A Fanciful ThoughtPosted on May 15, 2013 by billyraychitwood1
       
Two Americans who know how to speak only one language, English, sit at a small sidewalk cafe in Paris, France, sipping latte, watching the people pass and listening to a musical language which they can now miraculously understand. Birds are chirping, dropping momentarily from their flitting maneuvers to pick up a crumb of food. The sun is shining in a clear lucid sky and there are smiles on the faces of the people. Happiness abounds.

A waiter appears at the small sidewalk table and speaks a few words in French: “Do you care for more latte or do you care for a menu?”

“No,” says one of the Americans, glancing at his watch, “we must be going. We’re meeting friends at the ‘Arc de Triomphe’ along the Champs-Elysees in twenty minutes.” After directions are confirmed the Americans pay their tab and leave the lovely cafe.

There was no confusion, no doubt, in the language exchange while neither of the Americans spoke French and the waiter spoke no English.

How can this be? A Frenchman and Americans having a dialogue, understanding every word that is spoken? Where has the world gotten?

Finally, we have in many ways made all the brilliant technology pay off. There is now a chip worn in an attractive wrist band. The chip is activated by a small square pen-like device that is clipped to a shirt pocket or to the inside of a coat. On the pen is a menu of languages spoken all over the world. In France, the two Americans chose French from the menu, spoke in their native tongue, and the words were perfectly understood by the waiter – and, of course, any French person they should meet. The words of the Americans are spoken in English but come out in French, and, likewise, the waiter responds in his native tongue and it comes out in English. One small chip on a wrist band controls the conversation.

Marvelous! you say, and marvelous it is. Any person on the planet can now own this ‘Language Chip Band’ for a pittance. People can travel the world and never again be troubled by a language barrier, whether it be France, Bulgaria, Mexico, Russia, Spain, Switzerland, you name the country.

Now, perhaps Love can spread! Now, perhaps Wars can be no more! Now, perhaps a real world community can exist. Now, perhaps Peace in all parts of the world can flourish.

Not so fast, you say!

Yes, of course, you’re right. Not so fast! There will still be power-hungry people. There will still be greed. There will still be mayhem, murder, and evil. And, is this technology possible? My personal belief does not matter so much, but I do believe there are so many wonderful human advancement possibilities that we have and really know nothing about… ‘smart pills’ (I just took one – yuck, yuck!), new energies, new medical breakthroughs… Think about it, really! We put people on the moon. We can identify anyone anywhere with a satellite positioning itself. Our Mathematicians, our Scientists and Technologists of all kinds know so much, our Governments, all know so much more than we can ever believe they know…

So, why are some technological secrets kept from us? (If, of course, you choose to believe there are secrets…) Because of that power and greed and selfishness and, most of all, because of Trust. Love cannot come without Trust and Faith! Faith, Love, and Trust can come, but it seems to me must come when we on this globe can at least communicate with each other, cannot lose each other in translation. Faith, Love, and Trust can come when we begin to let go of our prejudices, when we begin to know and understand that we are not just one person or just a few elites…we can never reach the glory that is out there for us unless we try to eliminate bias, hatred, ignorance, selfishness, and evil from the world…

This is all a fanciful exercise, but can it not come to pass? Can we not all see that a global union of bodies can achieve Faith, Love, and Trust, that our world can be the promised Nirvana, that promise that just maybe got us all started on this orbital journey?

Who knows but the chicken and egg conundrum Maker, our God, that Designer of all our myths and truths!

PLEASE FOLLOW ME ON:

twitter (@brchitwood)  and http://facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

SOME OF MY WEBSITES:

http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (IAN) (short bio and my books)

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://linkedin.com/brchitwood

http://amazon.com

http://amazon.co.uk

Charles Wells, Wellston Publishing, a good southern writer and twitter friend of mine, has given me permission to post a little story for you. It’s a story that hopefully you will enjoy and appreciate the homespun humor of it all. Charles and I are from the south, with me a bit more ancient than Charles, but his story here rattled my rib cage and I wanted to share it. Born and bred in Appalachia many years ago, I love the people, the purity, the simplicity of life in my native south.

