A photograph of a tiger with her young adolescent cubs doing the I-love-you-Ma-when-do-we-eat-full-body-leg-rub thing; evocative and all but the tag line, which included the words unbreakable bond, got me thinking.

First though, that unbreakable bond thing? Yeah, well, not so much. Maternal bonds, especially in the more predatory specie, tend to weaken, if not actually dissolve, as the cub matures; gender, mating rights, threat perception, hunting range and rights, sorts of issues help in that dissolution process. We humans, (and I use the term loosely given the amount of sapience we display in the stewardship of our lives), have sublimated those ‘animal’ tendencies according to our cultural norms. There is not, however, a parent(sane) alive who has not emitted a soul sigh of relief at the adulthood of an offspring and the ensuing easing of parental R word, responsibility; bond weakened, boom.

None of which is to detract from the photograph; nor the resonances with the I-miss-my-slightly-less-predatory-mom places in my soul. As a work of art, it did its job and touched me. The tag line, however, was a touch painting the lily and gilding gold-ish. Not, as the Seinfeld Krew might be tempted to say, that there is anything wrong with that. I also understand, I think, the need of the writer of that tag line to hug his/her mom and ask her if dinner was ready, expressed in the only means available. Hell, I might have done the same on a different day.

With an assurance of apologies for inadvertent offense and disrespect and having, one hopes, soothed the sensibilities of the author of the tag line - over statement, emotional need, wtf am I complaining about?

See, the overstatement of an emotional need, is, as even a cursory glance at the history of governance will show, a method of communication between, no, actually, from, the ruler to the ruled. It is, after all, an efficient way to recruit the great unwashed and unsophisticated into the  cannon fodder needed to man the front lines while the heavy thinking is happening in  ivory towers. Bonds cemented by emotion are not susceptible to reason. One of the reasons why Religion got into the business of governance and that, as we can all see, has worked out so well. Reason is a necessary component in the governance of a putative democracy.And when we, as more washed, although not necessarily more sophisticated, society accept that overstatement as the lingua franca, well, Trump, RSS, Daesh, Nazis, militant Buddhists(!) et.al, happen. Accepting florid displays of emotional need into the patterns of political, which is to say public, speech is handing the reins of democracy over to those who eschew the sense in the words unbreakable bonds in favour of the emotion triggered and generally leads to snarling, and lunging, and blood, and pain; a real possibility in the life cycle of the pictured trio.

NLP is a thing folks, like it or not.

Irritated& Shamed Indian

A question raised on Quora



What are the most irritating and shameful things in India?

I stand shamed when I'm reminded that the inclusive, open hearted philosophy of hinduism is institutionalized into the exclusionary rule ridden Religion of Hinduism replete with uniforms and hierarchies. That just ain't right.
I hang my head when a culture and philosophy that spawned Gandhi finds it so easy to justify killing in the name of Religion.
My skin crawls when a culture that Officially venerates Woman, finds it difficult to codify and control institutionalized violence against women. Do the khap panchayat rulings ring a bell? So very Talibanesque of them, no? But, please, don't tell 'em I said that. (see #2) And yes, Khap Panchayats are as much a religion, rituals, rules, repression, and all, as any of the other Official ones.
Shamed, I am, when jingoism and its fellow traveler racism is being woven into the fabric of the nation; when the Other is demonized and when politically necessary, reviled.
I cringe when I see unimaginable amounts of money are spent on monuments and temples to Mammon, while children go unfed, unclothed, uneducated, uncared for.
I get most irritated that India, YoMo'In (young modern India), aam admi, good (for a given value) people, accept this as the way things, in all their lal-bathied, self promoting VVIP (uppercase by decree)ways are. I shouldn't have said most, 'cuz, I get even more irritated that you, YoMo'In, with your abysmal voting percentages, allow this to happen.
Oh, and the incessant honking is maddening.

Impeach Trump

Impeach Donald Trump. That had, and still has, a resonance to it that used to trigger my approach/avoidance conflict syndrome, which, as is well understood is not good for a soul already beset by the election of the Agent Orange President. 

‘Cuz, y’know, impeach Trump and Pence slides into the chair, which effectively removes a whole bunch of bricks from that oh-so-necessary wall between Church and State. Do that and there would be no point to the United States of America. Freedom from Religion, (not to be confused with religion, aka faith), was the reason for being of the Mayflower bunch. Religion, the upper case type, is, as far as one can tell, a codification of morality and self-serving mores (mo-ray, I don’t know how to do that accent mark thing)...and I’ve just noticed that the pronunciation of that does suggest a lethal eel-like quality, a sort of not recommended for children under 10, use with caution sense...but, I digress. Codified morality and self-serving mores, which work on fears and retribution, got it.

