The Hitch

Bullies don't ever stop being bullies. Much like leopards - their spots remain the same.  There is a movement on against the antics of bullies and those that support such foolishness.  The greater good is that bullies are not welcome in most social spheres.  The hitch is that in this case, the bully is dad.  An individual who laughs at a little boy's tears and is maddened by any support in spite of his own freakish behavior. I seek for another name or title, but most of what I conjure is depreciating and (though valid) doesn't encompass the full range of destitute that belongs to this ... thing.  Let's back up a bit, shall we?

7pm: we're waiting in the driveway.

7:10pm: through a dim driveway light comes the sullen figure of a little boy, dragging behind him his belongings with drooping shoulders.

7:12 - 7:20pm: come the story of how said thing taunted and teased, punched, smacked and kicked him while he attempted to gather his things because his mom (me) was waiting outside. The bullying went on for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty...where thing and thing's cousin made fun of my little boy. He mentioned that as he raised his hands to his face in order to deflect a blow from dad, dad's cousin kicked him in the side.  And as he fell to the floor and asked no less than five times to "please stop" - Dad and cousin told him that he would be caught in many a fight because he's "a pussy"...that he should tear off the ear of his opponent and show it to him/her and that they would then go into shock, rendering him the winner....that he needs to "learn how to fight" (said through slurred and staggered speech as supported by the empties around the house)...that he probably had his card turned in school (a behavioral modification in the classroom) because you were looking at other boys' *expletive* (parts)... and that he wasn't to "bullshit (his) mother when you tell her this story".

7:21pm: Gasping cries evidenced this little boy's hopelessness as he proclaimed: "He says he loves me but he acts like he doesn't. I don't like him. I'm not going back".

7:22pm: "I'm not going back there".

7:23pm: "I'm not going back".

7:25pm: "Mom, please don't make me go back there".


7:27 - 9:58pm: Now finally asleep in his bed, my mind continues to stir with heavy emotions and bitter, bitter anger.  Bound by words on paper that entail every detail of life, I feel I am rendered as helpless as I know my child feels.  In good conscience I cannot take him there -- allow him to be entrusted to the "care" of a thing that is no better than an immature imbecile who revels in loathsome antics that serve only to belittle, disparage and depreciate others. If he can get in a tormenting punch, or slap, hit, kick, shove, or festering tease - he does.

And yet, I - as a mother, am supposed to be accomplice to the delivery of my child to a person that should not have anything to do with, or around children.  Bullies = abusive parasites / parasites = bullies. Have to remove the feeding grounds.

The Shovel Theory

Here's how it works:

Take any person and hand them a shovel. It doesn't have to be expensive, or fiberglass, or colorful ... just a shovel.  What would they do?  Personally, I have no less than six ideas right off the top of my head that I could, would, should institute a shovel into in order that they work.  The man (and/or woman) with a quote-unquote blue collar would know exactly how to incorporate a shovel if handed one.  And the suggestion of getting it for free? Bonus. 

But to the politician, the professional talker or the famed representative that thrives on nepotism and one hand washing the other - my guess is that they would be rendered speechless.  That, or they would think me a lunatic.  For several years I have disclosed one such shovel theory to my friends and family on the occasion that we have a few moments to chat and eat and laugh.  And tonight, that shovel theory reached a whole new level.  Now, the shovel theory lends its well-conceived intellect to what we're calling the "Get to Work" campaign for government officials. 

I propose that we collect shovels.  One by one, those shovels are mailed to each state/district representative with an enclosed motivational speech to read: "Get to Work".  The follow-up campaign to this is documentary photographs of real, honest and hard-working individuals who show their hands in a picture with a nicely fonted  sub-statement to read: "I have callouses, do you?".  See to the working person, the shovel is useful. It is an assist, a tool, a means to an end...it is necessary.  Yes, to some it may be little more than a prop, but still - I would bet they have callouses to show they can use a shovel to produce something.  But to the persons elected to positions of power that do the talking for all their constituents, a shovel is nearly useless.  Heck, if it was a pen they would be more obliged to motivate.  An embossed pen and the promise of your vote, and they'll send a postage paid Christmas card.  Excuse me, holiday card. 

So what to do?  I'm thinking that I shall begin tomorrow anew by collecting those pennies that I subconciously pick up on the sides of sidewalks and store fronts and beneath store shelving - and I'm going to save.  Save until I have enough to buy the first of what will become many, shovels.  Sent straightaway to the congressman or woman of my district with that enclosed notation: "Get to Work".  I will most-definately include a picture of my hands since they do have many the callous and I'll begin documenting the responses.  Donations will be gratefully accepted and we might even get so far as to embossing handles and creating memorabilia in honor of those hard working individuals and families who know all-too-well what it means to work with their hands day in and day out without the expectation of gratitude.  And if Washington doesn't like my shovels.  I'll give them to those that will truly appreciate. 

PS: I do have a PayPal account.

Gratefully,
Shovel Theory

Shed

A bow is drawn slowly; elegantly across the strings of an instrument singly sweetly to emotion: it bleeds.  It is a weeping, sorrowful song that enlightens. One long elicited note that sings to reconciliation and suddenly, there is a sense of clarity.  In the distant, there is a strumming - a smooth beat which summons strength. What is brewing?

Ability.


And where from here?

...only God knows.

Truth Has its Pardons

Here I sit at 11:11 in the p.m. recollecting the day's events.  I have glorious friends who fill my life to the brim, children whom I am proud, yet stern with and a love that makes an endless smile spread across my face.  Thinking so fondly of those whom I love brought me to the sequester of the online world in late hours, the time where one sits and somewhat mindlessly stumbles through the pages of the communication age.  I signed in just as I should to my photo portal, and entered under the search bar for "soul mate".  Just that - two words that are entirely meaningful and would certainly pull up symbolic photos which I could promptly copy and paste to my love's page. A momentary reminder that I think of him now, thought of him just a second ago, and will think of him in just another moment.  Soul mate. 

I get the hour glass and take a spot of wine.  Hmmmm.....

"No searches match your query".

Lame.

Dumb.

We are the communication age! We have all facilities at our fingertips to think, inspire, create, regress, and transpire into something, all things...great...and nothing matches soul mate?!  I am utterly irritated.  Just for a moment though.  Because after just a thought or two I realize that communication or not, creativity and then some, and with a splash of technology in this little ranch house - the point remains that the feelings, the inspiration for life still (Only) exists in life.  Soul mates do exist and I bet my last and only two dollars on that fact. There is reason for our plodding.  A masterful technological piece of machinery is, itself skeptical and intolerant of those situations it cannot replicate: i.e. soul mates. 

Take a back seat technology and communication outside my speech.  I laugh at your insignificance yet depend upon it (to an extent), I take note of your indecision and am enthralled at the hierarchy of love yet again.

Praise, praise.   Thinking more highly of our accomplishment, I offer you a toast Lovey -- even high tech industrial science doesn't know what to do with a love like ours!