How Can I Ever Say Good-Bye?

How Can I Ever Say Good-Bye?

This post shall remain anonymous, at the request of its author 

My father and I were never close. We went years without ever speaking at all. Not because we didn’t live in the same house… we did. Not because we were angry or upset… there was simple nothing to say.

I used to lie to my friends about the kind of relationship I had with my father. I wanted us to be close. I wanted the kind of father who was over bearing and protective, the kind who cleaned a gun when my first boyfriend came over. I wanted him to love me more than anything else and I wanted to be Daddy’s little girl, and that’s exactly what I told everyone I was. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

When I was young I exhausted every possibility I could think of, to get him to love me the way I wanted him to. I brought home A’s, I didn’t get in trouble and I kept to myself so as not to be blamed for having the wrong sort of friends. I’d truly like to tell you that my father loves me and is just unsure of how to show it. But, I can’t tell you if he does or doesn’t… so I won’t.

My mother was no better. She is a master of manipulation. She will do whatever it takes to ensure she gets what she wants. She has always claimed to have my brother and me’s best interest at heart. But, when I became a mother I learned that it no longer matter’s what YOU want, or what YOU need. You no longer live for yourself, you live for your babies. This is a lesson, she never retained.

I was raised to believe I was better than everyone else, and for 25 years I truly thought that I was. I literally believed that anyone I came in contact with, was no better than the ground I walked on. I was raised to behave perfectly in every situation and look perfect no matter where I was going or what I would be doing when I got there. I will not lay all the blame on my parents for this utterly horrific behavior, because when I became an adult I should have known better.

We were never an affectionate family. There weren’t bed time stories and kisses good night, there weren’t hugs before school, no holding when you were sad or laughing together when you were happy. My parents didn’t have time for that. I tried really hard to be different for my baby brother. Him being nine years my junior, I never wanted him to feel unwanted or like nobody loved him. I read to him and hugged him as much as I could. But this type of physical contact made me so uncomfortable because I’d never had it, so I’m not sure I succeeded in having made any sort of significant difference in this aspect of his life.

Even now I have an extremely difficult time showing any kind of affection, I have a horrible sense of what it takes to form an emotional attachment to someone. I battle this every day, because if I can be anything or DO anything for my daughters- I want them to know that is it okay to love and I never ever want them to fear being rejected emotionally.

When I got married I hated my in-laws. Not for the general reasons that most new wives hate their in-laws, but because I thought they were below me. I thought I deserved a higher class of family, people who had more than their teensy little house in a crap part of town. I thought as I had always thought… They were trash because they weren’t my family.

Little did I know, that little house would become more of a home to me than the cold and heartless place I considered ‘home’ for so many years. My in laws weren’t the type of people to write you off, they were determined to know me whether I wanted them to or not. I will not even go into how badly I treated them before I decided to let them love me and accept that it was okay.

Pops and JJ (my in-laws) showed me what a family was supposed to be. They showed me that it was okay to cry if you were sad, to yell if you were mad, to sing or dance and play no matter how old you are. They taught me that I didn’t have to be a picture of perfection just to go nowhere, it didn’t matter what I wore or what my hair looked like… They loved me anyway, just for being me. Nobody else ever has.

Where Pops and JJ were concerned there were always endless hugs and kisses… Never enough happiness and laughter… You never had to watch what you said or worry about doing something wrong. You could just be. We made dinner together every Sunday, and laughed all afternoon, watched the girls play all evening in the wonderland Pops built in their backyard.

Pops hugged me every time he saw me, even when it was just bumping into him around a corner! Next thing you know there’s this big bear in overalls ready to scoop you up. He would elbow me at dinner and make fun of me constantly. He never hesitated to tell me he was proud of me, even when it was for something as stupid as getting in the sand with the girls. I’d never get dirty before they told me over and over and over that it WAS OKAY… everything washes. Some habits are settled in to you so far, they are hard to break. I don’t think my father’s ever said he was proud of me, if he did I don’t remember it. Maybe Pop’s just knew I needed to hear it.

The last time I saw Pops he was waving and yelling that he loved us from the front porch of his little house full of love and laughter. We had just had Sunday dinner and he was so happy all day. He kept going on about how summer was coming and we could start going outside again, and he was going to be able to finish the girls tree house and then they could help him paint it as soon as he hammered in the last nail. He had so many plans…

Monday morning he had a massive heart attack while he was at work, just sitting in his chair… They say he was gone before he hit the floor. A part of me died with him that day. I’d never known anybody that died before and the first person I had to lose was Pops, someone who meant so much to me. And knowing I wasted so much time hating him for nothing… Just because I was a stupid, selfish little bitch makes it all the worse.

I miss Pops every day. We buried him in his bibs; he would’ve wanted it that way…

This is my favorite picture of Pops… A woman from his work had drawn it a few months before he died. This is what Pops did at work… He started his machine, then sat in his chair and fell asleep…. See his bibs????  

Some people say I'm crazy…

Some people say I'm crazy…

By JuJuBe

http://mynameisjujube.blogspot.com

(RBU Join Date:  05/21/2010) 

I am NOT mentally ill. I DO have a mental illness, but it is NOT who I am. For years as an individual in the mental health system, I learned to define myself by my diagnoses. When people asked me what I was, I said "I am bipolar" or "I am borderline". As if my mental illness defines me as a person. I am so much more than a medical condition.

I am a woman;

I am a lover;

I am a fighter;

I am a writer;

I am a sister; and,

I am a daughter.

For so many years, my life was spent living as a mental patient. Not because I was in the hospital (although 
 I did spend some time there), or because I was in an outpatient psychiatric treatment program. I spent my life as a mental patient because I allowed my diagnoses to tell me who I am. I let my illness tell me how I should run my life.

