It's a war! No, it's the 4th of July!

Happy birthday America!
It's a war! It's a war! No, wait, it's only the 4th.



Ever since I was a kid, I used to love the 4th of July. Notice that I used past tense. So sit back and I'll give you a little history lesson. I moved outside the city limits with Charley and since people couldn't shoot fireworks off in the city, they would drive to the outskirts to buy from the multitude of temporary stands and then proceed to shoot their hard-earned money into the sky. In those days there weren't many people living this far out of the city. Everyone would go a little crazy like our dog, Moksha who would try and chase down the firecrackers and bite them. He would get so wild that we would have to lock him up in a room without windows until the whole event was over. But, every year we'd pull up chairs, sometimes invite friends over and have a cookout, buy the kids a small amount of fireworks (with our hard-earned money) and sit back and enjoy the madness.

But then things changed. Each year the crowds got bigger and bigger. Now there is so many cars that they create an actual traffic jam where cars creep along the freeway waiting to exit the ramp. People are no longer are just parking along the access roads of the interstate to have their little party, but driving up and parking next to our home with total disregard to our territory. They don't shoot fireworks off at their house, so they drive to mine to have their party.


When the huge crowd began to invade, the fun of the 4th began to leave me. My poor donkey, Murphy, would run around the property trying to escape the invasion of the insane. He understood that it was war. Then came the year of a drought. The crowds of people gathered as usual shooting off fireworks wherever there was a bare spot between the greasewood and the mesquite bushes with a complete disregard and disrespect for homes they parked themselves amidst. Fires started. We didn't have time to watch the fireworks that night, we were chasing little fires set in the desert surrounding our home with buckets of water in hand. We finally went to bed around midnight, then our neighbor called and said there was a fire on the other side of our house. Sure enough, a bush caught on fire. People had already jumped our eight-foot fence and were trying to put it out. Together, we smothered the flames out. Turns out that even though it was dry enough to catch the desert on fire, it wasn't dry enough for the laws of Texas. Of course, most of Texas is not a desert, but the southwestern tip is. But who cares about the southwestern tip?


But now, let's talk about the aftermath. When everyone who came to the outskirts of town has had their little party and burned all their blasting purchases leaves, do they pick up after themselves like good citizens of an ideal community? You got to be kidding yourself if you think they do. Beer bottles, cans, food wrappers, and remnants of fireworks casings remain in the wake of the celebratory war. The county does hire a clean-up crew who come out and clean most of the crap along the interstate, but the side roads are left to be cleaned by the local inhabitants, like us.


Then for ten years we were cycling during the summer months and were not at home. While we didn't see what was going on, but in the back of my mind, I always wondered if my home would be burned down in my absence. Even on the road, we would find a locale to stay put for a few days. Drunk drivers and cyclists are not a good mix. I did not want become a new test for the inebriated. Last year we retired and we no longer have to cycle-tour during the heat-stroke months of summer and have been home during the onslaught of celebrators. Last night we stayed in and just listened to the loud explosions of the assault outside. This year we are lucky, the monsoon rains started early and the desert was damp. No fires were started.


But I ask you, "Are all these people celebrating the birth of our wonderful, free nation or do they just see an opportunity to blow up things, drink, and have a party?" From my perspective, I am more inclined to agree with Murphy, it's an invasion and a war and no longer a celebration.

What to do with money?

From the time we are children, we are trained to want money. We ask our parents for things, they will either buy it or tell us that they don't have the money. We start to earn an allowance for things that we do around the house. Each of us, then, develops how we will use that money. The impulsive ones will go out and spend it as fast as possible, others will have a goal and save up to buy it, others still, will save and never spend. These habits will follow us into adulthood: always desiring money and what we do with it once we have it.

I've always been the goal setter. I save for goals then use it. While I was working I observed people who would be absolutely miserable the week before payday, announcing how much better they would feel once their paycheck was in their pocket. People would always ask me how Charley and I could go on 2-1/2 month vacations. It's because I knew how to manage and save.

