The one commonality among all humans is their ability to allow themselves to be manipulated by intolerant historical views and small groups whose best interests involve societal disharmony. Look at the media, which are, ultimately, the government's own, unpaid PR department.
If you turn on any newscast, local or national, on any station you wish, all you hear are stories about all the things that make us different: race, religion, artistic expression, sexuality, etc. The government makes 'issues' of them, feigning concern for the citizenry, which, in turn, fuels the media with inflamitory subject matter. The entire affair plays on the human animal's sheepish ability to swallow anything they are told and not only choose sides, but formulate uneducated opinions. Combine this with the inability to be flexible in their thinking, and you have disharmony by unity.
People learn intolerance from their religion (Catholicism comes to mind, as it says that to even enter another faith's church is a mortal sin), and from their parents. A few years back, nearly 140 years after the end of the Civil War, a town in Georgia vehemently protested the erecting of a statue of Abraham Lincoln, citing that it was a 'terrible insult' to their heritage. People are still burning churches, fearing and generalizing over national origins or skin color, and even protesting the way we express our love of one another. The most infuriating clip I ever had the misfortune to see was of a woman on a talk show talking about how her lesbian daughter 'didn't have to be that way' and how 'she could be re-taught'.
In essence, hatred is a swell born of, nay, synonymous with ignorance. Since ignorance is a dominant trait in the human species, it becomes a unifying factor, drawing similarly ignorant individuals to like groups. The only thing that gives the rest of us hope is our own ability to come together and remain standing before the tide.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Ghosts of the Past. . .
Everyone has ghosts. . . Everyone has skeletons in their closet; those annoying little memories we wish would go away but keep resurfacing every so often to remind us of things we’ve done that were so embarrassing or painful that we wish we could burn them out of our mind. Usually these memories are attributed to life lessons.
The greatest teacher of all is life. Unlike the moderately overweight, balding guy in the plaid leisure suit that tried to convince you that geometry was the most important thing you could ever know, life has a way of commanding your attention. Hearing someone drone on about the area of a triangle being expressed in terms of A=(1/2)ab just doesn't grip one's interest as much as, say, learning that you should never spit a mouthful of Listerine into your campfire. I do, of course, speak from experience and, even though it makes a pretty awesome eruption of blue flame, do NOT recommend you try this. It has a tendency to melt your shoelaces.
When life teaches you a lesson, it is very necessary and, often, involuntary, bringing to light a common sense issue that can oft be punctuated with the phrase, “Should have known better.” Whether that lesson is ‘pay attention to where you’re going’ or ‘never use alcohol-based mouthrinse solutions near an open flame’, you have no choice but to absorb its wisdom.
There are some lessons that take a little longer than others to sink in, requiring repeated experiences to get their points across. For me, that particular lesson was ‘think before you speak’.
One of the largest drawbacks of the human species is the spoken word. Both a blessing and a curse, there is no language on Earth that cannot be used to hurtful ends. Regardless of the species, animals have the ability to communicate in the simplest of fashions and, though the message may only be ‘get back’, ‘watch out’, or ‘that’s mine’, they never have to worry about tact or subtlety.
Since a young age, I’ve been cynical and outspoken and more than willing to launch my opinion into low-Earth orbit for all to partake of. Subtlety has always been one of my strong suits; a finely-honed weapon to wield when the situation called for it. My weakness was tact. Simply put, tact implies delicate and considerate perception of what is appropriate for the given situation. It took me a long time to learn that I was lacking in this skill, allowing my emotions to override the brain’s ‘think ahead’ safeguards.
I remember the place and the time, but I don’t remember exactly why we were there; it was either a football game or track meet. I was there for her, because she was my best friend, perhaps more. At the time, she was seeing a fellow who was, for all intents and purposes, a grade-A git, but she was still a couple of weeks away from that realization, herself. Sparing the sorted details, in one line I expressed my opinion of him, speaking the words just as quickly as they formed in my mind. Seven little words, and she was furious. All I cared about as I spoke was letting her know how I felt, totally oblivious to the fact that, being newly in love, she was blind to all but her own perceptions. She needed to be told, yes, but it should have been tactful; instead, I dropped a nuke in her lap. I know that she’s long forgiven me, but the thought that I hurt her so badly still burns.
I was told a story long ago about a boy, his father, and an old wooden fence. The boy had an awful temper, prone to explode at any time for any reason. One day, his father handed him a bag of nails and told him that, every time he lost his temper, he was to drive a nail into the old fence out back.
