Decapitate

Decapitate: (v) to cut off the head of; behead

 Decapitation seems to be the murder selection by those who just want to make sure the job gets done really well.

After all, once you look down at your enemy and his head is disconnected from his shoulders, you probably can have the confidence to move on, assured that you’ve achieved your mayhem.

As long as it’s connected—or just a wound—you might have to hang around and wait for him (or her) to die.

But I must be candid and tell you, there are many ways to lose your head—and all of these varieties do not necessarily leave you dead, but rather, in varying degrees of humiliation, which might make you wish you were gone.

I’ve lost my head.

I have been decapitated of my mental facilities in the pursuit of some wild idea, romantic fling or dreamy goal that had absolutely no merit in the world of reason.

I wish someone had let me know that my head was separated from the rest of my body, and that I had ceased to be logical.

But people like to stay out of such things.

They will let you wander around, headless, running into walls and tripping over obstacles.

There is an old story that a young girl who danced in front of a king wanted the head of her enemy on a silver platter. I must tell you—even though the platter was silver, I’m not so sure she got anything of value, except the satisfaction of staring into the dead, bulging eyes of her nemesis.

Just thinking about it creeps me out.

  • I don’t want to be beheaded.
  • I don’t want to be decapitated.
  • And I want to be more careful that I don’t lose my head in everyday matters.

So if you ever see me in danger of any of these possibilities…

…please give me a heads up.

Century

Century: (n) a period of one hundred years.

I have lived in two centuries.

Matter of fact, most of what we hold dear, precious, valuable and true has occurred in my lifespan.

For instance:

From my birth to the present day, we have transported our emotions from bigotry to “Oh, my God. We’re bigots.”

We have gone from cars using gasoline to cars using gasoline but us feeling kind of guilty about it.

We have traveled from medicine believing it has the answer to some things to medicine being quite certain it has the answer to everything.

We have spanned the generation gap by explaining that psychologically, such a chasm is necessary.

We have gone to the moon, but can’t really get back there so we insist “we’re not really interested in space.”

We have flown from an era when women were treated as inferiors, encouraged to stay in the home, to a time when women insist they’re not inferior because they stay in the home.

We have progressed our technology to the point of inefficiency.

We have improved our diplomacy by continuing the threat of nuclear war.

We have addressed racism by giving it an abundance of names.

We have handled the Golden Rule by simply refusing to go to church.

And we have defined tolerance by secretly alienating humans instead of publicly insisting on separated bathrooms.

Progress is made when the human heart is tapped, confirming that we have a soul. Once we feel that our soul has some eternal journey, our brain can be trained to be more generous.

Then acts of kindness seem logical instead of magnanimous.

 

 

 

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Blister

Blister: (n) a small bubble on the skin caused by burning, or other damage.

Dictionary B

One of my favorite things to do is to recall the actions of my youth and recollect how in the moment they seemed absolutely logical to me, and now I view them as either hilarious or in abject horror.

When I was in Junior High School I played basketball.

About two weeks after starting the sport, I got painful blisters on the bottoms of my feet. If you’ve ever had blisters, you know they produce burning, stinging pain that just does not let up.

So after basketball practice, when nobody was looking, I developed this sadistic/pleasurable ritual. I took a shower, got my feet really wet, and then I poked the blisters with my fingernail and peeled them off.

It was sick and icky, but in some bizarre way, exciting.

But it’s also why my blisters never actually healed, and it took longer for them to turn into callouses.

I guess the message here is that some people have the patience to scab over and heal, and others, like myself, find joy in ripping off blisters.

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Aquiline

dictionary with letter A

Aquiline: (adj) like an eagle, esp. referring to the nose. EX: “hooked like an eagle’s beak.”

It arrives at about age twelve, and hopefully, by the grace of God, disappears on one’s eighteenth birthday. Honestly, it will not disappear if we allow its friends to come and shack up.

“It” is insecurity.

When I was twelve years old, I was convinced of the following:

I believed my nose was aquiline because my dad was German and had a hooked nose. I failed to realize that my mother’s genes were also in there, so my hook was not as pronounced. (I once referred to my nose as a “hooker” until my Aunt Minnie explained that the term was inappropriate.)

I also believed that my lips were very large and that I possibly was the love child of my mother with a black man. (There was no basis for this since there were no black people within thirty miles of our community. But I chose to believe my mother had made some sort of journey.)

I also thought my eyes were crooked, and began to tilt my head to the left to compensate for the poor horizon of my peepers.

Keeping up this craziness was the notion that my B were “pinned to my head,” which I assumed was the sign of some sort of mental retardation.