In the past few years, I've observed elderly people. Fear has engulfed them and their fists are tight holding onto their money. These people have a difficult time using it for what would make them happy now. "Oh, I can't do that, what if I fall ill and need the money?" Actually, the kids who went out and spent their money right away are really going to fare better when they are old and are no longer able to care for themselves. 'Why?' you may ask. When you are in that situation and have no money, Medicare will take care of you. I guess people fear the quality of care they may receive; fear not, it will be good care. As long as you have money, of course, it is your money that will take care of you, of course until it runs out.

What good is it to leave it to your heirs? There most likely (not always) will be bitter fighting, begrudging, greediness; and for what? Money that you have bee trained to desire all your life. My goal in life is simply this: use my money while I can enjoy it. I don't care if I have money once I no longer understand the world I live in. I don't care if I leave money to those living beyond my death. If I have it now, I earned it, I should enjoy it.

How are you going to use your money?

Socrates Quotes

Often when looking at a mass of things for sale, he would say to himself, 'How many things I have no need of!"

America's gluttony

We're in a recession?
You wouldn't know it traveling down the road. Trash, waste, food, and good merchandise line our roads. Cycling slowly up to Guadalupe National Park, a trash bag lay strewn over the dirt at a car pull out (50 yards from an actual trash bin, I might add). I spot something orange. I tell Charley, my captain of my life and tandem bicycle to stop so that I may check it out. It was a perfect orange, never peeled, never eaten, but thrown away because of America's gluttony. We take it, wash it, and eat one of the sweetest oranges you could imagine.
Our stores constantly sell one-time, one-use items. We no longer make products that will work or last over a period of years. Our children are so accustomed to toys that they will play with a couple of times then leave neglected, then thrown away. Visit Wal-mart and just look around. Yesterday I saw a bubble wand which sold for $1, before Easter they were selling a case of plastic, colored eggs for a similar price. It's not the price, but the gluttony that I am attacking here. These things have minimal use, kids tire of them quickly and where do they end up? In the landfills which contribute to global warming.
We are warm shower hosts for traveling cyclists. European visitors are shocked by the mass of products offered in stores, huge refrigerators and pantries in homes, and the mass of products Americans own. It's not just what we own but what we throw away.
Zipping down the road in a car will often blur the trash beside the roads. Cycling and walking enables a person to take in the immense quantity of things thrown and/or lost along the roadsides: backpacks, golf bags, large bags, medium bags, small bags, purses, cargo straps (never buy another one--just go for a walk or ride), wire, Leatherman multi-tools, Gerber multi-tools, hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, towels, wash cloths, hand towels, coats, pants, shoes, dresses, jackets, just to name a small amount found and seen. These are all things we did NOT see in Europe.
Oh, and the plastic bags--what are we doing? I stand in the store and watch how we continually stand in line, bagless, and let the clerks place our purchased items in plastic bags. Maybe these bags will get another use at home as a garbage sack, but will inevitably either end up, again, in a landfill contributing to the demise of our planet, or as an eye sore along the roadside that even a passenger in a car zipping down the road can see.

If we are truly in a recession, shouldn't we be more frugal, shouldn't we be more careful, shouldn't we save?

Happiness and success

Everyone has a different definition for these to states of being. But I see them as one and the same. Not that success is happiness but that happiness is success. You can get caught in the upward spiral of constantly achieving new levels of education, positions of employment, and/or the position in society itself. Ah, the push, the grind, the pressure to be recognized as successful. For then, ‘they’ will love me. Society, now that’s a big one. People are so concerned what other people think of them. Maybe my mother actually helped me. She never really liked me and told me that she wished that I was never born. That was her favor to me. I knew I could not please her. I mean, I tried for a long time while I was growing up, but there was this point, a point of no return, that I knew that to continue trying would be fruitless and that I needed to please myself. Well, maybe I wasn’t so insightful I didn’t need anyone. Pleasing someone has its own happy rewards also. Finding the love of my life probably helped also. But truly the real level of success is when you recognize satisfaction of where and who you are.