Pence in the Oval Office, I used to think, would turn the US into the antithesis of democracy and dignity of man, aka, theocratic governance.

Then I noticed the 51-50 votes in the senate.

Then I realized that with the now Big Pee in the Oval Office the deadlock breaking VP vote would be considerably weakened.

Oh sure, another VP would be picked from the storm trooper brigade, but, the events surrounding Flynn and the whole Russia thing seems to be giving some of that brigade a spine, and Insha’Allah, some badly needed neural connections to the brain, bypassing their lizard brain responses, and resulting in some actual governance.

So, hells yes, impeach that graceless waste of skin, Trump.

Discerning the Dark

To monitors of net content. - the following is an allegory. there is not any intention to incite violence and/or assassination. just an attempt to teach my kid how to interpret shadow. I do so swear on the deity of your choice.
*****************************************

“We are staring too fixedly at the dark.”
He jumps up from behind his desk and starts pacing.
“You say things like that just to annoy me, don’t you?” She is sprawled inelegantly across the large comfortable couch that is under a wall mounted video screen .
“Hmmm?”
He has stopped his pacing and has picked a wicked looking assault weapon from a table littered with what looks like a psychopath’s collection of killing tools, and is turning it over in his hands.
“What does that mean? That thing about the dark, what does that mean?”
She sounds petulant when she speaks; may even be playing with a strand of her hair, for all I know.
Manipulating a remote, the assault weapon dangling from one hand, He activates the video screen and an urban warfare depiction is illuminated, sort of, dark, somber desolation, flat light and fear, muted sights and sounds of laser weaponry in use, all of which Her doesn’t even deign to acknowledge involved as she is with her split ends. (yep, definitely playing with her hair)
He, gesturing towards the screen – “Watch and learn child.”
Her’s annoyance at being referred to as a child is evident, and strangely illustrative, in her body language as she flounces off one couch and on to another. She is able to watch the video screen and He at the same time.
The scene on the screen darkens into stygian hues of black, backlit by the sporadic laser fire in the distance. He is standing stock still except for his eyes that are rapidly scanning the now almost impenetrable blackness on the video screen, the weapon still dangling from his grip. Suddenly, in a smooth professional movement He brings the weapon to bear and in a series of rapid shots destroys a number of hitherto unseen enemies. He freezes the game.
He – “See?”
She – “No.”
He – “That’s because you are staring at the dark. The trick is to scan the dark; only way to spot the anomalies. Grab your keys, you drive.”
She, scrambling – “Where are we going?”
He – “We’ll figure it out on the way.”
FADE

Curmudgeonly Caviling

Subjects I think I could be writing about, that is up until I actually start writing about them.

1. Beckon call – Which is how it should be written. Beck and call? Seriously? What on earth is a beck? And how does it aid in the process of calling?

2. Liberal outrage on Nancy Pelosi’s reticence on calling for Trump’s impeachment. Could it be that she is concerned about who would take his place. That would be POTUS Pence; a concept that almost guarantees the demolition of that Church/State wall.

3. I’m thinking we, liberals that is, ought to quit dissing Trump. Rather we should treat him the way we might treat a tantrum throwing infant by placating him. Y’know, refer to how cute and clever he is while keeping all sharp objects out of his reach, sort of thing.

4. Senior citizen horniness and how discreet we have to be about it.

5. Unrequited love silver lining – protection from morning breath.

6. Folks who take pride in not speaking local languages. This one is rife with potential but I’ll be damned if I can put my ire into any semblance of coherence. I tend to splutter when confronted with  this

7. The education kids receive, have received, and probably will continue to receive; namely, being taught what rather than how to think.

8. Living life by habit and how very much that is antithetical to appreciating the fullness of the now.

9. Religion – &&*&*&(999!!!!!SOB%##& and so on

10. Cigarettes and my addiction. Why am I so entranced by putting round objects in my mouth and sucking on them? What is the real me trying to say and I wish it would shut up. Exploring the implications makes me a chicken hawk. Not a pretty picture.

Just Sayin'

“Donald J. Trump

✔

@realDonaldTrump

When a country is no longer able to say who can, and who cannot , come in & out, especially for reasons of safety &.security - big trouble!

6:29 PM - 4 Feb 2017 “

See, the thing, the salient thing, is that you, DonnieJ Teabag, Stevie boy, Mike the Christ, and the coterie of deluded megalomaniacs that make up your Versailles, do not constitute a country.

Well, actually, you could be, but, that would mean that you’d have to renounce your present citizenship and relocate (y’know, visa restrictions and such) to somewhere else. Starbuck Island, waaaay out there in the Western (I know how important west with all its white connotations is to you and your crew) Pacific. I looked it up for you, Uninhabited, small enough to have a cost effective wall around it.

