Time in a bottle.

If one can pretend that time is an illusion, then perhaps an interesting question might be…..”What (then) is the ultimate result of evolution” (yes, I know that this sentence contains three references to time). If the inquisitive soul who posed that inquiry wanted more information and added to the mix, the supposition that all matter is permanently endowed with memory, then what?

Ask around.

Personal Quirks and Fancies (part one of Robbie)

This captive child, missed by no-one,  caught his last glimpse of sunlight six months before his third birthday. Unable, to have ever seen his captor he had two unassailable weapons. One was his faith; the other his uncanny knack for research. From whence came this belief in Life, Love or Eternal Strength was not obvious, even to the most inquisitive; his parents were not in the habit of talking about spiritual matters. They did not pray before meals or utter brief homilies of “Thank God” as was the expression in those days whenever Fate smiled and chased the Clouds away.

But he seemed dauntless; it was as though he had not yet been introduced to Fear. That’s what I mean by faith; He appeared to rely on no-one. If a surprise event arose in his young life for which he had no solution, he simply stopped everything, focused inward and began to use his limited knowledge of related events and he thought; and he thought. And soon, at the slightest appearance of a possible solution he would spring into action, his spontaneity revealing a sharp contrast in personal quirks and fancies and within minutes, conditions would begin to change.

He was soon to learn a new skill; He would find it absolutely necessary to learn how to exercise patience. Given more choices he would surely have chosen any other; he was an impetuous lad.

Patience to Young Robbie meant spending whatever few minutes were required to discover a method for solving each new problem soon after its arrival. This newest challenge however, would require more than a minute or two; much more than a minute or two. Or three.

Today was June 12. The year was 1945.  This was Robbie’s sixth birthday. He had been living with the aforementioned problem for over half his life. Though Robbie was being held captive, his conditions supported his inquisitive mind. He never saw his captor. A maid brought his meals, his quarters supplied him with all the amenities of a comfortable studio apartment with a library and a radio, writing implements and a tutor whose job it was to encourage Robbie in the skills of research and who brought the morning paper. Leon was his tutor’s name. Leon’s daily instructions for Robbie were limited to the most basic fundamentals of phonics and were occasionally sprinkled with German and Yiddish. On the round-topped dining table inlaid with parquetry, where Robbie was eating the blueberry pancakes brought to him a few minutes earlier by Maid Greta, there was now a newspaper and a birthday cake with six candles. There was no gift sitting there with a big bow. There was no Birthday card, no birthday greeting leaving the lips of either caretaker.

The Dallas Morning News front page banner bore headlines encouraging the readers to update their knowledge of the economic and social changes taking place in America as soldiers who had left home as little more than teenagers were returning now as men who had lost their naiveté on the killing fields of Europe and of the Pacific.

Robbie wondered what it would be like to endure the dangers of war.

He toyed with some of his ideas for escape, mentally checking his inventory of clues to the identity of his captor or captors. His hearing was sharp and had increased its acuity over the years as he listened to the sounds outside his door. Sounds which two years ago were muffled bits of rubbish were now as distinct as the sound of “Call for Philip Morris” shouted by the bellhop on the Sunday radio commercial sponsoring the Jack Benny Show on NBC Radio,

Every day he could hear the instructions coming from a male voice. By now he believed the owner of this voice to be in his mid-Thirties, at least six feet tall, a native of Germany and that the studio in which he lived took but a fraction of the floor-space contained in this three-story building. Naturally it was reasonable to assume that there was probably a large household staff in spite of an absence of hard evidence attesting to that possibility.

Every day Robbie planned his escape. This would be the year. This would be the month. Today was not the day, but soon…….

By Lee Broom

Accept The Love and Pass It On.

So I ask you.

Is there a power greater than Love?

What is it? What is its Purpose?

Is there  a name for it?

Can you describe Love?

Where can Love be found?

How can we control it? Create it? Find it? Enjoy it?

Since Love is by definition completely free of desire and intention of personal gain and since all behavior results from desire and intention (personal gain), how can this be possible?

Many of those I have assisted in substance abuse recovery have asked me questions like this. And many still do. Some resent any reference to God.

Some view their Higher Power as Love. Some say Purpose. Many in fact, believe that they would be shirking responsibility toward their families and communities by dumping all responsibility for their lives and those of their friends and families on this Higher Power. There is no reason according to some, to stretch the meaning of the word, “Power”  by adding a face that no one can see or to describe this Higher Power as having the ability to Will anything into creation or to remove it.

