A powerful statement. Let’s Dance !
Photo: Traveling in Montana
A powerful statement. Let’s Dance !
Photo: Traveling in Montana
Recently, I was tested for heavy metal poisoning and the tests showed abnormally high levels of 4 different metals, and not-so-good levels of another three. One of the metals that was abnormally high was Antimony. Now I remember this metal, barely, from college chemistry courses, but how on earth did it end up in me, and in an elevated amount?
It seems Antimony is used in fireproofing textiles and plastics. It can be found in battery electrodes, ceramics, pigments, and gun powder. It can also be found in soft plastic bottles used for water and the water can become contaminated depending on storage conditions.
Blankets, mattress covers, and even clothing have been treated with this chemical. And much like the spraying of insecticides and fungicides (biocides) on clothing, manufacturers do this to extend the life of their products and theoretically increase public safety. The big problem is that the toxic effects of all of these chemicals are being discovered later. This stuff can be absorbed right through the skin, our largest organ.
No, not all things in life can be improved through chemistry. In fact, some of this chemistry may prolong the life of our clothing and fabrics, but it may also be killing us and our babies. It turns out, our clothing may remain long after our bodies return to dust.
You see, some New Zealand researchers proposed a hypothesis, gathered evidence, and then other experts set out to disprove their hypothesis and research.
Boiling this all down, the theory is like this:
Mattresses and mattress covers contain the fire retardant chemicals Antimony, Phosphorus, and Arsenic;
These chemicals can be broken down by molds to form the toxic gases of Stibine, Phosphine and Arsine;
In particular, Antimony can be broken down by the mold Scopulariopsis brevicaulis to give off the gas Stibine;
This mold is present in mattresses and mattress covers, especially once they become damp with a baby’s bodily fluids;
Stibine is a very powerful neuro-toxic gas that is heavier than air and in the breathing zone of infants;
A small amount of Stibine, when inhaled, can produce respiratory paralysis;
Infants dying from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (“SIDS”) have been confirmed to have elevated levels of Antimony in their bodies;
Although the “UK Expert Group on Cot Death Theories” could not substantiate and is said to have discredited this theory, in New Zealand, where parents followed a protocol of sealing up these mattresses and covers, no further crib deaths have occurred.
There are theories questioning the motivations and financing of the UK Expert Group.
Reading all of this information, I can’t say one way or the other if these types of fire retardants cause SIDS. I can, however, say with reasonable certainly, that I am only one of many who are now contaminated with this chemical that does not belong in our bodies. And because of multiple chemical exposures, my and other people’s bodies’ natural detoxification processes have become overwhelmed producing all sorts of disabling effects.
Another thing I can say is that I’ve never met a corporate entity that hasn’t put profits over people. One just needs to look at the tobacco industry to guess how this will play out.
For years there will be denial that the product is unsafe. Research will be stymied because of big money and influence brought to bear on regulating agencies. Deaths will continue. Maybe someday a plaintiff will prevail in a lawsuit. In the meantime, fearing litigation, some producers may change their lethal chemical mix to another lethal chemical mix in order to keep moving the ball making it harder to make the connection between chemical exposures and illness.
Delay in correcting the problem equals more money for the companies and their shareholders, while increasingly turning the planet into a toxic waste dump.
If you’re interested in reading more, I have included some links.
It seems Antimony was also used by the Egyptians in the form of Stibnite as a black eye makeup.
Postscript: How these chemical exposures will ultimately affect us is a big question, but it can’t be good when toxins keep turning up in our bodies. The CDC’s most recent report indicates that some 212 chemicals tested for, which are not supposed to be in our bodies, were in most people’s blood or urine.
Images: These images were found in the Internet in the public domain and no other attribution could be found. The feature image was linked to a webpage called Live Science.
Intro: Yesterday, I read an excellent post by Robert on his blog Seven Spheres, which was on the topic of confirmation bias. You should check out his blog because there are some really great posts on a whole range of topics about what makes this world tick. His post reminded me of an article I posted on LinkedIn last year, and I thought I would include it on my blog. Confirmation bias is something we should all think about, because it affects our judgments and decisions daily and we probably don’t even realize it. Please read on . . .
I recently read an article titled: “Legal Ethics and Confirmation Bias.” The article begins its trek with a brief overview of how the practice of law is governed by its professional rules of conduct, provides a very good definition of “confirmation bias,” and then diverts down the road less traveled attempting to correlate racial discrimination and advancement within the legal profession. I’m not saying that the author didn’t have a legitimate point, she did. I would just like to address the elephant in the room she skillfully avoided and diverge down a different trail.
The definition of “confirmation bias,” as provided by the author, is “a phenomenon wherein decision makers have been shown to actively seek out and assign more weight to evidence that confirms their hypothesis, and ignore or under-weigh evidence that could disconfirm their hypothesis.” But applying this to a lawyer’s representation of a client, as the author first does (representation that is supposed to be zealous and one-sided in nature), and applying it to the determination of who gets a promotion in a law firm, as the author does next, seems to me to severely limit the application of the two most important words in the definition – “decision makers.” I will be happy to expand that application.
In the context of a discussion of legal ethics, you would think the author would discuss the elephant, or zebra or gorilla if you prefer, namely judges. I can’t think of any more important context than the individuals who “decide” the outcomes of legal disputes. If judges actively seek out information to confirm their biases, even if that behavior is so inherently ingrained they don’t realize what they are doing, as opposed to evaluating evidence openly and objectively, then certainly there will be no “justice” when a decision is rendered. This has, in fact, been one of the chief criticisms of the U.S. Supreme Court. Since that court exercises complete discretion over the cases it hears, it has been said that they only take cases that they have already decided. If true, I find that frightening in two respects.
