Freebird

“A true Believer will die for his Faith while a religious person will kill for his religion.” – JD Johnson

Hebrews 11:35b-39

35b and others were tortured, not accepting their release, so that they might obtain a better resurrection; 36 and others experienced mocking and flogging, and further, chains and imprisonment. 37 They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, tormented 38 (people of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts, on mountains, and sheltering in caves and holes in the ground. 39 And all these, having gained approval through their Faith, did not receive what was promised.

I wonder if the people mentioned in the above passage kept their noses clean and their whistles where they belong and, if they did, would they have been considered more worthy of this world? What exactly made this world unworthy of them? Wow. Year 2022 is over. What a year! A year of transition and new beginnings in preparation for year 2023. The past year has been a whirlwind of changes and challenges. What became settled has now become shaken into a life of wandering in deserts, on mountains, and sheltering in caves and holes in the ground. The Son of Man truly could not find a place to lay down his head.

With my ministry to the Jews complete and having experienced the wrath of both the Jewish and Christian communities as the result of that very same ministry, the time has come to move onto the next phase of my Faith journey. To facilitate this next phase required selling my condo in Florida and buying a camper van to travel the country. The van is appropriately named Freebird. Why this name? Freebird will go where the Church won’t go and the Jews have never been. Freebird is free from every entanglement that religious practitioners have spun. Freebird realizes that the primary call of any Believer is to the Jew first, but this is no longer possible as the Jewish and Christian communities along with some disjointed fellow travelers joined hands to bring that ministry to an end. It was expected. This ministry required a rock-n-roll mindset to pursue and see through to the end. Sappy love songs and acts of kindness will never motivate an individual or even a group to such a level of sacrifice. In fact, one more sappy love song and this country is going to melt like Frosty the Snowman hanging out in Key West.

With the Jewish community no longer disrupted by the wilderness man, the Church can return to her bake sales, building fund drives, and best-sellers. Religious practitioners of all stripes applaud this return to normalcy. As a free-wheelin’ independent dealer of love, faith, and hope who disdains dependency on anyone or anything, Freebird could never feel free belonging in part or even parcel to Club Authority. Yet the practitioners cannot find the unction within themselves to slide the desires of their hearts to the side. So they continue to try to manipulate in their own power an outcome that is agreeable with their religious principles. They counsel among themselves, ‘If only he would marry. Is that too much to ask? Surely, he understands that our religious principles are much better when accomplished together? In fact, we require that he takes a wife! Better Together is the defining characteristic of our religious creed!’

The past five years have taught us that you cannot take a man who has a calling on his life and try to force him into another calling. That’s like forcing a square peg into a round hole—it just doesn’t work, and the collateral damage is substantial. I’ve experienced first-hand the desires of the religious authorities’ hearts and those who are fit to untie their shoelaces who tried to force me into the role of pastor. If I was called to be a pastor, I would have become one 20 years ago. I’ve learned not to say too much about my true calling as the opinions on that subject by the aforementioned authorities differ wildly with regard to the nature of that calling. I do realize that this very calling now requires that I become mobile (again). Previously, I had become way too settled and nearly fell into the settlement trap. But thanks be to God who motivated the religious authorities to dislodge Freebird and set the wanderer free!

Whatever seeks to enable or promote the pattern of this world is religion and whatever seeks to disrupt the pattern of this world is Faith. A world steeped in religion recoils at the sight of Faith. The world can smell Faith coming down the hall and sets out to squash the unwelcome presence before the intruder takes root. What’s their weapon of choice? Religion, of course. Happy New Year and a Prosperous 2023!

MotherLand (Redux)

After cutting a swath through the MotherLand, the Fool-in-the-Chair grew in stature and renown leaving countless mother wannabees weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.  This whirlwind of an incursion would forever change the maternal landscape.  As he pressed the issue all the way to the outskirts of the mother-of-all-capitals, the dome of the cupcake crown came into sight.  With MotherLand on the verge of collapse, the Polit Bureau of Mothers discussed among themselves who they could call into service to save the motherhood.  The last time that the Fool-in-the-Chair had threatened the MotherLand, their secret weapon, code named ‘Snipper,’ had been compromised by the temptation of individual freedom.  She had been sent to the religious community east of the Siberian Tundra to receive instruction and recalibration within the Laws of MotherNature.  They heard rumors that she could now recite the Laws of MotherNature both forwards and backwards.  If this were true, then certainly they could call her back into service. 

Snipper had a well-earned reputation for not suffering fools gladly.  Her catch & return posse had been reformed with a new Trimmed and Clipped to join the veteran Snipped.  This crack counter-intelligence personnel and their back to the future van and equipment were being called upon to do what no one else could do—stop the Fool-in-the-Chair.  Dressed for tropical warfare, they boarded the Trans-Siberian Railroad from the religious community east of the Siberian Tundra to ride the only single-rail track across the country.  Every town they passed through they were greeted by the town mothers and mother wannabees chanting, “Won’t Get Fooled Again!” 

When they arrived at the mother-of-all-capitals, they were greeted by the newly appointed Boss who told Snipper and her catch & return posse about the crisis unfolding before their very eyes.  The Fool-in-the-Chair had fooled everyone again and now he was about to enter in!  This new Boss, same as the old Boss, pointed his finger in the direction of the Fool-in-the-Chair and exclaimed, “Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me!”  Snipper agreed and immediately directed her vigilante catch & return posse to set up 24/7 surveillance on the Fool-in-the-Chair.  They would know when he left his chair and when he returned.  They would know everything he does both in and out of the chair. 

After the surveillance had been arranged, Snipper went into action doing what she does best–snipping.  Based on the information gained from the surveillance, she positioned snips, snaps, and snares to entangle and strangle the Fool-in-the-Chair at every step or, every sit, if you will.  With the help of the catch & return posse and other collaborators, she tapped electronic devices, infiltrated social sites and email accounts, facilitated the help of community sympathizers, and made use of every resource at her disposal.  They arranged drive-bys, walk-bys, and fly-bys to keep the Fool-in-the-Chair on constant alert as well as inert.  With the future of the MotherLand at stake, one way or the other she would stop the Fool-in-the-Chair and save the motherhood! 

