Monday, December 6, 2010

Give a man a fish?

The old, old debate continues – how much help ought we to give people using tax money? The current variation on the debate is the unemployment benefits question. On the radio today, someone said we shouldn’t extend benefits any further because “If someone will come to your house every day and give you fish, you have no incentive to go out and catch your own fish. But if the only way for you to get fish is by getting it yourself, you’ll find a way. Even if it means learning new ways to fish – if fishhooks aren’t working, you’ll make a spear, or a net.”
That analogy is all right, as far as it goes. But, the reality is that unemployment is not enough money to make it more attractive than employment. Sure, we’re giving the man a fish, but it’s a minnow. He can’t live on minnows. The point of the minnow is to keep him alive long enough to go catch a salmon, or maybe he can use the minnow as bait for the salmon. If we have a minnow to spare, we should give the guy a damn fish so he'll eat for today.
The real problem is, we as a society are out of minnows. We don’t even have enough to sustain the people who are incapable of fishing – the people whose physical, cognitive, or mental health disabilities render them unable to go out and get a job that pays enough to support them. We haven’t got enough minnows to feed them, or to pay the people who bring them minnows. So we REALLY don’t have enough minnows for the people who could fish for themselves. Certainly not for over 10% of the population, for over two years per person.
Ordinarily, I lean hard Left on these issues. But to my own surprise, I’m thinking the Right has a point for once. I don’t agree that the people who are unemployed are lazy, or don’t want to work. Everyone with half a brain cell would rather catch salmon than wait for someone else to bring them a minnow. If they need a minnow to sustain them while they fish for salmon, I’d like to be able to offer them one - as well as a new rod, a tackle box, and some fishing lessons. But, as the Right points out, we’re out of minnows. So, I’d like us to save the few minnows we have for those people who need them most.
Mind you, if (God forbid) my own job goes away and I find the fish aren’t biting, I may feel differently about the question. But regardless of how I feel, it will still be true that we ought to give the minnows to those who can’t fish, first. The ones who can fish may need to find different streams or learn different fishing styles. But the ones who can’t fish need the minnows to live.

© John M. Munzer

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Halloween

I've got mixed feelings about this holiday. I no longer belong to the conservative church I grew up in, which taught that this holiday is evil and should not be celebrated by Christians... but I'm still a bit uneasy with the whole thing, because they do have a point. This IS a holiday about darkness, about fear, about evil and death. It DOES have its roots in pagan rituals of human sacrifice, in peasant superstitions about how to ward off goblins and witches, in people so terrified of the devil that they hoped to keep him from hurting them by offering other victims in their place.

And yet... that's the point, isn't it? Just as the pagan symbols of flaming trees and Astarte's eggs are important to Christmas and Easter, the symbols of evil and death are important to All Hallow's Eve. Before we truly understand the importance of Light, we must understand what it is to be in darkness.

What do the symbols really mean? In the days when people believed that ghosts, witches, goblins, werewolves, vampires, devils, were not only real but also walking the earth devouring people, the Church saw an opportunity to show that darkness is always overcome by Light.

Dress up once a year as all the things that you most fear, said the Church. Be an undead monster, be a demon, be Death itself, on the first day of winter, the season of death. Have your children make a game of it, and go from house to house demanding treats as the druids once went demanding victims, or as brigands went demanding money. Put out the Jack o' lanterns that used to mean the druids had taken a victim from the house. Fully experience all that is horrifying about life and death. Remember your fear of the dark, your fear of death and Hell, your fear of the things you and your fellow men are capable of doing to each other, your fear of all that is evil. Remember your fear of the worst evil that is in you, and your fear that it's stronger than the part of you that is good.

And then come to church for the feast of All Hallows. Come to where there is light, and warmth, and the company of family and friends. Come to the holy place. Come and remember those who have died, and are in Heaven, more alive now than we are. Come and remember that evil and death do not have the last word, but will disappear and be only a memory in the life everlasting.

Disney's Fantasia, of all things, captures what Halloween is really about. After "Night on Bald Mountain", in which the Reaper dances with the dead, the witches cackle, the mountain-sized Satan roars in power and revels in obscene glee - all cringe and melt away at the first touch of light, and with the dawn comes the clergy singing Ave Maria.

For darkness has no power except fear, and no power at all against Light.

Once a year, it's good to remember that.

Copyright John M. Munzer

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Reminiscing

June 1st, 1995
An old song, a familiar lost smell that brings such longing you have to reach back.
Things half-remembered, good and bad, come back from Then and are Now again – first hazy, then wonderfully or terribly clear and real, depending on what happened and on the choices you made. But either way there’s a pang of regret that you can’t bring it back – either to do the things you left undone, or to feel and do and be what you felt and did and were back then.
A sweet moment you want to catch and hold forever, an old scar exploding into fresh pain (and still bleeding); the Book that tastes like honey in the mouth but is bitter to the stomach; remembering only now all you should have done but didn’t, all you shouldn’t have done but did, and how much you miss her, and how you lost that chance to change his life for the better; and where did all the time go? Why didn’t you spend more of it on the things that mattered?
“Why didn’t I”s and “It might have been”s tumble over “I remember when”s and “Wasn’t that beautiful?” That time of perfect harmony with a friend you never talk to anymore; that bitter hatred you held Then against your best friend Now; no excuses because it’s been so long you don’t need them anymore, only the plain truth as it was and never can be again.
You close the Book, having had too much honey-and-gall; you think maybe you’ll go call that person but you really know better; you know an hour of Now will wipe away an eternity of Then, and you’ll forget all over again until the next time the Book calls to you from the shelf, to be opened and lived again as it opens you and reminds you once more that your life is short and daily growing shorter, that there’s no room for false pretences and no time for hesitating. The wheel turns on, with neither pity nor malice, but it will not wait.

© John M. Munzer

Friday, July 16, 2010

Oops, we did it again

(Time to find another sweet, fresh-faced kid to destroy)

A parent of an 8-year-old girl just showed me the video that turned her and her kid off from Miley Ray Cyrus. Apparently, she REALLY wants the world to know she’s 18 now. When other kids turn 18 and declare their independence from their parents and their right to be sexual beings, they aren’t doing so on national media. But Miley Ray’s entire life has been on national media, so naturally she knows no other way to take this step except by dressing like a dominatrix and writhing in a birdcage.

Of course, the obvious parallels are getting drawn to Britney, Lindsay, and all the other sweet kid stars who grew up and decided to break their “wholesome” image as hard as they could. And of course, everyone says how sad that their kids’ heroine is going slutty now and is no longer a positive role model.

What we ought to realize, though, is this:

IT’S OUR DAMN FAULT.

We’ve always known that kids do not have good impulse control – that’s why they have parents. We’ve always known that money and fame can turn even responsible, fully-developed adults into irresponsible adolescents. And we’ve known for decades how particularly toxic the life of a child star is to that child. Before the teenage girls started doing it, Michael Jackson’s sad life was more than enough proof that a kid who grows up being a star, never actually gets to grow up. And we knew in advance that there was no way these kids would be capable of understanding and carrying the responsibility of being good role models, because they were too young.

BUT WE KEPT BUYING THEIR CD’S AND VIDEOS FOR OUR KIDS.

If there was no money to be made in exploiting cute kids and attractive (but immature) young adults, then Ms. Lohan might not be in court right now. Ms. Spears might not have hurt her kids. The Olsen girl might not have become anorexic. Michael might still be alive and making good music, and might not have become an addict and a pedophile. And Miley might be working to become an actual musician, instead of a soft-core porn star.