That is over.

I am no longer going to let anyone put me in a box because I happen to have a medical condition. And, oh yes, it IS a medical condition. It is not a moral defect, it is not laziness, it is not an excuse.

It is NOT something to be ashamed of.

I used to frequent a message board on a cooking website. From day one, I was open and honest about myself, sharing some of the most intimate details of my life with the others on the board. I shared that I had a psychiatric condition. I shared that I was on SSD. I shared the information that I live in Section 8 housing 
and receive Medicaid. And boy, was I sorry.

The shaming began early. From day 1, I was accused of "stealing" taxpayer money for receiving Social Security, WHICH I PAID INTO for many years. I was told that I didn't act "poor" enough because I had a computer and a TV. I was told that I did not need the subsidized housing or medical benefits, because I didn't have a "real" disability. I was accusing of defrauding the taxpayers.

If I had exposed that I had a PHYSICAL ailment that prevented me from working, I would have received nothing but support and well wishes. Instead, I got accusations of impropriety. I was told I was not fit to serve as a field editor for the magazine by another field editor BECAUSE I shared my experience as an individual with a mental illness.

I asked this woman if she would have been opposed to me holding this position (which is an unpaid, at home volunteer job) if I had chronicled my life as a person with diabetes. She didn't even need to respond, I already knew the answer. My diabetes is an "acceptable" diagnosis. Diabetes is a "real" medical condition. 

My mental illness offends other people. They believe I should keep quiet and neglect to advocate for myself and others with a mental illness. They want me to hide from the world.

They want me to be ashamed.

Well, I am tired of being ashamed.

I HAVE A MENTAL ILLNESS.

IT IS NOT WHO I AM, IT IS SIMPLY A MEDICAL CONDITION.

And as much as people might hate me, I do not care.

My family loves me.

My friends love me.

I love me.

And in the end isn't that what really matters?

3 Photographs

3 Photographs

By Ibn Hanif

www.LifeNatureAndMe.Blogspot.com

(RBU Join Date:  05/14/2010)

 

Striving for Miseducation: Many College Students’ Low Expectations

Striving for Miseducation: Many College Students’ Low Expectations

By Antonio Maurice Daniels, University of Wisconsin-Madison

http://revolutionarypaideia.wordpress.com

(RBU Join Date:  05/13/2010) 

As a Ph.D. student, Research Associate, and college instructor, I am often unsettled and unnerved by what many college students are seeking: a miseducation.  I know you might be unsettled and unnerved by the aforementioned sentence, but the sentence illuminates a serious reality about many contemporary college students.  Many contemporary college students are interested in obtaining degrees from higher education institutions with name recognition, but they are not demanding that these institutions provide them with a true education.  In this brief article, I explain why this striving for miseducation that many postmodern college students desire is so unsettling and unnerving.

From my perspective, the purpose of education is to teach you how to die.  When one arrives at a higher education institution truly interested in giving students a true education and not a miseducation, the institution forces the student bury many of his or her previous prejudices, presuppositions, ideologies, expectations, and ideas.  The college experience, therefore, forces students to confront death—the death of trite, dead, and unchallenged ideas.  Unfortunately, at many higher education institutions, many professors and administrators are not interested in automatically giving students a true education.  It is often up to the students to demand that they be given a true education.  When professors try to pass off their ideological positions as facts, students have to demand that their professors give them counter arguments to those positions. I also contend that students have to be willing to challenge what their professors say, and this challenging of their professors can be done respectfully.

Unfortunately, many college students are too concerned about getting an ‘A’ in each class they are enrolled in.  They will let anything go on in the classroom just to protect their chances of receiving an ‘A’ in the course.  Students are just as much responsible for their own education as their professors are.  When students do not challenge their professors, then they are limiting the power of what a true education is all about.  A true education involves serious and open discourse between students and their professors.  Many professors do not like when student challenge them and many students do understand this reality, so they do not challenge professors when they have disagreements with the things that they say.  This is tremendously problematic because this means that many of our nation’s future leaders are going to be individuals who are unwilling to challenge the status quo and power.  We need a generation of leaders who are willing to resist hegemony, power, and the status quo; this generation of leaders must be willing to speak truth to power.

I have been fortunate to attend prestigious higher education institutions (and currently situated at one).  In my experience at these institutions, I have witnessed too many students who are just wanting to obtain their prestigious degrees, but not wanting to receive a true education.  Too many of the students I have encountered at various prestigious higher education institutions are willing to surrender their beliefs, principles, and positions for the sake of getting an ‘A’ and maintaining the favor of their professors.  Many contemporary college students have admitted to me that they lie to their professors about their positions, beliefs, and religious and political affiliations just to keep their favor.  This vexing phenomenon in higher education reflects the larger commodification of education in the higher education milieu.  Of course, institutions profit from the commodification of education as they produce workplace commodities—students. Students have to resist this commodification because they will ultimately not have much value in the marketplace once they have completed their degrees.

Higher education institutions must increase their commitment to ensuring that all students receive a quality education, one where open discourse is encouraged by all individuals situated in these institutions.  If open discourse cannot take place in higher education, then where else can it take place?  Students must exercise their rights to demand that they receive a true education to gain a meaningful return for their investment in their education at the institution in which they are situated.

In short, I want postmodern college students to understand that their degrees are not worth anything if they do not receive a true education with the degrees.  We cannot give up our principle and value of education for the simple obtainment of a degree to have credentials we think are going to make us worthy of being hired.  You are hired because of the quality of what you can offer.  A degree alone cannot offer an employer anything—it’s the knowledge and prowess of a human being himself or herself that can offer an employer value.