The showdown between Snipper and the Fool-in-the-Chair began with the usual chants, rants, and spells that had always worked so well for Snipper in the past.  But something seemed different to Snipper this time.  The more she looked at the Fool the more she thought to herself, ‘That’s not the Fool-in-the-Chair.’  She knew the face, but she couldn’t remember where she had seen that face.  The religious community had done their job well.  She couldn’t remember anything after being emptied of all her prior experiences related to individual freedom.  Then Snipper cried out, “Who are you?”  The Fool-in-the-Chair responded, “You don’t remember me Snipper?”  She knew that voice.  Snipper then said, “You’re the Fool-out-of-the-Closet.”  He replied, “Wrong!”  Snipper called for backup from her catch & return posse.  Within minutes an over-sized white van with whited out windows wheeled around the corner and blocked the Fool’s only escape route.  Out of the van jumped Trimmed, Clipped, and Snipped (the last one being fixed by Snipper herself). 

Snipper yelled, “Fool!  You’re surrounded!”  He yelled back, “I’m not the Fool!”  She said, “Then who are you?”  He yelled, “I’m Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair!”  The catch and return posse gasped.  Snipper smiled. 

The End

Spain 1993

Within a year after being hired at the Bureau of Labor Statistics, I decided to continue my education by taking night classes offered by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA).  While taking an economics class, I became friends with a guy named Dave who I would later call by the name ‘Senor David.’  Dave worked for the Federal Aviation Administration.  He and I became friends and would often meet for drinks after work.  I told him that I’d been reading books by Ernest Hemingway and developed a fascination for Spain.  He told me that his family had taken in a Spanish foreign exchange student named Juaquin several years earlier.  When I told him that I would like to travel to Spain, he suggested taking a Spanish class.  He and I started taking Spanish classes in the fall of ’91 and continued the classes year-round until my trip to Spain in the spring of ’93.  Our friendship soon included our other classmates in the Spanish classes.  As everyone advanced to the next class level, the Spanish instructor did her best to stay with us by teaching the next level.  As part of the educational and cultural experience, everyone usually went out for dinner together after class at a Latino or Spanish restaurant. 

I met Martha right after the Inauguration of the most famous alumnus from Wellesley College who had just been elected President of these United States.  By this time, I had already planned a two-week trip to Spain and had been taking Spanish classes for almost two years.  Martha provided inspiration as she had studied in France and spoke French fluently.  I planned to spend my 29^th birthday in Spain.  This added a tinge of excitement as I wondered what my birthday would be like while in a foreign country.  Senor David asked his parents to contact Juaquin who lived in Marbella to see if he could meet me in Spain.  Marbella is a blueblood resort located on the southern coast of Spain adjacent to the Mediterranean Sea.  Juaquin wasn’t available to meet because he was away at university, but he said his sisters Miriam and YeYe could take me on a tour of Marbella and possibly Sevilla too.  They had another sister Margarena who worked for the Sevilla Exposition for five years and she might join us in Sevilla.  My excitement grew in anticipation of the trip as everything came together. 

When I arrived at the airport in Madrid, the first thing I realized was that very few Spaniards spoke English.  The Spanish dictator, Francisco Franco, had banned the teaching of English in Spain until his death in 1975.  My visit was only 18 years removed from his death so very few people spoke English other than some young people.  With the help of a college age American girl who was studying in Spain, I was able to communicate to a taxi driver where I needed to go.  Before leaving the States, I made a reservation at a pencione, a guest house similar to a hostel, in Madrid located near the Plaza Mayor.  Senor David gave me the phone number of Juaquin’s family in Marbella to call and introduce myself before leaving the States.  When I called, I spoke to Joaquin’s mother Senora Souviron who everyone called ‘La Madre.’  She didn’t speak any English and my limited Spanish made for a difficult conversation.  I was able to give her the phone number of the pencione in Madrid where I would stay.  

Miriam called the pencione my first night in Madrid while I was out enjoying beers, ham, and green olives at the Plaza Mayor.  She left a message with the owners that was almost entirely in Spanish.  Senor David had told me that Miriam studied English in England.  Unfortunately, she hadn’t practiced much since that time and forgot most of what she had learned so she left a message in Spanish.  The owners didn’t speak English either so I couldn’t understand most of the message.  Again, luck would strike as another American woman from California who had been teaching English in Spain for over a year just happened to be staying at the pencione.  The owners asked her to translate the message.  She told me that Miriam couldn’t take me on excursion because of a prior commitment but she had arranged a ticket for me to take the bus to Marbella on April 3^rd.  All the trains were already full because of Procesion or Semana de Santos—the week-long celebration in Spain during the Easter holidays. 

I needed to call Miriam to let her know that I received her message.  To make the call I had to pay a small service charge to the pencione owners.  The pencione had one telephone.  No one had cell phones.  I gave the owner the number of the Souviron family in Marbella.  He called the number and then handed the phone to me.  Again, Senora Souviron answered and the only word both of us understood was Miriam.  After hanging up, I decided to ask the American woman if she would be willing to translate again?  She agreed.  I paid the small service charge again and the owner dialed the number and spoke to Senora Souviron.  After a brief conversation, the owner handed the phone to me.  I immediately handed the phone to the American woman.  She spoke with Senora Souviron and confirmed all the arrangements.  I was definitely ready for another beer!  The American woman and I clicked and decided to hang out together for a couple of days before I left for Marbella.  She and I enjoyed authentic Spanish food while washing down the food with plenty of cervezas and sangria! 

She’s Not a Lady

For the past five years one man has stood in the middle of the arena taking on one empire with many emperors.  The man is not a Christian, a Jew, an Israeli, a gender confused individual, or card-carrying member of the unnatural function club.  You can call him Gladiator.  He stands on an island as the sole protectorate of freedom.  The island, called Oasis, is the last stronghold where the freedom of the individual and freewill still reigns.  During the past two years, the man on the island has been relentlessly attacked by the daughters of Queen Lorraine and the fools who have been co-opted into her service.  They employed Snipper and her catch and return posse, Mrs. Salt and Mr. Pepper, and religious bounty hunters from the most remote communities.  Mr. Pepper has been on the scene for more than four years pushing his stroller, waiting at the gate, and waving his wand while hovering on a cloud.  Mrs. Salt rose from the mines two years ago to assist Mr. Pepper.  Why do the daughters of Queen Lorraine pursue this man?  Could he represent the last hope of those who choose freedom—especially freedom from religion?  In her mind, the man must be dislodged off the island and grafted into the ways and means of the MotherLand to serve the interests of the motherhood.  But the man has planted his Braveheart sword in the ground and cried out “Freedom!”

