Anthropomorphism

 

By anthropomorphizing objects, we attribute human characteristics to them, making them easier to relate to. It's a concept that can bring profound comfort, especially in times of distress. Naming objects can make the world seem less intimidating, creating a sense of companionship and reducing feelings of isolation.

We all do it.

Everything has a name. Otherwise, we’d never be able to tell a story or define a map without a “tree” or a “bird” or a “dog” or a “cat”. When we discover something new or create something never before seen, we have to give it a name. Think of your children.

If we didn’t identify ourselves by our names, we would need nametags at conventions. Some of us are named after relatives and have an obligation to honor the name. Others can change a name in marriage or self-identity or just on a whim Be sure to tell all the authorities who need you name to put on your gravestone.

This is about naming inanimate objects. Some people name their cars to give them personality, like painting details. They talk to their cars with love when showing them off during a wash or have someone to cuss to when they won’t start. Some don’t name their kitchen appliances, but will talk to them when opening the refrigerator and not remembering what you were looking for.

Many musicians name their instruments, like Eric Clapton’s “Blackie” or George Harrison’s “Rocky”, for they depend on them as friends they hold close to. We name our pets, whether a dog or a horse and talk to them with a ‘baby talk’ voice while they stare at us having no idea what we are saying. They hear a certain sound and relate it to being fed. Maybe our children can relate to that too?

I haven’t named my bikes, but have named my yard crewe. Rather than calling the ‘squirrels’ to opening the buffet to cocktail peanuts, I call them all “Petie”. The reason is logical. A neighbor brought my wife a baby squirrel that had fallen out of a tree. She took it in and found a place in the bathroom for her. The squirrel was named “Petie”. Petie was left go in the yard and being familiar with us and her ‘name’ would come down the trees to be hand-fed. The name just spread to cover all the fuzzy tail tree monkeys. The little brown motor scooters are named “Beau-Beau” for a similar reason. There are “Bun-Bun’s” and “Rocky” and “Posse”. “Mr. and Mrs. C.” for our commonwealth’s feathered symbol. Blue Jays are “Blue Jays” and “Mister Hawk” is just that. “Al” the owl, is the leader of the pack while “Bike Buddy” wren is the Yard Boss.

Why not?

As you put on your favorite jammies tonight and crawl under the covers, pull close “Mister Winky”. That wore and torn ragged stuffed toy will give you comfort on a winter night.

CiRcAdIaN RHYTHM

 

Your circadian rhythm is your body’s natural 24-hour clock. It keeps your body operating on a healthy wake-sleep cycle. Your circadian rhythm affects many other systems throughout your body. Most people’s circadian rhythms are automatic, but certain factors like light can have an effect on them.

When there are schedules to follow, waking up at a certain time to give to bath, dress, eat then go to the destination that must be followed. When that clock is over, you can reverse procedure and return to sleep for your body rhythm to rest and revive for the next alarm. This is your circadian rhythm. This is your daily routine.

Daylight Savings Time, season changes, traveling through different time zones will confuse our circadian rhythm. Staying up pass your bedtime can make the next day groggy until you get back to your normal cadence. Your innards are also affected by the change in mealtimes to know when to process the chocolate choo-choo.

When retired, beyond an eternal vacation there is only one deadline. There are no clocks in retirement. Whenever the eyes open and your brain realizes this is not a dream, but another day, and the internal clock starts. Without a deadline to meet, moving about can wait until the sun comes out or the rain stops or your body starts thinking about food. The mission of the day is when to shove a consumable down the gullet and when to return to the covers.

Without a doctor’s appointment or giving a ride to a grandchild, the day is yours to decide. Wake and make a big breakfast or just a couple of cups of java to get the motor started? Get dressed or stay in the jammies? What will the mission be for the day?

The electronic distractions can fill time until you settle into a hobby or a phone call or (dare I say it) a book. Soft music can be relaxing or crank it up to motivate on a dreary day.

