The Haven (Chapter 1)

Prologue

Moving ever further South, the glacial demons pushed the First People of the Land before them. Tearing and gnawing their way across the land at a millennial pace, they drained the oceans to fee their insatiable thirst.
Turning water to ice, and ice to plow shears, they reshaped the land; inch by inch, year by year until all of the old hunting grounds were destroyed. New lands rose from the receding the seas, towers of ice casting their shadowy mass on the bones of a once great people.
Their children survived the ravages of time as the Great Spirit of the land took pity on them. Pushing back the ice, he led them to the Great Susequehanna River, near a bay call “Chespiooc”; meaning Great Shellfish Bay. The First People of the land once again were home.





October 12, 1492 . . . . . . . . . .The Landing of Columbus on San Salvador
In a land called San Salvador, Columbus for the first time meets the brother of the Great Susequehanna People.
Quote from the Christopher Columbus Ships Log
“one of the natives, having never see a weapon
forged from Iron, took a Spanish sword by the
blade and was annoyed by the blood streaming from
his hand.”
Columbus continues to describe their fine faces,
handsome bodies, good stature, lack of pouch
and quick intelligence.
“They ought be good servants and of good skill”
He added, and kidnapped six, whom he promptly
shackled to his deck.


October 12, 1492 . . . . . . . . . .The Great Spirit Sends a vision
In a village called Ajacan, located on the York River, seven miles Northwest of what is today called Chesapeake Bay; Running Bear awakens with a cry of terror, as his vision follows him into the night.
A nightmare of violence, pestilence and genocide ran through the young warriors eyes. He shudders at the many images of men with hairy faces, greed in their eyes, jumping and leaping across great bellowing clouds that pushed their ships across the water toward his home.
The strength of his vision imprinted the fear of what was to befall his people in the years to come. Once again the First People of the land would be driven from their homes. If the vision were true, his people would not long survive without the Great Spirit’s help. He only hoped and prayed that those brothers he had seen in his vision would survive the shackles that even at that moment were destroying what had once been.



Chapter 1

May 1555 (Spring)