Remarkably, as the man has held his ground freedom is gaining ground across the land.  As individual freedom expands the pre-existing realities established by cultural, religious, political, and social elites begin to fade.  The individual learns to create his own reality unencumbered by the institutional systems he inherited.  Freedom fighters like Elon Musk and Governor Ron DeSantis have taken a warriors stand against the forces that desire to limit and ultimately eradicate individual freedom.  They have done this by creating their own realities grounded on the principle of individual freedom.  They’re fighting for the rights of a free people to live and express themselves free of manipulation, intimidation, and ostracization.  Political, cultural, and religious institutions have sabotaged and bullied individuals into conformance with their policies and practices.  Individual freedom is the greatest threat to the realities established by the power institutions. 

While religious freedom is part of the struggle, the struggle isn’t about religious freedom.  Some religious practitioners demand religious freedom while their religious principles and practices restrict individual freedom.  How ironic for them to desire freedom of religion while going after individuals who refuse to conform to their religious requirements.  The incestual relationship that exists between political and religious power brokers, namely 501c3 and tax-exempt status for ministers, provides insight into the entangled power relationship where the welfare of the one is dependent on the other.  One can even claim exemption from participating in foreign wars or military service based on religious justifications.  Ironically, this entanglement has led to religious services where the daughters of Queen Lorraine honor the fallen soldiers of her many wars, but rarely if ever honor a fallen soldier of the faith because they don’t exist.  Something seems amiss.  The empire honors soldiers who give their lives so that the chosen ones can continue to freely worship their deities in a secure land.  What about the martyrs of the faith?  Shouldn’t they have a place of honor in the houses of worship.  The hypocrisy runs deep in the empire.  

Queen Lorraine sits on her throne with her empire at her feet.  And like a woman Queen Lorraine and her daughters are always right even if they disagree among themselves.  If they don’t get their way, they become vindictive and even nasty.  Queen Lorraine has a special relationship with the card-carrying members of the unnatural function club.  She even places these members in positions of authority and when they get caught in their transgressions, she covers for them.  Many children have been molested by members of the unnatural function club.  Queen Lorraine orchestrated the cover ups to protect her club members.  While this devastation has been a human tragedy on an unimaginable scale, a new Spirit is entering the land and into the souls of the card-carrying members of the unnatural function club.  As this Spirit finds His way into the souls of the unnatural function club members, what was once unnatural becomes natural.  The unnatural function coughs up and spits out everything unnatural and the Spirit replaces with all things natural.  In turn, Queen Lorraine and her daughters lose their grip on the unnatural reality they established.  This is all taking place right now at this very moment according to the word of the prophet.  A new day has finally arrived! 

Politics and Prose: Gloucester

Not long after returning to Washington DC, Martha and I returned to our regular routine without hardly skipping a beat.  She enthusiastically told me about the trip she was planning to Gloucester, Massachusetts around the Labor Day holiday.  But before that could happen, she and I both had to endure another situation.  Inspired in part by Martha’s international travels and overseas studies, I took my first international trip in April just a month before the trip to Atlanta.  I spent two weeks and my 29^th birthday in Spain.  While there I met a young Spanish girl who became a tour guide of sorts.  I promised I would do the same for her if she ever came to the States.  Unexpectedly, she decided to come just a few months later that summer.  Martha tried to keep an open mind as that was the modus operandi of the well-traveled and cultured, but her jealousy got the best of her.  The Spanish girl was not too fond of Martha either.  This episode kept the summer interesting as the time for the Gloucester trip quickly approached.  

Martha’s father picked us up at Boston’s Logan International Airport in the late afternoon.  The cool crisp New England air greeted us with a touch of warmth from the sunshine.  This was not my first trip to New England.  I had a work colleague from Connecticut who had become a close friend.  He invited me up to New Hampshire several times to stay at the cottage owned by his family.  His family got a kick out of my Texas accent.  Hence, they called me “Tex.”  I had become familiar with their dry humor, but this trip to Massachusetts provided new challenges.  Martha lived in Gloucester, but you could walk a short distance down the road to Rockport.  As her father pulled into the narrow road that led to their house, he stopped at the corner to check the mailbox for mail.  I looked at the mailbox on the other side of the road that said Updikes.  Martha smiled and said that’s where the author John Updike lived.  I had read a few books from Updike’s “Rabbit Run” series.  I couldn’t help but be impressed.  I realize now that those books by Updike influenced my own thinking and writing. 

Her palatial home not immediately visible, I enjoyed the short drive with the beautiful scenery along the way.  As the home came into view you could see a vast expanse of water that must have been a bay or inlet.  The backyard, if you want to call it that, included a quarry of stones that bordered the water.  I felt like I had just entered the Kennedy Compound.  Martha and I climbed over the big rocks of the quarry and stood next to the water.  She pointed at the shadow of land across the inlet and said that’s New Hampshire.  I found the whole experience exhilarating.  This was just the beginning of unexpected surprises.  Her father cooked a special dinner that included delicious grilled meats.  As Martha and I sat down for dinner with her father and mother in the dining room, her father pointed to the dining room walls lined with the wall paneling from the bedroom of English historian Arnold Toynbee.  He purchased the wall paneling through an auction after the death of the historian. 

During the meal, her mother mentioned that they had been invited to a wedding the next day.  She asked if I didn’t mind attending with them.  Their friends from their Unitarian Universalist church were getting married.  Her mother then asked me if I had any religious affiliation.  I told her that I had been baptized in the downtown Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas.  She gasped a short breath then said, “Oh, you’re southern Baptist?”  She then said that she was going to ask me for the first dance at the wedding but maybe I was not allowed to dance.  I told her that I rarely attend church and wasn’t a very good dancer.  She then asked, “Didn’t your mother teach you how to dance?”  Being naïve, I didn’t immediately catch the sleight of hand dig at my mother by her statement.  Unshaken, I said “No, but she tried to teach me piano, but I was too interested in playing sports to focus on piano too.”  Martha and her parents chuckled as I continued on like nothing happened.  After dinner, the four of us played a spirited game of badminton in the backyard as the setting sun glistened over the waters enveloping the quarry and finally streaking across the estate.  I’ll never forget that moment. 