First, the high court is not required to clear up discrepancies with the interpretation and application of federal law among the circuits of the federal courts of appeal. Thus, the federal law can be differently applied in different parts of the country – no uniform federal law for the land – and who cares, right, if that is politically expedient. Second, if the highest court only hears cases it desires and has prejudged them, and if confirmation bias permeates all of the judicial system, then there is ample ammunition for the criticism that the courts are purely political entities, with judges being mere puppets doing the bidding of their appointers or electors and not objectively applying the law as it is written. Deciding court cases is not playing pinball; these decisions have dramatic impacts on people’s lives.
Ok, I addressed the elephant, and now for my own divergence.
We first must recognize the obvious – that every individual is a “decision maker.” We all make countless decisions each day, as mundane as how often we brush our teeth or as magnanimous as whether to have children. Next, there appears to be an overwhelming desire for people to categorize things as being black or white – not in the racial context – but an oversimplification of issues or subject matter. Where in reality there may be thirteen different alternatives, or various shades of gray in between them all, people like to think there is always either an A or B or right or wrong answer. There usually isn’t. Things aren’t that simple and sometimes the answer is all of the above.
In the age of social media this faulty logic has become epidemic, or to use the parlance – “gone viral.” It is, in reality, thinking backwards. People begin with a conclusion and seek out supporting “evidence” to validate themselves. The evidence is often questionable, and the positions fermented are polarizing; based more in inebriated blind faith than in reality. This leads more to one-sided screaming and incivility than to any type of productive discourse. People have decided they are right, they have their evidence, and they will no longer consider any other contrary evidence. They have integrated their position, on whatever the subject matter may be, so strongly as part of very their own identity that being “right” is necessary to protect that identity – the position has become secondary. Being “wrong” would simply shake them at their core, spin their minds into a state of oblivion. They may even label the countervailing information, even if it is overwhelming, as “fake news” or “lies” or even claim it is “biased,” all the while discounting their own biases or the biases of the sources they consulted – if they had any to begin with. They are so intoxicated with the notion that their ideas are gospel and irrefutable they see no need to even hear any words but their own.
Overconfidence and an inflated view of one’s own self-importance is magnified in cyberspace where people can create their own forums and post with relative anonymity. There are no social repercussions for being rude and inconsiderate or, more to the point, being an asshole online. There is no peer group in the room to subtlety apply pressure to be civil or call out bad behavior – at least, not in a meaningful way. When “conversations” deteriorate to episodes of cyber-rage and the leveling of death threats, which I have experienced all too frequently online, I think we can safely say this is aberrant behavior – worthy of a diagnostic code in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
My advice is simple – wake up from your own delusions, think critically, speak civilly or hold your tongue and listen for a change, and be prepared to admit when you’re wrong – be thrilled to expand your point of view!
Photo: I found this picture on the Internet in the public domain. I could find no other attribution for it.
LinkedIn: If anyone wants to connect on LinkedIn, you can find me at https://www.linkedin.com/in/haroldstearley/
Update: April 25, 2018 – The ABA Journal just published an article about research demonstrating judicial bias with traditional gender roles, and I discovered an older article about implicit bias.
Photo: On one of the many trails I’ve hiked. This one is near the Mexican border.
I hiked deep in the forest today,
Into the canyon.
Nature’s beauty all around me.
Mountain streams. Pines and Firs,
Mixed with Sycamore, Willows, and Cottonwoods.
Loamy earth, perfumed wildflowers.
Colors dance in the wind.
The fusion of an artist’s palette.
En plein air impressions.
My body groans.
But my mind belongs here,
On this winding trail.
Surrounded by silence.
A young buck passes in isolation.
We nod to each other,
The face in the mirror staring back at me . . .
Photo: A whitetail deer parallels me in the forest; the buck mirroring my steps.
** Below is a brief excerpt from a book of health care stories I’m working on. Having spent around 24 years wrapped up in that first career of mine, I have some pretty gruesome stories to tell. But this one is mild in some respects, from the early days, but it starts to set the mood.
The old stand-up scales squealed and rattled as I rolled it down the hall on the two wheels soldered on the bottom, below the weighing platform. I wondered what the patients thought hearing this beast as we approached the rooms for daily weights. The patient weights were all supposed to be taken roughly at the same time of day to duplicate the patients’ conditions. So, we performed this routine in pairs, moving down the hallway from one room to the next. Filling in the appropriate box on the flow sheet hanging at the foot of each bed. More numbers to the list that defined who was in the bed. Numbers not names.
I remember the way she looked when we entered the room. I was helping one of the RNs weigh this thirty-three-year-old woman dying of cervical cancer. Her eyes sunken. Her hollow face, which became taunt with pain as we stood her up to the scales. The nurse I was with impatiently yanked her to get her out of bed and inflicted a little more pain than was necessary. RNs are in a hurry. Other patients and duties were waiting.
Moving a patient is a chance to assess them. If you’re observant. Strength, flexibility, balance, body temperature, skin color for oxygenation, skin turgor for hydration, abrasions, bruising, breathing – relaxed or labored, diaphoresis, the color of the sclera of the eyes, and their facial expressions and what they reveal. It’s all there, if you look.