The man was sweating in the hot noonday sun, his skin glowing with the light reddish color of his ancestors. With his long raven colored hair tied loosely at the nap of his neck, he had about him an aura of infinite patience and wisdom.
The focus of the man’s concentration was a small fire in the bowl of a large tree, now turned on its side. Standing just over six feet tall, with the lithe body of a runner, the man wore a simple breechcloth made from the pelts of several small squirrels and rabbits. The heads and tails dangling and swaying to the man’s movement, even as their sightless eyes whispered their death song to this great hunter.
Pausing for several seconds to allow the fire to do its work, he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand while withdrawing the still burning limb from within the blackened and smoking hollow of the log. Leaning forward with the smoking limb still in his hands, he pushed the now glowing mass of coals further along the inside edge of the partially hollowed out canoe.
Satisfied, he took a step back and reached to the pile of sand at his feet. Frowning with irritation as he realized that it was almost gone, he turned toward the well worn trail behind him even as he heard the noisy and stumbling steps approaching from the sandy beach below. Smiling now as he watched the young boy approach, he quietly waited.
Five seasons old, his son was slowly trudging towards him. His head bent down, perspiration dripping of his forehead. The heavy mugginess of the air on the rise as the heat of the sun forced its way through the leaves of the surrounding Birch trees.
Struggling with a heavy basket of sand, sometimes pulling it along the ground, at other times picking it up for short distances, he worked his way towards his father, and unceremoniously dumped it at his feet.
Rubbing his sons head, and squeezing his shoulder in affection, he waved him back for another load. With a painfully innocent smile, a look of childlike exasperation and an all too obvious need to please, the boy turned quickly, the now empty basket dangling by his right leg as he walked back to the beach from whence he came.
Standing for a moment, watching his son recede into the forest, the man sighed with the realization of the many hardships this innocent boy; his son, would have to face in the coming years. It was a hard life even at the best of times, but satisfying in its own way. He prayed to the Great One that the prophecies told of his son would not come true.
Sighing in anger at himself for wasting the day away, his heart aching with the painful pleasure only a parent can feel, the man resumed burning and chipping with his stone axe into the heart of the great white pine, while periodically using the sand at his feet and a fist size piece of Granite to smooth out the interior.
Working urgently to wash his worries away with the sweat of his brow; this hunter, now turned fisherman with the coming of Spring paused abruptly in surprise as a shadow fell across the canoe.
“Husband, do you thirst?” A voice said. As he turned at the interruption, his wife lifted a gourd full of water towards his face. She tipped the gourd into his parted lips, his hands overlapping hers. Their love and not a little lust sparkled in their eyes, and through the touch of their hands and in the liquid movements of her body.
He felt the needs of his body rise even as he satisfied his thirst. She overwhelmed his senses at times with an almost manic need to drink from her lips all that she was and all that she would ever be. He was mesmerized by her beauty, the girlish smile that was always there for him, it made his heart ache with a need that drove him to protect her at any cost.
He continued to stare as he always did at his wife, the quiet strength that she gave him, the happiness that she shared with him saved him from his darker side at times. The side that made him the great warrior he was and the protector of his family and that of his people.
His wife, like the other women of the village, wore her long straight black hair to her shoulders in the traditional manner. Most of the women in his village were more handsome then pretty, when he thought of such things.
She was the exception to most of his people, both in manners and in her quiet strength. Light reddish skin, almost pink, with eyes almond shaped in appearance and a mouth that always showed the humor in her soul. She had about her, a childlike innocence that could melt of the hardest of hearts; even his.
Having drunk his fill, he set aside the gourd he had taken from her and pulled her close. “Yes Motoax , I thirst for many things. Water, food, and . . . “ he paused with a smile on his lips, as he caressed her face with his hands and slowly moved them to her shoulders. His young wife’s eyes sparkled as his meaning was ever so clear. As she moved against him, he could feel her rabbit skin apron shift and move against his stomach; making him long for the day to end, so they could be alone in each other’s arms.
The boy stopped at the edge of the forest with his next load of sand, not wanting to intrude into this private moment between his parents. As he watched, it made him smile with pride at the obvious love they had for each other.
Curiously of late, he had noticed many things about his parents that in the past, he had never notice or thought about before. ‘Why did they act so different when they were along?’ ‘Why was his mother always painting her face with Scarlet Berry Juice and Bloodroot ?’ Worst of all; why was his father always insisting that they bathe every evening?
Turning slightly to sit on a nearby log and ponder these questions, he tripped on the basket of sand at his feet and fell into several low lying bushes. Grumbling and slapping at the leaves, vines and insects sticking to his body. He slowly picked himself up while brushing the dirt and dust from his chest, arms and the loincloth that wrapped it’s way around his tiny waist.
His parents turned in the direction of the noise. Seeing him, they watched with their usual mixture of concern and amusement. Smiling regretfully at her husband for the untimely interruption in their love life, Motoax moved quickly to her son to assure herself that all was well.
Finding him safe and unhurt, she took his hand as they walked back to the still burning log where her husband waited with equal parts frustration and fatherly concern. Ignoring her husband’s frustration with half a smile, Motoax continued as if nothing had been happening. “Husband, how long before the canoe is ready?”
Wabokieshieck , her husband and Weremancer for the village, looked back at his wife with equal mixtures of confusion, exasperation and affection all fighting for dominance, as his emotions played across his face. After a moment with resigned humor, he found his voice and smiled crookedly. “It should be finished tomorrow, that is if the weather holds.”
Smiling still, he turned back to the work at hand, realizing as all men through history have recognized; that when the children enter the picture, any passion to be had with the one you love, is over for the moment.
Motoax smiled at her husband’s back, the frustration seen plainly on his face as he had turned his back to her. She reached up and touched his shoulder and for a moment he resisted her in his way; but finally he paused and looked at her. Their eyes met for a moment, the love obvious even in their mutual frustration. Her husband shook his head, smiled, kissed her fingers and resumed working.
A rueful smile on her face at the anticipated night to come, she shook her head in resignation and giving her son a final pat on the head, picked up the now empty water gourd and headed back to her own work with the other women of the village.
Her home, like many villages in the surrounding area, consisted of a series of bread-loaf shaped buildings created by implanting a double row of saplings in the ground and bending the tops into an arched roof that continued to grow larger as the trees grew over several seasons.
The sides were covered with woven mats of reeds and bark that could be rolled up or removed in warmer weather. The roof consisted of marsh grass and bark thatched together with a smoke hole in the center.
As Motoax walked towards her home, she smiled as she realized how lucky she was. They had a strong young son, she was the favorite wife of the village Weromancer and she had the love of them both. Glancing back, Motoax could see her husband giving instructions to their son. She assumed it dealt with the canoe they were building; but with those two, you could never tell.
With a last sigh and a rush of desire in her loins, she turned; ducked her head down and walked through the large hole in the side of her home. The reed wall having been removed earlier to help circulate the fresh Spring air more freely.
Walking to the back was where her tools were kept, she inhaled deeply of the fresh air that was mixing with the heady odors of spices, dried fruit, fish and the hundreds of other assorted smells reminiscent of a hard Winter, now over.
Reaching the back wall, Motoax picked up the Corn Scraper and headed back they way she had come. The village had used the stored Cornmeal from last year’s harvest and they were now into the reserves of dried whole Corn still on the cob. The women and some of the young children would have to scrape off and grind the desiccated kernels of corn from which their cornmeal was made.
The Corn Scraper was just what it sounded like. A simple tool, but effectively useful when she was scraping hard dry kernels of Corn still on the cob throughout a long hot day. It consisted of a wooden shaft about one foot in length, sharpened at one end and flat at the other. It was then shoved through the two ends of a leather strap, which provided a convenient and easy grip for the task at hand.
Strolling from her home and heading to the longhouse at the center of the village; Corn Scraper in hand, Motoax saw the other woman already gathered and hard at work. Last Fall’s harvest had been plentiful and with the other women and surprisingly even a few of the young, men, she had scraped, pounded and carried bag after bag of cornmeal and beans into every conceivable storage place they could find.
The left over cobs of corn were packed into large woven grass baskets and hollow logs cut into sections. Woven grass and bark masts were then banked around the sides, with the tops of the containers covered with three or four feet of dry sand. This had kept it fresh and dry with the obvious advantage of keeping it away from foraging animals during the cold Winter nights. Thanks to the Creator they had weathered it without loss of life and for the most part, plenty to eat.
Today they were preparing the last of the stored whole corn that had been put away for emergencies. Winter had been mild and with the surplus food, tonight they would celebrate the coming of the Spring with fresh venison, beans and corncakes. Plenty would be left over for dessert popcorn with a hot breakfast of Hominy.
As the Wereomancer’s first wife, she had the responsibility of being her husband’s eyes and ears in all things; especially in the vital area of food preparation and distribution. The matter of equally sharing and accounting for food supplies, helped prevent hunger among her people. As with all peoples in all times, full bellies helped keep harmony the norm and not the exception. Even now, with food so plentiful, it was best to plan for the unseen.
Sitting down and nodding to the other women in the circle, Motoax picked up a large wooden bowl from the stock in front of her. Her Corn Scraper took on a life of its own as the dry kernels of Corn dropped into the bowl between her legs.
It was unusually warm and humid for such an early Spring day. The treetops swayed slowly from a slight breeze that did not quite reach the women. Beads of sweat dripped down their tired faces. The sounds of their work, music that mesmerized their souls and opened their hearts to the Creator’s world. Each woman to her own thoughts; each to her own pace, for many, this would be the only quiet moment in a very long day, of a lifetime of long days.
Motoax watched the others as her thoughts turned outward to who were these women that surrounded her. The younger ones, like her, used the Corn Scraper for their work. It was light and easy to use; the others, usually the older women, used the Shelling Mortar. A cumbersome, ‘and Motoax thought, more difficult way to rip the corn from the gritty cobs.’
Since coming here to be with her new husband, she had continued to be an outsider to her husband’s people, that she now called her own. Even the younger women were slow to learn from her. Truly, that was the difference between her and her new family. Most of their lives had been spent reaping and clawing an existence out of the land around them. Even when faced with an easier path, they would still choose the more difficult path out of habit, instead of thought. Her Iroquois brother and sisters were thinkers and doers; but she loved her husband and looked forward to the challenge ahead, even if it had not been one she had expected.
A scraping noise to her left brought her senses back to the here and now. Looking to her left, two of the others were using the grinding stones. Kernels of Corn were placed in lye to soften the shells, dried in the sun and then placed between the stones, then ground into the meal that was the staple of themselves and the other tribes in the surrounding areas.
Glancing across the large open area under the trees, she could see her husband and son continuing to talk and work on the canoe. She could see that they were totally absorbed but her thoughts became lost as she heard a grunt and phlegm being spat her way.
Turning her attention back to the group with her usual smile, she glanced briefly at the old crone to her right and adjacent within the circle of women that surrounded her. Taking the not so subtle hint to continue working she returned back to her work. After a few moments she again glanced up to see if the old women was still watching her.
Although she was married to the village Weromancer, and by this association she was given the authority to oversee the other women in their duties, her youth relegated her to a continual verbal battle with some of the older women. That her people and her ways were of another tribe only increased the complications and backbiting she had to deal with.
Continuing to work, she thought of the village she now called her home and how different to her own it was. Her new home consisted of forty-one families living and working together through the village.
The men; along with the older boys worked to repair the damage to their homes, canoes and surrounding trails that the long Winter had brought to them. This included preparing the fields for Spring planning, repairs to their weapons and tools, along with dozens of other tasks that were a part of the coming of Spring.
No less important, the women and children prepared and stored the food the men caught. They needed and made cloths, prepared seeds for the seasonal planting and generally defined the over-all rhythm of daily village life. With planting season just days away, idle chatter and day-dreaming would not be tolerated; least of all from the Wearomancer’s First wife.
“Motoax!”
Caught watching and day-dreaming about her husband again, Motoax listened to the other women giggle, but they turned quickly back to their work when the old crones glance happened to flash their way.
Blushing, Motoax pretended not to hear the laughter and although the younger women were not without understanding, the older women understood all too well. In their aging years, they felt the need to set an example of how the younger women should conduct themselves.
You could tell though; as she looked around, that there were at least one or two, whose eyes still sparkled from the half remembered memories of a pounding heart, weakening knees and lustful thoughts. The old crone was just jealous of her life and the Chief’s attention as well as his ear.
These past few years had been wonderful, but married life and kids had its ups and downs. There was an attraction to the simpler things she had always taken for granted in her youth, that she only appreciated now.
Her life here for the most part provided that which we all crave. That sense of belonging and a continuity beyond oneself. For one so young, Motoax held the spiritual wisdom required of a Wereomancer’s wife even though she still had some thoughts better suited for a child. She felt the bonds all around her, the awakening of life and the renewal that the Creator brought each Spring.
The village itself was as much a part of that renewal as the individuals who dwelt there. Like a living thing, the village wove its way through the forest. A living breathing presence that merged with the nature of life around it.
Each home was planned and placed to make use of the larger trees as windbreaks from the cold Winter winds and snow, but provided efficient shading from the hot muggy months of Summer.
Space between each home was maximized for room, but positioned as a part of a large circle, whose center contained a large open area with a communal longhouse in its center. The central longhouse was a building not unlike the family dwellings; but larger, large enough to allow the entire village to meet and enjoy social gatherings in comfort.
In front where the women sat, there was a large stone fire pit where meat, fish and fowl were smoked and cured. Over the pit lay a fire bar, wooden fire drills used to assist in the making of the fire, assorted cooking utensils, posts and other cooking paraphernalia now set out for the upcoming Thunder Dance.
The Thunder Dance welcomed back the Thunderers who moved throughout stormy skies during Spring rains. They brought water to the fields, controlling the winds and restrained wild animals. The Spring Thunder Dance said farewell to the Gods of Winter, while welcoming the Gods of spring.
Beyond the fire pit lay a large sand covered area that had the shape of a circle. Spaced at approximately forty-five degrees around the circle; tall wooden posts, carved with hauntingly shrouded spiritual faces that stood guarding all that they surveyed.
At its center stood another post, taller than the others, carved faces looking out of the circle. Its position and height showed dominance and expected fealty from those looking in behind the other lesser Gods. The Creator stood above all others and his place of worship expressed his power.
The circle of power celebrated the Green Corn festival in the Fall; but in general it gave thanks on all occasions to the Gods and other spirits for safe journeys, successful hunts, a good harvest and one more year of life
Dancing with rattles made from gourds and seeds, the villagers would sometimes dance, sing, drink and gorge themselves throughout the night and even into the next day.
Motoax sighed as she continued to scrape Corn from the sandy cobs that lay all around them, remembering that it was at such a celebration, that her son Little Squirrel was conceived amid the noise and beauty of her new people, the memories all the more poignant for her thoughts and dreams.
Looking through the trees, she could see Little Squirrel and his father still talking. To the left, her home sat atop a wide rocky tree covered ridge. Facing outward at the top of the cliff, you could see what would become known as the York River. She could see it flowing into the Chesapeake Bay and on days like today, you could see far into the distance beyond the islands, the great ocean.
The surrounding land was a mix of rolling hills, meadows, wetlands and salt marshes. To the Northwest it sloped down to the river’s edge. To the Northeast sandy beaches that were good for clamming, fishing and for their children, a wonderful place to explore and play.
The Chesapeake Bay, or as she thought of it, the Great River, gave them the sustenance needed to keep the Creators chosen ones, “The First People” healthy and well fed. It had provided for her as a child with her own people and now provided for her own family.
“Matoax?”
“Motoax!”
Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted again as she heard her name being called again. She hid her thoughts as she looked up at the interruption.
‘The old crone again’, she thought to herself.
“Yes Grandmother?”
‘The old crone was going to badger her to death!’
Although not her grandmother, the baine of her existence was the oldest women in the village and as such, was accorded the respect her age and assumed wisdom required.
“Motoax, it’s good that you work so diligently, but your thoughts continue to wonder. So let them wonder to our benefit. Tell us a story to while away the long day.”
Since coming to the village of her husband six seasons ago, her reputation for teaching the wisdom of her people; the Iroquois, through the use of stories had continually brought her in confrontation with many of the older women.
Although the surrounding villages around the Great River and beyond were the Creator’s “First People”, they each had developed the wisdom of their fathers and gave of this knowledge through the stories told from one generation to the next. That was at least what she had always believed before joining her husband’s people. The village she now lived within was no different; but many of her teachings conflicted with many of the accepted ideas of her adoptive family.
They conflicted most especially with anything coming from her mouth, to that of Grandmother’s ears. Motoax did not deny the wisdom of those older than her; but they would not, or could not accept that youth was not necessarily a barrier to that same wisdom.
This difference brought with it a sense of continually being tested, teased and of course the expected backbiting that seem to be the nature of the women and all too many of the men here. Truth be told though; even at its worst, the women, young and old alike, did seem to enjoy her stories as much as anyone.
Looking around the circle, she recognized the avid anticipation and curiosity barely restrained, as the others waited for her answer. Taking a moment to think, she looked again into Grandmother’s eyes and answered.
“Yes Grandmother, there is no more captive audience than those of us who tire and wish for distraction. I have just the tale for you on such a day as this.”
“I tell of the time of Ga-Do-Wass, and Dja-Swen-Do, the Great Sky Road that holds all the stars. Ga-Do-Wass dwells in the Top sky and with his four eyes watching every corner of the Earth. At one time Ga-Do-Wass was an Earth dweller and a Hunter, but because he presumed to Celestial power and destroyed all of the game, he was transferred to the heavens and watches the gate through which each soul passes on into immortality.”
Motoax looked around and noticed that even though everyone continued to work, they were all enraptured with her tale. She looked at Grandmother, whose only response was a flip of her hand to continue.
“When Ga-Do-Wass assumed his duty as Soul Watcher, he removed his hunting belt, which possessed the charm of enticing game. He decorated it with stars and cast it into space, where it spans the entire heavens and illuminates each path to which he guides each soul.”
“So luminous is this path that it’s blended light reaches down to the Earth and divides its rays, stationing one at each lodge where a human is dying, so that the departing soul may not lose its way as it leaves its Earthly vessel.”
“No human vessel has seen these rays without the brush of death nearby, or one who see’s beyond life. They are visible only to the soul in need. The South wind accompanies the soul until it reaches the gate where Ga-Do-Wass waits and watches. As the soul passes the portal of its journey place, Ga-Do-Wass grasps a star which he fastens in the gelt of the new spirit, thereby guiding the soul on its journey.”
“When the soul has crossed the entire heavens, Ga-doWass removes the star from the belt of the new spirit and returns it to its appointed place in the sky.”
“The Great Sky Road, is a procession of stars, each guiding a soul to its fated end. If there is confusion in this procession, it is because some soul is disturbed and off its path, but the star which never loses its way, will search for the wondering soul and return it to its proper course.”
Motoax looked at her audience and saw few enlightened eyes. Most were blank with confusion; many more than she had expected to see. Motoax looked at Grandmother and saw the glint in her eyes; the expression she saw their challenging her to glean knowledge out of what was obviously a useless children’s story, at least one without any real meaning Grandmother’s way of thinking.
Motoax sighed with the renewed patience she had acquired since coming to this village; at least in her mind, of backward children. Unlike the village of her birth where tales were meant to teach; here, tales were for the most part entertainment of great hunting stories told by hunters who had more thought than deed.
Her new family enjoyed the tales, but they were unaccustomed to seeking wisdom from the nuances of a story. To her the stories were the carriers of the life experience of her ancestors and the hope they had for the survival of the “First People”. Taking a breath to focus her thoughts, Motoax continued.
“The tale of Ga-Do-Wass was, and is a story for young children to help them understand the differences in each of us, to worship those differences as a path to self knowledge. Being old, does not guarantee a wise and patient soul, any more than being young guarantees a witless and ignorant soul.”
“Each soul is on a personal quest of discovery, which will find its home in the hands of the Creator. To abuse, make fun of or otherwise degrade anyone because of their differences, is to show a soul at birth’s beginning. No matter the age of the body.”
Motoax glanced and Grandmother. “To put it another way,” glancing at Grandmother with a piercing eye, “Old age is not a requirement for wisdom, anymore than youth is a requirement for ignorance!”
Her husband would of course hear of her insult to Grandmother, even if it was not intended that way. Motoax smiled her innocence at Grandmother as if to say, let me learn from you as you will learn from me.
With an anger drawn from some level of self-discovery, Grandmother’s tight lips and flinty stare ended the story, as well as any discussion that might have arisen. Motoax looked on with a forgiving smile and disappointment in her eyes, as the silence of the other women grew quiet in this ongoing battle of wills between her and Grandmother. The other women were habitually slow in stepping to either side of any discussion or argument, which is what it usually turned into. As the silence of the other women continued and the two women stared at each other, Grandmother looked down finally in capitulation, but just as quickly gave the others a scathing look and ran her eyes around the circle.
“Well, why are you not working?”
The younger woman and older alike quickly returned to their work, but not before both Grandmother and Motoax saw the renewed respect before their eyes turned away to the task at hand. It was a continual battle of wits to keep the women from splintering and sowing discord with the men of the men of village. Motoax knew it was as much her duty as her husband’s to ferret out and quickly solve potential problems, nor create more, as she seemed to do whenever Grandmother was part of the discussion.
Smiling to herself anyway, Motoax enjoyed the satisfaction of yet another hard won battle of wits between her ideas and that of Grandmother and her followers. With each battle won, the other women’s respect continues to grow. As she went back to her own work she noticed the hidden smiles and realized she was slowly gaining greater influence in the ways and manners of these sometimes strange people, who continued to slowly adopt her into their family.