To some, The Ultimate Power is at the same time, The Creator and The Inheritor of All. Some believe that time does not exist, nor distance, nor space. These are the scientists and mathematicians and astronomers, many of whom would rather not be labeled as Atheist, Agnostic, Christian, Jew or Moslem. These people are interested in Truth but realize that Truth is a concept as fleeting and as hard to define as Love.  If recovery is to be succesful,  these arguments must be set aside. One thing seems to come from the lips of all recovering substance abusers who share their message with others: that common message is that we survived and healed with the Love of an unseen source and that of our brother and sisters in sobriety. A friend of mine, an ordained priest, said that if more were known, one might be inclined to believe that the differences in beliefs of the atheist, the agnostic, the Christian, the Jews, Muslims and Hindus would amount to little more than a semantic fandango.  One thing is very clear. In order to heal, we must surrender management of our future to a Power with a greater Past. What greater resume than a record of the past, present and future?

Again, I ask you.

Is there a power greater than Love?

What is it? What is its Purpose?

Is there a name for it?

Can you describe Love?

Where can Love be found?

How can we control it? Create it? Find it? Enjoy it?

Ask around.

Replacing Form with Formlessness.

For those of you who have followed this blog for any length of time, you may have noticed that whether I write in prose or poetry, a one-act play or an essay, funny, sad or serious, my central theme is to think before we act; reason before we take a stand; look before we leap.

Popularity or preconceived notions threaten to influence every important issue with which we are confronted. The insidiousness of group insanity lurks in all of society, hiding in the shadows and threatening daily to destroy us from within.

Journalists who have the enormous responsibility of following the principles of objective reporting, often bow to the power of popular opinion and in so doing are gradually being replaced by anyone with a keyboard and an internet connection.

The power of organized crime polarized America in the Twenties, coming at a time of extreme vulnerability; gangs were formed, people died. Violence became a norm of societal behavior. The streets were filled with those clamoring for work, food, or a cot for the night. And we are there again. The symptoms are with us daily; lynch mob mentality is on the rise. Demands for safety supersede the dream of the fruits of a free society.

Do not allow this kind of fear based mentality to destroy you or your family.

And speaking of family, we, in America have been a light to the rest of the world declaring to all who would listen, that we are all family. Do not allow hate to fill your hearts. The exceptions to the rule are in the spotlight. The squeaky wheel has been replaced by the roar of protest, goaded by those whose egos-needs will never be satiated.

Be safe. Think. Look for TRUTH. When tempted to PROVE a point, DON’T. When in the presence of angry words, LISTEN to the pain. Do NOT argue.

Thanks for stopping by. Lee.

Bubble Wrap

I think that I’m a young man in an old body.

No, I guess that’s not a true statement; I am an old man, yes I am.

But now that I have discovered  timelessness, I feel like a young man. Actually, I feel younger than I did when I was really, really young. So yeah, back to my original statement I am just beginning to understand what it is like to be young. When I was two, I discovered roly-polys and baby chicks  (or was that later).

When I was four years of age Mother taught me about phonics and I discovered reading. When I was eleven I discovered what that strange, lighted-headed feeling was that I sometimes got when I was scooting across the tree limb high up in my mulberry haven, that towering bower that had been my second home for half my young life.

I’m still learning. I’m still reading. (I haven’t scooted around on tree limbs lately, but I’m going to Tuscon Friday, for a seminar. Perhaps I’ll find a mulberry tree there.)

Occasionally I memorize a thing or two; but really, there is so much to know and memorization is rarely adorned with the gift of understanding. I do want to comprehend the stuff that goes into my head, don’t you?

What have you learned this week?

Put it in the comment box, if you like. Go ahead, its okay.

Thanks for stopping by. Oh, I feel a poem coming on. Let’s see what it is.

Bubble Wrap

 

Wrapped; trapped in bubble wrap

Floating to the sky

Much too high

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Bubble Wrap by Lee Broom. (I wonder what that was about.)

Another Toad Licker From the Big Hazy

I heard from Bill again, last night. He and Sadie seem to be at the end of  whatever it is they have had together for nearly twenty years. They had another shout-out it seems. And he’s feeling guilty as usual. But something is very different, he told me. For the second time in nearly two decades he noticed something about Sadie he had never known before. Both times he was out of control with rage unlike anything that they had ever shared together. On each of those occasions, when any sane woman (his words) would have been scared out of their wits, Sadie was gloating and her demeanor was absolutely sadistic. he said she had a gleam in her eye and a smile on her lips

“She’s nuts and she really wants to hurt me. What do I do.” Well, I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him what to do but I did mention that he was describing sociopathic behavior, that this kind of behavior permitted sadness but not guilt, loss but not grief and that he himself, was so narcissistic that he was easily manipulated with compliments. And “speaking of ‘nuts’ ” I asked “what do you call screaming and beating your chest like a gorilla from the proverbial mist”. And that’s when he mentioned that he used to be aware of the fact that she bombarded him with flattery but that he had succumbed to believing it all and had actually come to expect it.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m gonna go lick a  toad”. said Bill and he hit the disconnect button on his cell phone. He told me he’d call back today but so far he has not.