I can see her arms and legs, only 3 centimeters (1.2 inches) in diameter. I can feel her weakness, the muscle mass wasting away, the fragility of her bones. If I squeezed too hard her arms would break. She had poor balance and could barely stand. She sweated profusely with the effort. Her skin, cold and clammy, tinge of blue beneath the fingernails. Poor oxygenation. Breathing as though a boulder was on her chest. Heart pounding. I can feel my own gut tighten as I help her to use the emesis basin, barely having enough strength to bring her stomach contents up the length of her esophagus. The acrid smell of her vomitus blending with the smell of antiseptics.
I still see, hear, smell, and feel this scene. It’s burned into my brain.
I look around the four-bed room on the surgical floor. Three other women, each with a different cancer, look away from us, and from each other. They all lay on their sides, facing the bleached-out, green tile walls. Their backs in alignment with each other. Maybe, if they look away, their cancers will not get ideas about devouring them. Denial is powerful medicine.
I stand confused, for I am only a nursing assistant. I have no formal training, yet. No one has taught me how to build barriers to human suffering and emotions, yet. I don’t think that I will ever become a RN, but eventually I will. I stand outside the door and cry. No one notices.
The next evening, when it’s time for her weight, I insert myself between her and the RN. I gently cradle her in my arms, placing her arms around my neck. I lift her out of bed and her face remains relaxed — still hollow. Her breathing is effortless. Her skin dry. Her stomach calm. I stand on the scales and the RN weighs us together. I gently lay her down in her bed and say, “I’m sorry.” She barely whispers back, “Thank you.” I weigh myself and subtract the two weights – 38.6 kilograms or 85 pounds. Down again. The cancer and the chemotherapy continue to consume her.
I promise myself that I will always feel the pain and never lose my compassion.
In the old days, before electronic scales, they looked like this. They weighed a ton and their color even matched the walls and the floors – all uniformly designed.
Photos: I found these pictures on the Internet in the public domain. I could find no further attribution for them.
What does the word “art” mean to you?
Traditionally, art was comprised of paintings, sculptures, and drawings. And I think of the “Old Masters;” the fully trained painters prior to the 1800s. But art forms have changed drastically over the years, and I’m sure all of us have questioned whether some of the modern forms are truly art – the giant badminton shuttlecocks strewn about the lawn of the Nelson-Atkins Art Gallery come to mind.
The reason I throw this question out there is, I’ve always wondered if people thought of photography as being true “art.” You point a mechanical device at an object or landscape, push a button, and wallah, you have an image. Not from your imagination or from an attempt to transform and express the external world by creating a new presentation through painting, drawing or sculpture – the actual use of the hands and the mind without mechanical assistance. Isn’t nature the true artist here?
And if photography could be called an art, by observing the photographer does form a composition with what the lens will capture, and does make settings as to the shutter speed and aperture opening to regulate the amount of light and depth the image will reveal, what then of all the modern digital enhancements that can be made to an image once captured? Clicking on more buttons on a computer screen. Pre-programmed techno-algorithms that you can purchase in bulk. Is thought and imagination even required for use of these programs?
Or, does altering the original photograph with all of the various mechanical features transform a simple image into a creative work of art?
While Merriam-Webster has a long list of definitions for the word “art,” we can boil it down for purposes of this discussion to: “the conscious use of skill and creative imagination” . . . to produce “works as pictures, poems or songs” . . . and “creative visual works as painting, sculpting, and drawing.” This definition certainly seems broad enough to encompass photography and all of its forms.
The feature image is a “photograph” by William Lesch called “Lightstorm over Tucson, Night and Day Thunderstorm Time (Montage). My understanding is he uses time-lapse photography and color enhancements to produce his work, and I do think the picture is absolutely stunning.
But what do you think? Is it “Art.”
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there is no chain.
Powerful words from Jim Harrison, Montana poet. Mr. Harrison is probably best known for his book “Legends of the Fall.”
Photo: The moon setting behind the mountains in the Southwest USA, March 31, 2018 about 5:45 am. I took about 30 exposures to catch this one 🙂
Warning: I use a few sentence enhancers in this piece that might offend some. Not too many, but if you are easily offended you might want to turn back now. Apologies.
There’s a pretty crude joke out there about men that goes: “If they can’t eat or fuck it, they’ll kill it.” Now, that’s clearly a gross over-generalization and there are many good men out there that do not operate from this vestige instinct of the lizard brain. But there does seem to be an awful lot of killing going on, and men probably make up the biggest share of those pulling the trigger, or wielding the knife, or the tire tool, or the shovel, or whatever just happened to be lying around. Men have tempers, but worse, men often have big egos. Mix in some hormones and look out!
I remember reading a story a while back about a huge alligator in Florida. Of course, the first thing humans (and in this case men) do when they encounter such a magnificent animal is kill it. Now it doesn’t really matter what reason was contrived. It may have been rationalized as being for “public safety” or something else even more nebulous, but there are numerous examples of where people simply kill for the joy of killing, and more times than not, it’s the “man” doing the “killin.” And if wasn’t for “joy” then why string up the gator and take a picture standing next to it while smiling and broadcast it to the world?
It’s a “manly thing” to kill. I suppose it can make a man feel in control or superior in some fashion.
In my criminal law class there was a joke told about how in the South there is a justifiable homicide defense called “needed killin,” meaning if there was a just plain rotten person that terrorized the town (usually a man), then it was excusable to lay that person to rest. This, of course, is not in any criminal code, but apparently plays out in front a jury of the murder’s peers. And while I don’t agree with this defense, there are, after all, more lawful and moral solutions, that argument actually makes a little bit more sense to me than the trophy hunter trying to defend his need to prove how large his penis is.