The first day, the boy had driven more than thirty nails into the fence but, in the days that followed, that number dwindled. He discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails.
Finally, the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. When he told his father, he suggested to the boy that, for every day he doesn’t lose his temper, he remove a nail from the fence. Days passed and, finally, he was able to tell his father that all the nails in the fence were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence and said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence; it will never be the same.” The story’s meaning, of course, is that every wound, physical or verbal, leaves a scar, no matter how many times we say “I’m sorry”.
Life lessons come at us during times of abandon or recklessness, or just those ‘switch off’ times when the brain’s common sense circuit breaker pops off. Some of the best achievements are made when we ask ourselves, “I wonder what will happen if. . .” Unfortunately, that is where humans usually begin their misadventures. Perhaps the reason behind this is the fact that we are attracted to dangerous situations--we think they're fun and exciting. The problem is that, by the time we've asked ourselves that question, our mind already has a good idea of what the outcome will look like. Unfortunately, not everyone can see the reality of the situation to come.
The moral of our story tonight: Look before you leap, and don’t forget to think as you’re looking. And to all my friends, I hope I’ve not left too many holes in your fences.
The greatest teacher of all is life. Unlike the moderately overweight, balding guy in the plaid leisure suit that tried to convince you that geometry was the most important thing you could ever know, life has a way of commanding your attention. Hearing someone drone on about the area of a triangle being expressed in terms of A=(1/2)ab just doesn't grip one's interest as much as, say, learning that you should never spit a mouthful of Listerine into your campfire. I do, of course, speak from experience and, even though it makes a pretty awesome eruption of blue flame, do NOT recommend you try this. It has a tendency to melt your shoelaces.
When life teaches you a lesson, it is very necessary and, often, involuntary, bringing to light a common sense issue that can oft be punctuated with the phrase, “Should have known better.” Whether that lesson is ‘pay attention to where you’re going’ or ‘never use alcohol-based mouthrinse solutions near an open flame’, you have no choice but to absorb its wisdom.
There are some lessons that take a little longer than others to sink in, requiring repeated experiences to get their points across. For me, that particular lesson was ‘think before you speak’.
One of the largest drawbacks of the human species is the spoken word. Both a blessing and a curse, there is no language on Earth that cannot be used to hurtful ends. Regardless of the species, animals have the ability to communicate in the simplest of fashions and, though the message may only be ‘get back’, ‘watch out’, or ‘that’s mine’, they never have to worry about tact or subtlety.
Since a young age, I’ve been cynical and outspoken and more than willing to launch my opinion into low-Earth orbit for all to partake of. Subtlety has always been one of my strong suits; a finely-honed weapon to wield when the situation called for it. My weakness was tact. Simply put, tact implies delicate and considerate perception of what is appropriate for the given situation. It took me a long time to learn that I was lacking in this skill, allowing my emotions to override the brain’s ‘think ahead’ safeguards.
I remember the place and the time, but I don’t remember exactly why we were there; it was either a football game or track meet. I was there for her, because she was my best friend, perhaps more. At the time, she was seeing a fellow who was, for all intents and purposes, a grade-A git, but she was still a couple of weeks away from that realization, herself. Sparing the sorted details, in one line I expressed my opinion of him, speaking the words just as quickly as they formed in my mind. Seven little words, and she was furious. All I cared about as I spoke was letting her know how I felt, totally oblivious to the fact that, being newly in love, she was blind to all but her own perceptions. She needed to be told, yes, but it should have been tactful; instead, I dropped a nuke in her lap. I know that she’s long forgiven me, but the thought that I hurt her so badly still burns.
I was told a story long ago about a boy, his father, and an old wooden fence. The boy had an awful temper, prone to explode at any time for any reason. One day, his father handed him a bag of nails and told him that, every time he lost his temper, he was to drive a nail into the old fence out back.
The first day, the boy had driven more than thirty nails into the fence but, in the days that followed, that number dwindled. He discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails.
Finally, the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. When he told his father, he suggested to the boy that, for every day he doesn’t lose his temper, he remove a nail from the fence. Days passed and, finally, he was able to tell his father that all the nails in the fence were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence and said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence; it will never be the same.” The story’s meaning, of course, is that every wound, physical or verbal, leaves a scar, no matter how many times we say “I’m sorry”.
