Cloak-and-Dagger

Cloak-and-dagger: (adj) characteristic of mystery

I suppose if I saw someone walking toward me wearing a cloak, I might be curious enough about their fashion choice to wonder what they were hiding beneath the bulky garment. I’m not so sure I would assume it was a dagger–more likely twenty unwanted pounds.

But maybe it’s the same thing. Since we don’t live in a time when people are stabbing one another with stilettos over grievances, a redefining of “cloak-and-dagger” for our period might be in order.

I contend that the cloak-and-dagger of our generation is the hiding the real truth of our abilities behind self-promotion. And the dagger which follows is an inadequate performance, leaving our fellow-travelers unimpressed.

Then too often violence ensues.

Because we should never have claimed to be more than who we are, we are inevitably going to fail, which will make us defensive and therefore volatile.

What would happen if we stopped lying about our abilities?

What if we decided not to chase big dreams?

What if we judged our talent on the response to our performance rather than what we think the response should be “if people weren’t stupid?”

Our society is still menaced with the “cloak-and-dagger,” because unless we praise the misguided claims of those around us, they just might turn on us and stab us with whatever is available.

So let me be the first one to take my cloak off and cast aside my dagger. I will do my best to tell you of the gifts I have, mingled with my weaknesses. If you find additional flaws, I thank you for saving me from the embarrassment of humiliating over-assessment.

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Clitoris

Clitoris: (n) a small sensitive and erectile part of the female genitals

Honestly, I think Webster should have defined “clitoris” as “women’s intuition.”

For years we have touted that the female of the human species seems to possess some great insight or sensibility about coming affairs. Although I, for one, do not believe that such a premonition exists, I will tell you that women become dynamic, strong, confident and completely self-reliant when the clitoris is not ignored, set to the side, mocked or even, in savage nations, cut out.

I just don’t think people can have sex without the assurance that it will culminate in orgasm. And if mommies and grandmothers feel it’s their duty to portray that sometimes women have to “put up with sex,” even though they don’t want to do so, that foolish acquiescence has, does and will forever render a woman a second-class citizen.

The clitoris is small–hidden away under a little hood, but is well worth finding. And women who think they can empower themselves without taking authority over their own sexual pleasure usually end up yelling more than telling.

So what can be done?

Men everywhere need to admit that whatever it takes to get the “little lady” within the bigger lady to come to life is important to create the equality that will make us all better people, and stop the gender war which should never have started.

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Clique

Clique: (n) a narrow exclusive circle persons

Turns out, I have small hands.
According to the authorities in our political parties, that portends that I have a small penis–which means I cannot join the clique of the “Big-Penis Boys.”
I’m supposed to be greatly offended by that, thinking that if women see that I have small hands, and believe I have a tiny penis, they will lose all interest in me, even though the female vagina is only four inches deep–and what the hell would you do with the excess genitalia?
But things aren’t supposed to make sense.
Apparently, the goal is to call one another names and place each other in cliques, where we’re more easily defined, and therefore, controlled. And the purpose of the control is to eliminate the need to love all your neighbors, and only need to appreciate those with freshly trimmed grass and nice barbeques.
The only reason to ever form a clique–like the “Big Penis Boys”–is to make sure that everyone knows you’re a part of it, so you don’t have to semi-hang around with your meager brethren.
What future do we have as a species if we continue to break down into the smaller and smaller cliques which we are willing to include?
Probably none.

 

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Clinic

Clinic: (n) a hospital department where outpatients are given medical treatment

Old Marion Webster always tends to leave out a detail or two in presenting definitions.

Clinics are not only places where people go to get medical assistance, but often find themselves frequenting due to poverty.

I’ve been to a clinic. It wasn’t because I doing research for one of my essays. No–I was busted.

Broke. Without bucks. Dollarless.

I found the experience to be humiliating–not because I thought I was better than all the other clientele. It was humiliating by design.

All the furniture was old, scarred, some pieces broken. The magazines were dated at least four years earlier, and had articles which had already proven to be incorrect. The candy machine was empty except for peanuts and Cheese-it crackers. The Coke machine was out of order and the coffee maker had a crack in it, so they could only make one cup at a time.

The nurses were volunteers who attempted to be cheery, but still conveyed a sense of yearning to get over their stint quickly and return to their normal lives.

The people around me were sick–some very sick. It made them look and act dreary.