A Bum's Rush

The old woman turned and smiled, just long enough for me to miss seeing the thick walking stick she swung toward the side of my head. I should have known better than to get so close, as it was a common reaction on her part, well known by those who inhabit or visit the French Quarter on a regular basis.
In your effort to help someone in trouble, to break through the reflections of their experience, it’s a common danger more often than not, that they will fight to control some semblance of their world, regardless of who is making the attempt to help them.
When I first came to New Orleans it was a surreal experience. I stepped off the Greyhound bus, it was early evening, late August, the heat was dissipating and the surrounding tree covered grounds, were paved with cardboard boxes, the bed of choice for the average homeless person. It’s sad to say what become’s average at times for some souls.
It was a sultry night with the expected drunks, and dope heads, but the unexpected presence of children alone or with friends, and homeless families, all seeking some level of peace and rest from the day’s efforts to survive.
The Bus Station was a sanctuary. A place away from the river, away from the dangers of the boardwalk, and away from the Quarter where anything could happen, and usually did at one time or another. It was the circling of the wagons from the violence so many thought to escape, even if for just a moment.
The old woman; Gabbie, as I like to think of her, had a voice that reminded me of a children’s movie I remembered from years past. Trembling, high pitched, a falsetto of innocence hoping in every note to find beauty in the life yet to come.
I stepped back, ducking Gabbie’s manic swing, just barely escaping another lump on the side of my head. On the days that I was able to find her, she didn’t always miss. I had a meal tray with me and I was in danger of spilling it as I stepped back to give her space and time to calm down.
From the look of her, Methuselah would have called her grandmother. Five foot plus an inch would have been a generous estimate. Her cloths were tattered and she carried a burlap sack slung across her shoulders with her life’s possessions, a doll with a grubby face and one eye missing, trinkets, pretty stones, a blanket to sleep under and a paper bag filled with McDonald’s hamburgers, now starting to mold quickly in the humid air.
Her hair was ratty and grey and she wore Vietnam era jungle boots on her feet. Where they had come from was anyone’s guess. Spindly legs, scarecrow arms, the walking stick she carried almost as thick as her arm and taller by a foot then she was.
She constantly smiled a toothless grin, singing or humming a child’s song I recognized from Wee Sing’s Big Rock Candy Mountain video series. A song sung with two imaginary friends, playing together in a valley filled with friends, adventure and always filled with love and “care”. Music I had enjoyed with my daughter as we sat in the hospital together, each day wondering about her future and the hopes we had to save her.
Gabbie had a high pitched voice that was soulfully disconcerting in my mind’s eye of my own daughter when she was four years old; cute, happy, and playful, as she enjoyed just being a child.
To hear the clear sweet voice of a child, coming from the aging, decrepit wreak of a woman-child in front of me was an anathema that I couldn’t escape. The contrasting images in my mind were an assault on the senses as I struggled with the pain filled memories of my own long lost battles.
It was a surrealistic burden to my soul to see and hear her each day walking by, surviving on what she found, or on what others gave her. A lost soul marking time in the quintessential struggle to not only survive, but to live within what dreams she might still have.
Oddly she was the most interesting, but also most tragic figure I was to see during my time in New Orleans Louisiana. It was 1996 and the whole state was in something of an economic slump. The oil boom had peaked for a time, and was raging towards the bottom, moving quickly past falling fortunes and broken dreams.
New Orleans, “The big easy”, a unique city warring on the extreme edges of church oriented ethics and a manic need for individual and group debauchery. It’s a place where the graft of its officials is accepted; even applauded by the majority, in the actions and reactions of their lives.
New Orleans is “The City that care forgot.” Locals like to say it refers to the carefree lackadaisical pace of the city, compared to the no-nonsense frantic tempo found throughout the rest of the country. To others it means a city of self-involvement, a place where the abuse of oneself is an art form of self-indulgence, even self-destruction.
It’s a place where a bum drops his pants to take a crap in mid-traffic, where a fat woman pushing six hundred pounds, walks back and forth on a reinforced second story balcony, doing a strip tease to the yelling and screaming mobs on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras.
A place to take romantic walks along the river at night with your girlfriend, enjoying the moonlight and then laughing hysterically as a six foot five Tranny in a short bright orange skirt and heels, pops up out of the shadows with an aging five foot something pasty white fat guy, each trying to put their individual equipment back into something resembling proper storage.
Unlike Vegas, what’s in New Orleans does not necessarily stay in New Orleans, as many of the local free clinics would attest to. It’s a place tourist’s come to from all over the world, often at the expense of the locals begging or nurturing a meager existence from their visits.
Tourists come to New Orleans to gamble, have sex, eat and get drunk. It’s a place where just about anything can be had for the right price. If you’re a pedophile in the nineties this was the place to be. Abused children from all over the country and even a few from Europe came here to escape abusive homes or some other form of abuse.
They ran in packs, living in empty broken down houses easily pointed out by the ministers I worked with, who worked hand-in-hand with the Baptist and Catholic Charities. They toiled to bring three meals a day to literally thousands, while working to push back the boundaries of chaos the city had succumbed to.
The children and young adults lived on the streets with friends, brothers and sisters, new acquaintances, each moving through a hand-to-mouth existence selling themselves for the chance to survive. It was survival they hoped for, but living and loving that they dreamed of.
Life on the street for a child is a catch-22 situation. When they ask for help, they’re put back with the abusers they ran away from. If they don’t ask for help, they control some part of their world by choosing if and when to be abused for money. It’s a terrible choice, even tragic, but one that’s understandable from their prospective.
After being in the area for some weeks watching Gabbie, and others walk up and down Bourbon street, Royal street, or sometimes the River-Walk. I came to find many of the same habits in myself, that I noticed in the locals.
It’s a habit for most locals walking through the city to keep quarters or other change in their pockets. It pays the block to block toll when walking through the Gauntlet of homeless people that are always there, and lately, seemed to outnumber even the tourists.
Paying the toll made you feel good, but the practical nature of it allowed you to get to work on time, or just see the sights in leisure. As much as you felt sorry for them, there was only so much you could do to help. No one can listen to so many sad stories daily, without starting to drown in the spiritual quagmire that sucks you in without any hope of escaping emotionally intact.
Throughout my wonderings in New Orleans I came across a lot of unusual sights and sounds. Well? Unusual in most places I’ve been; but not unusual for New Orleans.
The city ran out of money to support many of the normal resources that the poor and lost looked to for help. The free clinics were the first to go, but then the hospitals cut back, the food bank, unemployment offices shut down. The only ones happy were the prisoners who somehow found their sentences reduced from ten years, to time served or worse.
It was a given that the rapes, murders, and shootings; every type of crime in between, sky-rocketed. The year I spent there, hundreds of drive by shootings spread throughout the city, forty of them resulting in deaths, a large portion of them children.
The local mental institution closed, the doors were opened and patients as they became hungry wondered out, and gravitated to places they were familiar with. Others just wondered around, some to be lost to anyone’s knowledge, those lucky few found garbage to eat, handouts, or were stable enough to find some sort of work.
We had the want-a-be preachers on many corners in ragged pajamas with the state asylum logo on it. They would preach a while, drink a while and then explode into an almost rabid stream of gutter language, arms flailing, eyes painfully searching for things they themselves did not even know or understand.
There were the ever present perverts, thieves, murderers and everything in between that walks the streets in dark alleys, abusing the abused, stealing from the lost, disappearing into the night as they took the hope of so many with them.
It haunts me the memories of what happened to the many people I met while I was there. I look at my daughter who is now twenty-three; but the mind of an eternally happy, but sometimes frustrated four year old. Her mother is gone now and I wonder sometimes of the old-young women Gabbie, as I wonder for the future of my own little girl.
What happened to her parents? Were they also terrified of what would one day be the life struggle of their baby girl. Were they like many who put them away, forget about them, their lives at the beck-and-call of unseen armies of civil service accountants and other thieves in the night who turn them out to fend for themselves.
I see in my mind now as I approach the coming of my own time, the old-young woman singing, swinging her stick, screaming, yelling, whining for her parent’s love, a love that will never come.

A Good Patriot is a Good Killer?