We people in the south get a lot of teasing about the way we talk, our drawls and our ‘you all’s.’ A lot of  jokes have been created at our expense — we’re right up there with the Polish folks! It’s all okay for people to laugh at us southerners. We laugh at ourselves. Our gentility is fairly well known world-wide and gets its share of teasing. But most of the fun-poking goes to our hill people, to our rural folks who eschew formal education to work hard and play hard, who plow their fields and harvest some of the finest food for our breakfast, lunch, and dinner tables, who strum their guitars, ukuleles, banjos, fiddles, and ‘juice harps’ for a mix of music that comes straight from their hearts and souls. Maybe some of these good people get a little push from the home-brewed ‘white lightning’ and the beer they drink.

Now, the following ‘scholarly essay’ from my buddy, Charles, deals with the more colorful of our southern brothers and sisters. It’s my hope that it doesn’t offend anyone because surely we can laugh at each other. It's what makes this big country of ours such a wonderful place. We have freedom here. We can poke a little fun at college professors, CEOs, Presidents, Vice Presidents, government workers, people from the East, West, Midwest, North, and South. They're likely getting few and far between, but I'm betting we still open doors for the ladies down south. That doesn't necessarily mean that we don't believe in equality for women. It just means that's the way most of us were raised in that part of the country. Today, though, we're poking a little fun at my people, the southern 'rednecks.'

Sit back, take a swig of the suds, and read Charles Wells' account of “Billy Joe’s Night Out.”

                                                     They Call It Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer and Baptist Church
                     
      
There's a small town about 15 miles from where I live in Georgia. I'm not certain if it has a legal name of incorporation or not but I am sure the people who live there, all 119 of them, could care less what you call it. After all, it's their community and they love it. For writing about it, I'm going to call the town by the name most everyone around these parts uses, and that's simply, "Bubba's" but that's the short name. The full one is "Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer, and Baptist Church".

The reason everyone calls it Bubba's is probably because nobody has ever given this little area of God's earth an official title of any kind. Bubba's has been around about as long as Budweiser beer and the name sort of just blended on over to the location.      

Bubba's is located on a two lane gravel top County maintained road and has the worldly reputation as the origination of the old joke about "don't blink or you'll miss it". Every place is famous for something and that is Bubba's eruption to fame in that joke.

Bubba's main street is about as long as a four lane interstate highway is wide. There are no city services beyond volunteer fire and county sheriff but the unspoken reputation of the area protects these people well enough. The last fire that happened was one night when Billy Joe got drunk and then got hungry so he went on home from Bubba's Bar. Now don't get all fussy about drinking and driving because Billy Joe took a cab, which really pissed off Carlton the man who owned it, but that's another story for another time.

Anyhow, old Billy Joe got home and left the cab in the driveway with the motor and the meter running, then went inside his double wide trailer at 2 AM and proceeded to fry up a mess of catfish. His wife, June Ann, was sound asleep. She'd been up late watching a Honey Boo Boo marathon on TV so she didn't hear him come in. Billy Joe got the fish grease nice and hot then dropped in three cats he'd caught the day before at the river. What he did next is where the fire came from. He passed out cold on the floor in front of the stove and that hog lard grease got so hot it finally caught fire.

Fortunately, June Ann woke up smelling the smoke and realized the trailer was on fire. She grabbed her two children and some of their clothes, and then took them outside near the road to safety. She pointed a finger at them and snapped, "Now ya'll stay right here and don't move or I'll set your britches on fire, you hear me?"

When the kids nodded, she went running back inside the smoke filled house where she gathered up and saved her two cats and a parakeet from sure fire death. She got them outside with the children and then back into the trailer she went again. With much great physical effort and power, she managed to drag and roll her mama's old sewing machine out the front door, into the yard, and safely away from the burning structure.

By that time, the volunteer fire department arrived and told her to stay put and don't go no place. They'd do the rest. June Ann yelled at them, "Just make sure you run down the hall to my bedroom and get my daddy's old shotgun out of there before it burns up".

One fireman asked, "Well where your husband, Billy Joe and what's Carlton's Cab doing parked here in the yard with the motor running?"