Kitten on a Hot Tin Roof

Kitten on a Hot Tin Roof

By ScifiGene

http://sci-fi-gene.blogspot.com

(RBU Join Date: 05/09/2010)

Some showbiz cats are "clicker trained" to walk across set on cue. Paddington, the star of "Bast: Secrets Of Cat Training" (an amateur short film currently in post-production) is still a kitten and hasn’t been clicker trained. Instead, shooting his scenes in January relied heavily on his trainer, Charlotte Wilde, being completely in tune with him.

Paddington was the first cast member to arrive, and was laid back and professional on set. He has already had experience with TV and photo shoots – he has been the Ikea cat, for instance – so wasn’t fazed at all by our still photographer. He also quickly built up rapport with his co-star Tammy Sander.

However, this experience has reinforced my belief – also a central theme of the film – that it is the cats that train us and not vice versa. If I am completely honest I may have to credit Paddington with at least assistant director, if not co-director, as the final shape of many of the shots was determined as much by his decisions as mine.

With some scenes Paddington indulged us. He lay perfectly still while we fitted his mind control collar, and jumped down from the kitchen-top on cue. To get the action shots we relied on Charlotte's ability to relax Paddington so he would lie on his mark, then we shook feather sticks to gain his attention. I got plenty of footage of him running all over the kitchen this way.

For other scenes Paddington made his own directorial decisions. I wanted him to lie on a bed while the housemates worshipped him and brought him food and (fake) mice. Paddington thought the scene would work better if he wandered about the bed or jumped on and off it. Later, for the climax of the film I wanted Paddington to lie asleep in front of the door while Tammy’s character tries to escape from the house. Paddington didn’t think this was authentic – he felt his character was more likely to keep walking down the hall away from the door.

I learnt a lot from working with Paddington and Charlotte. I would recommend working with animals to any director – but don’t even think about it unless you have the support of a professional trainer on set. Careful planning paid off: we scheduled everything around Paddington so all his scenes (about half the total footage) were shot first in the morning, then after he and his entourage had left we shot the rest in the afternoon. In my book any time you actually get through a day’s slate in a day is a good shoot.

The main thing though, is to accept that you may not get footage of all the behaviour you want – instead shoot as much as you can. The Holy Grail is footage that can be used to show Paddington’s “reactions” to the other actors’ words or actions. Sometimes we got this deliberately by distracting him, but more often than not, in editing, I'm now using movements that were captured accidentally. In particular a scene at the end where Paddington turns away from the action as if averting his gaze in distaste will be perfect - and I would never have thought to stage it!

“Bast stills 32” –myself, Tammy Sander and Paddington 

“Bast stills 38” –Charlotte and Paddington

Photographs: Stuart Birch

A Goolsby ‘Warstory’: The Case of the Alibi Defense

A Goolsby ‘Warstory’:  The Case of the Alibi Defense

By Richard H. Goolsby

http://www.whitecollarcrimeingeorgia.blogspot.com

(RBU Join Date:  04/12/2010) 

Being a good trial lawyer involves skill and experience, but sometimes a little luck helps, too!

My first jury trial as a young state prosecutor involved the armed robbery of a south Georgia convenience store. The store had been held up by a lone gunman at about 7:30 one evening.  The store clerk and a customer had positively identified the defendant as the gunman.  The customer had even gotten a good description of his vehicle, along with a partial tag number.

The defendant offered an alibi defense.  He contended that he couldn’t have robbed the convenience store, because he was at home at the time of the robbery.  He claimed that he and his family were all gathered around the television set, watching the old game show, “Name That Tune.”  The defense attorney also put the defendant’s sister on the stand.  She likewise testified that her brother had been at home, with the rest of the family, watching “Name That Tune.”

As a struggling young trial lawyer, I had no clue about how to cross-examine the defendant’s sister.  Law school had clearly not prepared for this situation.  I stood up and, as I approached the lectern, I still had no game plan for my cross-examination. 

Then the idea hit me.  Throwing caution to the wind, I simply asked her, “Ma’am, you say that your brother was at home at 7:30, can you tell this jury whether he robbed the store BEFORE or AFTER “Name That 

Tune?”

Incredibly, before she could think it through, the defendant’s sister stupidly blurted out, “Before!”  I was shocked. The defense lawyer was shocked.

Everyone in the courtroom was shocked.

Then the laughter began.  First, it was just a few scattered giggles.  But then it spread, like butter on a hot biscuit. Soon, everyone in the courtroom, including the jurors, was laughing!  Everyone laughed, that is, except the defendant and his attorney!  The jury promptly “named the defendant’s tune” in one note, with a guilty verdict! I won my case!  I was so happy that I could have jumped a stump backwards!

I learned from this case that God looks after not only drunks and fools.  God also looks after inexperienced trial lawyers!  But if I try cases until I am one hundred years old, I will never again be this lucky in cross-examining an alibi witness!

Memorable Moments of My Muppetry

Memorable Moments of My Muppetry

By Paul Wilson

http://magicdartsblog.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 04/09/2010) 

Now believe you me,  I have certainly enjoyed more than my fair share of toe-curlingly humiliating comedy moments over the years, and have found myself in a few awkward situations not always of my own making (like my very first night out on a new project which ended with one of the two senior architects I was about to spend the next 9 months working with deciding to head butt the other chap mid conversation...ouch!!)  

I could have perhaps chosen the time I wrote a heartfelt song to a girl I was struck on at Uni, trying to gradually reignite her affections after she dumped me for being too keen, but made the fateful mistake of posting the note to the communal mailbox on the floor she shared with six other girls  - who within an hour were down on our floor singing my heartfelt poem in a Monty Python style to all of my flatmates "Sometimes we laugh, dadum dadum, , sometimes we cry dad um, dad um, sometimes we don't know the reasons why, sometimes, we hate, sometimes we just can't communicate...so why oh why can't we just be mates"...aaagh!!  

