Understanding Sibling

      The younger brother relished in experiences, slight and severe. The pain of the
knife cutting the soft tissues of his hand was severe and provided the most
exhilarating stimulus he had ever imagined. And although he was very
young when it happened, he recalled the sense of pleasure it gave to hold the sharpness of the steel, feeling it cut deeply into his flesh.
     Physical fighting gave him great satisfaction, also, whether he won or lost. Sweaty contact with opponents was the only human closeness he desired. The smell
of fear, his or theirs; the taste of blood, his or theirs were the primal rewards
he desired. There were no expectations other than hit and be hit. 
     This younger brother sought desperately to replace the caresses of someone from long ago. The feelings somehow got confused in the absence of gentle fingers playing along the side of his face; a rubbing of the stomach as he sat on the toilet, encouraging him to move his bowels. The fragrance of that person, sweet and gentle odors, as he leaned over, allowing her to continue the
caresses in firm yet gentle strokes down his spine, helping him along,
relieving the discomfort. Too suddenly the pleasant feelings stopped.
His father could not console him; pet him up and wipe away the tears as she had. Except for Cull, his brothers saw him as some pestering sibling who had to
be tolerated out of kinship.
    Cull understood his need to be touched in that certain way, and often
pounced on him for no reason, putting his head in a half-nelson, rubbing the
back of his neck raw, choking off his air supply until he almost passed out.
The feelings were often the sense of total release. 
     Conversely, he fascinated in ways of tormenting living creatures other than himself; for he did see himself as a creature, searching for and requiring
stimuli and response. Systematic torture was a daily event as insects, small
birds and neighborhood cats suffered under his needful cruelty. Capturing
the tiny lizard, which unfortunately, found its way into the kitchen, provided
a full hour's pleasure. Each tiny foot severed with a steak knife. Then off
came the tail, changing from leaf green to soot black, as the miniature
dinosaur opened its tiny mouth releasing silent screams at its abuser.
Cull often rescued many captives, releasing the prisoners into the
backyard and rewarding the executioner with sharp, deliberate slaps up side
the head. But, he never preached inhumanity or perversion. Cull
loved him totally, understanding his sickness, accepting and even
encouraging his need

Rites of Passage

   
     The adolescent boy was roughly awakened from his sleeping mat.
Early morning's familiar sounds enclosed him as crickets and other creatures
continued their nocturnal symphony against the black backdrop of a West
African sky. His mother's soft whimpering was the only unaccustomed
audible disturbance. Large hands pushed him through the neat living
quarters and outside the hut into the warm, breeze-less predawn day.
    As they reached the grove, ceremonial fires illuminated the other
faces. He recognized his father's eldest brother along with many of his
childhood friends, and felt a brief moment of relief. He soon realized,
however, his uncle was not to be his savior, as this leader of his family clan
stripped off his garments and forced him inside the belly of a freshly killed
water buffalo.
     He sucked often on the hollow reed extending from the sewn up
carcass, filling his lungs with cleaner air. Each time he tried to peer through
the reed, an oily, slick substance seeped in, burning his eyes, forcing him to
suffer in darkness.
     When he could no long block out the hunger, he tasted the blood and
intestines remaining within the animal.
As a small boy he learned the importance of this rite to his tribe, and
knew he should feel as honored as his father to become part of the "bloodied
ones."
     As he lay in fetal position, his body attaching itself to the stickiness of
the animal's rib cage, he feared he would go mad before his boyhood soul
could purify and transpire to the holy spirit of men.  Hours passed, the ordeal became unbearable.
Legs numbed, arms ached. The smell of warm, raw entrails mixed with his own excrement,
forced him to vomit.
     No one released him the first time he cried out in shame. But, when
he screamed again, he was mercifully cut from the belly of the buffalo by the
adjunct monitor who attended the ceremonial grove.
     From that day, no one invited him to participate in the activities of
men or games of boys. His people tolerated him, but stripped away his
rights. His mother determined the direction of his life. He could no longer
talk to his father or other adult men in the community.  He never "broke mold," so did not build his own hut, court or marry one of the village maidens. He could not work at a skill, craft or trade and
was restricted from bartering in the commons for goods and services.
     He was not considered a slave or a servant, but a female's nonperson,
and had to obey his mother until death. Once he considered leaving, but
couldn't imagine a life outside his village.
     In his final years, he spent tedious days washing outer garments of
women. When male adults entered the hut, he retired to the wailing corner,
a special spot just for him, facing north. There he observed the male
members of the community, but never allowed his eyes to meet theirs in an
exchange of greeting or kinship.
     He often performed precooking duties; gutting chickens, washing and
peeling vegetables and tending fires. However, he was banned from
preparation of any foods during ceremonial days.
     During visits from neighboring communities, he left the village proper
and hid behind the wailer's wall at the edge of the community where the
village clearing met the brush. There, along with others of his kind, he
peered through cracks in the stone and sand to view the many festivities and
ceremonies, never allowing himself to be seen.