BUT WE KEPT BUYING THE DAMN CD’S.

If you don’t want your kids to have disappointing role models, and don’t want kids like Miley to grow up and become adults like Britney, then STOP BUYING THE DAMN CD’S. If you let these kids be exploited when they’re 12, they’ll start exploiting themselves when they’re 18. Point your kids in the direction of role models who are actually worth emulating – people who have talents besides cuteness. Spend time doing stuff with your kids instead of letting them watch the fucking Disney Channel. Cut off the money that feeds the problem, and the problem will end.

America:
We made them.
We destroyed them.
Shame on us.

© John M. Munzer

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Growing up

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a grown-up. Co-workers have told me about their teenage kids who want to go out when they like, stay up all night, have all the privileges of being adults without having to worry about things like who’s paying for the fun times and who’s up late wondering where they are. I’ve had clients at work who tell me that their rules and limits are bullshit, they’re adults and they should get to do what they want. And, now that I’m a father, I’m thinking a lot about what it will be like to deal with my own child going through the stages of wanting more freedom and less responsibility than she’s ready for. And I’ve been thinking about whether I myself have “arrived” as a grown-up.

I think it all comes down to this: When we’re kids, we think “When I’m a grown-up, I can do what I want”. But we only really grow up when we stop doing what we like, and start doing what we ought.

When I was in college staying up all night to hang out with friends instead of doing homework, I was an adult; but I wasn’t yet a grown-up. When I was on my own charging restaurant meals and electronic toys I couldn’t afford, I was an adult; but I wasn’t yet a grown-up. When I was just starting to work in a group home for kids and I yelled back when they yelled at me, I was an adult; but I wasn’t yet a grown-up.

Being a grown-up means that I have the right to stay up all night partying, but choose instead to go to bed, then get up and go to work. Being a grown-up means staying calm and respectful, even when people are angry and disrespectful towards me. Being a grown-up means seeing past what people say and how they say it, seeing instead what they NEED, and offering them a better way to get it. Being a grown-up means that I choose to do the right thing, regardless of what anyone else is choosing. Being a grown-up means knowing when to be flexible and when to stand firm. Being a grown-up means doing for others as I’d want them to do for me, but refusing to do for others what they ought to do for themselves. Being a grown-up means being sick and STILL going to work, then coming home to take care of a sick wife and baby. Being a grown-up means being angry, scared, tired, uncertain, and STILL using self-control.

Being a grown-up is HARD.

But when I was a kid who couldn’t wait to be a grown-up, I was right about one thing:

The only way to be in control of my own life is to be a grown-up.

The only way I can keep others from controlling me is to have self-control. The only way I can have control of my finances is to only buy what I can afford. The only way I get to keep the privileges, rights, and freedoms of being a grown-up is to carry the responsibilities.

On this, my first Father’s Day, I hope I’m finally grown-up enough to help my child become a grown-up.

© John M. Munzer

Monday, May 17, 2010

Behind those eyes

As I hold my baby daughter, singing to her, and we look long and hard into each other's eyes, I'm sure we both have the same thought:

"Behind those eyes, something is happening that is too big for me to understand."

© John M. Munzer

Thursday, April 15, 2010

The Three Great Questions

WHAT do I long for?
WHY can't I say?
And HOW does she manage to know anyway?


© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Armageddon Virus

There was once a world very like ours, in which people were rapidly becoming utterly dependent upon computers. One mad genius decided it was time to destroy all the computers, demolish the present society, and start over. So he programmed an indestructible self-replicating virus that would read a program’s binary code, then reverse all the ones and zeros. His diabolical scheme (which had little to do with science, and a lot to do with his not taking his medication) was that this should turn it into the opposite program, bringing chaos and anarchy. BWA-HA-HA-HAAA!!!

As soon as the programmer finished and hit Enter, the virus attacked the first computer it could find – the one where it was created and stored. Against all reason, the theory worked: the program reversed itself and turned into the opposite program. It became an indestructible self-replicating repair program, and was in every computer in the world overnight. It repaired all the bugs that the computer companies had so carefully placed in each computer to ensure that people would have to get a new one every year. No one ever bought a new computer again. The economy, which was dependent on people buying new computers every year, collapsed, bringing chaos and anarchy. BWA-HA-HA-HAAA!!!

© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Fashion Police, arrest those boys! - or, dammit, I must be getting old

So, these new pants that I've seen on some teenage boys ... the ones that are skin-tight from ankle to crotch, but the crotch is slung about a foot too low... I noticed these today and thought, WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! It combines the worst of the skin-tight look from the 80's, with the worst of the pants-on-the-ground look from the 90's (both of which, I'm ashamed to say, I did wear at times during those decades). It looks exactly like the guy is wearing a full diaper, under sweatpants two sizes too small for him. Trust me, I know; I've spent the last ten years changing diapers for a living, and pants that look like that always mean half a container of wipes will be needed.
Who the hell saw that at a fashion show and said to himself, "God, yes, I'll be SO hot in the I-outgrew-them-then-shat-them look"? What designer thought this would sell? And why, against all reason, are they selling?
Then I thought, I must be getting old. Only been a daddy four months today, and already I'm practicing the "kids these days" and "what the hell are you wearing?" speeches in my head.
And then I thought, dear God, I can just about reconcile myself to the fact that my daughter will someday find teenage boys attractive (as horrifying as that is, I can accept it as inevitable). But please, please tell me she won't find them attractive IN THOSE PANTS. Please tell me that, if she turns to her friends and says "Damn, I'd love to tear those pants off him", the next words out of her mouth will be "so I can burn them. Preferably on consecrated ground, so that their evil can be thoroughly purged, and will defile the living world no more." Because, if this is a world in which people actually think those pants look good, I'm not sure I want to raise a child here. Can I book a flight on the earliest colony ship to Mars? At least no one will expect spacesuits to be considered attractive. I hope.
So, maybe I'm getting old. Old enough to realize that my parents were right about spiked hair, mullets, and phat pants; and THEIR parents were right about bellbotttoms and polyester disco suits. Old enough to understand a truth that holds even in such a trivial, meaningless thing as fashion: Just because an idea is new, doesn't mean it's good. Just because it hasn't been tried before, doesn't necessarily mean it should be tried now.