Waving one hand toward the mobile home, June Ann said, "Hell I don’t know but I think I saw him lyin' on the floor near the stove but don't bother waking him up. He gets pretty mean after he's been drinking all night."

The fireman nodded then raced into the house. One of them found Billy Joe passed out near the stove and carried him outside to safety. June Ann told him to go put him back since that seemed to be where he wanted to be but they refused. Fact is Billy Joe owed Andy (the fireman) ten bucks and he wasn't about to let that slip past.

About five minutes and a living room sofa in flames later, a medic showed up and gave Billy Joe some oxygen out of a bottle. Pretty soon, Billy Joe coughed, gagged, spit out a pile of black soot and most of the last hours worth of Budweiser. Then he looked up at his home and asked with tears in his eyes, "Can they save the tires at least? They almost brand new."

The last crime that happened anywhere near Bubba's was the night Carlton's cab got stolen right out from in front of the Bar where he parked it most days. I don't really see no need to describe that incident to the readers though. I mean, ya'll have been paying attention so far, ain't you? 

So that's the story behind Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer, and Baptist Church. Maybe next time I write about it I'll go over some of the finer points of the neighborhood. Might even talk about the world famous Redneck Games held a few miles away from there. It's interesting I promise you.


Catch up with Charles on twitter @Charles_E_Wells or email at chasw@wellston.org


                                                                    Charles E. Wells - Wellston Publishing

                                                        “The Sunshine Room”

     On consistently cloudy days outside, on dreary wintry days, on ‘bad news’ days, it would be nice to have a ‘sunshine room.’ In our rapidly expanding digital and technological world, there is likely already a relatively simple mechanism of sorts that will illuminate a room, maybe an entire house, as though the sun was present … maybe a ceiling fixture, a wall addition, a window covering, et al. If not clear by now, I’m a sun worshiper. That’s one of the reasons I live at this latitude on the Sea of Cortez. There is sunshine every single day. Some clouds may drift by on their way to a final destination but sooner of later the sunshine is there in a beautiful blue sky.

     Sunshine is important to me because of my make-up. The older I get, the more I see in our growing world, there is this tendency to become gilded in my thinking. Those folks who lean toward the liberal side might not like me too much for my views. That’s okay because there are times when I don’t like them too much. However, I do respect my liberal friends and sometimes think I’m missing something in their political and social comments. In fact, in my younger years I was more inclined to hold liberal views. Somehow, I had a change of mind along the way. Perhaps my perceptions are too simple, just too bound in historical clashes and events to think in any other way. I think about the fall of the Roman Empire, its laxity on the social issues. I think about how one man could master a large segment of the human race and murder over six million people. I think about Stalin, Russia, the purges, and the slaughters of millions. I think, in some ways, I’m seeing history repeat itself, maybe not so much for me, an old dog not able or willing to learn new tricks, but for my kids, my grandkids, and my great-grandkids.

     Look, I’m no scholar who can spout off the words of the US Constitution, its Amendments, or the Declaration of Independence, but those important papers brought us to a grand place in the history of humankind. Those documents said that people can have liberty, are free to go out into the world and be all that they can be, based on their honest efforts and their brain power. I don’t have to be a scholar to know that most of the people in the world would like that scenario. Yes, we’re all created equal at birth but it doesn’t stay that way. Some of us don’t learn as fast as others. Some of us are ambitious. Some are lazy and try to figure easy ways to live off others’ toil. Some are handicapped, need and should get help from a caring nation … ‘Equality’ means different things to different people. How can a diverse nation (or, world) live up to the word, ’equality,’ when the word was meant to convey our right at birth. Where is the fairness for someone who has an idea, grows that idea into a major business where he hires people, gives them work for their daily bread, only to be regulated by a government with a long list of do and don’t. Should it not be simple enough for a vigorous person with a business idea to pursue that idea without fear of what his government is going to take from him? Should not a tax code be simple enough for everyone to understand without having thousands of pages of regulations? Should not a person expect to die and leave his legacy to family without having the government take a large chunk of his estate? Should not ‘entitlements’ be the exception and not the rule? Was the government meant to be so intrusive in our lives? Did not those beautiful documents from our forefathers postulate what the essential roles of our government branches should be? It seems to this wary and weary old dog that, through the years, we have cleverly rearranged with our fancy legalized posturing the true meaning of those documents.