Or even the time when, thanks to our good friends booking us front row seats on comedy night in a Soho pub, I somehow ended up being coaxed and cajoled into stripping to the waist by the Aussie comedienne and her suddenly plonking my hand on her right booby standing there all guts and no glory in front of my missus and all those boozed up punters.....noooo!!  

But tonight I'd like to share with you one particularly painful experience I managed to inflict entirely upon myself....    

Farewell, goodbye, auf wiedersehen, adieu..  

The setting for this spectacular personal lowlight was a first floor flat in the suburbs of Chigwell, where a long standing friend of my wife and mine had summoned a gathering to mark the occasion of him heading off to Warsaw to start a new job. As a local Essex lad for all of his life, and being that he was a very active member of the community, doing lots of good work with the Boys Brigade, he had assembled a very healthy turn out of his friends and family, and one thing was for sure everyone was in great spirits and determined it was going to be a proper send off for a much loved chap.  

Now naturally for such a milestone life moment amongst those in attendance were his Mum and Dad, both tee-total and quite elderly, so not really the sort likely to be impressed by drunken party antics and the like. 

So, although along with most of the other guests we were enjoying a can or three, we were in best behaviour mode. However, naturally as the night began to develop, with a bit of music playing in the lounge and plenty of banter going on, the party spirit began to flow nicely.  

As it happens, that summer of 1998 was also a very significant one for myself and my then fiancé  as we were less than 4 weeks away from getting married. Being a cautious couple of souls, we had both already had our respective hen and stag nights, and my missus was naturally pleased that I had survived the experience relatively unscathed by a full day of ritualistic paintballing and pub crawling.  

 

Also at the leaving party was one of my wife's closest female friends, who was unable to attend my stag do, and she offered to recreate one of her special "cocktails" for me to sample. Next thing I know I'm drinking a pint of the deliciously titled 'Gorilla snot' - which I'm reliably informed consists of a heady mix of Guinness and Baileys -or in actual terms is pretty much the equivalent of drinking liquid cement - but in the spirit of the stag I did my best to consume this foul concoction. To this day I'll never know how much of an influence this particular tipple had on my thinking processes for the next hour or so at the party, but let's just say that I was now ever so slightly merry....    

I'm so dizzy my head is spinning  

Now the fella I always affectionately refer to as "Cockney Geezer" our host for the occasion (I know he's technically from Essex but I'm from the North and his accent is pure Eastenders to my unfamiliar ears) was a stickler for party tradition, and since his early student days at the same University as my good lady, he had a particular dance floor party trick. Namely that, at some stage in the proceedings, he would lift her up in the air, and swing her around. I'd seen him do this a few times at various parties, and never really thought much of it, but for some reason that night a mischievous thought managed to sneak into my head  

"Wouldn't it be funny if I tried to lift him off the ground - that'd be a lark...". So, shortly after Geezer completed his lift and spin, I made my move. Quickly grabbing him round his somewhat bulky midriff (bearing in mind we are talking in excess of 15 stone or more of poorly honed chunk), I recklessly pushed for glory.    

Gonna fly now  

But the additional happy fuel had clearly given me more temporary strength than I had planned, and most unexpectedly I managed to lift him clean off the ground and found myself holding him a couple of feet or more in the air. Temporarily bemused, I could hear the sound of gathering laughter but what I hadn't factored in was that I had somehow managed to lift him to one side (just like those early Johnny and Baby Dirty Dancing Lift water disasters) and that now there was what felt like around half a metric ton of pressure building up around my embattled and twisting left knee joint.  

Sadly for me, in my drunken excitement, I'd clean forgotten about two incidents over the previous year or so where I'd managed to twist and weaken that very knee cap - one five a side football game where it seemed to pop out and then back in place, and more bizarrely, climbing up just about the only hill in Holland while at a conference in Maastricht where I slipped and it blew up the size of a big hairy potato for a day or two....  

So we were heading horizontally, rather rapidly, then in a final spectacular feat, as my knee capsized, I managed to throw said Geezer plum into the table where his Mum's finest lovingly prepared party snacks were regally displayed, simultaneously smashing said furniture into pieces, whilst effecting my own crumpled heap of a landing strewn across the floor.  

There we lay, dramatically diagonal, like an extremely flabby re-enactment of that final dramatic ice-fling in Torvill and Dean's rendition of Bolero. But as the laughter continued to ring out, another noise quickly took over - the high pitched squealings and wailings of a panicking me. After what seemed an age, someone somewhere finally killed the music, the lights back on and in an instant all of the party atmosphere was sucked out of the room  

Poor old Geezer had by now de-coupled himself from remnants of the table, fully plastered with vol au vents and trifle dregs spattered from his legs but thankfully otherwise unscathed. Alas the same couldn't be said for me, at least in my mind it was Gazza 1991 cup final all over again, convinced I must have torn my cruciate ligaments so intense was the pain in the immediate aftermath. As these things often go, the next few minutes were mostly a blur for me, but Geezer quickly rallied the troops and before long the ambulance crew were on the way.    

 

I think I'd better leave right now  

Eventually two of Essex ambulance service's finest arrived on the scene. Now with the greatest of respect to them and their fine work, neither of these aging fellows could claim to be in the prime of physical condition, and the prospect of trying to maneuver all 220 pounds of a whining, one good legged carpet flounderer onto some form of stretcher seat was clearly not filling them with much relish. Fortunately for me, there was a plentiful supply of willing helpers to assist with maneuvering me into some kind of position where I might be convinced that my leg wasn't about to drop off any minute.  