A rather blunt and rude title; but I imagine it evokes; or it should, a bit of irritation, maybe even a bit of anger. This was the commentary that an essay was wrapped within, by William Nelson Cromwell, aka George Kateb, Professor of Politics Emeritus, at Princeton University.
The essay he wrote “On Patriotism” I came across almost by accident on a web site called “CATO UNBOUND”[1]. Professor Cromwell, along with John Rawls and Isaiah Berlin have added prolifically to Liberal Political Theory; but the last few years Professor Cromwell has turned his attention to fighting, what he sees as the erosion of individual liberties, wrought by the Bush administration.
The focus of this paper is to analyze “On Patriotism” partially as a rebuttal to what I see as the illogical and subjective aspects of Professor Cromwell’s agenda; but also to define and demarcate the rather obvious problems that we in the military have, when dealing with the reigning Intellectual Elitism that seems to have taken over every aspect of our society.
Professor Cromwell and those like him, limit our ability to communicate the truth and urgency of our needs, with the dire circumstances that face our country if those needs are not met. Understanding those who attack us, malign us or disrespect us is a first step toward our goals; but we also have to attack in kind and in form, those untruths as they are printed, to wit, “On Patriotism”[2].
The nature of how we define patriotism and by its extension, “The Patriot”, evokes a range of emotions and descriptions of those emotions that are innately simplistic, or gratuitously complex. In every generation; the current one included, the concept of patriotism is abused, used and gloried in, both by the politicians that lead us and the individual citizens which grant them proxy power to steer our course into the future of our world.
All too few of our representatives search for answers to the many questions that would give us guidance on the path we should walk, as opposed to the path we find ourselves all too often being led down. Many such leaders we elect to office; but all too often the decision makers are those that stand behind the throne, or are those who find positions in middle management, that filter out the essence of truth to those we elect.
In point of fact; be it on the throne, behind it, or kneeling in front of it, it has always been the intellectuals among us that write and pontificate through our writings and sermons, that are the true catalytic agents that mark the cadence of our course; personalities such as Jackson, Washington, Madison, Franklin and many others; some of whom had excellent academic backgrounds; but many of whom did not.
The only watchword of the day was “Vision”; the vision of a farmer to create a stable home for his children and grandchildren; the vision of the average man or woman to become something more than average, by the nature of what they believed, and what they were willing to fight for with their collective visions coming together, through battles wrought as often by the pen, as the gun.
Through it all, it has been the intellectual that seeded the world with the logic of their words. Words designed to manipulate, to use; sometimes with permission, and many times without; as to the nature of what a vision can do for, or to a society.
Intellectual validation as a rule did not depend on pedigree, or a piece of paper that told of what they should be capable of; but depended rather on the nature of a person’s thoughts, how well they could express them, and how well they transformed those thoughts, into the creative power that defined the birth of our country.
The Intellectual Elites of today; as many have so named them have divorced themselves from the reality of how thought and the abstract process should be connected to the practical aspects of life. They define the theoretical nature of those things they study; but limit the nature of their understanding to those things only provable in the virtual world of their own mind.
The logic of their minds and the decision making process that these elitists use, is the end-all-be-all of what is in their philosophy, the true difference between the concept of man and the other forms of life that coexist in our world. They negate or ignore as inconsequential, the emotional, or the spiritual by which the wisdom of our ethical or moral behavior is defined.
It is the ego of the intellectual and the “rightness” of their assumptions they use in their logic; that drives the significance of their errors. For they do not understand the emotional and spiritual needs of humanity; that give any intellectual process its context, and by definition the wisdom that defines our morality as a species.
When defining the essence of choice, it is not enough to mathematically state or model a problem as is the way of these elite’s; for although a solution to a problem can be logically derived, the assumptions we make will always be subjective, and by definition, unpredictable outside the context of our goals.
The nature of the Universe is by definition unquantifiable in the snapshot of a formula, an array of data, or the approximation that comes from the limited language we have in mathematics. This is not to say that these tools are not usable; but they have to be used within the understanding of their limits, and the significance of those limits.
The ability to calculate, to analyze a problem, to see the symmetry and patterns of life around us, and how it connects us to one another, is the pinnacle of what we as a species should aspire to. This is the essence of the Renaissance thinker. This is the essence of many of the founding fathers, and oh so many of the citizens, then and now; who created, and help to support this grand experiment called the United States of America.
The province or ability to be a great thinker does not depend on a formal education, or its lack thereof; but it does require honest introspection of oneself, the ability to intuitively, or if you will, to syllogistically work through the logic of how life processes around you work, and ultimately never being able to settle for the easy answer; to reject a life of swimming in the shallow end of the intellectual pool, and seek out the depths of truth in ourselves and in those around us.
The nature of an objective truth, processed by such a mind as this; is what we all should aim for; but by which we all fall short of at times. This is the essence of the Renaissance mind by which path we should follow; but by which today’s elites are slowly destroying.
We as a species are like the school children who are given the task of learning math; but cheat their way through it by using a calculator and the given formulas. They may pass the test; but the art of solving the problem’s and the mental growth that comes from such effort are lost in the homogenized environment of our public educational system. It is the fast food mentality of our society that this has created, that now drives the ignorance of many of today’s intellectuals.
Professor Cromwell and his essay “On Patriotism”, is an example of the type of failure of today’s elitist intellectual. He is one of today’s shining intellectuals who have lost any sense of an objective truth, on his path through the delusion of his own self-image. Like many people who make their way in this world through the nature of how well they “live-in-their-head”; Professor Cromwell, is one such Aristotelian personality. His essay is an example of a brilliant mind caught up in the false shadows of his own logic; wedded to assumptions more suitable for a grade school child, then the man of thought that he aspires to be.
He thinks, defines and melds his inner world into a form that by itself; is an art form of self-delusion, which at its core defines the unknown landscapes of his “wish” of how the world should be. His logic is impeccable in its nature; but his assumptions and the data he derives from those assumptions, feed a lifetime of synergistic works, that each in their own, drive us further and further from the balance the founding fathers, so exquisitely defined within the Constitutional formulary that we live our lives by.
The Founding Fathers did not haphazardly bring their thoughts together without an understanding of the nature of humanities emotional and spiritual needs; as well as knowing the limits of those needs and how they should be integrated into the practical application of a Rule-of-Law.
They understood the need of a common vision driven by the action of individual patriotism, and the need for a mix of cohesive forces that would bring together those idealistic visions into a well-balanced governmental institution, which could provide safety and shelter to the majority of its people.
At its cusp, that is what drives the nature of patriotism and the visions that give it power; the need for a group of people to find stability for their lives and that of their families in the body politic, that we now call our “Republic”.
Loose adherence to the Rule-of-Law and the legal subjectivity of precedent defines chaos, and the “slippery-slope” syndrome that destroys a society. Too much of an adherence to the strict “letter-of-the-law” breeds conformity, and decreases the ability of the law to be adaptable to the nature and needs of its people.
The Founding Fathers understood there is a practical logistical limit, to how much a governmental institution should involve itself in the daily lives of its people, as well as how much direct control the individual citizen should have, in the process of the daily activities of the government that they elected to represent them. This is the balance defined and regulated by the Constitutional Formulary; a well-defined conservative document that the Founding Fathers set into motion, to act as the foundation for our way of life.
Although the Founding Fathers for the most part were devout Christians, they had a well-reasoned process of thought that drove them to limit governmental intrusion into the choices its citizens would make; even if that choice were not Christian based. That is the true mark of an intellectual; the ability to set aside their own needs and wants, and to see the objective truth that benefits all, and not just the one.
The intellectual elites of today; mix and match their private agendas, with the honed skills of the written word, so as to run roughshod over those around them who are more easily lost in academic language. Language they spent a lifetime in learning; but yet somehow expect the intelligent; but non-academic to connect with, digest and easily form a rebuttal.
Professor Cromwell epitomizes the nature of the modern day Intellectual Elitist. He starts out his essay “On Patriotism” with:
“Patriotism is love of country. What kind of love is that? Some defenders of patriotism who want us to love our country use such terms as fatherland and mother country.”
And he ends the first paragraph with:
“they know that of course a country is not a person, yet they act with energy on the belief that it is. The metaphor facilitates an exploitable mental confusion.”
He starts out with a sophomoric argument generalizing the concept of patriotism, using the colloquial expressions “fatherland” and “mother country”; while intellectualizing “country”, as an object without substance, evoking emotions on the part of the reader, that harkens us back to the days of the Nazi Swastika, European imperialism, and Communist Russia.
His intent seems to mix and match historical stereotypes, in hopes that the reader will not see the illogic of his rhetoric, or to evoke an emotional response to his comparison of Communist or Nazi ideals and to link them to his thesis.
His thesis defines the concept of Patriotism as some intellectual argument defining political power, instead of it being a collective extension of the “Will of the People”. Cromwell links the nature of an open constitutional government supported and created by the people, to relics of the past, which even in their peak years of citizen oriented justice, were questionable at best.
He assumes that the nature of patriotism is a love of country, where love is blind fealty of Master and Slave; instead of it being more the innate sense of our social needs, and the support of each other through the dynamic relationships that created, and support the “Republic” we thankfully find ourselves a part of.
The United States is more than the sum total of its geographic boundaries; it is a collective of families, neighbors, associations and common beliefs; that at its core, does at some level evoke the concept of love. A love of self for the success of our dreams, a love of family for our desire of their safety, and yes even a love of neighbor; for it is with these associations taken collectively, that gives us a hope of success for what we desire most; the freedom to be, and the freedom to choose the path that our dreams lead us down.
Patriotism like so many other descriptors that we use to interpret a facet of an individual’s psyche, nebulizes into a complex and precarious social philosophy. Individual philosophies that become instinctive corollaries; or social syllogisms, that when brought together in mass, provide the cohesive connections required to balance out the psychological, physical and logistical aspects required to maintain social order.
Professor Cromwell continues to argue that the people who are Patriotic are not bright enough to understand that “Love of Country” is a metaphor; but he never quite gives you the sense that he understands the nature of the metaphor he is talking about. He makes the mistake that it is impossible for a reasoning person to think two contradictory things simultaneously, when in actuality it is normal for the balanced mind to have contradictive thoughts all of the time. It is the biology that wars in us with the objective reasoning of how we look at things. Heart versus mind, gut versus head; it is the mixing and matching of all of our senses; both conscious and subconscious that works its way through our mind, and determines the inspirational clarity of our thoughts.
We don’t see the “love of country” as a person or a parent that the metaphor implies; but intuitively we do feel the connection of our fellow citizens as a collective representative of all those things we aspire for ourselves, and our families. Our patriotism is the extension of our empathy for our fellow man, and we colloquially define it as a “Love of country”; for only in our social connections too our neighbors, do we build a stable life, and save ourselves from the anarchy that would rule without the Republic that now defines our collective natures.
It is irrational to the intellectual elites for the average citizen to recognize that “love of country” is not a person; but yet to act on it as if it is; but it is rational to those of us who see that “love of country” is at some level a collective representation of ourselves, and in some ways acts and reacts with all of the ethical and moral plasticity that this implies.
We could unfold the layers of Professor Cromwell’s diatribe “On Patriotism”; but of course what would be the point. His logic is impeccable, his historical references are accurate within the context of his goals; but of course his goals are not to elicit objective thought; but more to drive his agenda, and those assumptions that support his agenda into the hearts and minds of all who would listen to his rhetoric.
He continues on with love of country being a monstrous extension of our love of our parents, and that love is relegated to a form of gratitude for one’s personal existence. He makes a comparison such that:
“Should love of country overwhelm all self-centered reluctance? In particular, is gratitude, a kind of love, the right emotion to feel towards one’s country? Although children are not usually asked to die for their parents, and most parents wouldn’t accept the offer if it were made, some defenders of patriotism imagine the state as a super-parent that may ask its children to die for it. The idea of patriotism is inseparable from killing and dying for your country. A good patriot is a good killer.”
