Year of the Tiger

They—in this case the they in question would be an international team of astronomers—believe the star Tau Ceti may have five planets—one of which might be habitable. At 12 light years away, may be a few years before an infrastructure supports the necessary Waffle Houses along the flight path. I only mention this possibility to underscore the notion that this ride on our own orb hurtling around our solar system’s sun is such an unlikely occurrence.

Amazingly, the astronomy folks can predict for us with uncanny accuracy a whole array of future events such as eclipses and alignments. They predict that on September 8, 2040, Mercury, Venus, Mars, as well as Jupiter and Saturn should cluster together with a crescent moon. I hope for clear skies. And, there are the other obvious hurdles to consider as well.

How curious, then, that I have no idea at all about what might be happening on September 8, 2022. Not on January 8, 2022 either. Nor any date for that matter. In truth, I'm not 100% certain what the next minute holds for me. I’m not sure I will finish this little meandering. I’m not sure it will be posted to this blog. 

Note to self: I am not sure of much of anything.

Makes it all the more interesting when thinking about crossing paths with others while we are on this tilt-a-whirl. Sort of a didn’t see the hims or the hers coming. Of course, they didn’t see us coming as well. 

And we came from a long way off—just go back, oh, a dozen generations. All the little decisive moments that created the twists and turns along the way. All those unforeseen encounters to get to the encounter that surprises us.

So, no, no resolutions for me.  My mantra for 2022 then: Didn’t see that coming. And I won’t. You won’t either. Happy New Year, and enjoy the ride.

(Modified from original Facebook note of December 2012)

 

Roger's Case (F)

The first jolt struck 47 seconds after Roger Davis eased himself into the hot tub.

What kind of day had it been, his wife Laura asked.

“The sales meeting disintegrated into a bitching match between Philip and David, so Clark sent us home. And three potential clients rescheduled until after the holidays. Yours?”

Laura picked up her purse. “Not that exciting. Lasagna’s in the oven. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Roger draped his jacket over the arm of the couch. “Jen home?”

“Upstairs. Doing homework.”

“Right.”

Laura shrugged. “I’ll be back.”

“Well, I’ll be here.”

Roger paused at the bottom of the stairs and thought to call up to his daughter. Instead he went to the bedroom and changed into swim trunks. After grabbing his towel from the hook on the bathroom door, he went to the bar and poured a double scotch.

The back yard was terraced so one stepped onto a large patio, then three steps down to the hot tub which was three steps above the infinity pool.

Roger slid the glass door open and stepped out into a cool breeze. From the patio he could see a portion of the town and the famous beach and the waves and beyond that the great wide ocean and so much sky.

Jenny begged him for a pool and throughout the last 7 years a steady parade of friends could be seen whacking each other with noodles and doing cannonballs to slosh the water over the side and down the steep slope behind their lot.

At 15, somehow, somehow a huge chunk of their lives together disappeared. Now, mostly in her room. Mostly wearing headphones when not. Where were her friends? What the hell happened?

Roger shook his head and mumbled to himself. He turned on the heater and jets for the tub and slipped off his Crocs.

Maybe it was the lockdown. It screwed with everyone’s heads.

He eased into the water. He took a sip of the scotch. Closing his eyes he allowed himself to imagine how it might be when he retired. A sigh. 

Would Jenny be married? A career woman? Both? Would grandkids be splashing in the water with him? Would Laura stop working when he did?

Roger took a deep breath. All that would be whenever, now was just now.

“Dad! Dad!”

Roger half-turned and looked up. He shielded his eyes. “Hey, Jen! Coming in?”

“No. The network is down. Can you fix it?”

“Do you really need it right now?”

“Yes, really right now. I’m working on a project.”

He stood facing her. “Okay, okay.” He took another swallow and set his glass down.

The first sound came just before Jenny turned away as Roger stepped toward his shoes. A loud bang, but more than a bang. Something explosive, more a boom.

Next came a deep shattering of rock and concrete. Father and daughter locked eyes. A fissure sheared off half the patio from one end to the other and with it hot tub and pool.

And for a part of a second Roger was still there, and then he was gone.

 

 

Say What?

Most likely you have never heard of Rasmy Hassouna.  