Sorry, I don’t want to sound sexist, I realize there are women trophy hunters out there too, but I think the majority are packing testosterone and that fits better with my story today. I mean if we’re talking about men I can say stuff like, “Ok, how about this Mr. Big-game Slaughterer, why don’t you just stuff and mount your penis on the wall. I’m sure that would be impressive. And maybe you would calm down a little after that.” But hey, I won’t say that, because that’s crude 😊
The concept of being the top-predator is sort of traditional ideology and mythology that is perpetuated over and over again through socialization and acculturalization. This evolved over time where hunting was once required for sheer survival. Later, hunting was a skill for acquiring supplemental food, not the mainstay of the diet. For most, hunting eventually turned into a “sport” and spawned a sub-species of that sport; trophy-hunting. Killing for no reason whatsoever other than to mount a head on the wall and have bragging rights. And ofttimes, these senseless, violent practices are highly rewarded. All hail the great and powerful conqueror.
Hemingway captures this reward-rejection phenomenon in his short story, “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” where Macomber’s wife, Margaret, is enthralled by, and later shares a bed with, Macomber’s guide and big-game hunter, Robert Wilson. Macomber had shown fear and had run from a wounded lion, whereas Wilson showed no hesitation when he killed it, thus earning Margaret’s lust. Of course, Hemingway added the ironic twist of when Macomber later rises to the challenge and overcomes his fear, Margaret shoots him in the back of the head because she realizes he is now brave enough to leave her. He quite literally didn’t see that “reward” coming.
Now if some so-called trophy “hunter” (and I use that term loosely as they are usually led right up to the animal by a guide) could actually kill the lion or other large “game” (an ironic term itself, this is not a game) up close and personal and with more equal armament, I’d give them some credit. That would at least involve, strength and courage, and be more sporting than putting a bullet in the animal’s shoulder, lungs or heart from a quarter mile away, especially if camouflaged and hiding behind a blind. Can’t shoot the head for the most immediate and less painful kill, you know. That’s going on the wall.
And while I’ve been rambling a bit to get here, what brings me to be writing about the testosterone-fueled murder of innocent species was the killing of Wolf ’06. Wolf ’06 was a famous alpha female wolf roaming freely in Yellowstone National Park after the wolves were reintroduced to the region. The problem is, the wolves only have protection when they are within the boundaries of the park.
The U.S. has had a tortuous history with the wolf. Estimates put the country’s wolf population at anywhere from the hundreds of thousands to millions prior to European colonization. The International Wolf Center, proving the most detailed timeline for the gray wolf population in the U.S., states it is estimated that 100,000 wolves were killed every year between 1870 and 1877 alone. According to the IWC, in 1970, there were only 750 wolves in Minnesota, some scattered individuals in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and 18 wolves on Isle Royale.
It seems wolves were truly seen as being evil beasts of no value, and they threatened the profits of ranchers as livestock operations spread across the continent. Humans like to think that they are the superior predator and that their short-term gratification supersedes any other concern. Of course, this is ignorant. And that’s been proven time and again, and in a most dramatic way by reintroducing the wolf in Yellowstone Park.
The term used to describe the effects a major predator species has on the environment is “trophic cascade.” Nate Blakeslee was interviewed by National Geographic about his book “American Wolf,” and here is how he described the effects of reintroducing the wolves to Yellowstone:
“When they brought wolves back, it quickly changed and improved the landscape in ways that even the biologists didn’t anticipate. First and foremost, Yellowstone had way more elk than it could reasonably accommodate. Wolves brought that number back down to what it historically had been prior to Europeans arriving in Yellowstone.
They also began to see other species flourishing. The elk were no longer able to gather in the valleys in huge numbers and browse at their leisure; they had to be much warier and spend more time at higher elevations.
One of the effects was that streamside vegetation began to rebound. Aspen and willow returned, which in turn encouraged beavers to return to the park, as willow is their main food source. Beavers change the profile of a river, making it deeper by creating dams and pools, which in turn is healthier for fish.
Wolves also reduced Yellowstone’s coyote population, which was the densest in North America. Because of this, the rodent population had been kept artificially low. Once the wolves started to kill off some of the coyote population—not to eat them but to defend their own territories—there was a huge rebound in the rodent population.
As a result of that, other animals that eat rodents also rebounded, like large birds of prey, raptors, foxes, and badgers. The renaissance of all these species was a direct result of restoring the top predator.”
It’s also known, that natural predators cull the weak and the sick from the herds of their pray, actually strengthening their populations. Every species plays it role in this complex web of life. And each time a species goes extinct, humans are another step closer to their own extinction. I would think that modern humans would at least understand this principle, even if they never grasp that these animals, no different than the human animal, possess spirit.
But it just seems sometimes that humans just aren’t that far out of the cave.
Blakeslee tracked down the hunter that killed ’06. Basically, this guy was just happy to kill a wolf. “He considered it to be the pinnacle of his career as a trophy hunter to be able to shoot an animal that nobody had been able to legally shoot for a very long time.” He resented the wolves for decreasing the elk population and he was unable to kill an elk the season before. He also claimed he didn’t see the radio collar ’06 was wearing when she wandered out of Yellowstone’s protective boundaries.
So, because he blamed the wolf for preventing him from killing another animal, he was happy to kill a wolf. I don’t think there is any logic or wisdom there. Other species of predators don’t kill for joy or out of resentment. They don’t take pride in it. They actually do “hunt” and it’s for survival. There is no waste when other species hunt.