Reflections

I'm still trying to get used to this retirement thing.
I thought that I'd be in Ecuador by now with my significant other.
Other things occurred.  The housing market for one.  Who would have
Thought that for the first time in history, a house would
Go down, down, down in value.
That was a real kick in the hedge fund.
We can't get south of the border until we've
Liquefied those once oh so reliable real estate assets
I guess Steinbeck was right when he wrote the title to that infamous book...
The best laid plans of mice and men.

Growing Older

     Growing older is a natural phenomenon, and I shall embrace it with dignity.  People comment that I look 20 years younger than my actual age, and I'm happy to hear that, but I'm not given to vanity.  When I was younger, in my teens, I didn't give much thought to how I looked.  I figured I was just average and I didn't seek out compliments.  When I look back at those pictures of myself I realize that I was actually a very good looking youth.  They say hindsight is 20/20.  That is so true.  We never think we look as good as we do until years later when we see pictures of ourselves.  It's amazing.   So, when people tell me how youthful I look when they learn my actual age, I take it at face value.  I'm not the type of person to be overly concern with physical appearances.  I will never dye my hair.  I will never alter my appearance with plastic surgery.  If I gain weight, I will take it off naturally through exercise and diet.  I will grow old gracefully and with great dignity.   

midnight poem

It's different now

The time after midnight

When I

thought about

Lesson plans and tests,
The wee hours of the morning
A prelude to dawn,
When I used to lay awake and wonder
If my words were being heard.
Now I just fall back asleep
When I notice the time after midnight
Glaring at me through a room lit only
By soft green digital numbers.
I think about the chop of the ocean,
The warmth of the sand,
The coolness of the ocean
A time to relax and rest
And lull away without a care
No schedules
No lesson plans
Just peace
Tranquility

Literary Slump

     As a recently retired English (language arts) teacher, I am in a literary slump.  One of the units I enjoyed teaching my 7th graders was literary devices.  By this time of the year, we would have covered characterization, point-of-view, plot, conflict, imagery,  flashback, foreshadowing,  dialogue, and setting.  We would have discussed static and dynamic characters, cause/effect relationship,rising action, climax, resolution,  and the significance of the terms stated and implied.
     Oh, how I miss my colorful illustrations.  They would have completed reading their first novel by now, and have been encouraged to submit their book reviews on time.  Of course, I would already have demonstrated the perfect book review for them by showing a power point of my report on Masculine Strength, a novel about how a father struggles to raise five sons on his own after the death of his beloved wife.  At the end of my presentation, after illustrating how I covered all of the literary devices we studied in my report, I would proudly let them know that the author of the novel was not A. Michael White, but yours truly.  I always enjoyed their expressions of awe and excitement when they realized I had written the novel.  It seemed to please them that their teacher was teaching them about literary devices from such a pragmatic vantage point.