© John M. Munzer

Thursday, March 18, 2010

On the True Nature of Cats

Thanks to Jurassic Park, everyone is now aware of chaos theory and the so-called “Butterfly Effect” – the idea that apparently unconnected events can really be in a cause-and-effect relationship to each other; the idea that everything in the universe is so deeply intertwined that the air currents from the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can lead to a Goldbergian series of events which culminates in a thunderstorm in China.
Cats have known this for millions of years; and they also can instinctively see how it works. They see lines of probability in the air, as clearly as we see grass and trees and buildings. And they know how to manipulate the Butterfly Effect to their advantage. A lot of their apparently pointless behavior is really a manifestation of this innate ability to look at a situation, do the insanely complicated math to figure out what particular movement needs to happen in order to get a result they want, and then make that movement happen.
So when a cat suddenly and inexplicably sprints from one room to another, stops short, and meows, it’s not random. She is making air currents move, setting in motion a series of events; and the fact that you will jump in surprise has been figured into her calculations. This is why cats always investigate any new objects in the house so carefully. They need to figure out how the object will change the air currents in the room, so they can recalibrate their movements accordingly. This is also why cats get so very angry when they’re held at a time when they don’t want to be held. We’re preventing them from doing the necessary movements at the right time.
People have always had a vague idea that cats had some inexplicable power. The ancient Egyptians revered their cats as gods, and pampered and prayed to them in hopes that they would make sure the Nile flooded each year, but not TOO much flooding, please. Medieval Europeans noticed some of the odd things that were happening, and had the vague idea that cats were to blame, so they burned many cats as witches – as well as many old ladies who had lots of cats, because that looked like aiding and abetting. We’ve suspected, but we’ve never seen the whole picture because we didn’t know about the Butterfly Effect.
So, exactly what changes will the cat make by manipulating the Butterfly Effect? Usually, what she’s doing is changing the weather so she can have a sunbeam to lie in when she wants one. This is the real reason cats fight each other so viciously – it’s nothing to do with mating or territory, they’re fighting over who gets the next sunbeam.
But sometimes, it’s much more intricate than that. The evolution of man is the direct result of the coordinated efforts of billions of cats over millions of years. Humans developed intelligence because CATS ARE LAZY. The saber-toothed tigers of prehistoric days were tired of running after things and eating them raw. That was interfering with some prime sunbathing time, and also not very tasty. They could have decided to evolve hands, so they could make fire for cooking, tend livestock, make fishing poles, build factories, etc. But it all would have made so much work that it wasn’t worth it. Instead, they carefully orchestrated events so the right electrons would strike the right parts of the brains of the right monkeys at the right time… and one day a monkey thought, “I’d like to move out of the trees, get a nice cave in the suburbs, develop thought, language, and culture, and maybe someday my descendants will build a cat food factory. I wonder what that is?” Each phase in human progress, from the discovery of fire to the Industrial Revolution, was initiated by this sort of thing. (Ever notice how many great inventors had cats? NOT a coincidence.) The cats also evolved smaller teeth and bodies, so we would find them endearing and take them into our nice warm houses, feed them, clean up their poop, and never ask anything in return except that they sit there being cute. As far as the cats are concerned, the world is now perfect.
They do some basic maintenance, like making sure no comets make a direct hit on the earth and form dust clouds that block out the sun. (The last one was their idea, because it forced humans to look for ways to keep warm and discover fire. But that phase of the plan is now past.) For the same reason, they have ensured that no nuclear wars have started. They have triggered series of events to make sure an electron always hits the right part of the right brain to make someone think, “Wait, I can’t push the Big Red Button! If I did that, there’d be nuclear winter and my cat wouldn’t have any sunbeams to lie in. I wonder why I thought of my cat just now?”
But for the most part, the cats are free to lie around in sunbeams all day and wait for the delightful sound of the can opener. Heaven knows they’ve earned it.


© John M. Munzer

Thursday, March 11, 2010

It's about the journey

I like words. I like playing with them, I like learning about them, and I occasionally enjoy finding out where they come from. One word whose origin I've learned about is "righteous". It occurred to me that it could have originally been pronounced "right-wise" (and looking it up quickly on a site about etymology, that idea appears to be confirmed.) As "clock-wise" means "going the way the clock goes", "right-wise" means "going the right way".

That's a comforting thought. It means that we don't need to have arrived, to already be perfect, in order to be righteous. All we need do is keep moving, however slowly, in the right direction. Right-wiseness is about the journey.


© John M. Munzer

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Chasing Rainbows, Conclusion

A week later, Seamus was trying to think of something to do that didn’t involve spending money, since he had by now found out that he’d been tricked, and he couldn’t go back and find the leprechaun because there hadn’t been any rain or rainbows all week. Seamus decided to go to the local museum. He was greeted by the curator, a short, wizened old man with a pipe and a name tag that said “Leth”. Seamus asked about it, and the old man replied, “I know it’s an unusual name. It’s short for Lethter. See, me mam wanted to name me Lester, but she had a lisp. So, Leth Brogan at your service” he bowed. “May I show you our newest exhibit? It’s very historically important, and our little museum’s extremely lucky to have it.” The curator showed Seamus into the one well-lit room in the building. There Seamus saw a display case made of bullet-proof glass two feet thick, holding a single tiny gold coin that looked very familiar. When he asked the curator, the old man replied, “Oh, that’s the rarest coin in the world. There don’t seem to be any others like it anywhere. It’s a Finn Mac Coul farthing, and dates back to before the time o’ King Arthur.”

“Such a little coin…” muttered Seamus. “Is it valuable?” he asked, beginning to get a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, sure it’s not for sale at any price,” replied the curator, wiping the display case with a rag, “but if someone was to find another, any collector would pay whatever was asked. Why, if you filled a cauldron the size of a bathtub with gold, it would be just enough to buy that little coin there.”

Seamus exploded, “He tricked me again, he tricked me again, next time there’s a rainbow I’ll kill him!” and stormed out of the museum. Mr. Leth Brogan followed Seamus to the front door and called after him, “Sir, wouldn’t you like to stay and see our collection of shoe buckles? It’s quite impressive…”, but Seamus kept running down the street.

The curator sat down, used the rag to shine the buckles on his shoes, mused aloud, “What an amazin’ly stupid man”, and was gone.

© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Chasing Rainbows, Part 3

Seamus, still gripping the coin tightly in case the leprechaun tried any tricks, found Sean’s car, and with a squeal of tires he was on the road back home. After a few miles, he noticed a building he hadn’t seen before, and slowed down to investigate. The sign said “Lou Corpan’s Little Shop O’ Wonder”, and it definitely had not been there yesterday. Curiosity overcame Seamus’ rage, and he parked the car and went inside.

The shop hadn’t been there yesterday, but it looked like one of those antique shops that’s been around even longer than its merchandise, with hardwood floors scuffed and worn with age, and nooks and crannies everywhere that had no apparent function. But the items on the display stands somehow gave the impression of being far older than the things you usually find in antique shops. For example, the shirt on the mannequin in front was a style that must have been a thousand years old. Yet the shirt gleamed white – seemed even to shimmer, as if generating its own light. The label on the stand read “St. Patrick’s Lorica – the genuine item!” There were swords, not the decorative swords you usually find in these places, but unadorned, heavy-looking things that were basically really BIG butcher’s knives. One in particular looked as if you could shave with it, if you didn’t mind the risk of shaving your head right off. And there was a heavy, black iron cauldron that caught Seamus’ attention – it looked like it might be the sort to hold a leprechaun’s hoarded gold. But as he approached, he suddenly felt very cold, and the thing seemed to hum with menace, so he backed away again, knocking over an iron coat rack as he did so. He spun around and tried, too late, to catch it, as it fell onto the specially sharp-looking sword – and as the two-inch-thick iron post touched the sword, there was a noise that sounded something like “sssrrik”, and the coat rack fell into two pieces, sliced through as neatly and easily as with a laser.