I find weather effects the circadian rhythm. When the sun rises and it is warm and the birds are singing, the invitation to come join the critters outside is addictive. When the sky is cloudy and the temperature is cold and moving about requires many layers while getting under the covers is more appealing to taking a jog in your underwear or take the dog out to relieve themselves, the circadian rhythm adjust.

Does lunch happen at noon, as it is scheduled at work, or does munching on the couch fill the gut with more than needed applying a doze switch to nap? After all the ‘relaxing’ does sleeping become an adventure of constant tossing and turning, shifting the covers, trying to find the right spot while your brain is mulling over the mental wonders until you finally fall into a sleep full of strange adventures called dreams.

When we were young and had energy to expel until exhaustion wore our little bodies down and we crashed. Big people had to force us into refueling and tucked us in at night. This became our circadian rhythm.

As we grew more in control of our schedules, some became day people while others tended toward the night hours for our productive focus. Throw a night owl into a daytime accepted corroborative routine can be disruptive to the circadian rhythm. Many of the creative personalities prefer the night hours, when the masses are asleep and the visions and sounds can be made undisturbed.

Tonight, I’ll toss and turn. Yank the covers and then pull them away. The radio will continuously announce the news of the hour and many podcast I would not have ventured to hear. Like clockwork, I’ll stand and scratch and stretch and walk down the hall to empty whatever has accumulated, then stare at the clock awaiting another hour to pass and the morning sunrise. No matter how much exercise I do during the day or numbers of bullets I put away, this is my rhythm. About dawn, I’ll drift off into bazaar visions with some familiar faces and strange adventures of old buildings and problem solving. They only last for an hour and I’m up again trying to remember details but in too much of a fog to try again.

The eyes will eventually open and stare at the wall while listening to the news that announced the hour of the day. It is time.

Those people

 

I hate to get into politics, particularly with the current administration, but this recent phrase causes my ire.

And I quote: “Those people,” Fred Trump said his uncle told him, “The shape they’re in, all the expenses, maybe those kinds of people should just die.”

This came from the Commander-in-Chief, the CEO of the US of the A, the so-called Leader of the Free World, the self-proclaimed King of the Planet.

This demeaning rhetoric was not about the criminal rapist and murders invading our borders to pick our crops, build our houses, cut our grass and clean our hotel rooms. This was not aimed at those who do not agree with his imperial political ramblings. This was not in response to a female reporter. This was not about intellectual librarians handing out books full of perceived disgust and filth to our children. This was not about congressional values or rights to free will or speech. This was not directed to those who’s gender identity does not match his perverted behavior. This was not an off-hand statement about diversity or monetary inequality or the color of your skin.

This quote was about Fred’s child who has a disability.

Fred's 26-year-old son, William, was born with a KCNQ2 mutation, "a genetic misfire that the doctors called a potassium channel deletion." He is nonverbal and uses a wheelchair.

I believe when we arrive on this planet, we know nothing. We are just a blob of bloody delivered from some creatures who grew you until you were fermented and ready to be a part of a ‘family’.

This family are the familiar of us. We all look alike. We all think alike (because that is what we are taught). We are comfortable with each other because it is all we know. Even an extended family of intermingling, we are somewhat suspicious of cousins and aunts and uncles for they live somewhere else and could sound different or even have another faith than our core.

Suddenly, our ‘family’ meets another ‘family’. They come from another place. They don’t look like us. They don’t sound like us. They don’t act like us. They are ‘those people’.

Some cross-breed and the blended family is accepted as us, but there are still others who are ‘those’ people. We, the familiar, look at ‘them’ with curiosity but are afraid of the difference.

The fear can be taught and increased with bias lessons of good vs bad depending on what your faith believes in.

Living on a planet where all migrated from somewhere else, some assembled into countries with borders and cultures and languages and customs different than their neighbors. If one felt disadvantaged from their neighbors, armies were formed by their political leaders directed by faith and taught that ‘those people’ were bad and had to be transformed to our acceptable beliefs to invade and conquer to pillage the wealth and reform ‘those’ to a new way of living.

Empires came and went and borders were redrawn until rational people decided the bloodshed wasn’t worth the results. Still, we stand ready to pick up arms over the threat of ‘those people’. This is our history.