Life lessons come at us during times of abandon or recklessness, or just those ‘switch off’ times when the brain’s common sense circuit breaker pops off. Some of the best achievements are made when we ask ourselves, “I wonder what will happen if. . .” Unfortunately, that is where humans usually begin their misadventures. Perhaps the reason behind this is the fact that we are attracted to dangerous situations--we think they're fun and exciting. The problem is that, by the time we've asked ourselves that question, our mind already has a good idea of what the outcome will look like. Unfortunately, not everyone can see the reality of the situation to come.
The moral of our story tonight: Look before you leap, and don’t forget to think as you’re looking. And to all my friends, I hope I’ve not left too many holes in your fences.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Not Another Day
Vacations are short for a reason. Think about it for a moment. . . If the average person had at their disposal an indefinite amount of vacation time and the ability to say, “I’m going on vacation, see you all when I’m good and ready to come back”, chances are good they would either return completely wrecked or dead. Humans are creatures of habit and, when removed from the routine in which they’ve been ensconced for years, tend to go down rather destructive roads in their pursuit of ‘recreation’.
Perhaps a case study would better illustrate my point.
I have, for quite some time, felt that I ‘needed’ a vacation. It’s been a long time since I’d taken any time off for reasons other than exploding plumbing and health crises, so a good, solid vacation would work wonders. I planned three days off during spring break for no other lofty goals than to play with the kids and, maybe, get through a few more chapters on my current novel. What could possibly go wrong?
The weekend started out fairly well, as Saturday and Sunday both became ‘goof off days’. I actually revisited some old sketch work that had been too long ignored, and I wrote a bit more in my sci-fi universe under the scrutinizing eye of my seven year-old daughter. All was well.
Then, later in the day Sunday, came a whirlwind decision: We would take the time this week and visit our family down in Kentucky and Southern Indiana. Okay, I wouldn’t get much done, writing wise, but we would get a good mini-vacation out of the adventure. One blazing round of packing, six hours, three stops, and 402 miles later, we were nestling into the ‘guest room’ of my wife’s parents’ house, looking forward to a good sleep and some much-needed time to unwind. We almost got away with it.
Monday and Tuesday went well, save for a few traffic snarls and the fact that I still hadn’t picked up my pen and pad for any productive time. We spent four hours at the zoo in a blaze of unseasonable warmth and sunlight, which didn’t matter, since the kids had a great time. The rest of the time was spent visiting my family which, I am amazed to say, went off without a hitch.
Then came Wednesday. We knew that the storms Tuesday night were bringing arctic air down from the northern climes, but the first clear weather report we heard for our hometown made it rather clear that some plowing would be in order once we returned. Coupled with the fact that my in-laws were celebrating their anniversary, we felt that it would be best to stay another day, returning home in the full light of the day Thursday, rather than forging our way back around Wednesday, midnight. It would give us an excuse to catch up with a couple of old friends, and keep the grandparents from giving us the guilt about not seeing their grandkids often enough. You can already hear the ominous music, can’t you?
Since they rarely get a break from the local grandchildren, we thought it would be good to take our kids and our nephews out for some entertainment that extra night, giving my wife’s parents at least a few hours’ peace. One large pizza and roughly an hour later, we found ourselves in a place called “The Fun House”. Perhaps it is aptly named for small children, but for adults the name requires a disclaimer. I would suggest, for example, “The Fun House: Your kids are going to love all our ticket-spitting, loud, malfunctioning games that all require many dollars’ worth in tokens to play but will, in the end, only yield them some crappy piece of plastic that makes noise or just breaks if you look at it with a sideways glance while you pacify yourselves with our ‘salad bar’ and ‘gourmet pizza’ which is really just leftover produce and frozen French loaves we got at the local wholesale club for pennies. By the way, the ‘gym set’, a.k.a. the ‘gerbil cage for kids’ is really nothing more than a fancy urinal. Have a nice day.”
Those of you with small children understand this trip. Every parent, in some form or another, has taken this trip. It’s the one that ends with you carrying your screaming, kicking, eighteen month-old daughter through the building because she’s: A. tumbled out of the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus, skinning her knee on the abrasive carpeting and: B. wanting to get back in the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus because she just likes to put the tokens in the slots. It’s also the trip where you learn or re-learn to carry your younger children at odd angles, since their legs are just long enough to kick you in places that would get them removed from most professional sporting events. When they smile at you at the end of the trip, you tend to forget all the worries and trouble, though (at least, until you get home later and the soreness starts to kick in).