A moment after the crash, a short, bearded man came out of a back room looking around for the source of the noise. He pulled a pipe out of his mouth as he approached Seamus to greet him. The shopkeeper was dressed in old, shabby brown clothes, except for his shoes, which were new and had shiny buckles on them. In a deep, rolling baritone which was surprising from a man four feet tall, he waved off Seamus’ apologies and said,

“Welcome to my shop. I’m Lou Corpan, owner and operator. Don’t worry about the coat rack, it’s worthless, just junk to foist on the ignorant customers. But you, sir, you look like an intelligent lad, one who’d only be lookin’ for somethin’ worthwhile. Would you be interested in purchasing any of our rare and exotic items? I have here…” -and now the shopkeeper demonstrated each item as he named it, moving with dizzying speed- “a shirt that makes the wearer invulnerable” (so saying, he shot at the mannequin in front with a crossbow as big as Seamus, but the bolt shattered against the shimmering garment) “a harp that changes the seasons” (with a strum the sky outside suddenly turned gray with snow, and with another strum it was spring again), “a cauldron that can raise the dead” (pointing to the humming cauldron, but, Seamus noticed, not touching it), “oh, I wouldn’t touch that golden bowl if I were you, sir, it’ll put you to sleep for a thousand years” (Seamus hastily pulled his hand away from the tempting glint, and down went another coat rack with a “sssrrik”) “I see you’ve already found the sword that can cut anything in the world in half, don’t worry, I’ll clean that up later … there’s also a cloak that makes the wearer” (he whipped the cloak around himself and vanished suddenly, but his voice went on) invisible” whip, and the shopkeeper had reappeared, “A cap that lets you (here Lou stuck his head into an aquarium full of murky water and dark, wriggly, eel-like fish, and continued speaking without pause) “breathe underwater, and in here are the last snakes in Ireland since St. Patrick chased them away” (he tugged playfully on the tail of one of the eels, which snapped at him) “and good riddance too, and we have a rose that never withers, been here for ages, never even watered it, and all kinds of amazin’ things. What do you think, sir? As a special, since we’ve just opened and you’re our first customer, you can have anything you like, for just one coin, no matter how small.” So saying, Lou Corpan, owner and operator, seemed to notice that his head was still underwater, and pulled it out of the aquarium. When he removed the cap, his hair wasn’t even wet. “Oh, and I also sell shoes with lovely shiny buckles – make ‘em meself, right here, all sizes.”

“I want” said Seamus, decidedly, “an inexhaustible supply of money.”

“I have the very thing right here” replied Lou, snatching something from a display case. “A silver coin that returns to its owner after it’s spent. You go to the store, buy what you need, pay with the coin, and when you leave it’s back in your pocket and you can spend it somewhere else. I’ll trade you this coin for whatever money you have with you, just ‘cause you look like a hard-workin’ man who deserves a break.”

Seamus, of course, should have known better than to trust anyone who said he looked like a hard-working man, but he was still reeling from his disappointment with the rainbow, and agreed to the trade. As Seamus left the shop and drove away, Lou pulled a silver coin from his pocket and grinned, saying to himself, “O’ course, I am still the coin’s owner, the silly man never asked for a receipt, and disappeared, along with the shop.

(To be continued...)

© John M. Munzer

Monday, March 8, 2010

Chasing Rainbows, Part 2

It was the first idea Seamus O’Reilly had ever had. So naturally, he thought it was brilliant. It had come to him in a flash, as he looked out the window and saw the rainbow.

"The leprechaun's pot of gold at the end of the rainbow! Of course!" cried Seamus. "It's simple! You go to the end of the rainbow, catch the leprechaun, and he has to give you his pot of gold! I've seen the pictures in books, it's a cauldron the size of a bathtub filled with gold coins, worth a million dollars each!"

Seamus had been looking out the window of his run-down little shack, watching the rain fall, watching the roof leak, watching the two-foot weeds waving in the wind, watching the cat claw the furniture. But when he saw the rainbow, he knew he’d found the way to get enough money to pay someone to fix everything.

Seamus knew that he couldn't run fast enough to catch the rainbow (and anyway, running was too much work), so he borrowed his friend Sean's car, promising that when he got the gold, he'd buy Sean a new convertible. That is, he promised himself - Sean was out for a walk, and there wasn't time to find Sean and ask to use the car. But Seamus knew all would be forgiven once he bought Sean a convertible. Seamus floored the accelerator and drove East for all he was worth.

Now, most people know that you can't reach the end of the rainbow. It's an optical illusion, a trick played on the eyes by the light. You may as well try to walk into a movie screen and help the hero save the day. However, magic doesn't obey the rules of science. Science merely explains how things happen. Magic is when things that can't possibly happen, happen. Seamus didn't know anything about science, because he’d never bothered to learn. But he knew the rules of magic, and the rules said that you could get to the end of the rainbow, catch a leprechaun, and demand his gold. So because he didn't know he couldn't, Seamus actually arrived at the end of the rainbow.

The lucky dog.

It was beautiful, too. Imagine that light is a liquid instead of just light. Imagine that you could pour yourself a glass of red light, and drink it like water. Imagine that it tastes different than orange, yellow, green, blue, or purple light. Now imagine a waterfall made of liquid light, in searing bright colors. And now imagine standing under it.

It was beautiful, but Seamus never noticed, because he was looking for the leprechaun. He tried the green stripe first, because all the leprechauns he'd ever seen in pictures wore green, and so, thought Seamus, it must be their favorite color. If he'd thought a little harder, he would have realized that leprechauns wear green to blend into the grass so people like Seamus can't find them. Fortunately for Seamus, green WAS the favorite color of this particular leprechaun, and he did love to lie in it and rainbow-bathe (like sun-bathing, only green light doesn't burn you so badly, especially when you're a leprechaun). Seamus saw a man lying on the grass, no more than two feet tall. The little man lay snoring gently, eyes closed, pipe clamped between his teeth. His mouth seemed to be curled permanently into the smirk of a man who knows he’s the only one who got the joke, and is so pleased with himself that he doesn’t even mind that the joke was on him. The light glinted off the shiny buckles on his shoes. In a moment Seamus had grabbed the leprechaun by the back of the collar, lifted him off the ground, and was yelling "Gold! Give me your gold!"

"What? Who? Which?" piped a sleepy, startled little tenor voice.
"Oh, it's another of the Big People, is it? Right, then, put me down, close your eyes and hold out your hand, and I'll run home and get the gold for you. Can't have you watch while I run home, otherwise you'll know where I live and be poppin’ in at all hours, and I can't have that."

"I don't think so, little man" sneered Seamus. "I've read the stories, and I know the rules. If I take my eyes off you for even a second, you can disappear, and you won't have to give me anything. No, I have you, and you're going to tell me where the gold is, and I'm not going to let you go until I've got the pot of gold in my hand."

"Oh, you've heard that one, have you? I'll have to have words with me cousin for lettin’ the word get out. Well, since you're so smart, what else do you know about the Little People?"

Seamus didn't know very many things, so when he did know something, he couldn't resist showing off. In the tone of a professor giving a lecture, he began:

"Leprechaun: from the Old Irish words luchorpan, or 'little body', and leathbrogan, or 'maker of shoes'."

"Aye, the English never could keep their Gaelic words straight. That's why they told everyone to stop speakin’ it."

"Don't interrupt, I'm trying to tell you about yourself."

"Fair enough."

"Leprechauns are the guardians of vast hoards of gold left behind by Danish invaders in the year... well, quite some time ago. They are greedy, and add to their hoard by stealing gold wherever they find it."

"Not at all like humans, o' course."

"Will you be quiet? They are also the shoemakers of the fairy kingdom..."

"I'm particularly proud of me buckles, have you noticed them?"

"...AND", continued Seamus, ignoring both comment and buckles, "when caught, must reveal the whereabouts of their gold in order to buy their freedom. Now, where is it?"

"This is robbery, you know. If someone three times your size grabbed you and demanded that you give him all your money, you'd call it a muggin’, and have him arrested. And how do you propose to explain your sudden wealth to the tax collectors? They'll know you didn't earn it, and so they'll know you stole it, and you'll end up in prison for life."

"Don't bother stalling, little man. The rules say you've got to give me the gold; and if the rules say so, it's rightfully mine. Besides, who's going to arrest me for stealing from a leprechaun?"