So after much collective puffing and panting, I made my final utterly undignified exit, left leg hanging pathetically out to the side, bumping down the narrow steep staircase, occasionally howling as the leg brushed the walls, with my shell-shocked fiancé still trying her best to keep me positive. As they loaded me in to the ambulance it suddenly dawned on me that at best I might be walking down the aisle on crutches and in one spectacular moment of madness I'd potentially jeopardized our entire future together.    

It must be Love  

I suppose its at these most testing of times where you realize just how much you depend on your closest loved ones and how much they mean to you. And even though she's since told me that at the time inside she was understandably spitting mad at me for being so stupid, she knew exactly how squeamish and overdramatic I could be, so had put all that aside to coax me through the next couple of hours.  

In the end after quite rightly waiting an hour or two to be seen in A&E as other far more pressing cases were seen to, the pain had eased a little and I could just about maneuver my jeans loose, so they could get a look at the knee cap. Inevitably the question came about how this had happened, and I felt like I was floating in an outer body experience as I heard myself mutter. "Well what happened was, I picked this guy up on a dance floor...."    

I will survive!  

I can only thank my lucky stars that the damage was nowhere near as bad as my overactive imagination had feared. Kneecap dislodged, fluid filling it up, but a bandage and a week or two on crutches was all that was required. As we were staying over at Geezer's house for the party, we eventually headed back in a taxi to the flat. Remarkably, the embers of the party had still flickered on after a period of fairly stunned silence and our return was greeted with a mixture of warmth and relief that the damage wasn't worse.  

As I gingerly scraped up the stairs backwards on my botty one at a time, again eternally grateful that Geezer had managed to finish the carpeting a month or so earlier, I was also thankful that his rather fearsome mum had departed the scene by this point. There was only one thing left to do to round off the night for all concerned. The karaoke machine was tentatively deployed, and Geezer and I took the stage for one last hurrah - Elton John and Kiki Dee like never before -

"Don't go breaking my leg....you couldn't if you tried..." and frankly whatever Don McClean might tell you this was truly the day the music died!  

But as I said, you find out who you're true friends are on nights like these - Geezer had every reason not to want to talk to me again after bulldozing my way through his big swansong. On the contrary he was a legend about it, and most remarkably of all, a few days later, I happened to see his dear old mum, and bless her she simply said ever so philosophically "never mind, it's just one of those things..." to the shock and amazement of everyone.    

I'm still standing  

Despite all my worst nightmare scenarios, by the time the wedding came along, I was able to comfortably walk down the aisle (kneeling was a bit trickier though!) and we even managed a few twirls in the wedding dance (which wasn't Time of My Life - just in case you are wondering!!)  

Most importantly I really learned my lesson that night on avoiding rushes of blood to my bonce, and understanding the importance of respecting the limits of my ever faithful joints. Even more remarkably in the years since I became barely able to shuffle up a set of stairs within 10 minutes, I've gone on to successfully complete 6 Great North Runs and taken part in all manner of active sports without doing any further damage.  

Common sense, it's a marvel isn't it!!!

The Saintly Altar of the Altered State

The Saintly Altar of the Altered State

By Sean Macgillicuddy

http://botheyesshut.wordpress.com

(RBU Join Date: 03/17/2010)

I.

The human brain, contrary to what mom told us, is not a miraculously engineered wonder of the Western world.  It's miswired, misaligned, and mistaken much of the time.  Many charlatans -- or psychologists if one prefers -- believe that the brain's first experience, birth, permanently damages it.  Birth is violently traumatic, and both emotionally and physically brutal.  In response to high levels of stress such as this, our brains shoot us up with adrenaline, hydrocortisone, and steroid hormones (glucocorticoids, if you really want to know) which means our first birthday present is that we get to enter the world innocent, healthy, and high as fuck.


-- And that's OK, because if it weren't for altered states of consciousness, we'd have no genuine experience of this world's completely random nature at all.
Since we can't be born every time we want a fresh jolt of reality, we spend the rest of our lives self-medicating.

The brain operates a crackhouse in our heads, producing such heavy hitters as dopamine, a natural upper which makes us talkative and excitable, endorphin, an anesthetic which has three times the potency of morphine, and serotonin, a mood enhancer which makes us act and feel like hippies.  Most of the meds recommended by school psy-charlatans for depression or anxiety alter the amount of serotonin produced by the brain.


These mind-altering substances have side effects which can prove worse than the emotional irregularity they medicate, such as violent tendencies, hallucination, depersonalization, derealization, psychosis, phobias, amnesia, and obsessive compulsive disorder -- and that's just for the benzodiazepines.  We don't hit heart arrhythmia until Eldepryl (™).


Sexual dysfunction and gastrointestinal distress commonly affect patients taking Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, or SSRIs.  Pop-culture knows this hip family of psychomeds well, which boasts such rock stars as Paxil, Prozac, and Zoloft.  Approximately twenty-two million Americans take these drugs every day, or statistically, every fourteenth American one encounters on the street.
So, the next time you're shocked at the number of complete assholes you meet in a given day, remember that fourteen percent of America hasn't taken a shit in four days and hasn't had an orgasm in months.

II.

If the human brain were able to regulate its chemicals, nobody would recommend cooking up meds like Prozac and Paxil.  Since science has proven that many do not, though, society accepts these meds and also allows for a margin of error in prescribing them to healthy people.  Many groups in the United States froth at the mouth over the prevalence of drugs such as these -- as well as that of other mind-altering substances, both legal and illegal.