Not being one to invite trouble and headaches (upon himself, anyway), my oldest son saw the opportunity to cut and run and took it without hesitation, going to see the new ‘Ninja Turtles’ movie with his aunt and older cousin.
So there you have it: Case study #1a in a nutshell. It was a moderately uneventful vacation trip, flawless in its execution, until being done in by a random, extra day. I can’t complain, as the kids had fun. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re a child, isn’t it? Let your parents have all the worries; you need to have fun when you can, while you can. As for me, I write this at midnight, plus thirty, unable to sleep. I know I need my rest for the trip home tomorrow, through the blinding snow. I know that, despite my best efforts, I will be roused from my slumber at six in the morning by four very wide-eyed children trying to separate the toys they brought from the menagerie that is their cousins’. I just know that I’m going to listen to four hundred miles’ worth of TMNT movie review from my son.
I just know that it’s all worth it, because Friday, I get to go back to work.
Next time: Our Imperiled Perspicacity. . . No, Really!
Perhaps a case study would better illustrate my point.
I have, for quite some time, felt that I ‘needed’ a vacation. It’s been a long time since I’d taken any time off for reasons other than exploding plumbing and health crises, so a good, solid vacation would work wonders. I planned three days off during spring break for no other lofty goals than to play with the kids and, maybe, get through a few more chapters on my current novel. What could possibly go wrong?
The weekend started out fairly well, as Saturday and Sunday both became ‘goof off days’. I actually revisited some old sketch work that had been too long ignored, and I wrote a bit more in my sci-fi universe under the scrutinizing eye of my seven year-old daughter. All was well.
Then, later in the day Sunday, came a whirlwind decision: We would take the time this week and visit our family down in Kentucky and Southern Indiana. Okay, I wouldn’t get much done, writing wise, but we would get a good mini-vacation out of the adventure. One blazing round of packing, six hours, three stops, and 402 miles later, we were nestling into the ‘guest room’ of my wife’s parents’ house, looking forward to a good sleep and some much-needed time to unwind. We almost got away with it.
Monday and Tuesday went well, save for a few traffic snarls and the fact that I still hadn’t picked up my pen and pad for any productive time. We spent four hours at the zoo in a blaze of unseasonable warmth and sunlight, which didn’t matter, since the kids had a great time. The rest of the time was spent visiting my family which, I am amazed to say, went off without a hitch.
Then came Wednesday. We knew that the storms Tuesday night were bringing arctic air down from the northern climes, but the first clear weather report we heard for our hometown made it rather clear that some plowing would be in order once we returned. Coupled with the fact that my in-laws were celebrating their anniversary, we felt that it would be best to stay another day, returning home in the full light of the day Thursday, rather than forging our way back around Wednesday, midnight. It would give us an excuse to catch up with a couple of old friends, and keep the grandparents from giving us the guilt about not seeing their grandkids often enough. You can already hear the ominous music, can’t you?
Since they rarely get a break from the local grandchildren, we thought it would be good to take our kids and our nephews out for some entertainment that extra night, giving my wife’s parents at least a few hours’ peace. One large pizza and roughly an hour later, we found ourselves in a place called “The Fun House”. Perhaps it is aptly named for small children, but for adults the name requires a disclaimer. I would suggest, for example, “The Fun House: Your kids are going to love all our ticket-spitting, loud, malfunctioning games that all require many dollars’ worth in tokens to play but will, in the end, only yield them some crappy piece of plastic that makes noise or just breaks if you look at it with a sideways glance while you pacify yourselves with our ‘salad bar’ and ‘gourmet pizza’ which is really just leftover produce and frozen French loaves we got at the local wholesale club for pennies. By the way, the ‘gym set’, a.k.a. the ‘gerbil cage for kids’ is really nothing more than a fancy urinal. Have a nice day.”
Those of you with small children understand this trip. Every parent, in some form or another, has taken this trip. It’s the one that ends with you carrying your screaming, kicking, eighteen month-old daughter through the building because she’s: A. tumbled out of the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus, skinning her knee on the abrasive carpeting and: B. wanting to get back in the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus because she just likes to put the tokens in the slots. It’s also the trip where you learn or re-learn to carry your younger children at odd angles, since their legs are just long enough to kick you in places that would get them removed from most professional sporting events. When they smile at you at the end of the trip, you tend to forget all the worries and trouble, though (at least, until you get home later and the soreness starts to kick in).
Not being one to invite trouble and headaches (upon himself, anyway), my oldest son saw the opportunity to cut and run and took it without hesitation, going to see the new ‘Ninja Turtles’ movie with his aunt and older cousin.