"Any honest judge would throw the book at you. Oh, very well, it's this way" the leprechaun pointed. "After all, it's only all the money I have, I've only been saving it for a thousand years, why should I complain about losing it?" he added, as Seamus carried him in the direction he had indicated. "It's not like it's mine or anything, is it?"

“No, it’s mine now”, gloated Seamus. The leprechaun muttered something in Gaelic, which I won’t translate because this is a children’s story. He tried several more ways of bribing or tricking Seamus, but the thing about a person whose brain is too small to hold more than one idea is that he can’t be distracted from that idea by anything – there’s no room for another idea to get in and sidetrack him. In other words, Seamus was too stupid for the leprechaun to trick him.

Finally, they arrived at the leprechaun’s house, and though the little man tried to convince Seamus to release him
“So I can go in and get me pot of gold, see. You’re too big to get through the door…” , Seamus wouldn’t be fooled, and the leprechaun sighed and waved a hand irritably, and suddenly the door was big enough for Seamus to walk in. The leprechaun directed Seamus into the kitchen, pointed to the stove, and said, “Well, there it is, you horrible man. Take it and choke.”

“What, it’s in the oven?”

“No, you fool, it’s sitting right there on the back burner. My pot of gold. Right in front of you.”

Seamus looked again, and there, indeed, was a pot – a saucepan, six inches wide, with a non-stick coating, and a single tiny golden coin sitting in the middle of it. Seamus shifted his grip on the leprechaun to choke him, and bellowed,

“What?!?!?! THAT’S the legendary pot of gold?!?!?! It’s supposed to be a bathtub-sized cauldron full of gold coins worth millions, billions, trillions, whatever’s bigger than trillions!!! WHERE IS THE REAL ONE, YOU LITTLE …” and at this point Seamus used some more words that I won’t write down because this is a children’s story.

“Ick eek oak-eek hock ike ock” choked the leprechaun, who was turning blue, and didn’t like it because it clashed with his green clothes.

Seamus loosened his hold slightly, and the leprechaun gasped for air.

“What was that?”

‘I said, it’s the only pot I’ve got” panted the leprechaun.How would I cook in a pot the size of your bathtub? I’d never budge it! YOU’D never budge it! Do you know how heavy gold is? You’d need a crane and a coupla trucks to cart off a cauldron of gold! And you’d spend half of it on the hauling fees! Anyway, I like that pot” he added sulkily. “Perfect for makin’ soup, that pot is.”

“But the hoarded gold from the Danish invaders! There was tons o’ the stuff!”

“Aye, sure there was, a thousand years ago when I got it. But I’ve spent it, haven’t I? Had to buy groceries, didn’t I? Even a ton o’ gold don’t last forever, you know.”

“Make another pot with your magic, then! Big! Pot! Of! Gold! NOW!!!!”

“It don’t work like that, you madman! The only gold you can make with magic is fairy gold that disappears as soon as it leaves the fairy world! If I gave you that, you’d just come back and assault me again! But this is a real pot, used by a real leprechaun, and has real gold in it! That’s all the rules call for, and that’s all I’ve got! The rules don’t say it has to be a big pot, or that it has to be full o’ gold – just a pot with gold in it. Do you want it or not? ‘Cause if not, I’d be much obliged your puttin’ me down and leavin’ me house.”

And no matter how much Seamus bullied the leprechaun, even threatening to drink all the whiskey in the house (that reduced the little man to tears), the story didn’t change, and Seamus had to accept that it wasn’t a trick this time. Still grumbling things I won’t repeat, Seamus took the pot off the range, and dropped the leprechaun with a snarl. Seamus took the coin out of the pot, looked at it, and demanded, “What kind of coin is this, anyway? I’ve never seen one like it.”

“It’s a Finn Mac Coul farthing. Not very big, but genuine, and lots of historical value. Oldest thing in the world, ‘cept us little people.”

“Aye, and the most worthless thing ‘cept you, too.”

“Isn’t it bad enough your attackin’ an’ robbin’ me, without your insultin’ me, too? Take the gold, go buy somethin’ with it, it’s small but it’s still a lot more money than you’ve ever had before, you lazy slob of a man!”

Seamus stormed out the door, stopping only to throw the empty pot at the leprechaun, who ducked.

“Well, at least I’ve got me cookin’ pot back” ,
muttered the leprechaun, as the door slammed.

(To be continued...)

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Chasing Rainbows (part 1)

(The Story of Seamus O’Reilly and the Leprechaun)

The first thing you need to know about that rainbow up there, children, is that the leprechauns have been having a joke at our expense for the last thousand years. No one’s ever gotten to the end of the rainbow, or ever will, because there is no end of the rainbow. Only those who have seen one from the air know that the rainbow is a perfect circle. Even if it was solid enough to touch, which it isn’t, and even if you could get to it, which you can’t, a circle has no beginning or end, so you’d just go round and round until the light changed and the rainbow disappeared in a tinkle of faerie laughter. The leprechauns have known this all along, of course, since all the Fair Folk can fly and they’d seen rainbows from the air centuries before airplanes had even been thought of. And that’s why they’ve spread the story about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – and laughed and laughed and laughed, the little devils.

But, on the other hand, a circle in the sky could be said to begin, and end, everywhere at once. When I look at the rainbow from the ground, the place that my eyes tell me is the end is in fact the place where someone else is standing miles away, looking at the same rainbow and believing that its end is right where I’m standing. Which means, if I can only see things from outside myself, if I can only bend my mind the right way, that the rainbow’s end is wherever I happen to be.

Funny things, rainbows. On the one hand, they don’t even really exist. They’re just the image the brain creates from the information the eye gathers when light hits water molecules a certain way. And on the other hand, they are the essence of all that is real – light and air and water, energy and matter in their simplest, purest, and most common forms. But most of all, they are real because we see them. Remember that, not just about rainbows, but about everything. And that’s where magic happens, where the unreal becomes real and the impossible becomes the everyday, where the Wright brothers found the way for humans to fly, where we have always flown – it’s all about what you see in your mind, in the place where the rainbow ends.

But enough philosophy, you want a good story. And I’ll tell you one, about a man who did find the rainbow’s end after all, and about the tricky leprechaun he met there, about magic and gold and quests and practical jokes and shoes with big shiny buckles. (You’ll see, later.) But first, look up once more at the rainbow before it disappears, because that’s where it all begins.


© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Poetry is...

NOT pretty-sounding fluff to skim over in greeting cards.
NOT pretentious intellectuals saying clever things about irrelevancies.
NOT drama queens in black clothes telling everyone how hard it is to be young and priveleged.
Poetry IS the red blood pulsing from the raw wounds of the soul.
Poetry IS when I take dangerous ideas, sharpen them to points, and hurl them at your head and heart.
Poetry IS the plain-spoken truth as we feel it, shouted from our pain and triumph and dancing and mourning, and
Poetry is REAL.

Copyright John M. Munzer

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Day the Rocks Cried Out

As He hung there, His body drooping like a grotesque piñata, His surroundings a carnival of human morbidity, a Dali nightmare landscape;

As humanity poured out all our spite, pain, and ignorance upon Him, and all Jerusalem echoed with our screams of hate and triumph;

The long-suffering earth, silent since the Beginning, could contain its anger no longer.

A deep, rumbling growl began, as of an infinitely huge dog who sees its master threatened; grew louder, began to rise above the screams of the jackals on its surface, became a roar of appalled rage:

NO!!!
BREAK.
CRUSH.
GRIND.
SWALLOW.
MAKE NO MORE.
NO MORE HURT HIM.

And suddenly, the paper-thin skin of dust that is gentle Mother Gaia was trembling, rippling, shrinking away from the raging furnace of the almighty Titan beneath.