Martha would later call me a Simple Man. By her New England standards, she might have been right. I thought, if I’m simple then what do you call a person who squats down and talks to a frog? When the frog hops away she follows the frog while walking like a duck. I had been exposed at work plenty of times to this New England opinion of those from the south. I also realized that Martha and her mother had decided that some degree of retribution was in order given what had happened in Atlanta. Completely unfazed by their gestures, her mother became impressed and took a liking towards me. A true friendship began to develop between her mother and myself. I don’t know what she saw in me, but she saw something. Even after Martha and I quit seeing each other her mother still wrote beautiful letters with pictures from our time together that weekend. Her letters truly touched me as I knew that they were sincere.

The next day after the wedding Martha planned for us to go into the port city of Rockport to eat seafood and then go on a whale watch tour.  While whale watching off the Massachusetts coast, an art class spread all over the grounds of her residence painting the landscape, the house, and even the laundry room located in a separate miniature cabin.  Just another one of the tiny details planned by Martha and her mother.  Before leaving for the whale watch, I washed a small load of clothes and put them in the dryer.  After returning from the whale watch, I went to the small cabin to retrieve my clothes only to discover an aspiring artist painting inside the cabin!  I apologized for interrupting her painting, but I needed to get my clothes out of the dryer!  The aspiring artist apologized for being there.  Both of us kept apologizing.  Finally, the artist got up out of her chair and walked towards me.  Then she bowed!  I started to think to myself, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’  She treated me like I was some sort of royalty.  I was embarrassed.  I grabbed my clothes out of the dryer and marched back to the main residence. 

By the end of the trip, I realized that almost everything that happened had been choreographed down to the finest detail.  Her parents did everything possible to show that one day this will all belong to Martha and to you too if you marry our daughter.  My relationship with Martha was no longer about some unfortunate erectile dysfunction.  I had to now consider what do I really want out of this life.  I was 29 years old and stood on the precipice of having the world handed to me on a silver platter.  If I accepted, I would never have to concern myself with financial matters again for the rest of my life.  I would still have to work but probably in a far more prestigious position where admiration and honor would freely flow my way.  After returning to DC, I seriously considered the idea of being grafted into the landed gentry.  After much reflection, I decided that choosing this path lacked the integrity that my life deserved.  How quickly would I become bored with this lifestyle?  Her parents probably thought I could be properly molded because of my naïve and genial personality accompanied by my seemingly simple nature.  They were mistaken.  The time had come to end the relationship with Martha.  The charade had gone too far. 

Ironically, here I am 29 years later at the age of 58 being chased by religious myth walkers and cultural fairytale talkers with similar designs.  But just as I’ve remained faithful and loyal to the carefree and spontaneous life without wife or child these past 29 years, I plan to do the same for the next 29 years!  How sweet it is to divide one’s own life into thirds.  You can glean so much understanding of yourself and others as you transition from one third to the next.  While my life has been anything but orthodox the past 29 years, I’ve been surrounded by those who constantly exhibit those same themes of invariable conformity with the exception of a few outliers.  As I transition out of the Politics and Prose series into the next phase of my journey, I will examine some of those exceptional experiences. 

Politics and Prose: Atlanta

Our trip to Atlanta took place in the spring of ’93 to coincide with the 50th birthday of my mother.  A celebration that no one would soon forget.  The feminine mystique cultivated at Wellesley College was about to encounter a political firebrand forged in the hot flames of southern feminine culture.  Northeast establishment Republican meet rock-ribbed southern Republican!  My stepfather had a PhD in Ceramic Engineering from Rutgers University where he also received Bachelor and Masters degrees.  He spent many years interacting with people from the northeastern part of the country while in school and throughout his professional career, but his deep southern roots from North Carolina with familial connections to Robert E. Lee formed his identity.  My stepfather and mother picked Martha and I up at the airport.  They were driving the van which had plenty of space and a cooler of beer on ice.  I loved this gesture of hospitality whenever I arrived in Atlanta.  Martha passed on the beer. 

Despite her travels and overseas studies, Martha had lived a sheltered life.  The saying ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do’ only applied to her when she felt she was elevating herself.  Her whiny voice had the resonance of an east coast snob, but she wasn’t a snob even if she came across as one.  My mother knew that Martha graduated from Wellesley College and the most famous alumnus of that school had just been elected President of these United States.  When Martha arrived on the scene with her whiny voice, hairband, and her unintentional air of superiority it was as if that famous alumnus herself had just come to Atlanta.  Like when a volcano emits steam before erupting, I could see signs of a future eruption coming from my mother.  Martha also loved frogs.  You could call it one of her quirks.  She had frogs on everything.  Her clothes, earrings, rings, sandals, purse, hairband, hairclips, and frog stickers on things that she couldn’t find that came as a frog.  My roommate called her Toad.  He would say, “Are you going to dinner again tonight with Toad?”  I couldn’t help but laugh every time he said that.  He said all you two do is eat and read.  I tried to explain that I was in an intellectually curious phase of my life. 

During the 1980s and 90s, one of the feminist concerns being addressed was how men didn’t have to worry so much about their appearance, especially their hair, while women had to fuss unceasingly with their appearance, especially their hair.  A feminist response to this inequity embraced by the Wellesley intelligentsia was to make sure to have wet hair when the occasion called for a more polished appearance.  Martha did this often.  I didn’t care because I wasn’t physically attracted to her anyway.  I could care a less if her hair was wet or dry, but this would not go over well during our visit to Atlanta.  My stepfather made a reservation at a nice restaurant for my mother’s birthday.  As everyone got ready to leave Martha came out of the bathroom with wet hair.  My mom took this as an insult.  She made a comment about Martha’s hair and then Martha became upset.  The atmosphere became toxic.  Tensions ran high during dinner.  Hardly a word was spoken during the drive home. 