     So, many can justifiably counter my simple remarks here, but they are honest thoughts. There are at work in this nation and this world forces that are focused on undermining our religious and social freedoms. These forces are evil, treacherous, and they are here in large numbers. These ramblings of an old man will have no effect on this evil. These words are but a Sunday morning sermon on our times.

     In any event, I’ve clearly exposed myself. That’s okay! Most of you who have read some of my posts clearly know that I’m an anachronism, a conservative, a traditionalist, whatever the convenient word. Well, that’s all I can be! My DNA lines up that way. I’m a helpless, hopeless, wanderer in this land of ‘machines’ and madness. I’m not much of a debater, so those who lean the other way can punch all the holes you wish into my little dissertation here.

     Hopefully, I can sell people on the idea that I do try to adapt, to learn new tricks and new ways to please the newer order. There is clearly a newer order! Having lived this long, I see our new ‘machines of progress’ and I see new problems to go along with the old problems. In my vision it is natural for me to see old mistakes from my generation being repeated — you know, that ‘history repeating itself’ thing. It is natural for old fools like me to see new free-thinking people wanting a world community at any expense, at the expense perhaps of the freedom and liberty some forty old timers like George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, William Blount, and others all in harmony felt would connect a country’s people. That ‘Constitution’ these great people of history signed was to be the blueprint for not just our country but for any country who held dear the ideals that went into that document. Amendments were added, and the road was perilous then as it is now … But, wow! what a great blueprint for a country to have!

     The world changes. Knowledge explodes into rich new innovations and inventions. So, why can’t we all be on the same page in history? We know the answer, of course. The old fools collide with the new fools! It becomes more and more difficult to find consensus on this or on that. Different times? Different political persuasions? Different World views? Do any of us know who is who and what is what anymore? So much to absorb and so many machines!
 
     I no doubt spend too much time in the ruminating room — those ‘good old days’ cannot be retrieved or altered. At least, some of us think they were good old days. So, this old fool just might as well watch the world do its thing and make an idle comment here and there…

     While I’m at it, here are a few more of those idle comments:

     1) The music of today ‘sucks’ (to use the vernacular)! It's too damned loud and the lyrics are lost in the mighty cacophonous
screeching of brass, drums, strings, et al. 
 
      2) We’re repeating some of the same mistakes today that brought much trouble in our history; we don't seem to learn!

     3) Technology has created too many horrific 'gang and war games' to fill our kids' minds; there is too much laxity of control on the part of parents; today's games are not necessarily 'Cowboys and Indians,' tag, and hide and seek.
 
     4) We are an ‘over-reaction’ nation: we have some beautiful children killed and we suddenly want to amend and/or make new laws; maybe the gun laws do need some modifying --- we must care and act!
 
     5) Each side of the political spectrum uses tragedy for their agendas when all must know , should know, we can never stop all the evil that lurks in our world.
 
      6) We should be sane and sensible, change things that can make a difference, and understand that there are some things that cannot be changed; 'We' and 'sane' and 'sensible' are the operative words.

     7) Guns do not kill people — people kill people and those who are evil will find ways to carry out their evil intents …

     There are many other idle comments I could make, and they are negative. People want positive, reassuring, words of promise. They want answers and problem solving. Our scientific and technological knowledge is exploding, doubling, tripling, in relatively short intervals. There is so much to absorb, of which to be aware, that we ordinary citizens stumble over it all. We are bewildered, confused, but, then, Google will help us find an answer. We go on with our lives because that is what we are to do.

     Sound political? Not intended. (Well, maybe a little!) Just looking at serious minutia roaming around in my head … back in my day, we had a sniper killing off students at the University of Texas in Austin; we had the Kent State riots; we had Charlie Manson and his ‘helter-skelter’ crew; we had a socially prominent and politically active Ted Bundy killing pretty young women all around the country; there was the Los Angeles ‘Hillside Strangler’ and there was the Oregon ‘Green River’ serial killer … History from the dawn of time is dotted with evil acts — there in William Shakespeare’s time you will find evil. On and on I could go with the evil incidents that enter our lives … We react to these horrible events, particularly those that kill our children, because we can’t understand how such evil can exist. It staggers us, takes nips at our hearts and souls, and leaves us in a stupefied state of mind until — until we can go to our ‘sunshine room’ and start feeling better. The best invention in the world would be a machine that can determine without question the evil among us … then we could dump all the evil people on an isolated island far from civilized land and let them find ways to annihilate each other.