I sat there and thought to myself, how easy it would be for people of substance and finance to just donate new magazines.

How about that church down the road which recently bought new furniture for their parlor–giving that old plush couch and chairs to this clinic so people would feel just a bit more comfortable as they sat for hours, waiting for a three-minute visit?

Would it kill the vendors to make sure that the candy machine was adequately stocked, and price it just a bit more reasonably for those who have to search longer for quarters?

How about giving them a new coffee pot, or taking up a donation to make the Cokes reappear?

I wasn’t angry over the indifference–just perplexed by the ignorance.

Now that prosperity has crept my way, I have a little extra money every once in a while that might seem like a gold mine for a clinic.

Maybe just buying flowers for the attendants to wear every day. Or if you worry that the patients might be allergic, purchase more colorful scrubs.

For some reason or another, rich people do not feel it’s enough to insult the less fortunate with mere poverty. They want to make sure the experience leaves a bitter taste in their mouths.

 

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Cling

Cling: (v) to hold on tightly

I cannot explain the choices I make in the middle of the night, when suffering from a bit of insomnia and flipping through the channels on television.

In my conscious mind I am trying to find something that’s boring enough to put me to sleep. Therefore I often stop at religious programming.

Just a couple of evenings ago, I landed on a program with a preacher who had a Georgia drawl, explaining why he was not afraid to die. He became very emotional, citing that he knew he was going to go to heaven and spend eternity with Jesus. Surrounded by the dark room and feeling very impressionable in my nighttime skivvies, I nearly believed him.

I wondered why I didn’t feel that way.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t think it sounds interesting.

I get teary-eyed thinking of a world without me.

I can’t imagine how my friends and loved-ones will survive. (Maybe that’s why the Pharaohs locked all their cats in the tomb with them.) I digress.

I cling to life.

I am not a hypochondriac, but if one is needed, I can do a pretty damn good impersonation. Why? Because every breath, every pain, every trickle in my system makes me suspicious that it is the precursor of a wave of destruction.

I think it’s foolish to say you believe in a God who made a beautiful Earth and then to be in a hurry to get away from it, thinking that the upgrade will be an improvement.

I like Earth.

I like people–even when they’re unlikable, because then they’re a puzzle.

I like being around.

I like what happens when I’m around.

So I cling.

Whatever seems to be full of energy, vitality or just the general circulation of the blood, I support with all my heart.

It is time to admit that I am an Earthling who will need to be evicted to get me to leave my particular duplex. Perhaps my Creator has set aside a place for me in a spirit world which is beyond my comprehension. I cannot cling to that.

But I can cling to faith, hope and love.

These are the three things that matter. These are the three things that make Earth sweet.

And these are the three things that make me so glad that I’m still alive with people like you.

 

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Clincher

Clincher: (n) a fact, argument, or event that settles a matter conclusively.

I often tell audiences that the best way to refrain from being an asshole and judging other folks is to maintain a profile of realization.

And here’s the realization: when you discover that people are unable to own up to mistakes and make a clean breast of an unfortunate event,
 you can quietly walk away so as to not be around when they blow up.

It’s a clincher.

Although some people extol the beauty of morality and others pride themselves on pursuing perfection, those who possess great Earthly wisdom comprehend that failure is imminent and is only survived through repentance.

I don’t argue with people about this. Some travelers think it’s their job to convince others of the error of their ways. Yet there are enough pitfalls, stumbling blocks and quicksand available in the jungle that it is completely unnecessary for me to cut the legs out from under a friend or enemy.

It’s a clincher.

Wait and see what happens when someone falls short of the mark. What do they do? If they choose to rationalize, blame others or try to explain in painful detail why it is not exactly their fault, then you should give them an anemic smile.

Back your way out of the room and get away from the destruction that will soon be their life.

 

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Climb

Climb: (v) to ascend, especially by using the feet and sometimes the hands

Everyone understands the choice but no one discusses it. It is an unspoken piece of information that is decided in the internal workings of every human being.

You have to find out if you would like to go to a gym and sweat four times a week so that when you climb a flight of stairs, you won’t sweat.

There you go. I don’t know why nobody talks about it.

People working out in the gym are not thinking about how they’ll feel when they’re sixty-five or seventy years old. They just want to make sure that if they’re on a date and there’s a half-mile walk to the auditorium, or a two-hour wait standing in line at the restaurant, or four flights of stairs to ascend to reach the destination, that they will be able to do it without looking like they’re flirting with death.