After arriving home, my mom went straight to her room.  The rest of us tried to maintain some sense of normalcy until my mother called for my stepfather to join her in the bedroom.  After about 10 minutes, my stepfather came back downstairs and told me and Martha that we needed to go back to DC.  Essentially, my mother could no longer tolerate the presence of Martha in her house.  Martha became even more upset and started to cry.  I scheduled an earlier flight and called my brother to ask him to take us to the airport.  Martha and I collected our things and went and sat on the curb outside to wait for my brother.  Martha was sobbing.  My mom was screaming inside the house how her birthday had been ruined.  Amazingly, I started to feel like I was getting an erection.  Then my brother drove up saving all of us just in time! 

As my brother drove us to the airport, Martha continued to sob while asking what she did to make my mother react that way.  My brother seemed to understand the situation better than I did.  He grew up living with my mom while I spent my early teen years living with my dad.  My brother dropped us off at the airport and wished us well.  Martha and I boarded the plane and found our seats.  She was still quietly sobbing.  After getting ourselves squared away, she said “Your mother is not invited to the wedding.”  I looked straight ahead in shock while saying to myself, ‘Whoever said anything about a wedding.’  Next stop…. Gloucester, Massachusetts! 

To be continued 

Politics and Prose

In 1992, my roommate and I decided to move from the Glover Park area along Wisconsin Ave in Washington DC closer to the city center in DuPont Circle.  Even in 1992 this area was known as a place primarily influenced by the homosexual community.  The restaurants, art galleries, bookstores, and central location offered the finest in inner city living.  Of course, the area had a much sharper edge than the highbrow Glover Park location where I lived for the previous year and a half.  During one of our after-hours extravaganzas at one of the local bars, we met a couple of girls who would change our friendship.  Actually, my roommate and the girl he met were the main attraction, but her friend would become the object of my attention for the next couple of years. 

I’ve given her a pseudonym name of Martha to avoid revealing too much.  She actually had a name that I liked and found attractive, but Martha is a much more fitting name.  While my roommate and his girl were hitting it off Martha and I began to spend time together.  She came from a Massachusetts family that I would describe as eastern establishment and very wealthy.  She had recently graduated from Wellesley College and wore a hair band just like her famous alumnus who had just been elected President of these United States.  As our relationship developed, Martha and I began to spend more time together.  My roommate and his girl had by then split and gone their separate ways.  He wasn’t too happy with all the time I was spending with Martha, but I was moving into a new phase of life wanting to explore more of what DC had to offer. 

Martha and I would have dinner at one of the fine restaurants in Dupont Circle either before or after our time spent at the Politics and Prose Bookstore.  Our time spent together at the bookstore, listening to presentations by excellent speakers and authors, sifting through mountains of books, choosing a few to buy, then reading and discussing them was a favorite pastime and one of the highlights of my time spent in DC.  Martha became my reading partner.  She consumed three books for every book that I read.  My roommate commented that what Martha and I were doing is what married people do in their 70s.  I scoffed at his comment but looking back I can now see his point.  Despite our good times at dinner, the bookstore, and art museums, the enthusiasm didn’t carry over when I was alone with her either at my place or her place. 

Even when undressed I felt nothing on my part.  She became totally frustrated.  She wondered why I couldn’t get an erection.  She told me that I had a problem called ED or Erectile Dysfunction which I had not heard of until then.  She recommended that I seek counseling.  The funny thing was that as I walked the streets of DC during the daytime and saw the beautiful girls dressed smart and sexy, I couldn’t keep my erection under control!  I asked myself, ‘Why am I stimulated by the girls walking the streets of DC but with Martha I shrink up like a dried-out prune?’  This exercise in futility continued until the end of our time together.  I came to accept that our relationship had no future beyond enjoying the company of each other while experiencing life in DC. 

Martha had a cute appearance with very little sex appeal.  She came from a background that emphasized education.  Her father had both a Bachelor and Masters degree from M.I.T.  He invented or developed the film most widely used by dental offices for X-rays at that time.  This led to the great wealth of the family.  While at Wellesley, Martha majored in French with an emphasis on the French Revolution.  She studied in Paris for a year as part of her degree program.  She could easily pass as Parisian speaking the language fluently with all the subtle nuances.  Her educational background only added to the quality of our discussions.  The mindset that Martha acquired through her educational and familial experiences was offset by her detachment from the lives of regular people and certain personality quirks.  These things didn’t bother me as I always found the oddities of people interesting.  I had plenty of opportunities to meet people like this during my time in DC and, for sure, I was one of those people myself.  Martha came along at the right time in my DC experience.  I enjoyed our friendship even though I couldn’t see anything beyond that.  I don’t think she saw our situation in the same way. 

Our relationship continued to develop without intimacy.  We took an excursion to West Virginia staying in several bed and breakfast establishments.  Martha wanted to see the place in Seneca Rocks where the feminist movement supposedly took root.  I think the women who took part in this historical event were graduates of Wellesley.  I looked at our relationship as a great friendship.  Martha had other ideas.  She was already planning a trip to Massachusetts for me to meet her parents.  When she brought this up, I suggested a trip to Atlanta to meet my mom, stepfather, and brother.  I think I was trying to preempt her by going to Atlanta without much consideration of what these trips actually meant.  She agreed to go to Atlanta first.  Being a student of the American Civil War, I would later come to understand the trip to Atlanta and the subsequent trip to Massachusetts as experiences that highlighted the differences between southern and northeastern cultures. 

To be continued 

School of the Prophets

The school of the prophets is equivalent to the modern-day seminary or yeshiva.  Pastors, rabbis, and teachers ask where is Elijah?  Surely his body is somewhere up there in those mountains.  Let’s go find him.  While the prophet Elisha tells them that Elijah is gone.  They will not find him.  Elijah having already served his purpose has been taken away.  They don’t believe Elisha so they go searching anyway but can’t find him.  Eventually they realize that Elijah was taken away and Elisha has taken his place with a double-portion anointing.  Elijah and Elisha never attended the school of the prophets.  They were formed in the wilderness by the Hand of God. 

