our country and for many others around the world (when America gets a cold, other nations are in intensive care), a hidden cost harder to recover from than a bank statement or a bottom line, is the injury to that part of ourselves we can't put a price tag on, our pride in who we are.

In the frenzy of an election season where there's more action than date night at Piranha High, the highs are higher and the lows are deeper, at least when the other side is telling the story. But the thing to NOT lose sight of when the edge is off of the rhetoric on Wednesday, November 6th no later than noon or so when we realize there is no revolution, just power changing hands, is that a few more of us have become the walking wounded. That old coaching admonition to 'just shake it off' only goes so far.

An adult without hope or dignity hurts, and then, in turn, hurts others, usually those closest to them so what began as a personal tragedy too often becomes a community calamity. Sing a song of sixpence for your sake, and take a bottle full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds in a cake and bake them all in a pie. Crow, too often, tastes the same.

-bill kenny

Twenty/Twenty Hindsight

Yesterday marked seventeen years since I started this daily blog. I've missed only one day. I wanted to catch my breath before starting the next seventeen years. You may want to do something else, somewhere else. I promise not to notice.

When I began mucking about in this corner of cyberspace. I screamed to prove my existence but was also afraid someone would discover I really had nothing to say. So far, so good. So what? I understand enough of the world and the technology that drives it to appreciate I was yelling theater in a crowded fire and might very well happen to catch the eye and ear of those whose native tongue is other than my own.

I make no apologies for or to you if you have stopped by. I appreciate the notes that crop up and pop up either here at the bottom of the page or via an email link that I still don't understand (I am consistent) but a suggestion like 'walk east until your hat floats' isn't useful since while I only occasionally wear a ball cap, more often than not, I'm bare-headed (and mostly bald-headed).

My point, though not at precisely this moment, is I write this for me. It is therapeutic, perhaps equal parts Jung and Fromm (more hopefulness in the latter), or maybe not. I'm not sure I'm the one who can tell. Some years ago, I visited with a doctor to help reassemble pieces and parts of my life, who suggested I didn't really like myself. I was thrilled as he and I finally had something in common. 

This space serves as the wall against which I fling handfuls of, well, you can guess what I fling, and no matter what you choose, you'd be right. But make sure you're wearing gloves should we meet because I like to shake hands. And if you are, I'll try to lick the side of your face, because that's how I roll (over and fetch).

I've gone back and looked at this stuff from the start through here and now. It must be artistic or autistic because I don't get it. Would that I did and pretty arrogant of me to then hope/assume it would mean something to you. That does sound like me, to be honest. I think 'sound' is the operative word.

Having spent most of a lifetime in people's cars and houses, the inevitable and occasional knast (JVA Stadelheim and Marchy and Magnus come to mind) on and in the radio, I'm used to working things out in a semi-private manner, more because I have to than because you want me to. And the beauty of radio over face-to-face is when you give up and walk away, I don't know it, and continue on like that tree in the forest.

The bigger the world has gotten in scale and scope the more intimate it has become through connectivity that was created for other reasons but upon which I have now hitched my wagon. I started writing this because I had no voice where I lived and even less where I worked. I had, like so many of us, freedom of speech as long as I didn't use it. I was Powderfinger and discovered I wasn't alone in feeling that way, but so few were willing to raise their voices, much less the alarm, when everything that made us who we are started to get stripped away. Red means run and numbers add up to nothing.

In my part of the enchanted forest, we were being rendered invisible and if I learned nothing from my father, and the jury's still very much out on that, I learned to wield words as weapons that could wound and hurt those who would harm mine. "Let the bastards thrive, for all I care. Since I can do nothing to stop them except embarrass them by running away." (Thank you, Joseph Heller). Illegitimi non carborundum, do NOT let the bastards grind you down. I certainly never do.

It should be sobering, all these years after starting to clean out the stables, there's still as much once-processed equine output as there is everywhere. Most, far too much, of it, comes from the biped variety. I live in a target-rich environment and so do you. We can complain or we can clean up but we can't do both, at least not at the same time. I've opted for the latter.

I've chosen, macro and micro, to witness who we are and how are with one another when we think no one is watching (actually, especially when we think no one is watching). I'm not better than others because I know I'm fatally flawed (that would make me the tallest dwarf). 