Also, nobody wants to be the one panting the loudest in the bedroom after sex. If you’re a man and it sounds like you’re going to have a heart attack because you made love to your woman, it may just discourage her from trying again.

It is our vanity that presses us on to bench-press.

And for those who think to themselves, what do I care if it takes forty-two seconds for me to recover my breath after climbing a flight of stairs?–well, you will never catch those individuals stomping, dancing or doing a Pilate.

Do people live longer because they are aerobically able to climb without much difficulty? There’s no evidence for that. They just look prettier and healthier doing it.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s much to be said for reaching the top of a mountain with your clothes undrenched.

But unless it is a major concern, or you’re just bound and determined to convey that your tight pecs, flat abs and muscular legs make you more sexy, I think you will probably join the ranks of those who file away from the gymnasium.

 

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Climax

Climax: (n) the most intense, exciting, or important point of something; a culmination or apex.

Having directed a play or two, I finally had to resort to using the word “denouement.”

When referring to the culmination of the final scene–when all the factors come to completion–I found that it was impossible to refer to this
 as the “climax.” Every time I did, my actors smirked and their eyes glassed over in glee.

I probably was doing the same thing without knowing it.

There is only one climax. It has never, nor will it ever be exceeded.

It contains great pathos and comedy, all within the same twelve seconds. Its brevity taunts us with the fragility of life and its intensity encourages us to continue on even though we are fragile.

Perhaps it should make us giggle. Yes, the word “climax” might cause us to stare off in the distance, remembering a particularly favorable one.

It is no longer suitable to refer to the closing portion of a play. Get over it, grow up and start getting used to the word “denouemont.”

I know it’s pretentious. I know there will be those who are aware that it’s being used so that “climax” will not be uttered, which might make them grin even more.

But sexual pleasure is such an intricate part of our lives, I do not think we’re greedy by setting aside one word exclusively to define its glory.

 

 

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Climate

Climate: (n) the weather conditions prevailing in an area

Maybe it’s why people hate small-talk.

When you find yourself talking to a stranger, you are nearly compelled to discuss the weather.

It is rarely suitable–the weather, that is. We always seem to have a preference that’s different than today’s forecast. Every once in a while, a climate will roll around that makes us smile because it fits into an ideal we established in our minds when we were much younger. But rarely.

The weather woman down here in Florida has been going through a series of flip-flops and somersaults. Two days ago, she was very concerned that we had not had enough rain. Yesterday, she felt it was unseasonably hot. And today, she lamented that the rains had arrived, but they decided to bring along “storms.”

The weather is the crucible–where we express our inner dissatisfaction with life, Mother Nature, circumstances, our relationships and even God.

So because of our grumpiness, we may be in a climate that is unsuitable, creating a climate of human interaction which is even more cloudy.

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Cliffhanger

Cliffhanger: (n) an ending that leaves the audience in suspense.

I can’t watch the movie.

I’m talking about “Cliffhanger,” with Sylvester Stallone.

There’s one scene that is just not able to be viewed. Suspended on a single rope, Stallone tries to lift a women up to him so that he can take
them both to safety on the edge of the cliff. It goes badly. Her glove slips off and she tumbles–thousands of feet?–to the ground below. The camera follows the face of a very disappointed Stallone.

Not me. I’m wondering what it’s like to fall three thousand feet to your death.

It’s why I could never jump out of an airplane. I would have to convince myself that I’m prepared to die, just in case everything fails. Because the sensation of falling is not one that is acceptable to the human psyche.

Of course, I feel that way about all deaths.

I think the old song, “The Gambler,” says it well. “The best you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”

Of course, that’s kind of creepy, too. You nod off and the next thing you know, well…is nothing you know.

Death truly is the greatest cliffhanger in our human journey. We’re not going to know what it’s really like until we get there, and by the time we get there, it’s much too late to build up the courage and spunk to “do it well.”

Sometimes I think about what the worst deaths would be, as compared to a more tolerable demise. But in the end, you’re either getting smashed or being forbidden air.

Great choice.

We’re all heading for the cliffhanger. Matter of fact, some of you reading this essay are already uncomfortable, wishing I would get to a final sentence and stop talking about this crazy shit.

So I will do…

 

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