The sky above blazed with the lightning swords of the great and terrible Host of Heaven, white-hot with holy wrath, who took up the earth’s cry:

Even so, Lord! You have loved them, and see how they return Your love! Send us forth, let us burn them, purge them, cleanse the earth of this disease called Man, make all pure! These mud-men shall not defile You!

Even the demons, dread spirits of non-being and death, screamed their horror at man’s treatment of the One who offered life:

We knew - You knew! - that it would end like this! But give them to us, let us consume, let us drink them, let them know our horror, to eternally be and yet not be. Let all the universe cease to be, rather than suffer them to wound you! GIVE THEM TO US!!!!!

As all creation raged against blasphemous man, strained against its bonds, prepared to destroy even itself in its fury; as the sky became opaque, angels and devils drew swords, the earth heaved and groaned, and even oblivious Man began to fear oblivion;

A Voice spoke from the cross, and it was the voice of a man, but it was also the Word that had called all things into being, the Word whose speaking makes it so, in a Voice whose quiet authority and utter finality rocked all creation:

Forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.

And in the ensuing silence, a trembling universe heard each drop of blood whisper:

I love them.



© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

40 Days in the Wilderness (conclusion)

Fool! Is your pride more important to you than they are? I see tears in your eyes when you look at them, when you see their sicknesses and hungers. But I offer to give them back, to release them from all their suffering; and you won’t do it, simply because you’re the best and I should just acknowledge that? What in Hell are you thinking? I can’t stand to look at you anymore, humiliating yourself by becoming one of these vermin in the vain hope that you can get them to love you the way you love them. You know how this will end, don’t you? In a few years they’ll kill you, and serve you right.

What’s so important about suffering, that you not only let them go through it, but are prepared to go through it yourself? I’ve inflicted everything I can think of upon them, and it hasn’t made them any nobler or better, just whinier. You really think this body of yours can do any better, or inspire them to do better, just because it’s You in there?

Well, the game continues, then. See you soon. And when they’re torturing you to death, tell me then that you’re right, that they can be anything but a mindlessly destructive disease.

After the Wilderness: The Tempter’s Doubts

He CAN’T be right, can he? What IS his plan? He doesn’t think of it as a game, he thinks he’s really doing something worth doing. Can it be he really sees something in these insects that I can’t? Will they learn something from his suffering after all? And what does he think HE will learn from it? And – is he just using me here? Am I just playing into his hands, being a pawn in the game he’s really playing, by fighting against him and making the mud-men’s little lives so miserable? Is he that devious? Am I really helping him turn them into something worthy of the attention he lavishes upon them? What DOES he see? He was wise once – what IS this madness that’s overtaken him, this thing he calls love? Can it be it’s not madness after all? When at last I break him, will he somehow have won?

© John M. Munzer

Monday, February 8, 2010

40 Days in the Wilderness (part 3)

Third Temptation

Damn it, I didn’t come here to get Scripture quoted at me! I can quote it chapter and verse too, you know. It says he will give his angels charge over you lest you dash your foot against a stone. But they always get dashed against the stones anyway, don’t they? And you’re surprised and hurt when they turn from you?

Look, there’s no point being anything but honest with you. You know what I really want. I want you to acknowledge that I know better than you. I’ve been right all along - you can’t make apes into things capable of love, or intelligence, or nobility, or any of the things you’d hoped to see in them. If you’ll admit that, then I’ll give them all back to you. I never wanted them anyway, I just took them to prove that you could never truly have them. But if you still want them, I’ll give them back. I’ll let you win the game, if you’ll just concede that I’m the better player.

Bow before me, just this once, and you can have them all, and all their kingdoms.

Bow, concede, even if you don’t mean it, even if you only do it out of this insane love you have for the dirty little things, I’ll accept that. You DO love them, don’t you? And you WOULD do anything to get them back, wouldn’t you? Look at them all. See their cities they’re so proud of, the dirty squalid holes they work so hard to build. That’s all they’re capable of, you know. This plan of yours, it’s very like you, very noble, and as always completely ignores the practicalities. They don’t follow gods who love them. They follow gods who terrify them. That’s why they follow me and not you. I win. Say it, and they’re yours, them and all the pitiful things they’ve made.

YOU WILL WORSHIP THE LORD YOUR GOD, AND HIM ONLY WILL YOU SERVE.

(To be continued...)

© John M. Munzer

Sunday, February 7, 2010

40 Days in the Wilderness (Part 2)

Second Temptation

You can live on heavenly bread; they can’t. Only by feeding them can you enslave them. Oh, right, you’ll say you don’t want slaves, you want sons. But whatever you call it, you want them to obey. And slaves and sons alike obey the one who feeds them.

But you’ll say that if they come to you merely for bread, they won’t be coming for your sake, only their bellies. And you want to be worshipped for your own sake, don’t you? Come, then, I’ll show you how to make it happen.

Jump down from here.

Don’t look at me like that, I don’t mean you should commit suicide. I mean that your father will send angels to catch you.

Consider: If everyone knows that God breaks all the rules of cause and effect for you, such that gravity and death itself have no power over you, they will worship you simply out of awe.

Better still, if they know you can get away with anything, they’ll believe they can, too. And that’s all they’ve ever really wanted, that kind of freedom. They will indeed be as gods, like I told them in the Garden. Why do you think they listened to me? I promised what you denied – unlimited knowledge, power, freedom, and no consequences. If you deliver on the promise I broke, they will all turn from me and follow you. Surely you aren’t too selfish to give them what they want? Surely you won’t keep that kind of freedom to yourself.

I know, you’ve forgone that freedom and made yourself limited like them. How does that help them? You don’t jump into the water to save a drowning man, you throw him a rope so he can climb up to where you are. They don’t WANT you to be a man, they want to be gods. I tell you, these apes of yours are much more like me than like you, and I know how they feel when they chafe at their limitations. Go on, jump! Show them Daddy will always bail them out.

YOU SHALL NOT TEMPT THE LORD YOUR GOD.

(To be continued...)

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, February 6, 2010

40 Days in the Wilderness (Part 1)

First Temptation

So, here you are. I must say, I am impressed. No one else could have sustained a fast this long.

But speaking of sustenance, you look famished! How ironic if you went through all this only to die of starvation before the real work began. Really, you ought to eat something, if you plan to live long enough to try to establish your kingdom in the middle of mine.

And if I were you, I’d start by turning stones into bread, or something like that.

It’s not just you who’s hungry, you know. Millions don’t have enough bread, and you and I both know there will be billions more. Undo the curse. If they knew that following you meant they would be well-fed without having to work for it, they would love and serve you always.

Ever watch one of the creatures starve? You claim to love them so much, but you let them grow weak, and bloated, and their bodies devour muscle, brain, everything in the vain attempt to survive, and they eat foul things, even each other – but they die anyway in horrible pain. That doesn’t have to happen ever again. Of course they’ll die anyway in a few short years – WE know that, even if they refuse to think about it. But let them die fat and happy, and they will bless you for it. They aren’t like you, you know. They would much rather be secure and comfortable than holy and hungry. You want to win over these animals? Animals are driven by food.

Look, you’re here to know what it’s like to be one of them, aren’t you? Then give in, as they do, to the cravings of the flesh. How else can you empathize with the glutton, drunk, and lecher who mean to be stronger than their appetites, but can’t? They’ll never see you as anything but the overbearing father who doesn’t know what it’s like to be a child, unless you fall short of perfection as they do.

MAN DOES NOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE, BUT BY EVERY WORD THAT PROCEEDS FROM THE MOUTH OF GOD.