When I say I do not forget, I don't mean I'm single-minded (though I am two-faced). I'm eidetic and cannot forget. I remember everything that has happened to me: who was there, what they wore, what they said, and most importantly what they did (and didn't do). When I say I don't forgive, that's when I'm vengeful and vindictive. I have over seven decades of scores, real and imagined, to settle, as futile as that really is. Leave it to God? Please. He crucified His own Son-He couldn't care less about my injuries.

For the kindness of your company these seventeen years, I thank you. I wasn't always aware you were here, when you arrived or when you left. Thank you nevertheless. I suspect I was not the best company but you're not all that surprised, since you knew that when you picked me up. 

I started this as a cyber shout to prove how different I was and have, to this juncture, more often celebrated how similar we are. I think that part has been mostly your doing, and thank you for that as well. 

To be continued tomorrow, despite popular demand.
-bill kenny

Suspect Only I Celebrate This.....

I had two choices seventeen years ago in light of how frustrated and aggravated the Machiavellian Machinations of those in power where I live had made me: go crazy, or go public. I chose the latter. 

I will admit that often in the ensuing years, it has felt a lot like howling at the moon, and have been told by some it reads that way, too. Everybody's a critic I guess. 

This was the first of 6,227 (so far) entries I have offered in this space, and while the actors have changed, it's pretty much the same movie. I called it:

And to Think That I Saw It on Norwich's Streets

Driving past Washington Street this morning, it looks like a growth industry is the hardware business; selling neighbors large plywood sheets and paint so they can erect signs to yell at one another on the issue of spot zoning.

New signs insisting on the right to do with their property what they wish, possibly from those who've sold options to developers, angry at 'the select few' (as their sign says) who insist this commercial endeavor be turned away.

Another sign boasts about the increase in tax revenues and the additional (service) jobs a new mini-sprawl, I meant mini-mall, will bring to Norwich (even though the pharmacy hailed as 'new' will be an existing one from across town).

Jobs, much like Einstein's matter, can neither be created nor destroyed, at least in development models. If we take six inches from the front of the blanket and put it on the back, the blanket is NOT a foot longer. Let's hope we do NOT need a thirty-seven-minute PowerPoint slide show Monday night at Norwich City Hall for that to be understood.

Everyone's signs ignore or seem to, our inability to look ahead and plan accordingly.

When you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there.
Right now, most of us think any movement, even the circles in which we are turning, is the same thing as direction. 

Most don't know the difference between smart growth and economic development (all ducks ARE birds but not all birds are ducks) and until we learn that, we're fated to waste a lot of time thinking we're having a contest between 'property rights' and 'NIMBY'. It's not really what it's about.

Meanwhile, those whose agenda is not and will NEVER be that of advancement and enhancement of Norwich's economic basis will prosper while residents remain reactive instead of proactive.
-bill kenny

Goodbye, Columbus

This is from a long time ago, but not quite long enough ago if you follow my drift. At the time I called it:  

History. Personal as well as Misremembered

I returned to the Land of the Round Doorknobs, thirty-three years ago today. I had very little choice; move or starve-my family had less. 

I tell people I ended up in Norwich, Connecticut because I lost a bar bet. Point in fact most surveys of those residing in The Rose of New England suggest it was they who lost the bet.

Columbus Day is almost the perfect American holiday because Christopher Columbus is exactly like us. He didn't know where he was going when he was going there, didn't know where he was when he got there, had no idea what to make of what he found where he ended up, and squandered all that he received for his troubles and effort.

When we were kids, Columbus Day was a big deal. In New York City the Department of Public (almost dropped the L off that; awkward) Works used to paint the white line on Fifth Avenue purple for the annual parade that was always held on the real date of the holiday, October 12. 

In light of so much, I as a man of now-over-seventy know that as a boy of twelve, I didn't about the Rape of Paradise which ensued after Columbus' arrival, perhaps blood-red might have been a better choice of colors.

When I was a kid, all I ever cared about was the day off, just like kids across the country. We all recited the rhyme because that's how we knew what we did know about Columbus and since there wasn't a snappy couplet about genocide we didn't hear anything about that aspect of discovering the New World (I also don't remember the Arakawa natives part but some of my little gray cells have had some rough days).