One might as well try to place the entire nation on a single diet as try to stem the amount of self-medication engaged in by Americans, though.  Seventy-two million of us diagnosed ourselves and regularly took some sort of alternative medication in 2002.  The rest of us might not consider ourselves medicating, but we do, of course, and not just the usual Tylenol, Robitussin, and Pepto-Bismol, either.  We purposefully alter our brain chemistry all the time.


Over half the population of the U.S. drinks coffee on a daily basis to take advantage of its stimulant properties.  Sixty-four percent of us drink alcohol, perhaps to counter the tension from all our coffee.  


Twenty-two percent of us smoke cigarettes to relax, especially while drinking alcohol or coffee.  Approximately eighteen percent smoke grass.  That's without even discussing all the more-inventive drugs, such as LSD-6 and MDMA.


In addition to all this we must consider the oceans of so-called "health nuts."  Fitness fanatics come in various degrees of seriousness and mental stability, from the casual weight-lifter to the manic Olympic triathlete, and nary a one of them considers himself or herself a drug addict.  Nevertheless, the scientific community established long ago that physical exercise heavily affects hormone, endorphin, and serotonin levels, and also that addiction to these natural substances occurs easily, naturally, and predictably in lab rats.


Since these highly addictive endorphins target all the same opiate receptors, 24 Hr. Fitness can be considered the modern American opium den.

III.

We certainly do like to fuck with our brains.  Who can blame us, though?  As aforementioned, we're the inheritors of broken machinery, the unhappy inhabitants of chaotic mental domains which do not even function in the haphazard, unpredictable way they should.  Humans fix things.  When a shoe comes untied, we tie it.  When a brain comes apart, we glue it together with whatever we happen to have on-hand: coffee for fatigue, whiskey for tension, tobacco for anxiety, what-have-you.


When we tinker with our minds, we're seizing temporary control of our neurochemistry.  We don't drink alcohol in spite of its tendency to impair our judgment; we drink it precisely because it impairs our judgment, and unlike other mind-altering addictions such as -- oh, I don't know -- television, say, we know exactly how our brains will change when we indulge.


Humans have used mind-altering substances since the dawn of time.  Beer, alone, has a documented history going back six-thousand years before Christ.  When we look at our ancestors from so long ago, though, we can't help but notice that their uses for beer, wine, tobacco, drugs, et cetera extend far beyond self-medication.  Of course, they were used for recreation, but the original use for most of these so-called vices was for creating an appropriate environment for religious and spiritual rituals.


The Greeks drank wine to evoke the ancient god, Dionysus.  The Jewish tradition of the Passover Seder requires four glasses of it per person.  Five-million Hindu sanyasi sadhus smoke hashish to repress their sexual desires and aid their meditation.  Over fifty American Indian tribes practice Peyotism today, a religion centered around ritual use of natural mescaline, which they use to communicate to the dead and to various deities.


These people aren't balancing their serotonin -- they're putting gods on speed-dial.
Not seeing angels and demons, yet?  Here, drink some more of this.

IV.

These days religions get a bad rap.  Atheists can say the bad reputation of spirituality reflects its failure to cooperate with contemporary Western civilization, sciences, paradigms, and increasingly agnostic peoples.  Religions themselves, however, deserve no animosity.  One cannot judge a philosophy by its misuse.

Religions originally appeared because humans became convinced of evidence alerting them to other beings, other worlds.  Rituals appeared because humans wanted to commune with these other beings, other worlds.  Mind-altering substances proliferated in rituals because they provided sufficient evidence of their usefulness to millions of adults with brains the size of cantaloupes.  We no longer use these drinks and drugs to speak with gods, though, because so many people these days seem to think they can do it without spending beer money, and many others don't think very much of the idea of talking to gods, anyhow.

In other words, lots of boring self-styled "realists" think those other beings, other worlds never existed in the first place.


The funny thing is, everyone on planet Earth believes wholeheartedly in lots of things that don't exist.  The value of currency, for example, is absolute balderdash.  It is valued for its various markings and symbols which invoke the names of people who lived hundreds of years ago, and which declare mottos and oaths in ancient, dead languages, markings and symbols which cast an enchantment over both buyer and seller, and in this mutual confusion one can purchase an automobile with nothing but decorated scraps of parchment paper.


There is no difference between the purpose of the markings on a dollar bill and that of the markings inscribed within a sorcerer's sigil, or those upon an altar, or even those upon a WELCOME mat.  We live in a world of our mind's creation, and everything real to us has been made real by us.


How did we miraculously make reality real?  Easy.  We simply named it that, like we did the table, the chair, and the dust bunny.  "Reality," we said, "thou shalt be real," to which so-called reality said in its easygoing way, "Alright," and that was that.


The unreal didn't mind being left out at all, though, because all of a sudden, it didn't exist.

V.

So, here we are, then . . .  Nothing is real, and nothing is unreal.  Quite a mess we've gotten ourselves into at this point, and we're very proud of it.  Naturally, we've taken the next step and done what any bipedal, cerebrally cortexed hominid would do in this situation: we've become ontological agnostics.  We don't know what truth is, where to find it or how to prove that it's there, but we believe in it all the same, bumbling about like the decorated surrealities we are, chasing after decorated scraps of parchment paper, and taking turns chastising one another for having faith in decorations.


What arrogant, blustering bastards we all are.


But how can we escape this cycle of idiocy?  How can we step from delusion and credulity into anything but delusion and credulity, if everything we know seems illusory and incredible?


Beer.