Just this past week, I read where the last male Northern White Rhinoceros has died. The Eastern Puma was also recently declared extinct. And how many other animals, plants, and other species are threatened or endangered? If we lose the bees perhaps humans will wake up because then we lose pollination and many of our food sources directly.
I’m not sure when humans will finally accept they are not top-dog. They produce no beneficial “trophic cascade.” Humans can’t exist without the other species on this fragile planet, yet they can exist without humans. It’s time to put ego aside. There is no place for a mythical, god-like, hunter figure that randomly takes life irrespective of the sanctity of that life and its interconnected purpose – survival of all species. Even cavemen were more advanced than this, they took what they needed for survival.
Since it is our species that has thrown the world out of its perfect balance, it is now our responsibility to restore it. One thing is certain, the one “species” that wouldn’t be missed at all, whose loss would not have a negative impact on the environment should it meet with its extinction, is the trophy hunter.
Post Script: Wolf ’06 was killed in 2012. I only recently came across the January 2018 National Geographic article that got me thinking about this – thus, the time gap. Things are hopefully starting to change. The murder of Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe by dentist James Palmer in 2015 brought world-wide attention to, and protests against, trophy hunting. I suppose you could say this “hunt” was more sporting because Palmer used a bow. But it was later discovered that he had not obtained the required permit, his guide team baited the lion to leave its protected wildlife preserve, and that Cecil suffered for 10 hours after he was first hit with an arrow before Palmer had the balls to approach him to finally kill him. I don’t think Palmer returned to the US as the conquering hero.
Photos: These are not my photos. I found them on the Internet in the Public Domain and have found no other attribution for them. Neither pic is of ’06. But I used the second one as the image for one of my tattoos.
**This is one of my longer pieces, but if you want more, I’ve included some quotes and links below just for fun 😊 All links are subject to “link rot” so I cannot guarantee how long any of those articles will be present on the web.
“Sure, some find gunning down unsuspecting, innocent animals to be a real hoot. I mean, for Christ sake, they mantle the decapitated, formaldehyde-stuffed heads on the wall. Then, of course, there are the people who enjoy putting sunglasses or hats on it, even putting a blowout in its mouth as if it were an avid party animal. If it had any hands, there would surely be a plastic cup full of cheap beer in it, as well. We can’t forget that it would be named some horrendous name, such as Bill or Frank, something so plain, ordinary, and down-right ridiculous that makes me want to bitch-slap the perpetrators. ”
― Chase Brooks
“Hunting and fishing involve killing animals with devices (such as guns) for which the animals have not evolved natural defenses. No animal on earth has adequate defense against a human armed with a gun, a bow and arrow, a trap that can maim, a snare that can strangle, or a fishing lure designed for the sole purpose of fooling fish into thinking they have found something to eat”
― Marc Bekoff, Animals Matter: A Biologist Explains Why We Should Treat Animals with Compassion and Respect
“One saw a bird dying, shot by a man. It was flying with rhythmic beat and beautifully, with such freedom and lack of fear. And the gun shattered it; it fell to the earth and all the life had gone out of it. A dog fetched it, and the man collected other dead birds. He was chattering with his friend and seemed so utterly indifferent. All that he was concerned with was bringing down so many birds, and it was over as far as he was concerned. They are killing all over the world. Those marvellous, great animals of the sea, the whales, are killed by the million, and the tiger and so many other animals are now becoming endangered species. Man is the only animal that is to be dreaded.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Krishnamurti to Himself: His Last Journal
“I do not like the killers, and the killing bravely and well crap. I do not like the bully boys, the Teddy Roosevelt’s, the Hemingways, the Ruarks. They are merely slightly more sophisticated versions of the New Jersey file clerks who swarm into the Adirondacks in the fall, in red cap, beard stubble and taut hero’s grin, talking out of the side of their mouths, exuding fumes of bourbon, come to slay the ferocious white-tailed deer. It is the search for balls. A man should have one chance to bring something down. He should have his shot at something, a shining running something, and see it come a-tumbling down, all mucus and steaming blood stench and gouted excrement, the eyes going dull during the final muscle spasms. And if he is, in all parts and purposes, a man, he will file that away as a part of his process of growth and life and eventual death. And if he is perpetually, hopelessly a boy, he will lust to go do it again, with a bigger beast.”
― John D. MacDonald, A Deadly Shade of Gold
“Wildlife, we are constantly told, would run loose across our towns and cities were it not for the sport hunters to control their population, as birds would blanket the skies without the culling services of Ducks Unlimited and other groups. Yet here they are breeding wild animals, year after year replenishing the stock, all for the sole purpose of selling and killing them, deer and bears and elephants so many products being readied for the market. Animals such as deer, we are told, have no predators in many areas, and therefore need systematic culling. Yet when attempts are made to reintroduce natural predators such as wolves and coyotes into these very areas, sport hunters themselves are the first to resist it. Weaker animals in the wild, we hear, will only die miserable deaths by starvation and exposure without sport hunters to control their population. Yet it’s the bigger, stronger animals they’re killing and wounding–the very opposite of natural selection–often with bows and pistols that only compound and prolong the victim’s suffering.”
― Matthew Scully, Dominion: The Power of Man, the Suffering of Animals, and the Call to Mercy
“For us hunting wasn’t a sport. It was a way to be intimate with nature, that intimacy providing us with wild unprocessed food free from pesticides and hormones and with the bonus of having been produced without the addition of great quantities of fossil fuel. In addition, hunting provided us with an ever scarcer relationship in a world of cities, factory farms, and agribusiness, direct responsibility for taking the lives that sustained us. Lives that even vegans indirectly take as the growing and harvesting of organic produce kills deer, birds, snakes, rodents, and insects. We lived close to the animals we ate. We knew their habits and that knowledge deepened our thanks to them and the land that made them.”
