Cool Water

or the Poison Buried in the Sand

“All day I face the barren waste, without the taste of water”... these are the first two lines from track one, side two of Joni Mitchell’s 1988 album ‘Chalk Mark in a Rainstorm’. If I were parched as a prickly pear, I would most definitely welcome the taste of cool, clear water to calm my desiccated tongue.

My youth engendered a belief that adulthood was the epitome, the archetype of intelligence. Being ‘grown up’ was the result of falling victim to the crooning of wisdom. My life has yet to see a greater disappointment than this disillusionment.

It is adults, parents in fact that have employed their children to perform the gesture of supplying water in a cup to Terri Schiavo. I need not dive into the political, ethical and moral battle that has ensued, bringing this story to a fifteen year, climactic finale to say that this is absolute idiocy.

Terri Schiavo has a breakdown in her ability to properly process food. Chewing and swallowing are a voluntary process. It is only when an object has reached the esophagus that involuntary peristalsis takes over and ferries the object on its path through the digestive system.

If one pours water past the lips of someone in a persistent vegetative state, it will result in drowning the intended target of liberation, quickening the impending result to which self proclaimed savior’s are trying to alter.

Opinion’s regarding the Terri Schiavo case are a discourse in disaster, though we live within fortunes ability to express these opinions. We also have the ability to teach opinions to our children. I suppose that having an ability to breed does not inherently garnish ones self with a highly-flavored sprinkling of intellect.

If you disagree with matters pertaining to those not associated with you and wish to set your children as pawns in the fray, it might behoove one to actually ponder the result of the actions you wish to exercise.

Seventy-five percent of our body is water. Seventy percent of the world is water. Ninety-seven percent of water is salt water which leaves about three percent for us to consume. The essence of life, may also serve to cease life. No matter what your opinion is, supply your children with facts... and if you don’t know what the facts are; take the time and do a little research – you might surprise yourself.

Fleeting Raul

or How I learned to love da bomb baby!

Flirtation can be quite the aphrodisiac. Ones attractiveness to others can really make you want to saunter up to the display case of life and shout “Yeah baby! Do I make you horny?”

When you peer into the mythical tale of Adam and Eve (stay with me here), there is the flirtatious concept of one becoming like God by eating fruit from the tree of knowledge (or so the snake says). Eve eats. Adam eats. The Big-Guy-in-the-Sky says “Hey! I said NO EAT! You go NOW!”

Aside from no longer being immortal and having to make their own way in life, Adam somehow gets a piece of the forbidden apple stuck in his throat and there it stayed like some grotesque boil daring to be lanced. This forever blemished males with a brilliantly clear land mark and if you’re Ric Ocasek – Wow, it’s da bomb!

Humans are an intelligent spray. We are bifurcated by a minute genetic difference that finally results in one spawn having Adams apple and the other... well, not. As a side note, women love to muse over males and their apparent lack of intelligent behavior. Simple; females contain two X chromosomes, males contain an X and a WHY?

So I’m in Fry’s Electronics on my lunch break to return an item that just, needed returning. Following a lengthy wait, I am helped by a lady who is chatting in Spanish to the lady across from her. They both begin to survey that space which I inhabit and announce each other as “she is Demi Moore - in Bolivia” and “she is J. Lo - in Bolivia”.

Being one of the smartest monkeys I nod my head and say “aah”. Their banter continues as I find myself looking at ‘J. Lo’ in a strangely familiar way. She displayed a façade of buoyancy that through my awarded height was soon denounced. Her fingers were that of calcium depleted, parched laborer quite in need of Madge and her bowl of Palmolive.

I am uncomfortable. ‘J Lo’ and ‘Demi’ have me bouncing to and fro in a match that is taking much too long for one item to be returned. I am not attracted to either of these ladies, but I am sure attractive to them.

‘J. Lo’ make waves that splash the Y right out of me leaving room for her two X’s to fill the void. Her long, straight brown hair gets whiplash with each finger toss and I spy the name on her badge; It reads ‘R. someone’ (no need to reveal the actual name).

“I don’t know why this is taking so long” she states with blonde ambition. Her voice is that of an avid smoker and her teeth are magnificently un-kept. She walks away with a manipulative swing that is not becoming to J. Lo’s panache to do whatever the heck she needs to do and I look at the monitor.

Raul ‘someone’; that’s her name. Having had experience with this before you would think that I would just catch on real fast like. With no hair on the knuckly part and no stuck apple, ‘J Lo’ has become my secret little admirer in the world of X³Y.

I suppose that it would be arrogant of me to assume that I am the only one that these things happen to. The Cornelius in all of us can be citizens of hoodwink from time to time and many, I am sure, can never quite can tell if we’re really talking to Zira or just another damn dirty ape.

'J Lo' gave me my refund and I settled into the wisdom of continuing my day with a slightly enhanced level of amusement. Was I angry, was I embarrassed? No. It is my belief that we should all feel secure enough in our lives that the attraction of others, un-determined by the stigmata of social, race or religious differences, does not hinder our forbearance in matters of acceptance.

I cannot say that I was tempted by the fruit of another, for the truth was discovered. And although the flirtatious winds were a breeze, I am most jovial in the fact that I am unable to sympathize with Stephen Rea’s character in 'The Crying Game'... now that would have been a story...

Stairway to Gilligan's Island

Released sometime in 1975, San Francisco band "Little Roger and the Goosebumps" parodied Led Zeppelins "Stairway to Heaven" and without obtaining legal rights to the music, was quickly done away with.

I have a very un-clean version of this in mp3 form and would love to get a decent version... anyone, anyone...

You can hear it here; http://www.gilligansisle.com/stairway.html

Latin 101

... is a course I have not taken. But it does not mean that I can’t do a little research to enhance the appearance that I behold a wealthy command of the Latin language. I just hope that I’ve made a respectable translation into the meaning I strove for.

I fumbled through the banks of free flowing thought for a title that would be striking, yet meaningful, until the phrase ‘idiot savant’ popped into my head and I thought “Wow could that be nifty!” Then I thought “Yeah - No it wouldn’t.” I really liked the word ‘savant’ though. I found myself pondering its etymology;

sa·vant

Etymology: French, from Middle French, from present participle of savoir to know, from Latin sapere to be wise -- more at SAGE

To be wise...“I want to meander down a path of wisdom” I thought. So I looked up;

me·an·der

Etymology: Latin maeander, from Greek maiandros, from Maiandros (now Menderes), river in Asia Minor

Maeander Sapere is my translation for a “wandering path of wisdom”. I shall see where that path finally end up...

Creativity in Action...

The directional identity for this blog has yet to define itself. I begin this expulsion of inner thought with no apparent intent, outside of the desire to say “I have a blog too!”, then quickly question all present as to their blog status so that my current political amputations and ethical wire striding may dissipate into the realm of non-interest.

I suppose that behind the façade of simplicity percolates a wandering path of wisdom to which I may begin to walk... and then again...

Blair A Pettyjohn