Our current administration, fairly elected by our democratic process, has decided to purge (deport) ‘those people’ for the betterment of the country and with the support of the military, are detaining citizens (legal or not) and placing them onto a concentration camp until they can be processed shipped somewhere else. The processing, while minimal vetting due to the reduction in governmental staff, may find some criminals (why don’t they check the jails?) the chaos increases the confusion, fear and anger in the general population. 

If Powhatan and the indigenous tribes hadn’t been curious to welcome the aliens from afar and the original settlements were not worthy of agriculture, accepted the invasion without every viewing “The War of the Worlds” or “Independence Day” to understand ‘those people’ were here conquer and not assimilate.

Without finding riches, tea or spices, the settlers shipped back a rare crop of tobacco that caught the motherlands desire for more. The imperial desire of the Ole World leaders wanting to expand their influence and wealth, went about funding additional ventures into what would become the colonies.

When you move into a neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. You bring your children and your furniture and are viewed by the established settlers as strangers. You might fit in to the current culture and become friends or just avoid any interaction so the neighborhood waits for the sale of the house for a next batch. As this suspicion of outsiders grows, fences go up surround protected property with security. We continue to fear the unknown.

When you travel overseas or even in a different neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. The locals may view you as tourist to be exploited or assumed a threat to be followed by the uniformed authorities. If you’ve ever walked into an area, you are not welcomed and are uncomfortable, you have become ‘those people’.

At the end of the year, our species, wherever they live on this blue ball spinning in a vast darkness of space, come together to dress up and celebrate with music and food and give gifts of thankfulness.

Someday, we may realize we are the only inhabitants and should learn to get along with one another. Probably not in my lifetime, so good luck to future generations.

Dirty Dishes

Travel, family, cooking, parades, turkey, deserts, naps, football. The one day a year we gather to be thankful or show gratitude to family and friends. Is this just a good excuse to get out of work, eat a bunch of food and get ready for an extended weekend of shopping?

After attending your choice of religious service (you do attend?) and giving thanks to mysterious omnibus head of heaven and earth, pack the car with the kiddies and head to the agreed upon gathering spot where the festivities have already begun.

Note: Don’t forget to put a can of beans in the offering plate was passed around for tithing. The food bank will thank you.

Every family have their own traditions and process. I can just relate on my family as an example.

As soon as the cereal bowls are put away, the cooking begins. The kitchen was my mother’s office and an apron was her uniform. While my grandmother taught me how to break snaps and separate into paper bags, the preparation of the Thanksgiving meal was left to the ladies. Unlike the normal dinners with the leftover Downtown Club plates, the good China and silver were brought out to indicate some prestige to visitors. There was never any alcohol with the meal.

My mother was not a good cook. With all the appliances and utensils, the meat would be burnt, the potatoes dry, the bean bland and the deserts avoidable. Brought up in a time when the housewife was to rule the kitchen, she played the part but was not interested. Even toward the end, she would sit in the kitchen in apron watching a television, with a coffee urn and an ashtray.

In my family, we had the privilege to have the Thanksgiving meal prepared by the club. Turkey, Virginia Ham and Roast Beef were pre-sliced and wrapped in aluminum foil easy to reheat and serve on a silver platter. Creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, stuffing and pecan pie came wrapped and ready to put in one of our burnt pans to keep warm until placed between the silver candelabras in silver bowls and serving platters. There were even gherkin pickles.

The appetizer was shrimp cocktail (after the prayer for the meal presented by my father at the head of the table). My father would have raw oysters. The rest of the family thought they were gross without knowing they were fueling future amorous behavior. Sometimes the four of us would hold hands around the small table during the prayer, but the two boys were ready to split as soon as possible. Then, we’d all go back to our rooms (my mom to the kitchen and a pile of dirty dishes, my dad to a nap in front of a football game, and my brother and I would do whatever we could to avoid any other interaction with the family.