― Ted Kerasote, Merle’s Door: Lessons from a Freethinking Dog
“The more a woman appreciates the hunting prowess of her man, the more he will kill for her.”
― Michael DiMarco, Cupidity: 50 Stupid Things People Do For Love And How To Avoid Them
“These enthusiasts often like to hang signs that say “Gone Fishin'” or “Gone Huntin'”. But what these slogans really mean is “Gone Killing.”
― Marc Bekoff, Animals Matter: A Biologist Explains Why We Should Treat Animals with Compassion and Respect
“Modern life conceals our need for diverse, wild, natural communities, but it does not alter that need.. if you want to feel what it is like to be human again, you should hunt, even if just once. Because that understanding, I believe, will propel a shift in how we view and interact with this world that we eat in. And the kind of food we demand, as omnivores, will never be the same.”
― Georgia Pellegrini, Girl Hunter: Revolutionizing the Way We Eat, One Hunt at a Time
“The hunter, as Theodore Roosevelt defined him, a man who fights for the integrity of both his prey and the land that sustained it, is being too often overwhelmed by men concerned mostly with playing dress up and shooting guns.”
― Gary Ferguson, Hawks Rest: A Season in the Remote Heart of Yellowstone
“This for many people is what is most offensive about hunting—to some, disgusting: that it encourages, or allows, us not only to kill but to take a certain pleasure in killing. It’s not as though the rest of us don’t countenance the killing of tens of millions of animals every year. Yet for some reason we feel more comfortable with the mechanical killing practiced, out of view and without emotion by industrial agriculture.”
― Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals
“We have never understood why men mount the heads of animals and hang them up to look down on their conquerors. Possibly it feels good to these men to be superior to animals, but it does seem that if they were sure of it they would not have to prove it. Often a man who is afraid must constantly demonstrate his courage and, in the case of the hunter, must keep a tangible record of his courage. For ourselves, we have had mounted in a small hardwood plaque one perfect borrego [bighorn sheep] dropping. And where another man can say, “There was an animal, but because I am greater than he, he is dead and I am alive, and there is his head to prove it,” we can say, “There was an animal, and for all we know there still is and here is proof of it. He was very healthy when we last heard of him.”
― John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez
“But it isn’t hunger that drives millions of armed American Males to forests and hills every autumn, as the high incidence of heart failure among the hunters will prove. Somehow the hunting process has to do with masculinity, but I don’t quite know how.”
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America
Not too long ago, I visited the DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun, and it was well worth it. This amazing and highly acclaimed artist not only did water color, oil painting, ink drawings, hot wax painting, ceramics, and sculpturing, he also built his home and gallery using traditional adobe bricks crafted on-site. His work spanned the early 1900s through May of 1976.
On May 12, 1976, he took 100 of his paintings (valued at $250K) up into the Superstition Mountains and burned them in protest of the inheritance taxes on art work. At the time, an artist could only deduct the supplies used in producing their art while alive, but if the finished product was inherited after the artist’s death, the heirs would have to pay tax on the full market value of the artwork.
After the protest burning, he would not produce anything more. While he was highly criticized for his act of protest, he brought national and international attention to his cause.
I could write more about DeGrazia, but I’m no expert in fine art, and it would sound rather “brochurish.” (Yeah, I made that word up.) I’m probably not an expert in anything for that matter. But I was impressed by his work, and I pose the question, could you destroy such beautiful work, that labor of love guided from your heart through your hands, to take a stance on some form of societal injustice?
Could you be that strong?
To learn more about DeGrazia, you can visit the webpage for his gallery.
Here are some samples of his work. The photos were taken in the Gallery in the Sun. The challenge in galleries and museums is avoiding reflections from the lighting, weird angles, other people – well you get the idea. Some pics were cropped, not all will be perfectly straight . . .
The feature photo of DeGrazia, is a photo of a photo from a framed newspaper article that was in the gallery. The publication was “The Plain Dealer,” and the article was dated December 17, 1978. The photo credit is to John Hemmer.
I have read two books by Don Miguel Ruiz. The first was “Beyond Fear: A Toltec Guide to Freedom and Joy” and the second was “The Four Agreements: A Toltec Wisdom Book.” In both books he included the passage below.
In Beyond Fear, he presented it as an exercise for us to dream. In The Four Agreements, he included it as a passage titled: “Prayer for Love.” The version in Beyond Fear was slightly different, I think better written, so I’m posting that one.
The author uses the word “Christ” near the end of the passage. But as I have said before, I believe you could substitute whatever entity or title you wished, your own belief in what constitutes the “Source,” and the message still rings true. Enjoy.
In this dream I find myself in the most beautiful forest at mid-day. I am completely comfortable surrounded by beauty. I see the sunbeams lighting the trees and the flowers. I see butterflies, and I hear the sound of a river. I walk to that river where an old man sits beneath a big tree. With his white beard and his strong, kind eyes, the man emits a radiant aura of beautiful colors. I sit in front of him and wait until he feels my presence and looks at me.
I ask, “How can you send out these beautiful colors and can you teach me how to do it?”
He smiles at me. “Your request brings back memories for me because one day I saw my own teacher doing the same thing and I asked him the same question. As an answer, he opened his chest and he reached in and pulled out his own heart. From within it he took a radiant flame. He opened my chest and put that flame inside my heart. From that moment on, everything changed inside me because that flame was unconditional love. I felt the flame of that love and it became a consuming fire.”