So there you have it: Case study #1a in a nutshell. It was a moderately uneventful vacation trip, flawless in its execution, until being done in by a random, extra day. I can’t complain, as the kids had fun. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re a child, isn’t it? Let your parents have all the worries; you need to have fun when you can, while you can. As for me, I write this at midnight, plus thirty, unable to sleep. I know I need my rest for the trip home tomorrow, through the blinding snow. I know that, despite my best efforts, I will be roused from my slumber at six in the morning by four very wide-eyed children trying to separate the toys they brought from the menagerie that is their cousins’. I just know that I’m going to listen to four hundred miles’ worth of TMNT movie review from my son.
I just know that it’s all worth it, because Friday, I get to go back to work.
Next time: Our Imperiled Perspicacity. . . No, Really!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
A Far Better Thing. . .
I try to start out every year with positive, though cautious, optimism. With the coming of each New Year, I try to fight back many generations’ worth of genetically-programmed cynicism. I am proud to say that, this year, I made it one week. True, it may have been my month-long bout with the flu that soured my disposition this year but, regardless of the cause, I have come to realize that the world is chock full of people I’d just like to smack rather hard.
Now, I realize that sounds a bit harsh, but what better way to burn off all the latent hostilities that build up over the course of the day? The first candidate that comes to mind is that guy that always merges with a 70 m.p.h. interstate at 40 then, when he’s disrupted traffic as much as possible, takes off at twice the speed of sense. Close behind him is the engineer who designed my vehicle. Would it have killed the people at G.M. to put a slightly larger bottle under the hood to accommodate a full gallon jug of washer fluid, rather than the 126 ounces it annoyingly holds?
Recently, I was watching a game show with my wife, when the question “Which Soviet Premier was responsible for Glasnost and Perestroika?” came up. The person being asked was my age, approximately, so I figured she had it in the bag.
Her answer was ‘Bin Laden’.
Still clinging to my optimism that this was an isolated aberration and that the ‘No Child Left Behind’ initiative was alive and well, I stayed with the show long enough to catch the answers to a few more questions. The ordeal was extremely painful. Apparently, there are polar bears in Antarctica, China borders the United States to the north, and Bill Clinton was impeached for the Watergate scandal.
You wait here while I go get a heavy club.
Hostility and impatience are in our very nature, surfacing in even the most unsuspecting individuals. Sometimes it is subtle; a twitch of the eye or an annoyed inflection in the voice are our only clues. Sometimes, it is an explosion, erupting violently, either verbally or, in the worst case, physically.
We frequently use the term ‘pushing his/her buttons’ when we talk of annoying someone. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so casual about it. ‘Pushing buttons’ turns it all into a game; the prize being the display put on by the newly annoyed and/or irate victim. By my observations, the ‘hostility control’ is actually a switch and, in some cases, one of the ‘momentary contact’ variety.
Take, as a case study, subject ‘D’. Subject ‘D’ is a friend of mine who wouldn’t consciously harm an insect. She once cried for nearly 24 hours when she accidentally drowned a spider. To speak to subject ‘D’, you would think you were talking to the nicest person on the planet. However, in the midst of a number of cell phone conversations, she will burst into a directed tirade of harsh language and other discouraging words to the motorists around her on the open road, only to return to her normal self in the next breath. The scary part is not that she becomes so hostile so quickly, but that, when the switch is turned off, she returns to the conversation and her natural, sweet tone with no sign that anything happened. The transformation is casual: From ‘Doctor Jekyll’ to ‘Miss Road Rage’ in .025 seconds.
In this casualness, Subject ‘D’ is not alone. Though the transition is not so smooth, I have caught myself doing the Bipolar Shuffle on many occasions, as with my ever-growing ‘People I’d Love to Smack’ list. Just because neither I nor subject ‘D’ allow our rantings to escalate doesn’t detract from the potential hazards of uninhibited release. That’s how we get road rage shootings and sports-related riots. That’s how we have abuse and domestic violence. That’s how we start wars.
Hostility is something we can’t run away from. As I said before, it’s in our basic makeup, as part of our ‘fight or flight’ response. As (supposedly) intelligent life forms, it should be within us to control the need to act on these impulses. Just because the neighbor decides to build a ten foot tall bonfire to roast marshmallows with his other drunken friends doesn’t mean the only way to get through to him is with a cinder block. There are always other options. When the guy you’re trying to wave through the four-way stop doesn’t move, it could just be the sun reflecting on your windshield, not his being a goober.