Cold, crisp, clean -- beer.  And pills.  And smokes.  And coffees, wines, and liquors; buttons, tabs, and capsules.  Strenuous, extended exercise.  Yoga.  Za-zen meditation.  Brutally sorrowful dramas, uproariously hilarious movies.  Bitter, hate-filled debates.  Violence.  Pain.  Exquisite, sin-soaked and passionate pleasure.  The sweetness of selfless generosity lifetimes long, the glorious splendor of victory in competition, the self-righteousness of upbraiding one's brother for having fallen from grace.  Mind-altering substances, mind-altering experiences.


In a paradoxical word, we can step away from the illusory by taking a break from reality.


In a life where nothing you think real can possibly exist, a world of erratic change and nebulous phantasms, mind-altering substances and experiences offer the most realistic opportunities available to a human.


-- But of course, one could just go on as a believer . . .


With a glazed look and a raised glass I remain,
Yours Truly,
-BothEyesShut

Ker - Thump, Ker, Thump!

Ker - Thump, Ker, Thump!

By Frank Brinkman

http://icare2be.wordpress.com

(RBU Join Date: 03/19/2010)

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

My heart beats.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

I live. I live.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

I love. I love.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

You are. You are.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

I am.  I am.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

My heart beats faster.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

You live.  You live.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

You love.  You love.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

We are.  We are.

Ker - thump, ker - thump.

We love.  We love.

Ker - thumpity  - thump.

Our hearts beat together.

Originally written:  November 5, 1997

When I fall asleep I can sometimes hear the beat of my heart.  It goes ker -thump, ker - thump.  It is a rhythm to fall asleep to.  As I was waiting to fall asleep the words to this poem comes into my mind as I hear; "Ker - thump, ker - thump. I live."  The rest of the words fill in.   Along the way I come to the point I know I am not alone and the poem expands.   I read it today and the feelings I had come back as fresh as that day.  I have wondered whether the heart beats of lovers change so they beat in rhythm together.  There are those precious moments between lovers when it seems not only possible, but very likely.  

I dedicate this poem to all lovers.

Waterfalls at Uluru

*Editors note: The photos that were submitted with Ms. Brumm's original submissions were inadvertanly omitted; therefore, we have reposted her submission with the photos as they were intended to appear.  As the original post had several comments, we decided to keep it on the site and follows the reposting.  We apologize to Ms. Brumm for this oversight. Avery Brown, Editor-in-Chief.

Kristin Brumm, Wanderlust

http://www.wanderlustlust.com/

(RBU Join Date: 03/09/2010)

 
People who know me know two things about me. One, that I crush on Australia. And two, that Uluru is at the epicenter of that crush. That for me it is not simply a nice place to visit, but a place of deep personal and spiritual significance.
 
So when I returned to Australia last year I of course had to go back there, to the giant rock in the red hot center of the continent.
 
Uluru is a huge sandstone rock formation in the middle of the Australian outback, measuring six miles in circumference.  It is sacred to the Aborigines and in 1985 the Australian government returned the lands back to the local tribe.  People used to climb the monolith and in fact I did back in the 80's, but the Aborigines now ask that tourists respect their wishes and forgo the climb.  Many still climb it, however, and many fall to their death each year in the process.

The first time I went I had driven there from the coast, across 1,500 miles of empty red desert, across a landscape of knobby, leafless trees silhouetted against a cloudless sky, termite mounds taller than a grown man, dodging cattle that had wandered onto the road at night. Until the third day when the cattle had disappeared and we saw only the occasional emu and red kangaroo, appearing out of nowhere and keeping pace alongside the car as we sped down the highway, kicking up red dust, until finally, finally, we caught site of her in the distance, rising up out of a sea of red like a sailor's last hope. Uluru.
 
This time, however, we flew into Alice Springs. I was traveling with my friend Cydney and we had three weeks in the country and were trying to make the most of it. We had signed on for a camping safari out of Alice led by a local tour group. We still had to make the five hour drive out to the rock. As we drew near, though, a dust storm kicked in. The wind picked up and drew great clouds of dirt into the air and we could see nothing, could barely see the road before us. I pressed my face against the window, straining to make out any signs of the rock, thinking that we must be almost upon it. I had heard, in fact, that a thunderstorm was forecast for later in the day, a rarity in the desert. I was both anxious and excited about this. I wondered if it would keep us from hiking around the rock on the one day we had available to see it. But then again, a storm. In the Australian desert. That must be one hell of a spectacle.

The view from my window

As luck would have it the wind settled and the dust cleared just as we arrived and all of sudden there she was, Uluru, rising up before us in all her splendor, a silent monument to nature's irrefutable supremacy.
 
We spent the day hiking around the base of the rock, exploring cubbies and stroking her smooth exterior, snapping photos and resting in her shade. And then, quite suddenly the winds picked up again. The skies darkened and lightening flashed in the distance. The tour guide came and told us to hurry back to the bus. But before we could get back the rain came. It came down hard and fast and the wind was blowing so strong we had to brace against it. We took shelter in the bus as a late afternoon thunderstorm rolled across the desert and washed over Uluru.
 
By the time it played out it was starting to grow dark. The sun had just set. But our guide hurried us back off the bus and led us up to the rock. Because after a storm in the desert something really unbelievably incredible happens. The water that has fallen on top of the rock comes gushing down the sides in great torrents, creating waterfalls on what just an hour ago was a great, arid monolith. It is hands down one of the most awe-inspiring sights you could ever see in your entire life. And if, like me, Uluru already stands at the epicenter of your spiritual life, then it is the equivalent of a generous pay raise, a life-time supply of Scharffen Berger chocolate and a long night of mind-blowing sex all rolled into one splendid package.
 