From this point Professor Cromwell uses the academic’s stock-in-trade to guide, to confuse or debilitate through his recitation; philosophical ideals that he can rest his laurels on, without much thought of any argumentative rejection by the reader.
Words written by Aristotle, Socrates, Viroli, and Pericles top the list, in his venture to validate his assumptions through the connection of his words to those great thinkers. Never once does he show any sense of fault with his correlative endeavors, to prove a subjective point to the out of context quotes, from the varied historical works of political philosophy he chose to use.
William James[3] seems to be both admired by Professor Cromwell, and rejected in surprise at the same time.
“An intensely American philosopher, William James (in “The Moral Equivalent of War”), can think that it is good for young people especially to feel that they are “owned” by their country. I find it surprising that such a clear-headed thinker, democratic through and through, can voice such a view. But the much larger surprise is that we find in him, where we shouldn’t, a defense of the idea that, being owned, we owe the state or the country a debt, a “blood-tax” that must be paid when the state demands it. A blood-tax, however, isn’t an exaction of gratitude. Rather, the patriotic heroism of dying prematurely or risking death is the best definition of being a man. If James doesn’t follow Socrates in saying that the state, as our parent, gives us our lives, he exceeds Socrates by suggesting that in being owned by the state, we owe it a blood-tax, not merely a grateful readiness to die when it commands. For James, only death or its risk proves patriotism.”
William James was a pacifist, so it is no surprise that the nature of his writings were oriented in a manner at odds, with the moral or immoral use of violence to solve the social problems of the day. Professor Cromwell’s commentary of being “owned” by the country is not what James was alluding to though. James’s essay, was a logical progression of ideals in the make-up of society that; from his prospective, gave us alternatives to solving social problems without the use of force. His expression of “blood tax” was not the use of societies youth through acts of force and the resulting death of those same youth; but more about instituting programs whereby the youth of the day, would be conscripted into organizations that gave back to the state, while simultaneously developing the moral and ethical nature of our countries young adults.
In the quote above by Cromwell concerning William James, he says “For James, only death or its risk proves patriotism.” Nothing could be further from the truth; for William James was embarking on a fairly radical idea, that the only way to rid the world of war, was first to offer up an alternative. His alternative was; as will be shown below, a way of developing the youth of our country in a more moral and ethical manner, without losing the benefits of the martial forces of the military.
Professor Cromwell uses the words of James intentional out of context, to evoke in the less well read, assumptions that go against the very tenor of James’s intent in his essay. James continues with:
“Let me illustrate my idea more concretely. There is nothing to make one indignant in the mere fact that life is hard, that men should toil and suffer pain. The planetary conditions once for all are such, and we can stand it. But that so many men, by mere accidents of birth and opportunity, should have a life of nothing else but toil and pain and hardness and inferiority imposed upon them, should have no vacation, while others natively no more deserving never get any taste of this campaigning life at all, — this is capable of arousing indignation in reflective minds. It may end by seeming shameful to all of us that some of us have nothing but campaigning, and others nothing but unmanly ease. If now — and this is my idea — there were, instead of military conscription, a conscription of the whole youthful population to form for a certain number of years a part of the army enlisted against Nature, the injustice would tend to be evened out, and numerous other goods to the commonwealth would remain blind as the luxurious classes now are blind, to man’s relations to the globe he lives on, and to the permanently sour and hard foundations of his higher life. To coal and iron mines, to freight trains, to fishing fleets in December, to dishwashing, clothes washing, and window washing, to road-building and tunnel-making, to foundries and stoke-holes, and to the frames of skyscrapers, would our gilded youths be drafted off, according to their choice, to get the childishness knocked out of them, and to come back into society with healthier sympathies and soberer ideas. They would have paid their blood-tax, done their own part in the immemorial human warfare against nature; they would tread the earth more proudly, the women would value them more highly, they would be better fathers and teachers of the following generation.”
William James defines a “Blood Tax” as an army of young people conscripted; not into the Army as we know it; but into public works projects, civil services and humanitarian endeavors, so as to help develop their ethical and moral natures; in this way creating a society that could logically and ethical move away from the violence so prevalent throughout the world. In James’s essay, which was based on a speech delivered at Stanford University in 1906, he originated the idea of an organized national service. This eventually led to the Peace Corps, and other volunteer agencies sanctioned and supported by the American people.
James further brings out the thought, that in following his model for social engineering, our future would be best served by combining the best of what ideals we find in the military, and the best that we find in the more pacifistic philosophies.
“Such conscription, with the state of public opinion that would have required it, and the many moral fruits it would bear, would preserve in the midst of a pacific civilization the manly virtues which the military party is so afraid of seeing disappear in peace. We should get toughness without callousness, authority with as little criminal cruelty as possible, and painful work done cheerily because the duty is temporary, and threatens not, as now, to degrade the whole remainder of one’s life. I spoke of the “moral equivalent” of war. So far, war has been the only force that can discipline a whole community, and until and equivalent discipline is organized, I believe that war must have its way. But I have no serious doubt that the ordinary prides and shames of social man, once developed to a certain intensity, are capable of organizing such a moral equivalent as I have sketched, or some other just as effective for preserving manliness of type. It is but a question of time, of skillful propagandism, and of opinion-making men seizing historic opportunities.
The martial type of character can be bred without war. Strenuous honor and disinterestedness abound everywhere. Priests and medical men are in a fashion educated to it, and we should all feel some degree if it’s imperative if we were conscious of our work as an obligatory service to the state. We should be owned, as soldiers are by the army, and our pride would rise accordingly. We could be poor, then, without humiliation, as army officers now are.”
At odds with Professor Cromwell’s interpretation of James’s work, we see that James used the term “owned”, not in the sense of slavery to the state; but more of the ethical and moral choices that each mature adult makes, in their contributions to the stability of the “Republic”, and by definition, the stability of their way of life, and that of their neighbors.
It was an ownership defined by the self-sacrifice of those who choose to give back to the republic, by having a vision that went beyond their personal needs; this is Patriotism, these are the Patriots; people who consciously choose to put the greater good of others before their own, and sacrifice if need be; their tomorrow’s for the greater good of their families, and the extended family that links the common philosophy of our country.
James continues:
“The only thing needed henceforward is to inflame the civic temper as part history has inflamed the military temper. H. G. Wells, as usual, sees the centre of the situation. “In many ways,” he says, “military organization is the most peaceful of activities. When the contemporary man steps from the street, of clamorous insincere advertisement, push, adulteration, underselling and intermittent employment into the barrack-yard, he steps on to a higher social plane, into an atmosphere of service and cooperation and of infinitely more honorable emulations. Here at least men are not flung out of employment to degenerate because there is no immediate work for them to do. They are fed, drilled and training for better services. Here at least a man is supposed to win promotion by self-forgetfulness and not by self-seeking. And beside the feeble and irregular endowment of research by commercialism, its little shortsighted snatches at profit by innovation and scientific economy see how remarkable is the steady and rapid development of method and appliances in naval and military affairs! Nothing is more striking than to compare the progress of civil conveniences which has been left almost entirely to the trader, to the progress in military apparatus during the last few decades. The house-appliances of today, for example, are little better than they were fifty years ago. A house of today is still almost as ill-ventilated, badly heated by wasteful fires, clumsily arranged and furnished as the house of 1858. Houses a couple of hundred years old are still satisfactory places of residence, so little have our standards risen. But the rifle or battleship of fifty years ago was beyond all comparison inferior to those we now possess; in power, in speed, in convenience alike. No one has a use now for such superannuated things.”
Professor Cromwell is either disingenuous in his remarks, or blindly dishonest to the nature of his own meanderings, through the philosophies of others he would use to reinforce the logic of his course. He works his way through theoretical arguments of a “Social Contract”; but even here he alludes to its nature as still connected to the state instead of that of the people:
“the theory of the social contract never wrestled free of the claim that the people owe their existence to the state and hence that the state owns the people. While the contract theorists unmistakably struggle to establish the proposition the state does not own the people, they nevertheless also say – and I think, inconsistently – that it can require citizens to die to preserve it. All the theorists accept this requirement. It is as if by eroding the idea that the king is father and owner of the people and owes his authority to God’s grace, they feel the compensatory need to replace devotion to the king by some other bond that would yield a moral obligation to sacrifice oneself for the state. The claim is that such a bond is created by a person’s consent to live under a state. The basis of the state in rational choice is turned into the basis for morally allowing the state to cause the death or the risk of death of citizens. Our choice to preserve our lives is turned by the contract theorists into a choice to assume an obligation to die for the sake of what supposedly, in the first place, exists in order to preserve us. Necessity gives birth to the state but the state gives birth to another kind of necessity, which is a dangerous and recurrently lethal necessity. The state for all does not preserve all lives, and loses or wastes a good many.”
There is cruelty lodged in the heart of the theory of the social contract, even though it seeks to demystify the state and to replace the traditional awe of the parent-state by clear-sighted understanding of the state’s rational purpose. The language of obligation supersedes the language of gratitude and devotion. But the mentality of self-sacrifice perhaps takes on a greater strength when it is made to flow logically from the obligation that choice creates. The social contract tends to become a more ingenious trap than any appeal to the patriotic love of country rooted in filial loyalty, whether in its pure Socratic form or in the various dilutions of it that is always current. Just because parents usually don’t ask their children to die for them, and consider it an unspeakable tragedy when any child dies before its parents, the metaphor of the state as parent must contradict its literal source: parents
If neither the metaphor of the parent-state nor the idea of the people’s consent to government can justify killing and dying for the state, patriotism has not run out of resources. Whatever theory says, patriotism will prevail. One main reason is that it is a usually tacit ideology and flourishes without philosophical assistance. The theoretical debate about patriotism directly interests only thinkers who concern themselves with questions of political and moral philosophy, and publicists who are eager to promote some policy or other. The debate about patriotism reaches undeniably to some of the most profound speculative matters, yet patriotism itself proceeds as a brute fact of life. The trouble is that this brute fact contributes to the erosion of the sentiment that government exists by consent and has the status of servant to the people. But haven’t I just said that the manifestation of consent, the social contract, tends to rationalize killing and dying for the state? Yes. But I think that properly revised, it need not; the revision must build on the ambivalent work of Hobbes and the ambiguous work of Locke, as I have elsewhere tried to suggest. In any case, modern liberty can’t do without the premise that government rightfully exists only by means of popular consent to a system of government that routinely works through continuous popular consent. The point is to show that patriotism facilitates the erosion of the idea of rational consent, and does so by means of an improvident and un-reasoned acceptance of a second social contract that usurps and inhabits the body of the original one that created the system of constitutional democracy.
The brute fact of patriotism is made brute by the inveterate inclination in men to associate virility with the exertion involved in killing and risking death. No theory can ever defeat or discredit this inclination, which helps to engender the fantasy that the competition of political units is the highest kind of team sports. Men love teams, love to live in a world where they are called on to back or play for their team against other teams, even though the sport of war is soaked in blood. Socratic notions of gratitude or Jamesian notions of infinite indebtedness are not necessary for this love. In the sport, where aristocrats used to play their games, elites now mobilize groups or masses to slaughter each other. Men can become peace-loving for a while, but not forever. The women who love them encourage their inclination to see team sports as the essence of their masculinity, and to call patriotic this inclination when it is projected into politics. The pity is that men lend their energies to a state that sooner or later embarks on an inherently unjust imperialist career and thus gets constantly engaged in policies that are deliberated in secrecy, and sustained by secrecy and propaganda, and removed from meaningful public deliberation. Patriotism is indispensable for sustaining this career of anti-democracy.