     But, then, what the hell do I know? I’ll let the grandkids and great-grandkids handle the problems. I’m way too old and too tired to be trying to figure it all out … Hey, how about a real humdinger of a pep pill, a smart pill? Oh, well, a highball in an oversized glass might do it!

     I’m going to the ‘Sunshine Room.’ Guess I’ve given enough ‘pleasure’ and ‘displeasure’ for one day.  

Guess I write quite a bit about my feelings, about my life and times. Thought I would allow a small portion from one of my books to do the 'talking' in this post... The following is a section from 'The Way Station' (a euphemism for a Care Facility) in my book, "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections From An Appalachian Son." Prentice Paul Hiller is recovering from a complicated hip surgery, meets and bonds with a former Clinical Psychologist, Greta Fogel. Over the weeks of teasing and mental jousting, Greta has encouraged Prentice to write about his life and times, suggesting that it might be not only good therapy for him but that the end product should be a great read...


EXCERPT - from "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" by Billy Ray Chitwood:


Having just settled in with my laptop, Greta came into the sun room. Without too much preamble, I moved the laptop to her lap, with the cursor set to start on the last two sections. "See what you think of these two sections," I said with a doubtful expression, "I'm ambivalent. Don't know if I went too overboard."

It took some time for her to read the sections. She paused time and again in very thoughtful poses.

When she was finished, she asked: "You want to talk now or later? Want me to leave you so you can write?"

"No, let's talk! First, Dorie seems really nice," I said.

"She's a really good lady. I'm very impressed. You're going to like her." She sat on the wicker chair near the window. Greta was wearing a lovely lavender sweater and beige pants outfit plus a new hairdo. Her eyes glowed with the combination.

"I already do. We had a chance to visit when she got here. She's a version of you, really!"

"Don't know about that, but I like her and I'm glad you do..." She paused for a second. "Shall we talk about these last two sections?"

"Really! You want to talk about the last two sections? Why do you think I shoved the laptop on your lap? Of course, sweet lady, let's talk about these sections...you read it and acted like you wanted to leave. You don't like the sections, do you?"

"Of course, I like the sections! You know I like your writing. You raised my eyebrows a bit, that's all. You surprised me!" She said with a slight nod and a wry smile.

"Bet I know why!" with a nod and smile of my own. "The 'Vickie' sex snapshot?"

"Well, certainly, that raised my eyebrows! And we won't dwell too long on that bit of memorabilia! However, it might surprise you to know that that kind of experience is not so uncommon, particularly when you consider the environment in which you lived, notwithstanding the criminal implications of Vickie's complicity in the seduction. No, it is not a pretty snapshot, and  it does surprise me somewhat that you would make it part of your 'reflections,' although your penchant for honesty and ridiculing yourself would preclude your leaving it out." She was about to say more when I interrupted.

"It was such a vivid recall, Greta, like the earlier sex encounter with my pre-puberty aunt. It was somehow important for me to put it in, even knowing that is was highlighting depraved behavior..."

"I understand, Prentice. You need not justify it to me. You want the writing to portray the ultimate true picture of who you were then. It couldn't be any other way for you." She paused again, then went on.

"The 'Vickie snapshot' is not necessarily what I meant by 'raising' my eyebrows."

"Of what then do you speak, dear lady?" using my chivalrous tongue.

"I speak of your 'isms' section, EST and 'Tao Te Ching,' and your political views' section to the larger extent. What raised my brows and surprised me a bit was the length to which you've gone to find yourself, your belief system as it relates to your political morality. In other words, you're a man who strives so hard to find integrity in yourself and in others. You fight in your mind the battles of our times, wanting desperately to find a Utopia which you know does not exist. In some ways, you are an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote chasing 'windmills' you think are giants to be slain. You know your sins, Prentice! You know your faults, your errant ways! Your missed opportunities! And you're trying to make up for it all with the pages of your book." She paused, eyed me carefully with a fondness she would not hide. "And, you're doing a damned good job!"

