Death Penalty

Death penalty: (n) punishment by death for a crime

I am so happy that life is more like a motion picture than a brochure of photo shopped stills.

Honestly, if you had frozen my face, attitudes and beliefs at any one particular time in my life, I not only might have been contrary to you, but also at odds with my present incarnation.

There’s just too much to learn on this journey to ever be certain.

“Certain” is the profile taken by either fools or people who have enough money to pay for an alibi.

So I will freely tell you—there was a time when I was favorable, if not an advocate, for the death penalty.

My reasoning was not vengeance.

Rather, I cited the case of Charles Manson. I felt he was given a cruel and unusual punishment by having to live inside his own tormented brain the rest of his life. It seemed to me that capital punishment in a situation like that would actually be merciful.

Folks would “ooh and aah” over my insight–and I felt that I succeeded in killing off the bad guys and looking genteel at the same time.

Then one day, I opened the Good Book and read the story of Cain and Abel. According to this volume, Cain killed his brother, Abel, generating the first murder case.

When God caught up with Cain and spoke to him, He asked him why he was hiding and tried to get him to tell the truth. Though not totally successful, God, who had the power to take his life, instead exiles Cain. He goes, starts his own family and continues his breathing.

This gave me pause.

If God, who had a slam-dunk murder case against Cain, chose to give him the opportunity to live out a new possibility, who in the hell was I to lobby for the death of another soul?

I am not trying to insinuate that rehabilitation is successful.

I don’t think that someone who is massively cruel deserves to continue existing.

I just know that God chose not to execute the first murderer.

And He’s really the only judge,

For we all know there are many roads and detours before we arrive at our destination.

 

Death

Death: (n) the act of dying; the end of life

Pwanged with a silly stick of maudlin muddling, I will occasionally imagine what the world will be like right after my demise.

That being my death.

When doing so, my eyes quickly fill with tears over how sad I presume others will be over my absence.

And then, without warning, my brain suddenly rights itself, and I realize the past five people I know who have died were afforded about one week of concentrated bereavement.

And then life, wearing very heavy boots, marched on.

I don’t know how it should be.

I don’t know what the correct length of time is to commemorate and memorialize the deeds of another traveler who is leaving because of the absence of breathing possibilities.

But it should be different.

Shouldn’t it?

Even people we regale as “planet changing souls for the ages” only get thirty seconds of silent reflection prior to the opening of Wall Street.

Thirty seconds? Really?

I, of course, understand that there will be spasms of dismay for a length of time over the departure of a fine friend—hopefully including me.

But the audacity of the human race—to think it has the energy and intelligence to proceed without me—is a worrisome, if not tearful, conclusion.

I don’t know what to do about that.

But after careful consideration and pausing to ponder over possibilities, I have decided that my best approach is to get even…

…and stay alive.

Dearth

Dearth: (n) scarcity; lack

Once I realized I was stuck with three other friends on a Saturday morning landscaping project, I decided I needed a bit of frisky folly to survive the ordeal.

It’s not that I hate working with the soil—I just basically hate working—and am more honest about it than most self-conscious mortals.

I do not like to shovel.

I don’t mind paying somebody to shovel for me.

So realizing that we had to go to the local Home Depot, and for some reason or another buy big bags of dirt (which they called soil) I waited for the exact right moment.

To set up my little joke, I hid the bags of dirt in the garage. So when it came time to use them, the chap who seemed to be in charge of the Green Thumb Expedition looked down and saw only one bag of dirt at his feet.

I waited.

I needed him to say the right thing.

Finally, looking around in every direction, he asked, “Where are all the bags of dirt we bought?”

With a smile on my face, choking back laughter, I replied, “It seems we have a dearth of dirt.”

And so I remained sane.

Dear

Dear: (adj) beloved or loved

Not feeling rushed.

The chill of confidence that occasionally soothes my fears.

Breathing deeply.

Watching from a distance and seeing something kind before my eyes.

A fine meal that was easy to fix and settled well in my belly.

A friend who tears up when they describe their love for me.

Me, when I likewise produce the tears.

Waking up with a sense of divine inspiration, not certain where it came from.

Thinking of someone who needed to be well-thought-of.

Discovering the last of something I fancy on the grocery shelf.

Allowing myself to rest in my accomplishment.

A joy that leaves me shaking with gratitude.

Late-night whispers from little children trying to fall asleep.

Cutting open a melon and finding it ripe.

Being remembered.

Knowing that something horrible has been forgiven.

Cool water splashed on my face.

The first bite of steak.

The last bite of steak.

Knowing that life is not one perpetual highway, but rather, a series of blessed stepping-stones that allow us to travel on without sinking into the mud.

These are things that are supernal, which I embrace and hold dear.

Dean’s List

Dean’s List: (n) a list of students of high scholastic standing

I am not sure that I will remain faithful, but I would like to begin to take a moment to speak up when I discover a blatant contradiction.

I think it’s ridiculous to have a Dean’s List.