In general, an activist foreign policy works tirelessly to de-legitimate any constitutional democracy. Patriotism is the greatest asset in the internal and ever-present war against the sentiments and institutions of free government. The support of one’s team is not the defense of the Constitution. What gets hollowed out is government by rational consent, while a number of basic freedoms are steadily attenuated. The original contract for constitutional democracy is usurped, and replaced, in significant part, by a second contract for expansion and predation. It is bad enough that the original contract is interpreted to mandate dying for one’s country. Much worse is the displacement of the original contract. The spoils of activism and imperialism intensify political and economic inequality while immunizing leaders from their accountability to citizens to an ever greater extent. Citizens become followers. Leaders and followers live in different worlds. Citizens allow the patriotic thrill of team sports to obscure the radical alteration that descends on the original contract, while acquiescing in the gains of large and sometimes sinister interests that use patriotism in their appeals for support. The great theorists of the social contract would have been horrified; they didn’t quite have such a drastic mutation in mind – not to mention the anti-imperialist Socrates in his espousal of the parent-state.
Patriotism, more than any other passion in political life, makes virtues do the work of vices while promoting the praise of vices as disguised virtues. It thus sustains enormous moral perversity. If no one were a patriot, the world would be better off than it now is, when almost all are patriots. Theorists shouldn’t join in.”
Professor Cromwell seems to have totally misunderstood the intent of the Founding Fathers and the nature of Patriotism. He validates this by his quote that “It is bad enough that the original contract is interpreted to mandate dying for one’s country”; but that the act of Patriotism somehow supersedes or mutates the original contract into something the Founding Fathers never intended.
The truth is that the Founding Fathers came together with the same moral and ethical limits we find in ourselves, for that is the state of human existence; but even so, they created an amalgam of words and deeds that brought the essence of the best of them together, balancing out the worst of their natures, to create a document that is not just a litany or list of thoughts about freedoms, or rules; but of balance.
A balance defined within the Constitutional Formulary, that supports our freedom to choose; but at the same time provides limits on being able to choose too much. The Founding Fathers understood that it is the nature of man to need limits to his behavior, for a healthy state to exist, as well as the health of the individual citizen.
The Constitutional Formulary was by definition a conservative document, defining a balance of power between the Executive Branch, the Senate, Congress as well as the individual power of each state. In so doing they created a direct link to the balance of power of the state, to the individual citizen and the representative government they vote for. The nature of each part, like the nature of the Founding Fathers; a template whereby the essence of the best of them are brought together, balancing out the worst of their natures.
Unlike civil governments of the past, where Patriotism was in some way an allegiance to the state, without regard to the individual, or any legal or statutory connection to the control of the state by the individual, the United States was built on the very premise that the individual liberties were sacrosanct.
The growth of this belief kept time with the aggressive nature of its people to be free of governmental influence; but contradictorily still finding the need to have some governmental control for social stability, and to avoid the sublime anarchy that reigns when committees of individual’s take the lead.
Though it all; the very fabric, the very nature of the Constitutional Formulary is built around the true nature of Patriotism. Throughout our lives in our fight against nature; to paraphrase William James, there will always be battles to be waged, social mountains to be climbed; but through it all, we only win when we have allegiance to each other. The Renaissance minds of old knew this, the Intellectual Patriots of today know this, that for us to succeed as individuals, requires that we succeed as a country, and the nature of that success can only be found in the connections that intelligently bind us to one another.
Throughout the diatribe that Professor Cromwell makes us work our way through, there is validity in his premise if we look at the historical aspects of political thought, when analyzing European Imperialism, the political systems talked of by Aristotle, or Socrates, and even at some level in his mismanaged quotes of William James. His ideas on Patriotism and by its extension the Patriot as being the best type of killer works well, if you think of Patriotism as some self-aware entity bent on maligning and driving the populace of a country, to acts of violent group behavior.
Professor Cromwell makes it obvious that his intellectual dissociation has blinded him to the concept of American Exceptionalism. It is a concept that defines the unique nature of our way of life, and the inherent national stability that extends from it.
What surprises me throughout Professor Cromwell’s essay is the one-sidedness of his argument. He maligns the concepts that are the basic glue that holds our society together. His quote “the best patriot is the best killer”, seems at odds with the intellectual objectivity that Cromwell wants us to believe that he maintains.
Throughout the history and philosophical writings that he quotes in his argument; he, like many elitist of today, put blame on the military, the patriot, or any individual who claims a sense of patriotism to their country; but what about the intellectual that uses the written word to manipulate, and drive the nature and fervor of the individual citizen.
I would submit, that it is not Patriotism, and by definition the act of the Patriot that is destroying the nature of the Constitutional Formulary (or Social Contract as Cromwell calls it). It is Cromwell’s lack; and others, to see and understand the uniqueness of American Exceptionalism, and how the Constitutional Formulary attempts to keep its inherent balance; even against those who write and weave their agendas through the hearts and minds of the average citizen.
Today there seems to be; as some call it; a “liberal haze” to the social battlefield of ideas and ideals about our own self-government. There has been a secular push to cleanse the government of all those things, that out of context are considered politically incorrect, or unseemly; to get rid of any words that may spark off shadows of Christianity, or even defining a separation of Church and State, that in truth has never existed.
The tenets of the Constitution defined that no religion would be sanctioned by the government over any other; but of course the politically correct thing to do today, has been to lazily interpret this in such a way, that no one has the right to express their religious beliefs on public property. We’ve all seen examples of this, and they continue to be spearheaded by elitist intellectuals redefining, or misinterpreting our rights, as they reweave the fabric of our Republic.
As individuals we all have thoughts and acts, that we wish that we could relive, forget, or change the affects those mistakes had on our lives and others; but throughout our life, the nature of our growth as moral and ethical beings is seeded with the mistakes we made; the introspection of our understanding of those thoughts that became greater than what we once could have understood.
The development of wisdom is not a concept of age, or intelligence; but of the emotional balance we seek inside of ourselves as we develop our intellect; bound within our introspection, and the process of our thoughts that leads us to who we have become.
So to, America’s history is full of mistakes, full of cultural inconsistencies and contradictions; but through it all, the balance of power that extends itself into a rational rule-of-law has kept us strong, has kept the nature of our patriotic connections in balance to the greater good of society, and through this to the individual.
We cannot change and manipulate those things that are a part of the fabric of our society, without losing the nature of what our country has become, any more than we could the history of ourselves and remain the same individual.
It was the strength of this balance and the strength of the individual that slavery was eventually overturned. Not as quick as one would hope at times; but it is the nature of Democracies to be slow and chaotic; but to do otherwise breeds anarchy and risks destruction of the Republic.
It is the balance of doing too much too quickly, or not enough too slowly, that is the magic we find in the Constitutional Formulary; for the balance is a dynamic process of a constant ebb and flow of our collective natures and the choices we each make.
For this balance to be maintained and to stave off anarchy requires aggressive optimism, and a collective vision by the majority of the Republic’s citizens, to limit the extremes of one social group over another, to believe in those who defend our rule-of-law with their efforts, and many times with their lives. Above it all, it requires faith; a faith in one another, a faith in the rightness of our goals, and the nature of such faith can be summed up in one word; Patriotism!
In Summary:
The dynamic balance of our society is generational in its swing back and forth, from one limit to another. We as American’s want social order, limits that define a world in control, a Rule-Of-Law that defines a level playing field for the life we lead. We don’t ask for an equal share in all things; just an equal opportunity to define how we live, and how we think. At least those were the ideals that drove those who came before us, and we see them today in those we still call patriots. People who take personal responsibility for their actions, and the aggressive will to make the effort of their dreams.
For truly in America, we define ourselves through the symbiosis of our ideals, the limits of capitalistic logistics, and the Christian philosophy that defines the underpinning of our social tolerance. The concept of American Exceptionalism that this defines; is the harbinger of our prophetic need for social stability, and the need for something of ourselves to live beyond our own limited corporeal existence.
The cohesive force that defines the stability of our society is the concept of Patriotism. It is the “social glue” whereby, the majority of the Republic has a common belief, adheres to a common standard, and by which the “Rule-of-Law”, is followed and applied within the parameters of the law defined and regulated by the people.
People tend to believe that Patriotism is some simple word defining the nature of one’s love of flag, of country, or an expression of Nationalistic pride devoid of thought or reason, and hammered into our children’s heads by the state. Like the concepts of religion, and politics and others, Patriotism has been maligned as some malignant entity that has a life of its own, and serves the Republic, at odds with the nature and wishes of the people.
In truth, Patriotism; like the other concepts mentioned, expresses the psychological needs of humanity, to control and define some level of social stability within our lives. Patriotism is the action of our innate needs to actively express solidarity and support to each other, and the life we have chosen to collectively live through the action of the Republic we have created, and continue to invest our futures in.
Patriotism is the expression or active participation within the social structure of our way of life. It is the voice of our needs, expressing itself as an infinite series of collective actions by the people; sometimes irrationally, sometimes logically; but always it plays a prominent role in the direction our society takes.
The Founding Fathers understood all too well the nature of these forces of humanity, and the needs to guide them with some sense of clarity and purpose. This is the beauty of the U.S. Constitution; an amalgam of intuitive and formal understandings into the nature of leadership and law. It is a formulary that does not require perfection from the people, nor it, the people who use it to govern. It only requires that the majority of the Republic’s citizen’s participate in a measured and thoughtful manner in the usage of their voting rights. Like all system processes, the very nature of each person’s opinions cancel out the extremes of one side or the other; thus the body politic becomes an intuitive organism searching and growing as an extension of its defined core beliefs, i.e., the collective drive of a citizens Patriotism.
Patriotism is the action and the will of that action that the individual citizen uses to express his or her innate feelings of their social drive. The defining connection that brings to stasis, the majority of a group of people who have come together to create a society greater in its whole, than in the sum of its parts. Patriotism like Damocles sword cuts both ways though, it supports and defines the stability of a society; but destroys a society if used or manipulated beyond the core values and needs of the People.
That is the problem with Professor Cromwell’s essay and other intellectual elite’s when they subjectify reality with their inner world needs. They do not understand the psychological needs of the group to find a status quo in a common belief system, and his misconception of defining Patriotism as just some surface emotion or trait defining a love of country, shows the skewed logic he and others seem to consistently employ.
To understand the nature of Patriotism begs the need to understand who we are, and how we communicate our individual needs, and the emotional and sometimes cognitive thoughts that we share. As communications and the technologies that support it, have broadened our ability to share information to the masses; it has at the same time decreased mass exposure to any real knowledge beyond the lowest common denominator.
Throughout this monologue, essay, or diatribe; judge it as you will, the one constant question that keeps arising in my mind in reference to Professor Cromwell’s quote, “The best patriot is the best killer” is the question: What’s the moral difference between causing the death of an individual or contributing to the death of our Republic with a gun and the pen that Professor Cromwell chooses to use?
Professor Cromwell continues with another quote, “If no one were a patriot, the world would be better off than it now is, when almost all are patriots. Theorists shouldn’t join in”. To the very end he dissociates any responsibility from himself for the nature of the chaos he creates in the words he writes
Professor Cromwell, and many of his same ilk, accuse us “the academically challenged” of not understanding the nature of “good government”, of not understanding the lessons of history, and of not realizing the dangers we are creating for ourselves in our support of concepts, like duty, honor, courage, self-sacrifice, and yes even a little bit of patriotism from us, the aging and out of date patriots.
In response to this I would quote Hilaire Belloc (1870-1957 )in his book “The habour in the North”.
“The voyage which I was born to make in the end, and to which my desire has driven me, is towards a place in which everything we have known is forgotten, except those things which, as we knew them, reminded us of an original joy.”
My original joy is the knowledge of having walked quietly beside those I admire and who have held true to the ideals the Founding Fathers gave to us, in the Patriotic birth of what we hold most dear, our freedom.
I have no doubt that Professor Cromwell is intelligent, probably moral in any objective sense of right and wrong that our society accepts; but he has come full circle to the mirror image of his own destruction, and that of the society he takes part in helping to destroy.
His hands are covered in blood, just as any soldier’s hands are covered in blood, in his drive to change the nature of his birth. The question is never whether there is blood on our hands; but how much and with what intent.
Every thought we have, every choice we make, creates synchronistic vibrations in the collective nature of the will of the people. Sin is not the act of causing a death; but whether there was intent in the nature of that cause.
For when the confusion of our thoughts becomes the nature of our actions, and our actions fall short of the nature of our hearts, and we’ve lost that center or balance of ourselves that defines the essence of any objective truth, then we have no recourse; but to look at those basic truths that define the nature of the path we have come to walk.
The future is unmapable, and we are only responsible for those things we can predict; only Professor Cromwell can answer to the level of his guilt, and the nature of his intent, in his drive to destroy through his own misunderstandings, or intentions, the fabric that defines our Republic, and by extension “we the people”.