In larger houses, with more family and longer tables, another family would have similar rituals. The ladies (moms and aunties and grandmothers) would attend to the kitchen duties while the gentlemen retired to the leisure room to discuss news and business trends while smoking pipes or cigars and drinking brandy awaiting the call to the table for the prepared feast. There was no television, but the kids could entertain with charades or piano tunes.

Seating at a long table were assigned. We stood until everyone was there to be seated. This was where we exhibited our etiquette manners. At the head of the table was my uncle, the preacher. He’d stand and praises the thankfulness for this meal while we all bowed our heads in silent.

Then, the process of dissecting the bird (who had not been pardoned). My uncle would always ask my father if he would like to do the duty and my father would always cowling recline. Plates would be passed around the table to be served with the ingredients to indigestion. No one ate until all the plates had finished their rotation. A lightweight conversation was had as we all gorged ourselves on the abundance until my uncle stood and asked, “What are you thankful for?”. No one could leave the table until the question was answered by each and every participant to the holiday event. A short sermon finished the meal and before we bolted in all directions, we were asked to take our plates into the kitchen. Somehow in the confusion, the ladies had beat us to the kitchen to direct the placement of the piles of dirty dishes with the pots and pans. Everyone volunteered meekly to assist with the clean-up but were always shoed out of the way while the kitchen was returned to its proper pristine proportions with plenty of take-home leftovers wrapped as going away remembrance presents and to get rid of the trash. The gentlemen would retire to the parlor to read the newspaper or have a sip of sherry until the snoring started signaling the party was over.

As the yoots got older and could move up to the adult’s table, alcohol appeared. The volume and demeanor would change. One auntie would bring up how the food was not prepared right while shoveling down the free meal. An uncle, who should have been cut off before seating, would bring up politics or sports or something to irritate and start an argument. This is when we air our dirty laundry without considering our dirty dishes. Family gatherings can break down, but those are the stories remembered.

Some families appreciated the volunteers in the kitchen and would form an assembly line to clean, wipe, dry and put away the dirty dishes to make a chore into a laughing song feast and a lesson learned on sharing participation and gratification.

Then, I heard there was a machine called a ‘dishwasher’ that did all the messy work. I’d forgotten I even bought one of them in my old house. The kitchen there was tiny so this box rolled on wheels and had a hose that hooked up to the sink to work. It was always in the way and not big enough to handle large amounts, so multiple loads would require more work than hand washing.

Washing dirty dishes isn’t a difficult or physically straining chore. It can be a bit gross depending on how long the dish has sat with food bits rotting on it, but a quick splash of water can bring the brightness back. Sponges of all shapes and sizes and liquid lotions can be combined to quickly wipe off the remainder of dinner and placed in a rack to drip dry. Some may need to be soaked in the sink, the way you do in the bathtub, to soften the grunge to be scraped off until the next meal. The process is just a necessary if you wish to entertain. Don’t get me started about polishing the silver.

Being the day of giving thanks, I woke up this morning to the sunshine with no aches or pains. Thanks. I had my morning breakfast with no surprises or construction noise. Thanks. The studio is warm enough to enjoy the news of the world without expecting unexpected guest to arrive and disrupt the peace and quiet. Thanks. The critter crewe got plenty of grub (no turkey) and frolicked with wild abandon entertaining without a charge. Thanks. The one-person feast was sliced turkey, wild rice and gravy (couldn’t find cranberry sauce?) and while not as appetizing as I remember, it will fill the need for nutrition. Thanks. All served, devoured and disposed of on paper plates. Thanks.

There is lots to be ‘thankful’ for, but not for everyone. I’m thankful I’m not them (yet).

Rude

If you like to see people being rude? You’ve come to the right place. Forms of rudeness include behaving in ways that are inconsiderate, insensitive, deliberately offensive, impolite, obscene, or that violate taboos.

Just an observation but we, as a species, do like this foolishness. We must by all the rude videos posted on social media. We set off fireworks, raise the volume, observe from a far, avoid contact, butt-in-line and otherwise be disruptive to a quiet, normal day.