Neither had I until last week. Hassouna is a civil engineer who has done contract work for the City of Houston for more than 20 years. When his contract was up for renewal, a paragraph in the document essentially ruled out his company boycotting Israel while doing business with any government entity in Texas.

Say what?

Hassouna, a Palestinian, came to the US in 1988 and became a citizen in 2005. He battled to get his citizenship certificate to state his birthplace as Gaza Strip rather than Israel. Cue the lawsuit against the State of Texas. (A link to the article is included at the end of this post.) 

The article reports 25 states having similar laws. Curious, as a resident in South Carolina, I thought to take a look at how this issue stood here in the Palmetto State. Read for yourself.

"A public entity may not enter into a contract with a business to acquire or dispose of supplies, services, information technology, or construction unless the contract includes a representation that the business is not currently engaged in, and an agreement that the business will not engage in, the boycott of a person or an entity based in or doing business with a jurisdiction with whom South Carolina can enjoy open trade...." SC Code Ann. 11-35-5300 (2015)

Open trade....

South Carolina's top 3 import sources in 2020 to date: Germany, China, Mexico. Russia, by the way, is 21st on the list. Top 3 export destinations: Germany, Canada, China. Russia, 20th.

So? Hypothetically, my specialty print shop in Lyman could not refuse to do business with South Carolina businesses or individuals doing business with Chinese businesses or individuals if I wanted to contract with the City of Lyman for a printing job. Not even over that whole Uyghur situation.

Or the Spartanburg County Sheriff's Office? Or Spartanburg School District 5?

The People's Republic of China should be most pleased with our state legislature. Especially with the Winter Olympics on the horizon.

I know, I know. 

Hush, child, money's changing hands.

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2021/dec/07/texas-ban-boycotting-israel 

Thursday Twofer: Something Old, Something New

                            An Article of Faith

Confess, I will, to a pleasure

in the raising of the post-hole digger,

after eyeing a spot on this earth,

then to drive the blades into the ground,

the sudden shock of contact, to make void

something solid, an emptying, a vacancy.

Of course, in the planting of a tree, I must kneel

to the ground—a gardener’s bench needed

for these old knees—and having set the tree,

I must settle it into place, my head bowed,

the sun on my neck—and a little burn

to remind me of my place in the world—

and with my bare hands I fill what I had emptied,

compressing and grooming the dirt,

believing that it must be just so and not open

to chance. But, chance too becomes part of this offering,

to a future that I may not see,

that someone may come along someday

and, in a moment of contemplation, wonder

about these hands that worked in that moment

of planting, or someone to sit in the shade, a respite

from the heat, at repose, in gratitude.

Ladson 2013

                No Ax to Grind

Of late I hold no ax to grind—

out of sight, simply out of hand.

Not without impulse sure—

mostly smoke these days, little fire.

Plenty of kindling there is in this world,

but I choose not to gather fuel

nor strike a match—unlighted,

a peace on earth, or my slice

at least as I would have it.

How long to last I cannot say—

easily unwound the warp and weft

of our daily spin.

So, I wait.

I watch.

I wish.

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Satori at the Golden Palms (F)

The old man pushed back into his wheelchair and exhaled. The December sun felt warm on his face. A steady breeze came across the marsh and the Intercoastal, even rippling the pool’s surface.

“General, here.” A younger man, still with black hair slicked back, gently draped a lightweight blanket over his superior. “Perhaps I should move you to beachside?”

“No, Amado, the sun is good.”

“As you wish.” Amado snapped his fingers in the direction of a young woman standing at the pool’s bar. She moved several steps in their direction and he held up two fingers. “Con leche.”

“Have we heard from the embassy?”

“No, General.”

Again the old man exhaled. “The news will not be good. I fear it.”

“Perhaps not, but we do not know for certain.” Amado stood in front of the general without blocking the sun. “We do not know.”

“We know, because we feel it. I feel it. I feel it in my bones. Even my legs feel it, Amado.”

The young woman approached without a word and set the two cups on a small table next to the wheelchair and four packets of sugar to the side. Amado nodded and signed the bill. He tipped more than he would tip, but he signed for the general and wanted to continue to make a strong impression on the resort’s staff.