“I shared that love with, and gave unconditional love to, every cell in my body. That day I became one with my own body.”
“I decided to love my mind. I loved every emotion, every thought, every feeling and every dream. That fire transformed my mind completely and my mind loved me back so much that the fire grew even more and I had the need to share my love even more.”
“I decided to put my love in every tree, in every flower, in every blade of grass and all the plants in the whole forest. They reacted to my love and they loved me also and we became one.”
“But still my love grew more and more so I had an even greater need to share my love. I decided to put a little piece of love in every rock, in the dirt, in every metal on the earth, and they loved me back. We became one.”
“My love still grew. I decided to put a little love in every animal that exists, in the birds, the cats and the dogs. They loved me back and they protected me. We became one.”
“My love still grew and I decided to love the water. I loved the rain, the snow, the rivers, the lakes, the oceans, and I became one with the water.”
“When my love continued to grow, I decide to love the atmosphere, the breeze, the hurricane, the tornado, and we became one and they loved me back.”
“My love did not end there. It grew even more and I turned my face to the sky where I saw the sun, the moon and the stars. I decided to put a piece of my love in them and they loved me back and we became one.”
“Again, my love expanded and I decided to share it with every human, with the elders, with every man, woman and child, and we became one.”
“Now wherever I go, I am there waiting for myself.”
Then the old man opened his chest with his hands and took his heart out before my eyes. He took a flame from his heart and he opened my chest and my heart, and he put that flame in my heart. When I awoke and opened my eyes, I felt that flame become a fire. Now I share my love with you.
At this moment, I open my chest and in front of your eyes I open my heart. I take a small flame and I open your chest and your heart. I put that flame in your heart. That flame of my love is the flame of Christ.
And that is the dream.
Photo: This is a great shot of my woodstove with a particularly expressive fire. I can see a swan in the flames to the left. Others have seen the devil in the middle and a woman in the flames to the right. What do you see? The flame of unconditional love?
In November, long before the Winter Solstice, we will experience the first of many “gray days.” The trees now bare, having shed their leaves, draw charcoal lines across an infinite sky of nothingness.
Gray is considered to lie exactly between white and black and is actually called “achromatic,” which is a contradiction in terms – to have a colorless color? It has also been described as refracting light without spectral color separation, or as having zero saturation and no hue. And while we might struggle to find words to convey the absence of something, there are certainly plenty to describe the feelings that are aroused by these gray days.
As if they may be called “days,” residing, instead, somewhere between the light of day and darkness of night, a sort of twilight time. An extended boundary between the birth and death of a day.
Simply stated, these gray days are depressing. But that word is far too vague to instill a true sensory perception. Drab, ashen, somber, leaden, stone cold, cineritious, favillous, worn, anemic, pasty, melancholic, sallow, blah, sullied, faded, dreary, muted, gloomy, caliginous, tenebrous, bleak, washed out, dismal, and uninspired.
These are the days that suck the spirit right out of you. Drab, as in lacking brightness; somber, as in humorless; leaden, as in a weight too heavy to bear; ashen, as in the color of death. And they come, one after the other, after the other . . . trampling the psyche.
Uninspired. Cold. Despairing. Why would one bother exiting a warm, soft bed on such a day? The coffee will taste burnt. Cream putrid. The muffin, singed. Butter rancid. Life pales when Grandfather Sun fades, when he retreats to the southern hemisphere.
The winter months are described symbolically as representing death before the season of rebirth – spring. But there is surely beauty lying within the bleak, even if buried or hibernating in the heart.
It can be unveiled in the snow. Crystalline water sparkling like diamonds.
It’s exhibited in the cedars. Their healing ever-green luminescence. Their balsamic, terpenic perfume.
It’s manifest with the birds. Cardinals, Indigo Buntings, Chickadees, and Finches, even in their winter cloaks, radiate brilliant color and warmth. They hang in the branches like dazzling ornaments on a Christmas Tree.
It’s uncovered when a doe emerges from her winter bed with her fawns. Shy and diminutive, alluring brown eyes, graceful as they glide over the snow-covered terrain.
Even the cold, biting wind on these days has balmy stories to tell. If we listen. It whispers the legends of wolves on the hunt, devouring their prey to feed the fire burning in their bones. It speaks of the silent flight of the Owl through the forest. Their yellow eyes of the night, penetrating the hidden aspects of the soul. Their tufted ears, hearing with clairvoyance. They see and hear all. You cannot hide.
The gray is really a dreamscape. A blank canvass upon which our minds may paint surrealistic animations. Silhouettes of structures. Wild beasts and sensuous lovers. Warm glows emanating from woodstoves and candle light. Reflections as old as time.
This artistry, this imagery, burns brightly in our consciousness. A fire in our hearts that can never be extinguished. We are the keepers of this eternal flame.
As Thoreau observed:
“There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill…. This subterranean fire has its altar in each [person’s] breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveler cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of [their] cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy [person], indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in [their] heart.”
Yes, why would someone roust themselves from their slumbers on such a bleak, gray day? To write about it, of course . . .
Photo: I caught this scene early one December morning. The humidity and cold created “ice fog.” This fog lifts, having painted the trees with a coating of ice. The ice lasted about fifteen minutes before the air had become warm enough to melt it. The world of images, ever transient.
** If you are wondering about the bracketed words in the quote, I replaced all of the male oriented pronouns with gender neutral ones. The writers of old, while quite eloquent, often wrote as though women didn’t exist. I don’t particularly care for that.