I'm telling you, even the tour guides were practically weeping. And they walk around this rock for a living. But apparently had never seen anything quite like this. I remember Cydney hugging me and we just held each other and laughed. It was so freaking glorious I wanted to capture it and save it forever on film. But it was fairly dark and I struggled with the settings on my camera, desperately clicking through the array of different options trying to find something suitable for dusk. But it was a new camera and I wasn't familiar with the settings (tip: if you're taking the trip of a lifetime, learn how to use your bloody camera before you go). Finally I gave it up and put the camera away and just stared at the magnificence of it—this river of water roaring down off the side of the rock, quenching me in it's mist, and I just stood there and breathed in and out and felt my soul laugh a thousand year laugh.
 
Later, when we got back to the campground, I walked into the mess tent to get a cup of tea and overheard our guide making a call to his girlfriend back in Alice Springs, who was also a tour guide. “Guess what we saw tonight?” he said in a braggadocio tone. He then went on to tell her of our adventure, perhaps rubbing it in a bit too much. I could almost hear her jealousy on the other end of the line. I'm pretty sure he didn't get laid when we got back into town the next night. But that's okay, there are some things in life that are better than sex. Waterfalls off Uluru, most definitely.

Waterfalls at Uluru

Waterfalls at Uluru

Kristin Brumm, Wanderlust

www.wanderlustlust.com

(RBU Join Date:  03/09/2010)

People who know me know two things about me.  One, that I crush on Australia.  And two, that Uluru is at the epicenter of that crush.  That for me it is not simply a nice place to visit, but a place of deep personal and spiritual significance.

So when I returned to Australia last year I of course had to go back there, to the giant rock in the red hot center of the continent.

Uluru is a huge sandstone rock formation in the middle of the Australian outback, measuring six miles in circumference.  It is sacred to the Aborigines and in 1985 the Australian government returned the lands back to the local tribe.  People used to climb the monolith and in fact I did back in the 80's, but the Aborigines now ask that tourists respect their wishes and forgo the climb.  Many still climb it, however, and many fall to their death each year in the process.

The first time I went I had driven there from the coast, across 1,500 miles of empty red desert, across a landscape of knobby, leafless trees silhouetted against a cloudless sky, termite mounds taller than a grown man, dodging cattle that had wandered onto the road at night.  Until the third day when the cattle had disappeared and we saw only the occasional emu and red kangaroo, appearing out of nowhere and keeping pace alongside the car as we sped down the highway, kicking up red dust, until finally, finally, we caught site of her in the distance, rising up out of a sea of red like a sailor's last hope.  Uluru.

This time, however, we flew into Alice Springs.  I was traveling with my friend Cydney and we had three weeks in the country and were trying to make the most of it.  We had signed on for a camping safari out of Alice led by a local tour group.  We still had to make the five hour drive out to the rock.  As we drew near, though, a dust storm kicked in.  The wind picked up and drew great clouds of dirt into the air and we could see nothing, could barely see the road before us.  I pressed my face against the window, straining to make out any signs of the rock, thinking that we must be almost upon it.  I had heard, in fact, that a thunderstorm was forecast for later in the day, a rarity in the desert.  I was both anxious and excited about this.  I wondered if it would keep us from hiking around the rock on the one day we had available to see it.  But then again, a storm In the Australian desert.  That must be one hell of a spectacle.

As luck would have it the wind settled and the dust cleared just as we arrived and all of sudden there she was, Uluru, rising up before us in all her splendor, a silent monument to nature's irrefutable supremacy.

We spent the day hiking around the base of the rock, exploring cubbies and stroking her smooth exterior, snapping photos and resting in her shade.  And then, quite suddenly the winds picked up again.  The skies darkened and lightening flashed in the distance.  The tour guide came and told us to hurry back to the bus.  But before we could get back the rain came.  It came down hard and fast and the wind was blowing so strong we had to brace against it.  We took shelter in the bus as a late afternoon thunderstorm rolled across the desert and washed over Uluru.

By the time it played out it was starting to grow dark.  The sun had just set.  But our guide hurried us back off the bus and led us up to the rock.  Because after a storm in the desert something really unbelievably incredible happens.  The water that has fallen on top of the rock comes gushing down the sides in great torrents, creating waterfalls on what just an hour ago was a great, arid monolith.  It is, hands down, one of the most awe-inspiring sights you could ever see in your entire life.  And if, like me, Uluru already stands at the epicenter of your spiritual life, then it is the equivalent of a generous pay raise, a life-time supply of Scharffen Berger chocolate and a long night of mind-blowing sex all rolled into one splendid package.

I'm telling you, even the tour guides were practically weeping.  And they walk around this rock for a living.  But apparently had never seen anything quite like this.  I remember Cydney hugging me and we just held each other and laughed.  It was so freaking glorious I wanted to capture it and save it forever on film.  But it was fairly dark and I struggled with the settings on my camera, desperately clicking through the array of different options trying to find something suitable for dusk.  But it was a new camera and I wasn't familiar with the settings (tip: if you're taking the trip of a lifetime, learn how to use your bloody camera before you go).  Finally I gave it up and put the camera away and just stared at the magnificence of it—this river of water roaring down off the side of the rock, quenching me in its mist, and I just stood there and breathed in and out and felt my soul laugh a thousand year laugh.

Later, when we got back to the campground, I walked into the mess tent to get a cup of tea and overheard our guide making a call to his girlfriend back in Alice Springs, who was also a tour guide.  “Guess what we saw tonight?” he said in a braggadocio tone.  He then went on to tell her of our adventure, perhaps rubbing it in a bit too much.  I could almost hear her jealousy on the other end of the line.  I'm pretty sure he didn't get laid when we got back into town the next night.  But that's okay, there are some things in life that are better than sex.  Waterfalls off Uluru, most definitely.