For whatever reason, from privilege to mentally challenge, some of us ‘say’ and ‘do’ things that can be disturbing or in some cases threatening to life and limb. If the behavior is fuel by some alternating substance or mob mentality, it can go off the deep end. When an event occurs, we avoid getting involved (but we will now take videos of the action with no narrative). The rudeness will be the laughter observations at the next gathering, unless it personally included YOU.

We’ve all said or have done something we later regret. Sometimes there are takebacks to eliminate your guilt. Sometimes memory might fade (unless provided as social media entertainment). If dwelling on them, you’ll be dragged down on the time you were uncouth without forgiveness or remorse.

Like Pavlov’s dog, we will learn from continuous viewing of rude behavior that it is acceptable to blow up and have a tantrum over the loss of the penny. Monkey see, monkey do.

With the holidays approaching and the planning for family gatherings, there will be rude statements and behavior. Intentional or just a word from people you have not seen in years, what is now acceptable was once considered inappropriate. One can mind-their-manners or just keep your mouth closed. Silence is golden. Speech is silver.

Please use “Beg your pardon” if you do something rude.

 

Guidance Counselor

 

As I recall, these were the individuals who were to guide you through your public schooling. A guidance counselor is a professional who helps students with academic planning, career exploration, and social-emotional support in schools and colleges. They assist students with choosing classes, applying to college, and developing future goals, while also providing support for personal challenges and ensuring students have the resources they need to succeed.

The parent/teacher conference was to give observations of their child(ren) in a class of 20 kids who sat quietly all day with being instructed by one woman on various subjects of history, science, arithmetic, reading and writing with a dabbling in art and music until the days break for lunch or recess were taken as we all lined up following instructions. Discipline issues usually meant pointing out the offender to shame in front of the other classmates or in extreme disruption sent to the principal office for punishment.

The teacher would go over the report cards sent out quarterly for the parents to review and sign (unless you knew how to duplicate a signature with artistic skills) and suggest the home assist in homework. They judge the child on attendance, behavior, social interaction, health and psychology (though not trained in either). How well do you know your kid?

The public school system is based on scores. If you earn enough passing on grades from the teacher, you moved onto the next grade. If not, you were held back to repeat until you learned your lessons. Most think that elementary, middle school and high school were the criteria for gaining a diploma, but college or institutions of higher learning were also based on numbers.

After elementary school, the system assumed a student could read and write and understand basic theories and expanded the lessons to more complex reading and changing rooms for each subject. This is when the guidance counselor took a role instead of the teacher.

At this point in life, unless declared to follow a family business or follow the family plan to attend a specific university as a legacy, the counselor reviewed the grades and any comments on the student in a one-on-one interview. Similar to sitting with a priest or a doctor, the kids are asked,

“What do you want to do when you grow up?”

 

This is where the ‘guidance’ comes in.

With all the data accumulated through the years in the public educational system and all the opinions, thoughts and observations by a continuous list of instructors, the counselor will choose classes and recommend additional school activities leading the child’s interest while still covering the basic requirements to achieve a piece of paper at the end of term.

Here is where your future career is decided.

 

Some may be directed toward more prominent private schools for the prestige. Some may take advance classes for college prep while others just want a graduation and get out of the mundane boredom of classwork. Some may be forwarded to trade schools that requires more physical than mental knowledge.

The guidance counselor may also point outside activities, clubs, teams and any other social interaction will be appropriate in groups. Networking to the extreme of not ‘what’ you know, it is ‘who’ you know becomes much more prominent in your evaluation. This is the time when ‘puberty’ hits. There is no idea of ‘what you want to do for the rest of your life, when all you want is that girl’s phone number’.

If you make it through the potholes and detours and flash cards and reading ‘Les Misérables’ and regurgitation of the national anthem. There was detention, fire drills, lunch lines, gym (where you can see all the other boys naked and learn popping towels for harassment), assemblies in the auditorium, pep rally on the basketball court and the prom.