This is an excerpt (the last chapter) from the book called: “Orbiting the Giant Hairball: A Corporate Fool’s Guide to Surviving with Grace” that was written by Gordon MacKenzie. While MacKenzie uses the word “God,” I believe you could substitute whatever entity or title you wished, your own belief in what constitutes the “Source,” and the message still rings true. Enjoy.
Paint Me a Masterpiece
In your mind, conjure an image of the Mona Lisa. Visualize that masterpiece’s subtleties of hue and tone as clearly as you can.
Next, shift to the image of a paint-by-numbers Mona Lisa. Envision the flat, raw, colors meeting hard-edged, one against the other.
Now let me relate a fantasy about masterpieces, paint-by-numbers and you. It goes like this:
Before you were born, God came to you and said:
“Hi there! I just dropped by to wish you luck. And to assure you that you and I will be meeting again. Soon. Before you know it.
You’re heading out on an adventure that will be filled with fascinating experiences. You’ll start out as a tiny speck floating in an infinite dark ocean, quite saturated with nutrients. So you won’t have to go looking for food or a job or anything like that. All you’ll have to do is float in the darkness. And grow incredibly.
And change miraculously.
You’ll sprout arms and legs. And hands and feet. And fingers and toes.
As if from nothing, your head will take form. Your nose. Your mouth. Your eyes and ears will emerge.
As you continue to grow bigger and bigger, You will become aware that this dark, oceanic environment of yours – which, when you were tiny, seemed so vast is now actually cramped and confining. That will lead you to the unavoidable conclusion that you’re going to have to move to a bigger place.
After much groping about in the dark, you will find an exit. The mouth of a tunnel.
“Too small,” you’ll decide. “Couldn’t possibly squeeze through there.”
But there will be no other apparent way out. So, with primal spunk, you will take on your first “impossible” challenge and enter the tunnel.
In doing so, you will be embarking on a brutal no-turning-back, physically exhausting, claustrophobic passage that will introduce you to pain and fear and hard physical labor. It will seem to take forever. But mysterious undulations of the tunnel itself will help squirm you through. A nd finally, after what will seem like interminable striving, you will break through to a blinding light.
Giant hands will pull you gently, but firmly, into an enormous room. There will be several huge people, called adults, huddling around you, as if to greet you. If it is an old-fashioned place, one of these humongous people may hold you upside down by the legs and give you a swat on the backside to get you going.
All this will be what the big people on the other side call being born. For you, it will be only the first of your new life’s many exploits.”
“I was wondering. While you’re over there on the other side, would you do me a favor?”
“Sure!” you chirp.
“Would you take this artist’s canvas with you and paint a masterpiece for me? I’d really appreciate that.”
Beaming, God hands you a pristine canvas. You roll it up, tuck it under your arm and head off on your journey.
Your birth is just as God had predicted, and when you come out of the tunnel into the bright room, some doctor or nurse looks down at you in amazement and gasps:
“Look! The little kid’s carrying a rolled-up artist’s canvas!”
Knowing that you do not yet have the skills to do anything meaningful with your canvas, the big people take it away from you and give it to society for safekeeping until you have acquired the prescribed skills requisite to the canvas’s return. While society is holding this property of yours, it cannot resist the temptation to unroll the canvas and draw pale blue lines and little blue numbers all over its virgin surface. Eventually, the canvas is returned to you, its rightful owner. However, it now carries the implied message that if you will paint inside the blue lines and follow the instructions of the little blue numbers your life will be a masterpiece.
And that is a lie.
For more than fifty years I worked on my paint-by-numbers creation. With uneven but persistent diligence, I dipped an emaciated paint-by-numbers brush into color No. 1 and painstakingly painted inside each little blue-bordered area marked 1. Then on to 2 and 3 and 4 and so on. Sometimes, during restive periods of my life, I would paint, say, the 12 spaces before the 10 spaces (a token rebellion against overdoses of linearity). More than once, I painted beyond a line and, feeling embarrassed, would either try to wipe off the errant color or cover it over with another before anyone might notice my lack of perfection. From time to time, although not often, someone would compliment me, unconvincingly, on the progress of my “masterpiece.” I would gaze at the richness of others’ canvases. Doubt about my own talent for painting gnawed at me. Still, I continued to fill in the little numbered spaces, unaware of, or afraid to look at, any real alternative.
Then there came a time, after half a century of daubing more or less inside the lines, that my days were visited by traumatic events. The dividends of my noxious past came home to roost, and the myth of my life began horrifically to come unglued. I pulled back from my masterpiece-in-the-works and saw it with an emerging clarity.
It looked awful.
The stifled strokes of paint had nothing to do with me. They did not illustrate who I am or speak of whom I could become. I felt duped, cheated, ashamed – anguished that I had wasted so much canvas, so much paint. I was angry that I had been conned into doing so.
But that is the past. Passed.
Today I wield a wider brush – pure ox-bristle. And I’m swooping it through the sensuous goo of Cadmium Yellow, Alizarin Crimson or Ultramarine Blue (not Nos. 4, 13 or 8) to create the biggest, brightest, funniest, fiercest damn dragon that I can. Because that has more to do with what’s inside of me than some prescribed plagirism of somebody else’s tour de force.
You have a masterpiece inside you, too, you know. One unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be.
If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece,
it will not get painted.
No one else can paint it.
Photo: This masterpiece was painted by Claude Monet and is called “The Japanese Footbridge.” Oil on canvass – 1899. I took this pic when the portrait was on display in the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.