My advice to you all? Take a deep breath, weigh the possibilities, and, above all, remember that diplomacy is the key. We call ourselves an advanced culture, so we should act like it, true? I suppose I still am positive and optimistic, even though I don’t always show it. Patience is, truly, the virtue they say, especially when dealing with other, volatile minds. Understanding, as with all things in life, cannot be rushed; we must take our time. Don’t take too much time, though.
On a related note to my neighbors: If your wreath has turned brown and died, it’s time to take down the Christmas decorations.
**Next Week: Speling in the publik skool systim.
Now, I realize that sounds a bit harsh, but what better way to burn off all the latent hostilities that build up over the course of the day? The first candidate that comes to mind is that guy that always merges with a 70 m.p.h. interstate at 40 then, when he’s disrupted traffic as much as possible, takes off at twice the speed of sense. Close behind him is the engineer who designed my vehicle. Would it have killed the people at G.M. to put a slightly larger bottle under the hood to accommodate a full gallon jug of washer fluid, rather than the 126 ounces it annoyingly holds?
Recently, I was watching a game show with my wife, when the question “Which Soviet Premier was responsible for Glasnost and Perestroika?” came up. The person being asked was my age, approximately, so I figured she had it in the bag.
Her answer was ‘Bin Laden’.
Still clinging to my optimism that this was an isolated aberration and that the ‘No Child Left Behind’ initiative was alive and well, I stayed with the show long enough to catch the answers to a few more questions. The ordeal was extremely painful. Apparently, there are polar bears in Antarctica, China borders the United States to the north, and Bill Clinton was impeached for the Watergate scandal.
You wait here while I go get a heavy club.
Hostility and impatience are in our very nature, surfacing in even the most unsuspecting individuals. Sometimes it is subtle; a twitch of the eye or an annoyed inflection in the voice are our only clues. Sometimes, it is an explosion, erupting violently, either verbally or, in the worst case, physically.
We frequently use the term ‘pushing his/her buttons’ when we talk of annoying someone. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so casual about it. ‘Pushing buttons’ turns it all into a game; the prize being the display put on by the newly annoyed and/or irate victim. By my observations, the ‘hostility control’ is actually a switch and, in some cases, one of the ‘momentary contact’ variety.
Take, as a case study, subject ‘D’. Subject ‘D’ is a friend of mine who wouldn’t consciously harm an insect. She once cried for nearly 24 hours when she accidentally drowned a spider. To speak to subject ‘D’, you would think you were talking to the nicest person on the planet. However, in the midst of a number of cell phone conversations, she will burst into a directed tirade of harsh language and other discouraging words to the motorists around her on the open road, only to return to her normal self in the next breath. The scary part is not that she becomes so hostile so quickly, but that, when the switch is turned off, she returns to the conversation and her natural, sweet tone with no sign that anything happened. The transformation is casual: From ‘Doctor Jekyll’ to ‘Miss Road Rage’ in .025 seconds.
In this casualness, Subject ‘D’ is not alone. Though the transition is not so smooth, I have caught myself doing the Bipolar Shuffle on many occasions, as with my ever-growing ‘People I’d Love to Smack’ list. Just because neither I nor subject ‘D’ allow our rantings to escalate doesn’t detract from the potential hazards of uninhibited release. That’s how we get road rage shootings and sports-related riots. That’s how we have abuse and domestic violence. That’s how we start wars.
Hostility is something we can’t run away from. As I said before, it’s in our basic makeup, as part of our ‘fight or flight’ response. As (supposedly) intelligent life forms, it should be within us to control the need to act on these impulses. Just because the neighbor decides to build a ten foot tall bonfire to roast marshmallows with his other drunken friends doesn’t mean the only way to get through to him is with a cinder block. There are always other options. When the guy you’re trying to wave through the four-way stop doesn’t move, it could just be the sun reflecting on your windshield, not his being a goober.
My advice to you all? Take a deep breath, weigh the possibilities, and, above all, remember that diplomacy is the key. We call ourselves an advanced culture, so we should act like it, true? I suppose I still am positive and optimistic, even though I don’t always show it. Patience is, truly, the virtue they say, especially when dealing with other, volatile minds. Understanding, as with all things in life, cannot be rushed; we must take our time. Don’t take too much time, though.
On a related note to my neighbors: If your wreath has turned brown and died, it’s time to take down the Christmas decorations.
**Next Week: Speling in the publik skool systim.
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