"Whoa, wait a minute! There's something else you want to say. 'A damned good job' doesn't quite say it all, Greta. Come on, I can take it. It might hurt, a lot, but I can take it. I might never speak to you again, but take it, I shall!" She could see the last bit as mock and tease.

"Yes, a damned good job! I say what I mean, Mr. Hiller. And, yes, Mr. Hiller, there is something else to say..." Again, she paused, looked out the window at the lovely blue sky day. "What you put down is well written. You would be aware that some of your reading audience might not share your views. That, I know you know! Incidentally, I'm not one of those 'really smart people' to whom you refer, but I am non-partisan. What you want, I believe most people want. You write about it passionately and sincerely. How could I fault you? The chivalrous battles you fight with your writing are noble, patriotic, and good..." She
paused yet again, then wistfully continued.

"Why, I'm not completely sure, but I'm thinking of those two great volumes of Spanish literature." She waited, pursed her lips in that cute little habitual way she had, and went on. "His neighbors thought him mad for all his dedicated reading of chivalry, but Alonso Quixano gave himself a new name, 'Don Quixote,' put on a suit of old armor and went off on his chivalrous quests with wild imaginings. He was at times beaten, ridiculed, and ultimately unintentionally betrayed by his dull-witted squire and neighbor, Sancho Panza. His quests, his imaginings, ended in a great melancholy. Alonso would put away his armor. The melancholy worsened with his age, and Sancho in the end tried to restore his faith. But Alonso Quixano died a broken man, and, with him, his alter ego, 'Don Quixote.'

"What does 'Don Quixote' have to do with what you're writing? The chivalry part, mostly. Though, at times, you do seem daft and wildly imaginative!" A pause for chuckles. "You write about many differnet things in yur life. You bemoan at times the sad states of your existence, your life style, your 'images' of the good life, your moods, your legacy. And, to repeat myself, you do a damned good job of it. If I have any concern, it comes from my fondness for you. I don't wish you to become 'melancholy and broken,' Prentice.

"Don't try so hard to make up for your life! This writing business, the process, is good for you. Use it for all the right reasons: the legacy thing, the self-ablution, as it were, the process itself. You are who you are. You will try too hard. You will continue to beat yourself. It's too late for the couch, not that you really ever needed it, but, if I could push but one button for you, it would be the button that makes you believe in yourself and makes you have more faith in the God who made you and accept whatever it is He intends for you. You are really a dear, dear man, and I don't wish to see you hurt so much." 

She stopped talking and looked again out the big window, her face creased with a sadness beyond the mere interpretations she had rendered on the sections of my book. That sadness held me for a moment. Then, I decided to revert to my easy tactic of light patter.

"Well, Greta, you've totally blind-sided me! What the hell am I supposed to do with Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and you?" smiling, with raised eyebrows. "Okay, methinks I get it. You're a sweetheart!" I closed the laptop and got up. "Come on, let's break out of this joint and find a Big Mac, fries, and coke."

Actually, 'Don Quixote' and I likely had a lot more in common than I might be willing to admit. Then, again, there might be more Sancho Panza in me than I might be willing to admit.

“Portrait In Time”
Posted on October 25, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1

“Portrait In Time”

Young man, do you not see me as once I might have been?


Is it the wrinkle, the sagging skin Time laid upon me that you see?

Once I stood, perhaps like you, with noble thoughts and dreams

A new bright morning might bring.


 
                                                      Time wore me down with its ceaseless ubiquitous ways and subtle promises.
             
                                                      Time taunted and tempted me with its guile and deceptions,

                                                      With its beauty beads of love.


 
                                                      Time gave me its reins to run wild with the wind toward sunrise and sunset.


  
                                                      Time now leaves me here along the sea, better to have had its moments of joy;

                                                      Sad to have you see the frail and broken parts of me.