Being an alumnus of the ‘US Education System’, I guess I learned something. The guidance counsel did notice the interest in doodling to add artsy stuff to my class listings. Civics, philosophy, calculus, linear algebra were not on the card that would have produced an F, but neither were monetary management, family expense, Big Ticket items, investments and (the most important that no one else will discuss) sex education.

Most of life are our own decisions to solve a conflict or find a new path. Some say that is growing up?

Then the next generation expects you to become their guidance counselor? Being a provider is to say you will be the mentor, instructor, nurse, bank and some old geezer who sleeps in the rocker and tells tales that might inform the children of the possibilities experienced and the mystery to come.

No one can predict the future, just try to guide you into the right direction.

Nirvana from Nevada

 

One wonders the ease of delivery.

Where do I begin?

I know a guy who knows a guy and some how wound up on the other side of life (again).

Add to cart, scan ID required, too much info on the credit card(?), and wait for delivery.

And wait delivery….

And wait delivery….

After a reminder through the reoccurring e-mails of offers, a bag was thrown in the front yard with an obsolete text of delivery.

But what about the smell?

 

·     Note to those who do not know what I’m discussing here, may have well turn the page.

 

There was the conventional sealed packaging for small loads. This is the overwrap for address and scan codes. You know them. They fill your recycling bins every week.

A bundle of two packages (samples of different products) and some promotional verbiage disqualifying from any legal questionable of those accepted by the general public.

Planning a time to sample each separately to diagnosis the results. Should probably check the credit card site to see if they paid in advance?

Edibles are not familiar to me. Candy I never enjoyed as a youth, but I’ll let it dissolve and see what happens. Life is an adventure; enjoy the ride.

Gummies #1 was not impressive. Tasted fine going down, but after a couple of hours, no seemed different from the hydration of the silver bullets? I’ve got some more to test another day.

Today, I decided to puff one of their pre-rolled refreshment inducers, and in the mist of smoke….

 

OH YEAH!

MOTHER MARY AND JOSEPH!

 

Coughing through the forgotten technique, the cloud cleared and just required more hydration. And then…

The lighting is changing. The sound on the radio is louder.

Another puff or two and put the ashtray away. How strong is this? It’s a test run.

Standing, walking, turning is much slower and awkward. Like stumbling along like Grampa on the “Real McCoy’s”. Move gingerly to a mechanical task of opening a can of peanuts as repeated more than one wants to count.

Once accepting this new environment, I turn back to 2025 technology that brought me here.

Do the screens look brighter? Does that arrow thing move when I push this thing on a cord around? Can I maintain hand/eye coordination?

Scrolling becomes boring quicker. Thus, I’m back writing this.

Yes, this IS the expected reaction to an ancient ritual. Through the ancient years, there were the $5 bags passed by friends or strangers. The usage became a habit after a stressful day of designing a space on a printed page, to influence you to buy it.

Unfortunately, the sources became rarer and pure product was being contaminated by foreign substances that promised outrageous experiences while enticing more frequent use. While others moved on more powerful adjustment to life, I depended on my opportunity will present a possible promise of Nirvana.

Fully aware, our beings, after finding and devouring nutrition productions to shove in our face and hope it comes out the other end. Amazingly, I did not crave for munchies. Still, in an adventurous spirit, I strove back into the ‘food’ room. This room isn’t rarely frequented, but a pass-through to the outdoors. I am to face fire.

Bricking off a slab of frozen deceased bovine. I slammed what was going to be the meal of the day of hot steaming grease left over from another meal. Keeping a lid on so the splatters wouldn’t catch the place on fire, I put away my days adventures until it continues. Nothing real tasty, but is necessary to fuel the system, it is pleasant to not feel bloated or gaseous.

After an evening of clensing the palate, the decision is made to try again? Opening the door to the studio smells like the crash pad on Virginal Ave in Williamsburg. The smoke doesn’t dissipate, it clings to you.

Not as startling as yesterday, but the dazed and confused returns.

Tomorrow is a rain day. A good day to group and reassess what has just happened. The Colorado waters will still keep me hydrated but the smoke will clear.

This was just an experiment to see if it would work. Now I know.

Sweet Dreams