If success is happiness, I could not have done what I’ve done twice in my life: leave a respected level in society for a happier avenue for myself. The last time has landed me here, very early retirement for myself, to be beside the man I love and about to bicycle (waltz) across Texas. I believe that when one achieves happiness, then they are successful. Look into your inner desires and see what it is you want, look at your choices. It is within you, not outside of you. Is that not what insight or even Nirvana, for that matter?

Backgrounds

For every foreground there is a background. Both are separate and related, interact to communicate.

Let me show you my family portrait. Close your eyes and picture it. I am the painting and the colors on it are my life. My background is dark, gloomy, with chaotic drunken swirls, full of anger, depression, frustration. The flows and swirls, in itself are caught in this repetition, an eddy in a rushing river. As you look closer, you notice that there are two distinct dark colors, full of violence and rage. Two other forms emerge from those patterns. The first one, my sister, is more stable, colors are still somber but take on lighter shades. The second pattern, my brother, is barely distinguishable; dark, moody and sucking in lighter colors surrounding it.

Then a third pattern emerges, me, sharp bright edges contrasting the background. Colors are bright and happy. This pattern should be in a painting with rainbows, meadows, and sunshine. What is it doing in this painting? What is the artist trying to communicate? How could this background create this image? Yet, here it is.

The luminous image attracts other phosphorescent hues and lifts off the canvas, creating a new sensation, a new life, a new and distinct painting.

The painting represents the family from which I emerged. A smiley baby transformed into an optimistic individual placed initially on a dark canvas leaving behind the gloom and attracting new and happy people. How did I come to be?

How does your background affect your evaluation of the underlying images of my painting? We each carry our own background with us through life. Does the background of your life aid or hinder your understanding my life?

How does a background affect a painting? In that respect, how does a background affect a picture? Is it in the eye of the beholder? Then how does the background affect the eye of the beholder? How does the background affect the beholder's attitude? How does the background affect life? How does the beholder's attitude affect the background?

Dream

I was going through my computer and found this. It was an intense dream I woke up from March 3, 2007. It had a good lesson and I'm glad I wrote it down:

I woke up with this dream this morning. I was chasing this doctor who had a terminal disease. But he wasn’t listening to me. He was worried about his things, his possessions. I kept telling him over and over again that he needed to stop and pay attention to what was happening to him now. Listen to the world. Enjoy the moment, the breeze through the leaves of the trees, the birds singing, and his own breath. But he kept telling me that it was me who didn’t understand. He stopped and told me to wait outside this Greek style building while he went inside to take care of something. While I waited, I watched a bull get spooked by passersby. He ran up to me, knocked me over and was about to stomp his hoof into my chest as I began to tell him that he had a choice. “Pretty boy, you’re such a pretty boy. Do you really want to do this? You have a choice. You could lie down beside me and let me pet your pretty face or you could go ahead and stomp my chest. You’re such a pretty boy, don’t you want me to pet your pretty face? Then the bull dropped to the side and lay down beside me and I stroked his face. He was a very pretty bull. I got up and walked toward the building. An older lady was coming from around the corner. I’ve dreamt of her before. She said that I was her sister counter circle; I was on one end going around and she was on the other end and our ends would meet. But her time was coming near to the end as she was growing old and her apprentice would meet me. Her apprentice was this young blonde who fretting over the fact that she was not yet ready. I told her not to worry and that when the time came, she would be ready. Her choice was to either fret about the moment or absorb what she needed to know. The doctor came out, still worrying about things; I again chased after him, because this was my choice, telling him to stop and look at his life and see what is really important.

Enjoy the moment and look at your choices.