The wilderness prophet is equivalent to the plowman or the treader of grapes.  He is often confused with the reaper and sewer of seeds and while one day the plowman will overtake the reaper, he neither reaps nor sews seeds.  Where the plowman plows up the hardened religious and cultural ground, the school of the prophets becomes unhinged by these acts of the wild man.  They counsel among themselves to restrain this reckless fool and train him to reap and sew seed.   They unleash their communities to pursue, surround and, ultimately, civilize the uncivil character.  The school of the prophets prescribes marriage, children, and work as the pathway to the fruitful and quiet life.  They place detour signs in front of any road less travelled.  Unsuccessful in thwarting the wild man, they find other ways to add to their religious and cultural resumes by harassing the man. 

Plowmen are solitary independent figures who primarily work alone.  They don’t worry what others think about them.  If they did, they wouldn’t be plowmen or treaders of grapes.  Reapers and sewers of seeds consider their reputations as being of primary importance.  Hence, they become comfortable with and even desire admiration.  Always cognizant of what their community, spouse, and children think about them, they show honor in the hope of receiving honor.  The wilderness prophet doesn’t even belong to a community and if he did, he certainly would not fall into the admiration trap that leads to pride.  As the religious leaders and cultural architects of the MotherLand, reapers and sewers of seeds put family ahead of faith.  This is changing as the culture shifts from a feminine to a masculine orientation. 

The school of the prophets doesn’t believe what they don’t see.  They have already formed in their minds what they believe.  Whereas the wilderness prophet sees where the school of the prophets can’t see or is unwilling to see.  The school of the prophets believed that Elijah was the prophet of God, but they couldn’t believe or accept that he was taken away from them.  The prophet Elisha knew that Elijah had been taken up and that they would never see him again.  The wilderness prophet tells the school of the prophets that what they once saw is no longer there.  They refuse to accept this.  They still search for what they believe is relevant to their faith.  This kind of seeing is the difference between being formed in the wilderness and being formed in the school of the prophets.  The school of the prophets is like having a sit-down dinner with all the appropriate foods and protocol while the wilderness prophet is being fed by an unclean bird by the Brook Cherith. 

After 10 years in my present city and more than 20 years of walking in this calling, I realize that my time has come to Ramble On.  Religious communities have been stirred to the point of imploding, ethnic communities have been challenged in ways they never considered possible, and cultural influences have begun to shift from female-centric to male-centric propensities.  As this shift progresses there will be less gender and sexual orientation confusion because the ability to focus will replace multi-tasking as the dominant cultural trait.  This is the result of breaking up the hard barren ground of religion and culture.  This ground is now ready for the reapers and sewers of seeds.  Another wilderness prophet will be anointed and given the calling of treading the grapes.  Just as Elisha received the anointing from Elijah, so also this new wilderness prophet will receive his anointing.  As he treads the grapes, he will commission many reapers and sewers of seeds to cultivate and bring in the harvest.  He will commission a Jehu like figure who will finish what was started in the book MotherLand. 

As for my future, I’m on my way to the enchanted land of fun in the sun, sipping the finest tequilas, and chasing senoritas up and down the beach while holding a Mudslide drink in my hand.  Let’s call it a halfway house on the highway to Heaven.  This paradise on earth is called Mexico where my sun will finally set.  I’m going to renounce my citizenship in the United States of America and any connection to the Cherokee Nation. Once established in Mexico, I might start publishing posts and writing songs in Spanish and then export them to MotherLand.  Yes, it’s true.  I’ve been brought to a point where I have to choose either moving, marriage, or employment.  Marriage and employment are not viable options so that leaves moving.  And now’s the time, the time is now.  To sing my song.  Ramble On! 

Hello Cancun Mexico! 

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
Don’t let ’em plow fields and drive
them old mules
Make ’em be pastors and teachers and
such

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
They’ll never stay home and they’re
always alone
Even with someone they love

Prophets ain’t easy to love and they’re
harder to hold
And they’d rather give you a song
than diamonds or gold
Big brass belt buckles and old faded
garments

And each night begins a new day
And if you don’t understand him, and
he don’t die young
He’ll probably just walk away

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
Don’t let ’em tread grapes or drive
them old mules
Make ’em be pastors and teachers and
such

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
They’ll never stay home and they’re
always alone
Even with someone they love

Prophets like smoky old bar rooms
and clear ocean mornings
Confrontations, flirtations, and
girls of the night
And them that don’t know him won’t
like him and them that do

Sometimes won’t know how to take
him
He ain’t wrong, he’s just different but
his pride won’t let him
Do things to make you think he’s right

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
Don’t let ’em plow fields and drive
them old mules
Make ’em be pastors and teachers and
such

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
They’ll never stay home and they’re
always alone
Even with someone they love

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up
to be prophets
Don’t let ’em tread grapes or drive
them old mules
Make ’em be pastors and teachers and
such

Make ’em be pastors and teachers and such

Harvest

“My name is JD Johnson, they call me the Single Guy, never married, no kids and I certainly never will marry or have kids.” – JD Johnson (hard-drinking poet) 

The next day after breakfast in the House of Jasmin dining hall the Priest of Bougainville asked JDtheSingleGuy if he would like to spend the day with him inspecting the vineyards.  He thought JD would like to see the vineyards right before harvest.  JD enthusiastically accepted.  The Priest enjoyed spending time with JD.  He knew that JD had suffered terribly at the hands of various religious sects all of them trying to force him to marry and have children.  He said to himself, ‘This is why Oasis exists.  To save freedom loving individuals from religious practitioners of all stripes.’  As they strolled through the vineyards JD commented on how impressive the grapes looked.  The Priest said, “This year will be the best year ever depending on how much damage the Rat Pack does to the crop.”  JD asked, “Who’s the Rat Pack?”  The Priest replied, “The Rat Pack is a group of scavengers who come with their empty backpacks to steal as many grapes as possible under the cover of darkness.”  JD asked, “They only do this once a year?”  The Priest replied, “The harvest occurs once a year, so they hit the harvest one time.”  He continued, “You never know when they are coming so I assign the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville on 24/7 vineyard watching shifts.”  JD asked, “What does the Rat Pack do the rest of the year?”  The Priest replied, “Their backpacks are full of amulets and lucky charms that they toss on the floor while chanting, ranting, and casting spells.”  JDtheSingleGuy appeared dismayed. 