To be continued...

© John M. Munzer

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Originality

Truly there is nothing new under the sun.
All I say and do has already been said and done.
My new, original thoughts were old a century ago –
Yet something still remains that the world has yet to know.

A penny for my thoughts; a penny saved, a penny earned;
The currency of words already coined which have returned.
We pass them on, we pass them around, but no one owns these things –
The same ones come to everyone, whatever Fortune brings.

Originality is the art of remembering what we hear,
But forgetting where we heard it – or so it would appear.
Clichés spring forth fully formed from the collective brain.
We can’t think of everything for ourselves, so we must join the refrain.

A bird in hand’s worth two in bush, and crime just doesn’t pay.
Opportunity knocks, the sun shines, time to make the hay.
Don’t pick at it or you’ll get stuck like that and you’ll go blind.
Mind over matter, mind your manners, what matters can make you lose your mind.

The wise learn from the mistakes of others, the ordinary from their own,
And fools never learn a damn thing though they mess up all day long.
And we keep saying and writing down what we think we should have learned
But still our children’s children will be taught by the hands they’ve burned.

What is truth? Do we swear to tell it? When will it set us free?
What is life? Do we dare to live it? To be or not to be?
Why ask why? Why the hell not? What does everything mean?
Time is short, the questions long, for ghosts in the machine.

Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do good people do bad things?
Why are we born? Why do we die? What should we do in between?
It’s not that we keep rediscovering truths that we forget –
We ask the same old questions ‘cause we don’t know the right answers yet.

Truly there is nothing new under the sun.
All I say and do has already been said and done.
My questions and my answers were old centuries ago –
Yet still we ask, and seek, and knock, and hope someday we’ll know.

© John M. Munzer
(Yeah, I know, the irony is not lost on me.)

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Repentance?

I’ll take twenty lashes, wear sackcloth and ashes,
Give away all that I have, for free;
I’ll sigh and I’ll cry, I’ll try and I’ll try,
To make you accept my apology.

I’ll sit in my room, seal it like a tomb,
And spend a year thinking about what I’ve done.
I’ll tell you I’m sorry, I’ll fret and I’ll worry.
I’ll spend five weeks not doing anything fun.

I’ll be really sad for being so bad,
Spend two million years as your personal slave.
You can beat me with sticks, I’ll take forty licks.
You can nag at me, yell at me, rant and rave.

I’ll write fifty times “I must stop these crimes”.
Then you can erase it, make me start again.
Put me in detention, and in-school suspension.
Make me most miserable of all men.

Give me a fine for crossing that line –
I won’t whine, I know it’s just what I get.
Give me all I deserve, and then you’ll observe,
I still haven’t finished saying “Sorry” yet.

I’ll moan and I’ll groan as I sit here alone.
I’ll write a whole book about what I did wrong.
I’ll write all I’ve learned, the sentence I’ve earned,
And why all the punishments must last so long.

I’ll weep in my sorrow from now till tomorrow,
I’ll shave off my hair and go live in a cave;
Ask me whatever, I’ll do it forever –
Anything but change the way I behave.

© John M. Munzer

Monday, February 1, 2010

Bi-polar Blues

(I imagine this being sung, alternating a slow, gritty blues riff with a fast swing)

Well, I don’t see no reason to live, and the sky is cold and grey;
Well, I don’t see no reason to live, and the sky is cold and grey;
Well there ain’t nothing for me no more, I ain’t getting’ outta bed today.

Now I dance, take a chance, make romance, prance along
And I’m shoutin’ out, out-and-out roustabout, shout a song
And I’m all around town, smile, frown, up an’ down, here’s my crown
Now I’m the king of everything, buy some bling, gotta sing, ring-a-ding-ding,
Damn! I’m just flyin’ too high!!!!!!!!


Sigh…

Well, I ran up too much on the credit card, when I was high yesterday;
Well, I ran up too much on the credit card, when I was high yesterday;
I’m even worse off than I was before, ‘cuz now there’s the devil to pay.

But what the hell, let’s play!

Hey, hey, hey, that’s the way, play today, later pay, what the hey,
Have a drink, never think, ‘fore you blink I’ll slink away,
Up all night, feelin’ light, not so bright, it’s all right, mighty gay,
So stoked, gonna joke, gonna smoke it down, toke it down, choke it down today –
Damn! I’m just flyin’ too high!!!!!!!!
My my my my my my my!


What the hell did I do last night? Man, I’m feelin’ mighty sick;
What in the name of God did I DO last night?!?! Man! I’m feelin’ mighty sick;
Well, I thought I was feelin’ all right last night, but now I see it was just a trick.
(I sure hope that the charges don’t stick!)

You say Prozac? I say no, Mack, I don’t wanna take no pill,
All I need’s a decent feed, and I won’t be feelin’ so ill,
Gotta wake up, gotta make up some excuse for the work that I missed;
Oh, dear Lord almighty have mercy, but the boss-man’s sure gonna be pissed!

Well… I guess maybe I’ll see a doctor, ‘cuz this craziness isn’t me.
Yeah, I’ll see that head-shrinker man too, and I’ll try to pay his fee. (We’ll have to wait an’ see).
Gotta lose these bi-polar blues, man, ‘cuz it’s a ugly, ugly place to be!

© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

To a lapdog in a pink frilly jacket

My ancestors scrambled to invent fire, weapons, walls, villages, all in a desperate attempt to avoid having their throats torn out by the shadowy packs of your ancestors.
Cat’s speed and cunning, bear’s strength and jaws, snake’s cold and calculating strike, and man’s ability to coordinate an ambush by the entire pack at once - all belonged to the wolf in his day.
And the superhuman powers of the monsters which still haunt our nightmares - vampire’s fangs, ghost’s deathly stealth, demon’s inhuman howl, bogeyman’s remorseless patience, basilisk’s stare, goblin’s swarming hordes, Archfiend’s cunning, werewolf’s all-too-human bloodthirst - all are but pale memories of your long-ago reign.
But now I see you emasculated: your knife-edged intelligence blunted to marshmallow; your terrible strength brought so low that a rat could eat you alive; your baying now a squeak; your balls cut off for Man’s convenience; your Pack taken from you; your majestic pelt shorn so you must keep warm in a pink frilly jacket that a twelve-year-old ballerina would scorn for being too girly. The few wolves that still live do so only at Man’s sufferance, and only in places that Man has not yet chosen to inhabit.
O Man’s best Friend, Man’s oldest Enemy - I behold the final humiliation of a vanquished foe, and I feel no triumph, only pity and shame.

And also fear.

For when I see what Man once was, once strove to be - the godlike strength, wisdom, courage, love, and self-sacrifice displayed by our ancient heroes – I can’t help comparing to the heroes of today, as seen on T.V., and thinking of wolves reduced to Chihuahuas.
When we have bred out all our own power, intelligence, and ability to live as a Pack - in favor of docility and good looks - what new species might arise to usurp us as the alpha, the lords of creation? Dare we hope they will be kinder masters than we are?

© John M. Munzer

Monday, January 25, 2010

But I Love Him

He’s very charming, when he wants to be. He’s very stylish, very elegant, very handsome, lean and muscular, and moves with such grace that you can’t help admiring him. And he can be genuinely warm and affectionate, when he remembers to do so. The children love him, and when he thinks of them, he’s very good with them. He plays their favorite games with them with even more energy than they do, and then cuddles with them for hours. I think he loves me, even though I know he’s using me. And I’m sure he loves the children, though he doesn’t know how to say it. And I love him.