Do we call them patients or clients

"We tend to think the way we speak, and we tend to act the way we think.” A philosophical way of seeing the emotional side of a person and the behavior they exhibit to us and the rest of the world. Lately though, I’ve noticed the nature of it to be as prophetic in what it says, as much as what it does not say. In medicine there is absent a debate today, about how we address or reference an individual who needs medical treatment. Do we call them “Patients” or “Clients”.
That’s the question we ask ourselves, those of us who have seen what was and what now is. It strikes back to George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”, the nature of one social shift to another, the process being the same, if not the specific ideals. Those in power do not work the farm nor do the work. They calculate, they manage, and they create social morphisms of our lives by which they control the “bottom dollar”, but take away that by which we have always been known, “care-giver.”
Words are subtle things that carry power within the effect of what in our minds they bring together. We are bombarded with the rendered chaos of thoughts not our own, words defining the nature of how we look at things, at people, what the paths are that we choose in life. Words bombard us with their energy from conception to death, creating and building the very pathways to the complexities of our minds. They are the rhythms, the music that defines the cadence of the dance we all move to, that transforms us to the higher mind of who we want to be, who we can be or it transforms the spirit of who we are, to that of the trapped beast; marking time, devolving into the purity of our biology and becoming all that our imprinted instincts will push us to be.
Epistemologically we approach the sense of words as a sense of knowledge and the need of words to absorb the nature of that same knowledge. History is full of such words that convey action, take away hope, and scuttle the nature of empathy for the hole we metaphorically hide within. We wrap ourselves in our language as much to express our feelings and ideals, as to hide from them.
The children’s idiom “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never harm me”, is an excellent way to teach children to avoid taking verbal attacks to close to heart. To develop a thicker skin; so to speak, and find points within themselves that build their self-esteem, their character, finding ultimately the nature of a more stable and happier person.
The truth of this is seen every day. We constantly avoid certain words that carry so much emotional and generational baggage; that to use them even innocently, automatically guides some individuals to verbal or even physical violence. We see words take on definitions that collectively cause others to stereotype, to abuse, amuse and in general destroy the essence of truth that they originally had.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones”, but in truth, words do hurt. Not in the sense of a child’s feelings; although that happens as well, but in the sense of loss, when truth escapes the nature of our discontent. A discontent where we find that we have lost the sense of ourselves in the nature of our growing literary ignorance and the knowledge lost, that we once sought within the thousands of words that brought to us the sage wisdom of those who came before.
In today’s world where reality is either funneled into sophomoric techno-fads, with the skills to use, but not the knowledge to understand or in the “win-win” business parlance of saving a penny for a business model to the point of their own self-destruction, we find ourselves working for individuals and corporations defined by those individuals, who have lost the sense of reality beyond the common electron, or the common penny.
They use their monetary dominance to lobby, change attitudes, create new paradigms that repackage the emotional heuristics that once led to individualism, to self-possession, but to which now skews the nature of our whole civilization through the windows of other people’s lives.
We’ve become the dysfunctional narcissists, the virtual gladiators of Rome without the physical danger that once drove a person to be free, that once drove a person to learn, to seek, to value the hard won wisdom of our evolutionary trails. The dangers of a Darwinian life still exists outside our door, not driven by the forces of old, the lions at the gate, the dragons at the door, but by the subtle smiles of the common suit, the sociopathy of a spreadsheet rational, that now guides our life to the stochastic limits of a number line, moving and shifting within the new logic created by the words of our time.
It is easy to see the effect of a word when it is imbued with the collective acceptance of its nature, but not always easy to see the far reaching affects it has when we are besieged through a lifetime of its use. Within the vagaries and vicissitudes of life, there are always those whose needs far outreach their ability to help themselves. A short walk or a well-worn path for some of us, given the ordered-randomness of genetics, the world around us that we try to control, but by which the pressure of our control breeds the nature of our own destruction.
Our history is replete with the fullness of sociopaths, martyrs and those who plod through life finding that they are caught between the two. Through it all the hope that there is hope, was always provided by the “care-giver”. Those whose hearts followed the trails of the weak, the infirm, the innocent, seeing somehow the truth of a spiritual life in the expression of the goodness they brought to others.
The “care-giver” took many names, through many ages, the nature of what they were called solidifying into a collective acceptance, a seating of power in the words themselves. There calling, to be the care-givers of their age coalescing into the recesses of our minds, within the words of “healer”, “midwife” “priest”, “Nun”, “Doctor”, “Nurse”, but always with the same spirit, the same need to be the one in life that heals, even if the only healing left to them were in the words they used to sooth the pain of a ravaged spirit.
On rare occasions some care-givers seem to be given a spiritual understanding that is as natural to them, as music was to Mozart. An intuitive feel for the nature of things, mixed with that rare ability to express it so well, that we are entranced with each word, each note within the devotional aspects of their lives.
Sad to say; that for most of us, the path to that spiritual nirvana, that spiritual balance we seek, requires that we see the ravages of our time in our own lives. Becoming simultaneously the masochist or sadist to our own self-worth, enduring the pain of loss, of depression or with the physical limitations that challenge us to be more than we thought we could be. It is the nature of the victim, the patient that is our life for a time, that we live until the rendering of our spirit shows us who we can be, over that of who we were.
Good-bad, up-down, light-dark. Life is always a contrast of the balances we define in the words we use. The word patient has its recorded origins in Greek, Sanskrit, Indo-European with the meanings of “suffering” and “want”, the trail of its power to subjugate, transformative from “one of suffering” to that of “enduring suffering”.
The word “patient” is as synonymous with suffering as is “care-giver” in its many forms, is to an altruistic heart. Some call it the “Christ Complex”, some just call it the truth of being a civilized human. The power of the words defining the focus of the developing medical arts, capturing the minds of those in search of the Holy Grail, that ultimate prize of finding out who we are by the nature of what we do.
It has been said that “love” is the only aspect of ourselves that we can give away and always have more to give, the miracle of the five loaves and two fish, the feeding of the multitudes by Christ comes to mind. You don’t have to be Christian to understand the nature of what we see every day in our children, in the eyes of those we love. We just have to be able to step away from ourselves and see the essence of what is in every heart, the need to be needed and the need to give our souls up to that need.
It is by definition this aspect of empathy that grows stronger the more we push ourselves to express it. At some point the critical mass of choosing which end of the “Dahmer – Gandhi[1]” bridge we step onto, becomes the higher or lower moral path we find ourselves on.
There has been a loss of understanding into the nature of words, in knowledge and the wisdom gained in the efforts of expressing our lives through the words of our beliefs. There has been an attempt, sad to say, successfully so, in finding politically correct or misogynistic words, phrases or concepts that undermine the nature of medicine, undermine the very stability of our way of life.
There is a dichotomy in our personalities, in our natures. That aspect of ourselves that defines the masculine and the feminine, the balance of our strengths as “father” and “mother”, the twin aspects of our single soul that bonds “protector” and “giver.” The blending, the process of becoming one, finding in ourselves the love that makes us greater than the sum of our parts.
Women brought to medicine that “mother” instinct to give of themselves, to nurture, to support their patients in their time of need. Their strength always inherently there, even when not appreciated or understood in the male dominated world that existed for so long.
Men, the “father” found themselves stronger for accepting there role, but also respecting and honoring the role of “mother”. The two working together so that they each learned to share their strengths, the “father” finding in himself the strength of giving, the “mother” finding in herself the strength of protecting.
The strength in the art of medicine has always been found within the balanced nature of those who bring to the “patient” their love of giving, of protecting. To lose that sense of who we are, both “mother” and “father” in that aspect of our careers as doctors, nurses, care-givers, is to lose ourselves to the nature of what we belief, when we change how we look or describe the nature of those we help.
Our growth comes from how we connect to our patients, how they connect with us. Calling a “patient” a “client” changes intrinsically how they subconsciously see themselves, how we subconsciously or otherwise react to them as something other than care-giver.
The term “client” is one who receives benefits, services i.e., social welfare, or something from the government. It is a patronage under another, a dependent giving up their individuality. The very nature of the word defines a connection of subservience, defining the care-giver as something less than they are.
Treating a patient has always been the validation of our existence, the strength of our character coming into existence though the strength of our love to those in need. In the corporate world, the industrial world, our existence has become the nature of the “parts” we shuttle though our office, through our treatment rooms, the “tale wagging the dog” instead of the “dog wagging the tale” in the action of our work.
We can no more separate the term “care-giver” in ourselves, than the “patient” can from the need they have of us. It is a world of symmetry defined by the words that connect us, over time making that bond stronger in the action of who we historical are, or making that bond weaker in the corporate drive to control even that innate morality we know is the only path we should walk.
You have to ask yourself, when you are in need, do you want to be a client? Or do you want to be a patient? Do you want to be the care-giver? Or do you want to be a factory worker watching the parts goes by without regard to their humanity.
When we use words, we define the direction our mind takes us. “We tend to think the way we speak and we tend to act the way we think.” The nature of our collective future is in the synchronicity of our words; be they well chosen, or ill-chosen, they are a choice of need and a need of choice.
Ultimately, when the confusion of our thoughts becomes the nature of our actions and our actions fall short of the nature of our hearts and we’ve lost that center or balance of ourselves that defines the essence of any objective truth, then we have no recourse, but to look at those basic truths that define the nature of the path we have come to walk.
What word of truth will you challenge yourself with today? Will you be “Orwell’s” intelligent but amoral “pig” or “Benjamin the donkey[2]” revealing the changes that no one else sees. Will you conform to “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others”, or will you sing the friendship of Boxer and challenge the world to remember and walk the higher road. The easy path is never the right path!

[1] Dahmer – Gandhi Bridge (Military Review “Psychoanalytic Profiles and Modalities of Sociopathy”, L. Campbell M.D. PhD et al)

[2] In George Orwell’s Animal Farm - Benjamin reveals that the Commandments now consist entirely of the message "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others". For all his age, he is never given the option of retirement. The only outrage that inspires him into action is the pigs' betrayal of Benjamin's best friend, Boxer, after which he becomes more cynical than ever.