“Today is, today is Tuesday? A Tuesday. Is that a day for receiving catastrophic news? I fear it, Amado. A banal day. And yet, perhaps an end of time day.”

Amado stirred three sugars into a cup and handed it to the general. “Each day could be everything or nothing.”

The general paused before taking a sip. “Yes, it is true. Or true except for today.”

Amado added a sugar to his coffee. He turned and watched three gulls hovering on the wind just beyond the palms down by the docks. When Amado turned back toward the general he could see Gerardo waiting to approach.

“What is it, Amado?”

“Gerardo is here.”

“Even now?”

Amado gestured for Gerardo to approach. When the general heard the man’s footsteps nearly to him, he spoke. “Wait!” Amado shrugged at the newcomer.

“Gerardo, are you a good man?”

“Yes, General, I try to be.”

“Are you an honest man?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me, are you a true man?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me then, did my mother make it out?”

“No, General.”

“You spoke personally to the ambassador?”

“Yes, General.”

“Did my wife make it out?”

“No, General.”

“My sons?”

“No, General.”

“My daughter?”

“No, General.”

“Answer me again, Gerardo. Think carefully. Be sure of your answer. Did my beloved daughter, did she make it out?”

“No, General. No. She did not make it out.”

The General held a fist up to his mouth and groaned. He bit into his thumb. Amado looked away from the old man.

“Gerardo, I can never look upon you again. The sight of you will always tear out my heart. Amado will see to your expenses and handle your relocation. You have done your duty. You may go in peace.”

“Thank you, General.” Gerardo nodded to Amado and then retreated back into the building.

“Go, attend to him, and send a message to the ambassador that I have been informed of the situation.”

“Yes, General.” Amado set down his cup. “Anything—“

“Go.”

“Yes, General.”

The old man set down his cup and folded his arms on his chest. The heft of victories against the jolt of the losses, the immeasurable losses, deep, deep in his heart. Tears.

He glanced up. A pelican gliding by turned and splashed into the pool.

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Napoleons, Blown Apart

Horrifying, horrifying, the estimates for the dead during the Napoleonic madness. Experts can only speculate even after detailed analysis: Military and civilian losses from 3.5 to perhaps 6.5 million. Now I have no particular saber to sharpen--happened to recently finish Janis A. Tomlinson's biography of Spanish artist Goya, and the brutal Peninsula War figured prominently. Indeed, my two extended stays in France were delightful.

Perhaps the word brutal is a redundancy.

I could just as easily sail across the channel to ponder, oh, Oliver Cromwell, who championed a campaign against Catholic Ireland that led to the deaths of 200,000 Irish citizens or more.

Easy now, spent a delightful--hmmmm?--week in London as a younger, much younger man.

But I come not to leap up and down on the graves of fallen men.

No, I would rather break bread with Brother Putin who now oversees a military build-up along the border between Russia and Ukraine. You know, Russia, geographically the largest country in the world. A country rich in natural resources and human talent. 

In my mind, the scene is simple: Two guys comfortably sitting seaside at Beach Laskovy, bare feet in the sand, sipping cold Ochakovos.

"So, Vlad, may I call you Vlad?" I say. "Slaughter in Ukraine? Maybe a hundred thousand casualties. Oh, Vladdy, Vladdy, Vladdy. Is that the best you've got? All the talent and resources of Mother Russia and Kyiv has your fatigues twisted in a knot? Seriously? So unimaginative, so retro, so uninspiring. Of course, the limitations of your mind, I guess."

At this point I am disappeared to much colder climes. 

Or I could slurp Lanzhou lamian with President Xi Jinping, just two guys hanging out on a pleasant afternoon in Sanya. 

"So, Xi," I say, "Taipei has your windbreaker in a wad? Invade Taiwan? Because the most populous nation in the world, rich in natural resources and human potential, feels incomplete? Xi-Xi, Xi-Xi, Xi-Xi. Maybe to kill a million people? So reductionist. So unenlightened. So enfeebled."

At this point, I'm slurping noodles in Xinjiang. If I'm lucky. Do I feel lucky? Well, do I?

Ah, Vlad and Xi, the best and brightest of their generation. Perhaps I'm just not a 21st century kind of guy. Maybe 23rd century. Maybe?