For that matter, it is equally humiliating to have grade cards at all.

It’s not that I think everybody needs a goose-up or a booster chair.

Other awards are just fine.

Competitions can be very beneficial—as long as we understand we’re actually competing instead of participating to the best of our ability.

I guess I always believed the goal in school was to learn.

In other words, teach the subjects, give the tests, determine the level of understanding, and then either pass the students on to the next grade or ask them to remain in the same classroom and help with redecoration.

What is the difference between an A and a B?

Astronomical. Just ask any child who’s expected to get an A and accidentally “let it B.”

How about between a B and a C?

Please remember that we refer to those who garner a C grade as being “average.” Such a flattering term. (In a room full of C’s, you would be hard to see.)

D: Isn’t that just dumb?

F—failure. Or if you’re emphatic—fucked.

Meanwhile, who’s learning what, and who can translate that knowledge into working life situations?

Are we graduating people from college needing another ten years of adjustment in the “real world,” before they can leave their family home and rent an apartment?

At one time, we tried to avoid teen marriages.

Now we’re recommending “waiting until you’re in your thirties.”

Why?

It’s the unspoken confession of the educational system, admitting it does not know if those who wear cap and gown are cognizant of much at all.

Let’s stop grading—because depending on who you are and where you are—it can be very degrading.

Dealt

Dealt: (v) the result of an action of what was distributed or apportioned

Prostrate on the floor, short moments after tipping on my walker and falling, I was suddenly accosted with the reality of trying to get up.

I thought about all the times that people had joked, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…”

Every time I saw one of those commercials, I was cynical, not believing there could be a situation where a human would be unable to, as they say, rise to the occasion.

I was not injured.

I was just in a predicament where the assets available to me—the lack of strength in my upper body and the faltering of my legs, were threatening to hold me in my original splat.

I was not angry. I was not upset.

Dripping with sweat, I continued to try to disprove what my brain had already explained to me as my reality.

“You will need help.”

For today, this was what I was dealt.

I was moving along with my walker, on my way to my music room to write to you and to compose my thoughts for the day.

Then I wasn’t.

Normalcy was gone. For the first time in a long time, the weaker portions of my human existence had taken over, demanding attention and insisting on leaving me vulnerable.

I tried for half an hour.

Candidly, the attempts to lift myself and eliminate the problem were much more painful than the fall.

Those beautiful souls who are my family stood by, not knowing what to do, perhaps full of ideas, but intelligent enough not to turn the project into a committee effort.

This is my status:

  • Life gave me a brain—I developed the ability to write.
  • I persisted in singing until it was stageable.
  • I played piano.
  • I wrote symphonies.
  • I penned thirteen independent movies.

I can’t get up off the floor.

Today, this was included.

Not despaired nor frustrated–more curious how this tale would unfold, and where there would be a happy end.

After tossing it around in my mind from one brain cell to another, I finally surrendered to the need for outside help.

We called the fire department and in less than five minutes, four eager, young, willing, kind, docile and caring young men walked through the door.

It took about five minutes and they had me standing back on my feet and then sitting in my wheelchair.

I bypassed embarrassment and went to gratitude.

I kicked discouragement out the door and embraced humor.

There was a moment in the room when achievement was celebrated, and we all felt better for being part of a winning cause.

You can spend your life hoping for better cards.

Or you can work with what you’ve been dealt.

Dealership

Dealership: (n) a sales agency or distributor

I was a full-grown man, but when our family car blew up, I was feeling a great need to do something powerful. I needed to restore my position of respect with my children.

I had three thousand dollars. It was enough to buy another car if I had shopped well and hadn’t been in a huge hurry to convey a message to my offspring that I was in control.

I wasn’t in control.

I was still reeling a bit from my all-time favorite car giving up—and also way to eager to replace it without missing a beat.

I located the place in our town where car dealerships congregated to practice their “religion on wheels.” Driving among them, I immediately saw a Grand Marquis that was just stunning.

So I stopped in and talked to Bob. I don’t know whether his name actually was Bob, but it seemed reassuring displayed on his nametag. Bob told me the Grand Marquis was thirty-five hundred dollars.

My two oldest sons were with me on the trip.

They still thought I hung the moon after God displayed the stars.

I wanted to appear omnipotent. I needed to negotiate Bob down to the mat and pin him with a price of my choosing instead of his.

So I told Bob all I had was twenty-nine hundred dollars. He rolled his eyes. He said it was “impossible.” He even walked away to talk to a boss to see if something could be done.

In the process of all this negotiating, I actually cracked through Bob’s sales pitch to a real person. I didn’t know it. I thought I was dominating and was gradually getting what I wanted.

When he finally and reluctantly agreed to sell me the car for twenty-nine hundred flat and we were in the last stages of the paperwork, Bob looked up at me and smiled.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was seeing a father with his sons, or maybe he was tired of overstating the quality of the vehicles he sold just to make a buck.

Then he did something I believe he probably had never done before.

He tried to talk me out of it.