A Cat's Tale

There have been many cats who have found their way into the dreams and stories of man, but no one more so then the Cheshire Cat from the Adventures of Alice in Wonderland[i].
I’ve always wondered when Lewis Carroll looked into the looking glass and saw the topologies of the world in their adventures together, if he saw himself as the Cheshire Cat, the Mad Hatter, or the White Rabbit.
The first two are obvious as he was a little cattie and certainly mad at times, but the White Rabbit was always preening the thought that he was late for a very important date.
In all of my conversations with Chesi; as I call the Cheshire Cat by his nickname, I found that Mr. Carroll had gifted his world to Alice with so much of himself, that he went a little mad in the calculations of his life, or so it seemed to me.
At dinner today, Chesi took me aside before the evening’s preparations and asked for a favor. “Give me a couple of minutes after dinner to speak; but before the after dinner conversations” he asked.
The after dinner conversations and debates are what our parties are famous for and although I thought his request unusual; as we are an informal lot, he seemed nervous of something and Alice was waiting, so I let it be at the time.
Today’s party was a reunion of sorts, for many of our ilk have not been able to attend the last few years; this, due much to the goings on of so many of the world’s cultures and the human problems that never seem to be solved.
The diverse worlds that make up the essence of who we are, defines our reality and our existence by their dreams and thoughts of who they think we could be. The milk of human kindness has soured of late towards us, and it is one reason so many of us are here today.
We and the other cats of legends old and new, have tried to have a reunion once every year or so, but it has been three years since the last one, or at least a meeting where there was a coming together of so many of us in one place.
Edgar[ii] who played the part of the “Black Cat” in Edgar Allen Poe’s stories, is a dark creature, much more wild then funny it seems at times, but he feels that we should erase the humans from our minds. Of course it is no wonder his thoughts are so skewed, as he is visited and bombarded with the ongoing consciousness, of the mind that created him so many years ago.
My best friend Cujo[iii]; who could not be here today; to the relief of so many who were not as feline challenged as he is, has something of the same problem. His creator, and ongoing mentor Stephen King who has such a bright and diverse mind, but yet with a creative darkness that is unexpected and unpredictable at times. It causes Cujo to be something of a nervous wreck the majority of the time.
One moment he acts like the St. Bernard’s of old, helping to find climbers in frigid and wonderfully beautiful mountains, and the next, he’s a shaking shivering puppy, as Mr. Kings thoughts of horror and mayhem invade his mind.
It is the sad truth that we cannot always separate our minds from those that created us, nor they ours. Even if we could do as Edgar the Black Cat suggests, it would destroy us, as it would destroy our creators. For we each are the dichotomy of Damocles[iv] sword, two edges distinct and different; but yet of the same metal.
We each create the other in the thoughts and dreams of the places our souls call home. It is expected that just like Cujo, Edgar the Black Cat could no more separate himself from his creator’s thoughts, then Cujo could from his water dish, during those rabid moments of thirst that drive him to distraction at times.
Edgar the Black Cat has a good heart, but he is of course what you expect from someone who is surrounded by dark thoughts so much of the time. Even his birthmark, a white crest in the shape of hanging gallows upon his chest, is the mark of the beast for those who see it, for they do not have long to live.
He doesn’t know that his appearance causes their deaths, or expresses innocently what is to happen, but it is Nature’s Scythe that never rests that is quiet on the subject of cause and the guilt that drives us to the same fate.
It isn’t any wonder that when they see so much of death, that after a while it becomes the way they think. There was much arguing about his suggestion, but as we are still here you can see the action of his idea was for naught.
Bastet[v], the Queen Goddess of those like us in one world or another, took a while to bring the meeting to order. She’s been around long before even the Egyptians who worshiped her such a long time ago.
She changes shape according to the whims and beliefs of those around her, but tends to enjoy the look of the imperial lioness. The form and flow from darkest Africa, the collective wish-song of early man bringing to us our queen.
Today she was constantly changing form with the pressure of so many adjacent souls nearby. It is disconcerting to sometimes not know to whom you are actually talking to. At one moment she was an ancient cat with white fur, at other times she was half cat with the upper body of a beautiful woman.
It was my favorite of course, as I always enjoy those images that bring forth my most amorous thoughts and those of my favorite drink. Sex and hunger, all driven by the observation of the same thing for a male cat in human guise, it is a mixed blessing; but one most males, cat or human enjoy.
Today she seemed to find comfort in the feline grace of the strongest of us, the Freyja[vi]. Except for the Cheshire Cat when he chooses to change his size with Alice, they are the largest of our feline kind. Fierce nomadic cats conquered; but still willful, as they pull the great chariot of the Norse God’s of legend.
The only cat I knew of at the time that Bastet did not mimic was me. I think it had something to do with what she said was the revolting costumes I wore. She constantly asked how I could walk on two feet much of my time with those, as she called them….”Ugly brown boots, more suited to stepping on a cat’s tale then for walking around them”.
Admittedly when I sit in my rocking chair, there is the tendency to rock to hard and hear the squeal of one or more of my friends caught out of sync behind me; leaping high into the air as their tales are sometimes pinched by the Arc of my Covenant; my favorite chair, that is of course my one great vice.
It is the place I sit and think so much of the time, the place I like most on hot sunny days, a place just to curl up and fall asleep as the day moves by without me.
We have a full house and I have been working so hard, but no harder than the source of our needs. The Cow that was renowned for jumping over the moon, has chosen to take a vacation and give her efforts to our party.
She had once been owned by Apollo, but gained her freedom when Hermes stole her and her friends, the act of doing so giving her the shared fleetness of foot, that Hermes was so famous for.
Her friends and neighbors did not survive the culling; but she does in her flights of fancy, fly around the moon once each year in their memory. As the God’s power has waned in the new age of reason, she has finally been left alone to travel to wherever her thoughts can carry her.
Collecting enough Milk and cream to go around for our refreshments took some time; but I had others helping set up the banquet. Willie Wonka, opened his factory to make the large vats of sweet cream and Tuna flavored ice cream, that have become a delicacy amongst us. Ben and Jerry’s has not seen fit to see the wisdom of fish flavored ice cream yet, but we all have our taste, as well as our hopes they will see the light.
The Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit both have Mr. Carroll’s knack for numbers and meeting deadlines, so setting up the seating charts, the timing of reservations and all of the assorted details of bringing together several hundred humans, cats and other mythical figures is in good hands, claws, paws or what have you.
To set the tables at the banquet we have my old nemesis. The Ogre volunteered to cook and clean along with some of his friends. Captain Jack Sparrow was tasked with finding the wine and other drinks; but the Ogre was warned to count the silver ware and check frequently for the loss or gain of inebriation, by our off times callous friend and Jack of all trades. Certainly no pun is intended, but it does capture the thought.
The Ogre is something of an antipathy for many of us, as his favorite meal for years had been of our kind, but they call me the Master Cat[vii] and as I now call many rats, friends these days; so to, do we all have to leave such shallow thoughts behind us at times.
It is a case of making the best of a bad thing, for once an Ogre has been bested, you cannot get rid of him no matter how hard you try, you just suffer through there insufferable presence at every turn.
Of course we watched quietly many times as they moved through the house and along the banquet tables. They serve with surprising delicacy for such a large beast; but it is a watchful eye of many lives lost, that we await their return to the kitchen and take a head count to make sure dinner is what it is suppose too be.
Being the Master Cat, I am also the head of ceremonies. Bastet the Queen of us all and her newest male Eunuch she used as a servant, sat in a place of honor off to the side, next to the windows that look out over the lake. The sun shines in quietly and diffuses; reflecting the warm glow so that you want to sleep, or just felt the need to curl up and enjoy the warmth.
The Cheshire Cat sat directly to my left, or floated or disappeared such as was his whim. Alice his date for the night; had to keep giving him a stern look, to keep him in our world at all.
Alice of course everyone knows, the beautiful light of the Cheshire’s life. There were others, including myself I’m sorry to say at times, that wished we had volunteered to be the Cat gifted to be Alice’s friend.
Jealousy is a terrible weight for those of us with many lives. To carry such weight so early in my first of nine, well, it bids poorly for the karmic density and nature of my life to come.
Alice is the sweetest thing next to Cream, the nicest of the humans we have come to know over the years. I have many friends, many more acquaintances; but not a true love that would take my heart and hold it in peace for all eternity, as even a cat with eight more lives still finds life to short.
Such is the world of Alice left to her own thoughts and mine; for she is in love with the Cheshire Cat, the one she calls her best friend, but certainly we all see the signs of love.
To my right, not because I like them of course; sat LaFontaine’s[viii] Cat “Cat’s Paw” and his friend/enemy, the monkey they call Chestnut, for obvious reasons if you’ve read the story. We had to seat them so as to keep them away from the fireplace and also in a place where they can be monitored frequently. They are constantly seeking to relive old hurts and old competitions; but for whatever reasons, they will not allow themselves to be separated from one other.
It is curious that the friendship and love that keeps a couple together, can in some ways; when it is lost, keep them dependent and tortured with each other as well.
It seems that when love bonds a soul together, even when on the surface it is lost, it can never be removed completely from the fabric of what they once had.
I believe that those who become enemies through hate, or sociopathic competition, become locked into a circle of co-dependence; that left to simmer, will never fade from our minds.
I always wondered what possessed one of our kind, to step into one of the human’s stories with a monkey, where roasting each other’s chestnuts in an open fire, is the bane of their existence, but I think I understand it now.
We were all friends and enemies at one time or another, something forced on us at the whims of each human’s collective conflicts. They’ve always been a curious race, so violent at times, so loving at others.
They create us in their image of the world, but have little care that those things they create, are never things to sit still and be what they were intended to be.
Like all things the humans create, we the mythical expressions of their belief in a false world, call Gaia into form; a form that takes many natures, many thoughts and always someone’s dream to destroy her.
I digress once again into one of my many diatribes Eliot, so to continue; further along the table sat Adage[ix], formally of the court of Lady Macbeth. She has already used up her first of three lives lost, of the nine allotted. So quickly so, that in fear she is slow to join in any game or story that could cause her to lose another one to soon.
She lost the first two in the regicide and suicide of Lady Macbeth. I always wondered whether it was Shakespeare telling the story, or Sir Francis Bacon pulling tales from the histories he read.
As the nobleman that was killed; at the whim of Lady Macbeth, was from Scotland, we had to arrange the seating chart so that Cait Sihe[x] aka, Edgar the Black Cat; who was also from Scotland, could be seated further away, so that the hard feelings he still had did not use up another of Adage’s life.
No one truly believes that Edgar the Black Cat causes death by being around him, but as insurance was created to remind us that we don’t always have the luck of our thoughts, so too do we all veer a little out of his path when he is in a dark moment.
Then we had Patripatan[xi] from South East Asia, Dick Whittington’s[xii] Cat who is known for his great ability of ratting; almost to my level of skill. I still consider having won the competition, for I know of no other cat that has ever eaten an ogre who has taken the shape of a rat.
Something as you well know dear Eliot that I am still famous for as Puss-n-boots aka the Master Cat. I know it is a sin to brag, but I still enjoy the thought of that meal, even more so, each time an Ogre passes by me with the deference I attribute to my success.
It did add some irony to the nature of our cooks and servants being ogres and serving us a dish still warm. The nature of vengeance is best served flaming hot to my mind, instead of cold and dead. Any prey will taste so much better while still warm, ask any other cat you feel a need to.
The Cat’s of Aesop[xiii] had their own table, the tortoise and the scorpion were always up in arms with each other, and Aesop’s toga was always getting stepped on, so it was best to put them off in the corner.
I think the Tortoise was having trouble coming out of his shell; so to speak, as every time the Ogre came out of Hell’s Kitchen, the door smacked him in the soft part of his back. The Tortoise noted to me later, that he noticed a distinct salivary response on the Ogre’s part, as they went by his table much too often.
Mackie Boots[xiv] forwarded us an email at the last minute not being able to attend, as the Virginia Military Institute was graduating a new group of seniors and he was in charge of the ceremonies. He mentioned in his note, that he would miss dinner, but hoped to arrive for the after dinner debates he loves so much.
There was suddenly a lion’s snarl, as the Queen called dinner to order for the first toast and the beginning of the meal. She looked over toward Maneki Neko[xv], some called her the Lucky Cat or Welcoming Cat. She looked more like Garfield, but Garfield had a new screenplay proposal with his agent, something about finding the motivations of Lasagna, so I don’t expect him either.
Now that dinner has started I must send this off to you Dear Eliot[xvi]. Your book of poems, “Old Possums Book of Practical Cats: is of course my favorite so far. Hope to see you at our next gathering.

Sincerely, your friend
Puss-n-Boots : 0 )

P.S.
I was writing this in my journal and had planned to email you later about the party, but the couple of moments given to the Cheshire Cat was of such news, that I felt a need to send this off to you right away.
It turns out that the Cheshire Cat has decided to move back up the Rabbit Hole with Alice after the Banquet is over. Alice longs to return to her life for a bit to be with her family and he feels that his life is with her.
You know this means the end of his powers, so this may be the last time you can talk with him for some time, as her world is locked within a world of reason, that has lost its ability to believe in such creatures as we. They lose themselves Eliot and I worry that our friend may lose himself as well, at least in this, his third life to live, so be safe and well.
[i] The writing’s of Lewis Carroll
[ii] The Black cat in Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, a study of the psychology of guilt and death.
[iii] Stephan Kings Novel Cujo
[iv] There are a number of interpretations to the Sword of Damocles; but most agree that at least one interpretation is a metaphor for a sense of foreboding that exist in the challenges of life, that leaders have it hanging over their heads just as those they lead . That concept where good cannot exist without bad, that the sword hangs over us all while in peace, and to be used in a time of war.
[v] Bast (or Bastet), Egyptian goddess with the head of a cat; see also Sekhmet, Bast’s guise as the goddess of felines
[vi] Horse sized winged cats there were known in Norse Mythology to pull the Chariots of the Gods
[vii] Folk lore where Puss-n-boots of children’s tales is also called “Master Cat”
[viii] Reference the short story “Monkey and the Cat” by the French Poet Jean de La Fontaine.
[ix] Cat described in Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth
[x] Fairy Creature of Celtic Mythology
[xi] Patripatan – the cat that climbed into the sky to praise its master to the gods of South-East Asisn and Indian mythology.
[xii] English folklore – a merchant becomes wealthy due to the ratting capabilities of his cat.
[xiii] Aesop’s Fables
[xiv] A fictional student cat from Virginia Military Institute.
[xv] Ceramic Japanese cat reputed to bring good luck, or welcoming cat for happy life.
[xvi] T.S. Eliot – Wrote a book of poems, “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.