Looking at the world as it is and how all settlement and civilization has developed, I'm not sure it's just Old Chris we should be putting in the defendant's docket and charging. I'm thinking a look in the mirror, as well as a glance out a window, might increase our catch significantly.

And to compound the cacophony of facts clashing with opinions is the realization that not only did Columbus not discover the New World, but he also wasn't the first. We've spent hundreds of years observing a historical event that is neither historic nor an actual event. 

And now, as it's the dot on the "i" in the Monday holiday (observed tomorrow), we have another excuse (and sale opportunity) to buy bedding, or is that just me in the last couple of days? Sandwiched between the 'My candidate is on the special advisory committee to Gawd while yours eats bugs" commercials have been a steady stream of ads selling mattresses. I'm not sure there's any more of a connection of one to the other than there was to India from Bermuda back in the day.

Speaking of which, you have to cross an ocean from a basement warehouse at Bertramstrasse 6 in Frankfurt am Main to get to a certain city in Ohio. That's as may be. All I know for sure is such a journey can take decades and cost you more than you ever believed you could pay when you first started. But it's worth every penny, for your thoughts and otherwise. 
-bill kenny

"Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One."

Yom Kippur began last night at sunset. For those of the Jewish faith, it is the day of atonement, and a day of repentance and fasting for personal and community/communal sins committed in the past year in the hope of forgiveness (with forgiveness being the critically important aspect).

I was raised a Catholic who was taught to see Jews as (also) people of the Book (the Bible) but who limited themselves to the Old Testament and a God of Vengeance and Punishment. 

Jesus, as I remember, came, we were taught, to fulfill the Old Testament and by so doing, and living, and dying, created a New Testament. I think my problem with my church became reconciling the New God with the Old Testament one. After all, what kind of a loving Deity would crucify His own Son?

Music such as this to mark the Day of Atonement, has convinced me while I may have lost faith in my church, I'm not sure I've abandoned a belief in God, if that's Who inspired such beauty, majesty, and ineffable sorrow in one piece of music.

Present-day Israel, surrounded on three sides by enemies and on the fourth by the sea could not be in a more precarious position than the Jewish people themselves have been since the start of The Common Era. 

And yet, countless persecutions later, they stand, as self-anointed as God's Chosen, and regardless of your own religious beliefs or the depth of your persuasion, you have to admire their devotion to Him and their belief in His providence for them.
-bill kenny  

Brisk Morning Meditation

We had pretty glorious weather this week in my part of the world. Not too hot, light breeze, no humidity, glorious skies a deeper blue than the ocean, and the sobering realization that Autumn, as wonderful as it is, will not last until the Spring.

The house we live in has a front lawn and a backyard. They were both great to have when our two children were younger as they gave them and their friends someplace else to play. 

Our kids are grown and flown now so I spend a lot of time alone, cutting the grass and cursing the lawn. This time of year we watch the leaves pile up as the season changes, but there are no trees to speak of on our property.

I get a kick out of the propeller pods I see everywhere. Do you remember those from when we were kids? Another great invention by nature to better assure the perpetuation of all the various species of trees-not that we ever saw it that way when we were smaller. 

There are so many this year and so many of them land on the walk leading to the house that every footfall sounds like you're walking in Rice Krispies. It makes it impossible to sneak up on anyone.

The squirrels in the neighborhood love the helicopter pods and can tear through them in a blink to get to the seed in the center. The pods are so numerous that the squirrels have actually been leaving the peanuts we throw to them for later while they gorge themselves on the pods. Would seem to be a luxury but unfortunately for them, the blue jays are quite happy to eat their share of the peanuts.

It was cold yesterday morning-crisp is a word my father would use and so do I, in his honor, and that's the signal the next phase of the journey has started. The darkness comes earlier now and the shadows lengthen sooner as the afternoons move on. 

Soon the winds will shift and more often come out of the north and pickup in speed and intensity and the simple joy of crunchy sidewalks on the way to the corner as I start on a walk will be gone as the animals and birds spend more time gathering and storing food with one eye fixed on the fall skies as a hazy shade of winter creeps inexorably closer.

-bill kenny