  
                                                      Young man, can you not see me as once I might have been?


 
(An ending poem in a book by Billy Ray Chitwood, “The Cracked Mirror – Reflections Of An Appalachian Son”)

Hidden Within
Posted on October 15, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1

Exploring the dimensions within myself! Inviting you along for the ride, should you care to come. Who knows? Maybe something useful can be gleaned.

Some younger readers of this post will likely find no lucid relevance to their own lives but might gain some insight into the working of a mind still ticking away the twilight seconds. Hidden within this time-pressed body is one of the darkest, most menacing demons it’s been my misfortune to confront. Meet my number one demon, Guilt. This bleak gnawing beast has been with me since the beginning of my thought processes, no doubt an atavistic part of my quaint DNA. Guilt has been with me since my Bible Belt days in Appalachia, in truth nourished by those very disquieting days of Southern Baptist fire and brimstone, of family disconnect, and of mobile nomadic yearnings. Guilt has ruled much of my life, and it has not been pity and some nebulous acclaim I seek in the books I pen, in the simple characters and plot lines one might find therein. It is the endless desire to better understand the soul that is hidden within that Guilt.

If you do not already know him, meet a friend of mine, James Kavanaugh, the rebel priest who would finally hold his ‘masses’ at local taverns with some rowdy blue-collar workers, or, in one of his most beautifully written books. There were some doctrinal issues with the Catholic Church, and Dr. Kavanaugh would take a leave of absence from the Priesthood, travel to California in his VW Bug, and write books. He became a most popular public speaker, and a widely acclaimed poet-author. He is no longer with us. He died in 2009 at age 81, but he has left a beautiful legacy in his books and in his papers. The two books of James Kavanaugh I shall most remember are: There Are Men Too Gentle To Live Among Wolves and Will You Be My Friend? It is his first book of poetry (“…Men Too Gentle…”) that awakens some part of me, that helps me to exist alongside my number one demon, Guilt...not to be rid of it but at least to dull somewhat its visits. It is my hope that some followers and friends who do not know James Kavanaugh will discover him as I did, particularly if Guilt plays a role in their lives.

There are other demons that are hidden within that torment me at times, the old standards, like, Prejudice, Pride, Greed, Selfishness, and Self-Loathing. There are good people in our world that seemingly have few demons, and I’m always shocked when one of my heroes or heroines fall from grace. Are demons hidden within all of us? It has taken a lifetime but I am beginning to believe that they do.

It helps me at demon-calling time to read James Kavanaugh’s Will You Be My Friend?

Will You Be My Friend?

Will you be my friend? There are so many reasons why you never should:

I’m sometimes sullen, often shy, acutely sensitive, My fear erupts as anger, I find it hard to give, I talk about myself when I’m afraid And often spend a day without anything to say.     But I will make you laugh     And love you quite a bit      And hold you when you’re sad.

I cry a little almost every day Because I’m more caring than the strangers ever know, And, if at times, I show my tender side (The soft and warmer part I hide) I wonder,     Will you be my friend?

A friend Who far beyond the feebleness of any vow or tie Will touch the secret place where I am really I, To know the pain of lips that plead and eyes that weep, Who will not run away when you find me in the street Alone and lying mangled by my quota of defeats But will stop and stay – to tell me of another day     When I was beautiful.

Will you be my friend? There are so many reasons why you never should:

Often I’m too serious, seldom predictably the same, Sometimes cold and distant, probably I’ll always change. I bluster and brag, seek attention like a child. I brood and pout, my anger can be wild,     But I will make you laugh     And love you quite a bit     And be near when you’re afraid.

I shake a little almost every day Because I’m more frightened than the strangers ever know And if at times I show my trembling side (The anxious, fearful part I hide) I wonder,     Will you be my friend?

A friend Who, when I fear your closeness, feels me push away And stubbornly will stay to share what’s left on such a day, Who, when no one knows my name or calls me on the phone, When there’s no concern for me – what I have or haven’t done – And those I’ve helped and counted on have, oh so deftly, run, Who, when there’s nothing left but me, stripped of charm and subtlety, Will nonetheless remain.

Will you be my friend? For no reason that I know Except I want you so.