So I’ve never had the heart to throw him out, despite the fact that he’s bigoted, foul-tempered, sexist, lazy, and utterly selfish. He doesn’t do anything around the house, but gets mad if I haven’t kept it perfectly clean. He’s never worked a day in his life. He eats the food that I worked for, sometimes even grabs food off my plate, and never says thank you. He’s a terrible bully, always picking on the small and weak. He’s attacked me several times, and once he even left the children bleeding, stalking away indignantly as if they deserved it. But I love him.

He’s a thief, and has that particular blend of stupidity and cunning that most thieves have. He doesn’t even steal anything valuable – which is why he gets away with it – he just steals for the thrill of stealing. He keeps me up all night worrying about where he’s gone, and what kind of crowd he’s running with, and whether the fight he has tonight will be the one that kills him. And when he does come home, he never even bothers to explain the new cuts and bruises – just gives me a contemptuous glance when I ask, flops onto the couch, and sleeps until the next night, when he goes out and does it again. Once he was so far gone when he came home that he peed all over the living room floor. But I love him.

I’ve heard rumors of the children he’s fathered and abandoned to live in the streets, and I can’t help believing them. He’s even been accused of several killings; and though I’ve seen how gentle he can be, I also know his temper, and I wonder. And yet, I really do love him.

But it’s two o’clock in the morning, and I swear to God, if he doesn’t stop meowing RIGHT NOW, I’m going to bring him back to the animal shelter and leave him there!

© John M. Munzer

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Woe Unto Thee

(Considering what Jesus had to say to the politicians of His day, what might He say to ours?)

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You preach sexual morality, but cheat on your own wives; you preach family values, but ignore your own children as you work 70-hour weeks to buy yourselves better cars and computers. You take the money from the schools, but make sure your pet lobbies don’t lose any funding. And you are surprised when your children rebel against you and tell you they hate you!

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You honor God with your lips, but worship Mammon with your lives. You carry large Bibles for show, but your hearts are with your checkbooks. You profess to follow Jesus, who wandered the cities homeless, but you throw the homeless out of your cities, and demolish whatever shelters they manage to build.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You tell people what they want to hear to get their votes, and then spend your terms of office working only to ensure that nothing threatens your re-election campaigns. You vote for or against measures based on what will get you re-elected, or what will benefit your own businesses, rather than what will be good for the community. You say your concern is to create jobs, but all you care about is keeping yours.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You sit in air-conditioned offices and send men ten thousand times your betters to die in the desert; you tell them to save the oppressed abroad, while you continue to oppress the weak at home.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You gleefully oppressed women and minorities until the sympathies of the voters changed; and you are still racist and sexist in your hearts. You are still the haven of rich white men, though you allow the right quotas of women and minorities for show. When a black man is in a figurehead position, and his every move is blocked by filibuster, have minorities truly been given a voice?

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You hold the vulnerable for ransom with every proposed tax increase, and threaten that they will suffer unless we pay; but you do nothing to change the factors that make them vulnerable. You don’t even try to find real solutions – for if you did, how would you blackmail us into giving you more money? And yet, somehow, you never lack funds to advertise how desperately you need our money.

Woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites! You live on human credulity, feed on the hopes and fears of those who work for a living. You grow rich and fat on your professed commitment to help the poor and hungry, and leave them poor and hungry. Will you escape the wrath to come? Will He not ask why, when He was hungry, you did not feed Him? Woe, ten thousand times woe unto thee, Republicans and Democrats, hypocrites!

© John M. Munzer

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

The Wordsmith

I will be a wordsmith, crafting carefully, creating the tool or the weapon best suited to the purpose at hand. I will beat, break, burn lifeless lumps of everyday ugliness into things of dazzling, deathless beauty. By dark and potent alchemies I will transform leaden sorrow into golden greatness. With iron grasp I will mold the chaos, bend it, force it to take shape on the anvil of what is Real. In furnace-hot pain and desire I will forge strong words, and temper them with cool contemplation. Scalpel-sharp I will grind them against the rough edges of truth, and they will sever diseased falsehoods.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will be careful, careful with the weapon-words! Sometimes no scalpel will make things right, sometimes only a sword will do. But once weapons are made, they can be taken and wielded by fools, madmen, those who LIKE using weapons. Follow the rivers of ink spilled by men of ideas, and they always lead to the oceans of blood spilled by men of action.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will sometimes grow weary of hammering halberds and sharpening swords. I will sometimes work not in steel but in silver, showing forth the holiness of beauty with intricately interwoven tendrils of living words, the very breath of the Creator. I will make worlds, wake desire, partake in His delight, create simply because such things ought to BE.
I will be a wordsmith, and I will have power; because humanity makes the world what it is, but words make humanity what it is. I will use the power responsibly; for the words are a sacred trust, the crafting a deep magic which makes the world anew in the image of the smith.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be a god, singing new things into being.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be an animal, howling the things that have been too deep to say.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be a flame, flowing fierce and free, turning base matter into pure light.
When I am a wordsmith, I will be all these things;
For when I am a wordsmith, I will be a man.

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, January 16, 2010

The Hammer of God

When God walks the earth, He comes to town bearing a hammer, holding in human hands the hammer of God.
The wrath of God is a hammer that BELLOWS – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! – beats DOWN, batters DOWN, bashes DOWN, breaks DOWN barriers that brought bondage; destroys dark, decrepit dungeons; lays waste the walls, lets in light that love may live.
The love of God is a hammer, carried by Christ the Carpenter, creating, carefully crafting, repairing, rebuilding, restoring, renewing. The love of God is a hammer, whose bone-breaking blows come crashing, crushing carpal capillaries of Christ crucified, let loose the life-blood that His beloved may live.
The power of God is a hammer, to pulverize that which has brought pain, to beat the sword into a plowshare, and to build a new thing, a holy house of healing and help for all humanity.
Raise high the hammer! For when you do, God walks the earth again.
Raise high the hammer! For when you do, you become the hands of God.
Raise high the hammer, and start swinging! The walls of our hate will not stand against it, and the temple of love demands to be built anew.
Raise high the hammer, the hammer of God.

© John M. Munzer

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Strange Bedfellows

(Warning: lots of swearing in this one. If you find swearing offensive, you may wish to skip it. However, it's worth considering this point: What does it really mean to take God's name in vain? Is it about cussing? Or is it about claiming to act in God's name, on God's behalf, when really one is acting on one's own behalf?)

They say politics make strange bedfellows.
Now, I really don’t mean to be crude,
But when religion and politics get into bed
Religion always gets screwed.
“We’re the side God votes for!”
That’s what they want us to believe.
As if they gave a rat’s ass about God!
Yet the voters are deceived.
They say they're the right side in a holy war,
Invoking the Name of God.
So men without morals lead moral crusades,
Which seems to me rather odd.
“Vote liberal, if you care about compassion!”
“Vote conservative, if you love what’s right!”
“Democrat, if you want social action!”
“Republican, for the sake of the Light!”
“God wants you to save the unborn child!”
“God wants you to help the outcast and poor!”
So every politican is a pimp,
Religion becomes his whore.
The pimps line their pockets,
Then next on the dockets:
Whatever new cause will make them rich.
The work of the Church has been left in the lurch
So we can be Machiavelli’s bitch.
Strange bedfellows, they say, but if I may,
I’d like to complain about my bad luck.
The pure truths I love about God above
Have been tied to the bed and fucked.
© John M. Munzer

Friday, January 1, 2010

New Year's Paradox

There is nothing new under the sun; and yet all things are made new.