Not aggressively. He just said, “Now, you do know the odometer reads 162,000 miles. Right?”

I was drunk on my own cleverness. I just nodded my head.

Now, Bob wasn’t a saint. He wasn’t going to push it further. He wasn’t going to be totally forthcoming. Matter of fact, it probably gave him an aching pain in the head to offer the odometer number.

But I was determined.

My sons were smiling at me. They thought the car was cool. So I drove it off the lot, pridefully believing I had struck the best deal of my life.

We had immediate problems with it.

I called Bob back. He had forgotten how wonderful our interaction had been and was back to being “Bob the Car Dealer” at his dealership.

I took the car in to have it checked out and found out the vehicle had been in a flood, and therefore the electrical system was contorted, and the engine had water in the oil.

I drove that car for exactly three months. It was a classic case of being beautiful on the outside and ugly on the inside.

One night, coming home on the freeway, it caught fire and burned up a goodly portion of the engine.

My complete stupidity and arrogance had played out.

But I always gave Bob from the dealership, grace points because some creeping spider of conscience forced him to offer a kind, but unheeded, warning.

Deal With

Deal with: (v) to take action regarding a person or situation

If you will permit me, I shall refer to this as the “Brock principle.”

When I was in high school, we had a fellow in our class named Brock.

Brock was annoying.

No one wanted him around.

Yet at the same time, there wasn’t one of us that wished to come off as “the bully”—to chase him from our presence. So often, we kept Brock around so long that we ended up being crude, if not rude in our comments, requiring his exit.

You couldn’t win with Brock:

  • If you ignored him, you felt like a big, fat, stupid bigot.
  • If you accepted him, you felt like a big, fat, stupid idiot.
  • If you tried to tolerate him, you just felt big, fat and stupid.

I feel much the same way about arrogance.

Unlike Brock, arrogance will try to change its name to get into your life, your party or your fellowship.

Sometimes it arrives under the name “confidence.”

Other times, “knowledgeable.”

And on occasion, even “considerate to a fault.”

But it cannot hide.

Arrogance is the human emotion coming from other people that we have absolutely no capacity to deal with, because our own arrogance becomes jealous, throws a tantrum and runs out of the room.

Deaf

Deaf: (adj) unable to hear

Yes, I have been at a party when depleted chip dip and a lack of musical choices has prompted a theoretical discussion, which everyone initially pretended to enjoy. And I quote:

“If you had to lose one of your senses, which one would you be willing to forfeit?”

We went around the room. Each person mentioned the rejected sense and briefly explained why he or she thought they could survive without that particular gift.

When they came to me, I was legitimately stumped.

Although many people before me insisted that if they had to be without a sense (and taste buds were not included) they would choose to be deaf.

Many of them cited that Ludwig von Beethoven was deaf—”and look at the beautiful music he made.”

Of course, we must realize—we do not know all the details of Mr. Beethoven’s situation, because he was somewhat unable to articulate his condition.

But when I considered all my senses, I realized how frightening it would be to be senseless.

What would it be like to drop a sense?

So my answer was kind of existential.

I proclaimed, “I choose all of them. For there are times that I cannot see, or I will become judgmental. There are occasions that smelling is useless because the present world around me is just one big stink-bomb. On occasion, I must withdraw my touch because it can be misinterpreted. And of course, I must needfully be deaf, or I will hear things that will cause me to remember too long and hold grudges. So to answer your question, I will practice living without all the senses—just in case one departs.”

I had two reasons for my exaggerated answer.

First, I thought it offered a profound point.

Secondly, since it was supposed to be a party, I was hoping that the threat of a philosophical discussion would get us back to playing more music …

… and buying more dip.

Deadline

Deadline: (n) the time by which something must be finished or submitted

Don’t.

Don’t use a deadline.

It will just leave you standing in line, waiting to be dead.

It is the worst idea that anyone ever came up with as far as human beings are concerned.

We are a species that will fret over nothing—so it is a good idea not to give us anything.

I will not take a deadline.

If someone insists on it, I make sure that they push it far enough into the future that I can easily and comfortably finish the project a week in advance.

There is no power in waking up fervently needing to get something done.

There is no rest in going to bed wondering if you should be allowed the luxury of sleep—since the deadline is looming.

Deadlines were created by people who now have enough money that they do not have to observe a deadline.

They like to be served by jumping monkeys and nervous cockroaches, who scuttle their way into completion, never totally joyful over the victory.

Even though all of us have the deadline of dying, God does not tell us when it is.

Can you imagine?

If the deadline was far enough away, we wouldn’t give it a thought.

If the deadline for our demise was coming up, we would try to be faithful—through an ocean of tears.

God, nature and our health snatch us when we least expect it and sometimes chaos does it earlier.

If it were any other way, we’d be bumblers—from our birth to last breath.

Don’t allow yourself to be at the mercy of a deadline.

And if someone demands it, make sure you give yourself enough room that you can get it done early—and spend the rest of the time taking deep breaths and carving apple slices.