The Priest asked, “Have you ever experienced a harvest?”  JDtheSingleGuy replied, “I’ve spent more than half my adult life plowing and treading.”  JD began to wax and wane philosophically.  He talked about his many experiences plowing the hard ground of various religious communities.  He often came to those communities with only a sledgehammer, pickaxe, and a plow.  After the harvest he treaded upon the fruit.  This work often took years to complete.  He explained how the plowman is often mistaken for the reaper.  In the same way the one who treads grapes is often mistaken for the one who sews seed.  When a religious community begins to realize the fruit, they go after the plowman to try and make him into a reaper.  When this happens, you know the plowman has finished his work in that community.  Plowmen are solitary independent figures who primarily work alone.  They are wilderness men fed by unclean birds.  They believe you only have a reputation if others can make you think you have a reputation.  They don’t worry what others think about them.  If they’re concerned about how others viewed them, then they aren’t plowmen and treaders. 

The Priest interrupted, “JD, my son, are you willing to tread the grapes from our harvest?”  JD replied, “Of course!”  He continued, “My dear Priest, I think about the first day we met and how my life has changed since that day.  I can’t imagine my life without the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville.”  The Priest said, “Only in Oasis do you find this kind of freedom.”  The Priest thought to himself, ‘If only others saw things the way JD does.”  He then asked, “What would you do if you had the opportunity to speak to Fools about the life in Oasis and more specifically at the House of Jasmin?”  JDtheSingleGuy replied, “I realize that marriage is discouraged in Oasis, but if a Fool decided to get married, I would tell him several things.”  The Priest asked, “What would you tell him?”  He replied, “The first thing I would tell him is to begin and end his search right here at the House of Jasmin.  The 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville bring to the table exactly what every Fool wants.” 

JDtheSingleGuy began to wax and wane philosophically.  A Fool who marries before the age of 50 is throwing away a great opportunity to find himself and then develop a sense of self through various life experiences.  The longer he waits the more he learns personal responsibility for himself before having to assume responsibility for others.  If he waits to find a spouse and a house, he will find the choices available to him greatly expanded.  The Priest interrupted, “MotherLand frowns upon older Fools fooling around with young mother wannabees.”  JD replied, “That’s because an older Fool is already set in his ways and pattern of life.”  He continued, “Young Fools are more easily conformed to the ways and means of the motherhood.”  The Priest said, “Once the nest is full the Fool is on the hook.”  JDtheSingleGuy nodded in agreement.  The Priest looked at his watch and couldn’t believe how the time had passed.  He asked, “JD, my son, are you feeling thirsty?”  JD replied, “You bet!”

Later that same day the Priest of Bougainville along with the other regulars arrived at the Top of the Sixes for a Whiskey at 6.  He sat at his usual table.  Carlos the Bartender knowing exactly what to pour brought a Heaven’s Door Straight Rye Whiskey to the table.  The Priest saw the Fool-out-of-the-Green sitting at the bar sandwiched in between Ms. CaliCoCo and Ms. LaiaClarck.  Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair had already left for MotherLand.  The Priest muttered to himself, ‘God Speed Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair.’  Ms. HoneyDripper and ShaggyFool sat at her table with the Tasmanian cat Bubu.  At the end of the bar, he noticed JDtheSingleGuy and Ms. LizzyKean were back in the saddle together.  LunaStars approached his table and asked, “May I join you?”  The Priest replied, “By all means please do!”  The Priest called on Carlos the Bartender to bring another Heaven’s Door Straight Rye Whiskey to the table.  LunaStars said “There he goes again.”  The Priest asked, “There who goes again?”  She replied, “There goes JDtheSingleGuy jumping from ship to ship.”  The Priest laughed, “I’m so proud of him.”  He continued, “No one understands the true meaning of Oasis like he does.”  LunaStars asked, “How come he can’t choose one of the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville and stick with her?”  The Priest replied, “Oasis is governed by individual freedom.”  He continued, “This includes freedom to choose and, even if you decide not to choose, you have still exercised your freedom of choice.” 

Just then JDtheSingleGuy and Ms. LizzyKean approached the table.  JD asked, “May Ms. Lizzy and I join you?”  The Priest of Bougainville replied, “By all means please do!”  LunaStars frowned.  The Priest called on Carlos the Bartender to bring two more Heaven’s Door Straight Rye whiskeys to the table.  He then began to talk about his day spent with JDtheSingleGuy in the vineyards inspecting the grapes.  He said, “The harvest has started.”  He continued, “This is going to be a banner year as long as the Rat Pack doesn’t get too much of the crop.”  LunaStars asked, “Who’s the Rat Pack?”  The Priest replied, “The Rat Pack comes out at night with their empty backpacks to scavenge as many grapes as possible.”  Ms Lizzy exhaled in disgust, “Ugh!”  The Priest said, “I have the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville assigned to oversee the vineyards 24/7 during the harvest.”  He felt confident in them to keep a watchful eye on any disturbances that might occur.  Harvest is the most important time of the year.  The Rat Pack and other predators knew this as well as anyone.  Unknown to everyone else, the Priest set special traps that will detach a backpack from the back of a Rat Pack scavenger.  The Priest smiled.  

Rat Pack Squad
Packing backpacks
No snacks in these packs
Reminds me of the Mod Squad

Waiting behind every corner
Wearing black and their favorite backpack
Standing outside the bookstore
Backpack staring me in the face

Pushing a basket behind a bush
Backpack in the basket
Basket starts shaking like a lush
Rat Pack gives basket a push

I can hear the Rat Pack in a dark room
Having a seance right above me
Reaching into their bag of divination tricks
Tossing their amulets and lucky charms on the floor

Waving their censors
Anticipating someone or something
Rising in their imaginations
Conniving, scheming, and cunning

One AM they huff
Four AM they puff
They huff and they puff
But they just can’t blow down the House of Jasmin

Rat Pack reaches into their backpacks
Throwing everything out
Harvest is coming
It’s right on track

Vineyards are full of grapes
Rat pack ready to rape
Backpacks empty and on their backs
Scurrying around in the pitch black

They move by smell not sight
Tangle free through the vines
Things get a bit tight
One Rat Pack backpack is left behind

The Rat Pack continues on
Grapes crushing in their backpacks
It’s almost dawn
Another successful raid by the Rat Pack