Moving along, I totally was possessed with the frustration that I had horribly chubby cheeks, so I tried to elongate my face by holding my mouth in the shape of a small “O” all the time.

This insecurity is present in all adolescents, and is only dangerous if it’s allowed to link up with intensity, culminating in a bit of insanity, which in adulthood can lead to plastic surgery, therapy sessions and late-night heart-wrenching honesty with your mate, drenched in tears.

I know we think the answer to this question is to convince people that “we are all beautiful just the way we are.”

But since none of us really believe that deep in our hearts, wouldn’t it be more logical for us to come to the conclusion that we’re all ugly in our own way?

 

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Anthology

dictionary with letter A

Anthology (n.): a published collection of poems, songs, musical compositions or writings, compiled in a single album.

I am thoroughly convinced that we do not learn anything at all until the new idea is explained to us in relationship to something we already believe or know.

This is why it’s difficult to study for a test–because if the information is abstract and merely connected by words or numbers, we are depending on our brain to memorize it instead of associating it with something already stored.

I will go so far as to say that the quickest way to confuse people is to ask them to learn something without giving them a point of reference or a comparison to something with which they are already acquainted.

It’s why I’ve always been impressed by the craft of storytelling–to link a previous idea with the next idea, lending itself to an easy transformation into the following idea, culminating with what we determine to be a logical conclusion.

I think some of the best things I’ve ever read, heard or experienced in my life were really anthologies–pieces of information linked together by a common, spirited goal.

Jesus once told people that “the Kingdom of God is like…” and then he gave many, many examples of everyday events and objects so that the people’s finite brain could understand the tiny tip of the iceberg of the universe. Keep in mind–the power of the tip of the iceberg is that at least you’re on the iceberg instead of drowning in a sea of confusion.

I would welcome politics, religion, art, music, movies and even everyday conversation to have more linkage and common references so that we can create an anthology in our mind that lends itself to greater understanding.

 

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Account

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dictionary with letter A

Account: (n.) 1. a report or description of an event or experience. 2. a record or statement of financial expenditure or receipts. 3. an arrangement by which a body holds funds on behalf of a client. 4. importance of: money was of no account to her.

It’s that last definition that I’m most familiar with.

As a kid, my mother and father often referred to local folks as being “of no account.” I suppose they might have had some insight on the issue because they owned a loan company and received payments from many of these citizens each and every month, or on other occasions, DIDN’T receive such remuneration.

As a youngster, I didn’t think much about the statement–it seemed logical enough. It communicated to me that there were certain people who were valuable and self-sufficient, and then there were those who hung on for dear life by their fingernails, waiting for others to solve all their problems so they could slip into the back door to the celebration party, sheepishly bringing some chip dip and pretending they were part of the miracle.

Here’s the problem: if we could actually extend compassion to another person without feeling supremacy, then such an action would have divine conclusions. But the minute we open our wallets, our hearts or the door to our finance to other creatures who are less fortunate, we tend to place a status on them which renders them incapable of solvency.

How can you help somebody while at the same time empowering them?

For about two decades, we have attempted this by using the verbiage of “self-esteem,” pumping people full of hot air like balloons. When we arrive the next day and they’re flat, we pump them up again. No one knows for sure whether it’s on the eighth pumping or the twelfth that we stop being gentle to these deflated souls. But as long as we’re using air to try to make people look plumper instead of the opportunity  to be viable, then a part of our society will remain of “no account” and another portion will be nasty and snide.

Are there people who are just destined to be dependent? I don’t know. But the minute I believe that’s true, I cease to be of any value to the world around me.

I think we should approach life as if it’s an elementary school cafeteria. We all stand in line, get the same plate of food, walk to similar tables, with identical eating utensils and we either devour our portion with joy, producing energy, or we get too damn picky and end up hungry fifteen minutes later, looking for a snack.

The message? Encourage people to eat. Sometimes the food is a little less satisfying than other times, but eat it up. Sometimes it’s your favorite meal and you arrive at the next dining opportunity disappointed because it’s not repeated. Eat it up anyway.

Why? Because today has just enough in it for you if you slurp it up joyfully, granting you the opportunity to be successful.

I do believe that NoOne is better than anyone else. I just think some people finish their plate instead of scraping it into the trash. Those who do make it through the day understand why it happened. Those who don’t gave up somewhere along the way and lift their hands to the heavens, wondering why in God’s name it happened.

My mom and dad were wrong. There are NO people descended from Adam and Eve who are of “no account.” There are those children of Eden, however, who decline the provision given to them, dreaming and yearning for the magical apple.