The rest us, y’know, America, the folks who didn’t vote for you in the millions, the ones appalled by your behaviour and ethics, the ones whose protest marchers outnumbered your inauguration, - I’m thinking that should be renamed – Coronation? Yeah that works. Coronation by the oh so ironically yclept Republican House of Lords – the ones who, in fact, constitute the Country would be more than willing, I’m sure, to crowd fund that wall. See how well that works out for you?  You get your own real estate where you can play whatever games you want to without having US, (see what I did there, Donnie? Cool yeah?), make snide comments about soaked mattresses and the like. At least, you wouldn’t have to hear them if you cut all communication with all us, the rest of the world. You know like North Korea. You could have your private comm. network and, y’know, live, uh, stream, to each other.

And, just to ease any fears you might have about, y’know, servants and the like, I’m certain that you will find any number mercenaries willing to sell their souls in return for pelf and join you in your exclusivity. Yes, we’d let you keep your money, just like we did for Baby Doc Duvalier, the last man-child despot the People exiled.

Just sayin’.

Yo'Mo'In & rss vO - Young Modern India &Returned Son of the Soil, version Old and cotton mouth.

Young Modern India (Yo’Mo’In) paused in mid-saunter. No point in wasting a good saunter, a considered saunter, when the place was empty. Well, not empty, per, as it is said, se. There was a returned son of the soil, version Old, (rss vO) in earnest converse with an attentive bartender. Loathe to draw attention to himself, Yo’Mo’In scanned the bar for any other server capable of helping alleviate what was turning into an epic case of cotton mouth. Experience, that bitter, not to mention censorious, teacher, had taught Yo’Mo’In that the rss vO breed needed to be engaged, if at all, with caution, garrulous opining being only one of the dangers, most particularly when one is baked.

The place was empty in the sense that there was nobody from Yo’Mo’In’s demographic, which is to say, employed, disposable income and not living with Ma and Pa. Nobody, in a word, worthwhile.

One of the hazards of arriving too early to the party; lesson learned.

Yo’Mo’In, shrugged, and striding rather more purposefully, stationed himself a few barstools away from the duo. The bartender didn’t notice, his face turned away from Yo’Mo’In, his attention concentrated on what seemed to be a detailed, not to say persnickety, instruction on the architecture of the drink rss vO was ordering.

“Boss” said Yo’Mo’In, his tone a well considered mixture of authority, courtesy, and impatience; a tone well schooled in the methodology of reminding the serving classes of their place in the scheme of things.

Rss(vO) stopped in his instruction and gestured the bartender into complying.

“Whiskey, ‘fiddich, large, no ice, iced soda chaser “said Yo’Mo’In, his speech clipped and precise.

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t get you” the bartender said, the ‘my bad’ etched into the silhouette of his servitude.

Yo’Mo’In took a deep breath, the Thar desert like condition of his mouth making it difficult to talk.

“I believe the gentleman would like a large Glenfiddich with iced soda on the side.” Rss said.

A crisp head bob and the bartender transformed from obsequious to efficient; the efficiency somewhat compromised by his inability to find the Glenfiddich.

Yo’Mo’In sighed and switching to the vernacular and pointed.

“Alli” he said, “ah red label batli pakka dalli” – There, right next to the bottle with the red label.

Speech, authoritative speech, Yo’Mo’In realized, required a fair degree of moisture, very much in short supply in the mouth. His mouth needed moisture, as in, now. Perhaps he should have led with a request for a glass of water.

The bartender interrupted his hunt for the Glenfiddich and started looking for a red label which, it must be said, is easier to pronounce, and spell. Things were not going well. Any red labels extant seemed to be hidden in the multi-hued, seductively shaped bottles of high end spirits management had seen fit to store on the topmost shelf. The bartender wished he could ease the crick he was starting to get in his neck.

Yo’Mo’In wished he hadn’t thought about water, a glass of which was visible to his peripheral vision; just sitting there, unattended, unconsidered, a slap in the faces of all gods of all oases everywhere, beads of condensation making their sensuous ways done the glass, ice cubes that would no doubt tinkle when the glass was raised, as it should be, not just left there, while a veritable sirocco of sand storm...

The glass was moving closer to Yo’Mo’In and it took a moment for him to realise that rss vO was sliding it towards him.

“Water” rss vO was saying, “soaks that cotton up to much greater effect than does scotch or any other alcohol for that matter. Trust me on this”

 I knew it, Yo’Mo’In thought, trying not to spill any of water as he raised the glass, garrulous opinions.