On to MotherLand

“My name is JD Johnson, they call me the Single Guy, never married, no kids and I certainly don’t need no woman to help me get through this life.” – JD Johnson (hard-drinking poet) 

The next day after breakfast in the House of Jasmin dining hall the Priest of Bougainville began his usual day inspecting the vineyards.  He had never seen such a crop of grapes as rich in quality and quantity.  What a year this has been.  Not only were the vineyards flourishing but all the activity at the House of Jasmin made this a year to never forget.  In addition to the usual number of Fools crossing the desert seeking asylum, they also received two high profile asylum seekers from Snipper’s catch and return posse.  If the religious regulators had not apprehended Snipper, she would be here too.  He wondered what happened to Snipper.  He asked himself, ‘Did she go through interrogation?’  At the very least she had to go through some kind of reeducation and then indoctrination into the ways and means of the MotherLand through the Laws of MotherNature.  The Priest sighed.  His attention turned back to the grapes and their impressive features.  He found himself standing in the middle of the vineyard marveling at the fullness of the vines.  They looked to him as if they were ready to give birth.  He started to prepare for the harvest by assigning the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville to vineyard watching shifts.  Just before harvest, the ‘Rat Pack’ came out with their empty backpacks to scavenge as many grapes as possible.  The 70 X 7 beautiful daughters watched over the vineyards 24/7 the week before the harvest.  As the day winded down he began to feel thirsty. He thought about the Whiskey at 6 at the Top of the Sixes.

The Priest of Bougainville along with the other regulars arrived at the Top of the Sixes for a Whiskey at 6.  He sat at his usual table.  Carlos the Bartender knowing exactly what to pour brought a Heaven’s Door Straight Rye Whiskey to the table.  This time LunaStars approached his table and asked, “May I join you dear Priest?”  He replied, “By all means please do!”  The Priest saw ShaggyFool and Ms. HoneyDripper sitting at the bar.  Next to them sat the Fool-out-of-the-Green sandwiched by Ms. LizzyKean and Ms. CaliCoCo.  Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair sat at Ms. HoneyDripper’s former table.  At the end of the bar, he noticed another one of the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville who just started to come to the Top of the Sixes for a Whiskey at 6.  A Venezuelan beauty named Ms. LaiaClarck.  Like every other time a new daughter came for a Whiskey at 6 there JDtheSingleGuy hovered over her.  The Priest smiled.  He thought to himself, ‘If I had a son, I would want him to be just like JDtheSingleGuy.’  Surprisingly, Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair approached him and LunaStars and asked, “May I join you?”  The Priest replied, “By all means please do!”  LunaStars batted her eyelashes in approval.  His appearance both stimulated and soothed her eyes to the point that she had to bat them.  His tall frame and slender build with the George Hamilton movie star look made any woman feel the need to excuse herself to the lady’s room.  In fact, that is exactly what LunaStars did. 

The Priest called on Carlos the Bartender to bring four more Heaven’s Door Straight Rye whiskeys to the table.  If LunaStars didn’t return, then he, Daniel, and the chair could share hers.  The Priest asked him, “How is everything with you?  Daniel replied, “Everything is going great, but I think the chair wants something more adventurous than coming to the Top of the Sixes every night.”  The chair nodded in agreement.  The Priest said, “I understand.”  He continued, “Have you considered taking a sabbatical to MotherLand?”  Daniel replied, “I was just there and didn’t want to stay there.”  The Priest said, “You’re going on an excursion not moving there.”  He continued, “The biggest holiday in MotherLand occurs in less than a week.”  Daniel asked, “Which holiday is that?”  The Priest replied, “Green Day.”  He continued, “The mother wannabees will be in a green frenzy.  You can have the time of your life.”  The Priest explained that the second most important holiday in Motherland, Mother’s Day, follows Green Day by about two weeks.  Every mother wannabee reaches the apex of her desire to become a mother just before Mother’s Day.  Daniel’s eyes opened wide.  The Priest said, “This is the time of year when MotherNature is in full bloom.  It’s as if all the stars are in alignment.”  Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair said, “If I ever were to return to MotherLand, this is the time to do it!”  The chair bounced up and down two times.

Just then Carlos the Bartender brought four Heaven’s Door Straight Rye whiskeys to the table.  The Priest thanked Carlos the Bartender for his exemplary service day in and day out.  Then LunaStars returned and asked, “Did I miss anything?”  She couldn’t stop staring at Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair.  She didn’t care if he seemed less clean.  He appeared impeccable.  Nary a hair out of place on his head.  Perfectly clean shaven, in fact, she didn’t see any body hair except on his head.  She asked herself, ‘How could such a specimen spend so many years in the closet smoking cigars?’  The Priest said, “Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair is going on an excursion to MotherLand during their high holidays.”  LunaStars said, “Oh how nice that sounds.”  She then asked, “Is this booked through a travel agency or are you taking a sabbatical?”  Daniel replied, “A sabbatical.”  The chair smiled.  The Priest said, “I will provide logistical support for both you and the chair during your trip.”  Daniel said, “Thank you dear Priest.”  LunaStars blurted out, “Can I go with you?”  Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair explained that he and the chair plan to bond during this trip, so they prefer to go alone.  The Priest nodded in agreement.  LunaStars understood.  The Priest then said, “Another one of the 70 X 7 beautiful daughters of the Priest of Bougainville is now coming to the Top of the Sixes for a Whiskey at 6.”  Daniel asked, “Who’s that?”  The Priest replied, “A Venezuelan beauty who goes by the name Ms. LaiaClarck.”  The Priest pointed in her direction.  LunaStars shrugged.  Then she said, “There’s JDtheSingleGuy introducing himself to the latest and newest.”

Daniel-less-clean-in-the-Chair thanked the Priest for his advice and support.  Then he excused himself from the table saying, “The chair and I need to start preparing for this trip.”  The Priest wished him well and LunaStars batted her eyelashes.  The Priest and LunaStars fell into another passionate conversation as they enjoyed their whiskeys.  The Priest looked over at JDtheSingleGuy who appeared very interested in Ms. LaiaClarck.  He asked himself, “Could Ms. LaiaClarck finally be the one who captures JD’s undivided attention?”  Only time would tell.