There is no sound here, except for that constant chatter in my head
This is my brain-dump, sketchbook, notebook, writings drawing essays and other sundry of things that I find very important, but you may not.....
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!St. David?
Roughly one might look at him as the Welsh equivalent to St. Patrick -- without the drinking. After all, he was known as Dewi Dyfrwr, David The Water Drinker, and springs would spring up wherever he traveled. Course, San Dewi was a miracle healer, having once even brought a young boy back to life from the dead by splashing tears on the boy; prerequisite for being sainted and given a national holiday. Mostly, he was known for his spiritual Christian teachings. He was a monk and started his own monastery on the banks of the Alun River. One of the more spectacular legends of his life, took place in that spot, when the Church was considering elevating him to the position of Archbishop. A large crowd had gathered to hear him speak, when shouts went out that he couldn't be seen or heard. The ground rose up, elevating him until everyone could see and hear him. His elevation to Archbishop was cinched. A church in his name still stands on that hill
On March 1st, 589 the monastery he built was filled with angels as his soul passed into heaven. His primary message which is still canted these days is "Gwnewch y pethau bychain":
"Do the little things"Gladelig Lille Julekveld
Historical Reality May Be DifferentThe Lille Julekveld always took place on December 23rd making it the "Little Christmas Eve"" or the "Christmas Eve Before The Christmas Eve" Ever practical, even in their language, the Norwegian shortened it to two words: Lille Julekveld. Most likely the eating frenzy came from the frustration of not being able to talk politics. This is not a Norsk tradition, but Bestemor's (Grandmother) rule; a good rule given that Dad's side of the family was Republican and Mom's side of the family was Democrat. As I experienced it there were certain foods that were eaten during the Lille Julekveld and certain foods eaten on the Julekveld, Christmas Eve in engelske (English). "Jule" roughly means Christmas. "Kveld" means evening.
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Novels of Conrad Lawrence available for Kindle on Amazon |
We ate ham on the Lille Julekveld and a special ring Bologna on Julekveld. This bologna really was special, prepared by a certain butcher in Stoughton, Wisconsin and it was wonderful. He took the recipe to his grave. Those taciturn Norwegians really can keep a secret. Cranberry sauce was reserved for the Julekveld as was candied sweet potatoes. On the Lille julekveld we ate mashed potatoes and some sort of jello mold that incorporated green jello with some sort of red fruit in it (grapes or cherries). Ludetfiske was reserved for Julekveld while we ate salmon on Lille julekveld. (Yes, two meat proteins each meal) Pickled herring and lefse was eaten around the clock. Butter was slathered on lefse then doused in sugar for breakfast. During evening meals cranberry sauce, or ludtefisk was wrapped in it. We never wrapped lingonberries in it since lingonberries were too Swedish.
"This is the way it is.," grandmother would say with enough gravity that I just knew that it was Norse tradition. I never questioned how all of the Norse culture got this ring bologna from Stoughton. I don't want to insinuate that Grandmother told lies; however, there was always that twinkle in her eye. Norwegians invented the tall tale long before Texas existed. Grandmother never counted on Google. Though grandmother would always tow the Christian line about the Jule being tied to the Baby Jesus. We spoke Norsk when I lived in Stoughton with her and Bestefar (Grandfather). I knew ungen to mean "young one."
Turns out that Jule mean a lot in Norse and Celtic cultures and can cover a time of the year from November to January, depending on the culture. It is tied to Odin, a pagan god (topic or another time) , however slowly the Jul became Chistianized in Norway. Beginning with the Lille Julekveld, our family celebration reflected this slow progression. On the Lille Julekveld, little of Christ's birth was incorporated into the festivities; other than the mandatory "grace" before each meal. On the Julekveld (Christmas Eve) we had a traditional reading of Luke 2. Christmas Day was reserved for full religious celebration, starting with church at Midnight, which eventually became a 6:00 am ritual.
Regardless, the Lille Julekveld, and the Julekveld are both celebrations of Peace and Goodwill, which I hope you will celebrate with your own rituals and morays. Even if you don't speak Norsk, I think you will understand this:
"This is the way it is.," grandmother would say with enough gravity that I just knew that it was Norse tradition. I never questioned how all of the Norse culture got this ring bologna from Stoughton. I don't want to insinuate that Grandmother told lies; however, there was always that twinkle in her eye. Norwegians invented the tall tale long before Texas existed. Grandmother never counted on Google. Though grandmother would always tow the Christian line about the Jule being tied to the Baby Jesus. We spoke Norsk when I lived in Stoughton with her and Bestefar (Grandfather). I knew ungen to mean "young one."
Turns out that Jule mean a lot in Norse and Celtic cultures and can cover a time of the year from November to January, depending on the culture. It is tied to Odin, a pagan god (topic or another time) , however slowly the Jul became Chistianized in Norway. Beginning with the Lille Julekveld, our family celebration reflected this slow progression. On the Lille Julekveld, little of Christ's birth was incorporated into the festivities; other than the mandatory "grace" before each meal. On the Julekveld (Christmas Eve) we had a traditional reading of Luke 2. Christmas Day was reserved for full religious celebration, starting with church at Midnight, which eventually became a 6:00 am ritual.
Regardless, the Lille Julekveld, and the Julekveld are both celebrations of Peace and Goodwill, which I hope you will celebrate with your own rituals and morays. Even if you don't speak Norsk, I think you will understand this:
Fred på jorden. Velferden til alle!
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Syttende Mai - The Art of Preparedness and Feminine Domination
Norwegian Flag
The 17th of May (Norsk) is the day in 1814 that the Norwegians declared their independence and implemented their Constitution. Being the pragmatic Scandinavians that they are, the Norwegians wrote their constitution before declaring independence; unlike us Americans who reached for our weapons before our pens. It was 11 years after the beginning of bloodshed, before anyone decide to map out on paper what we wanted as a country. The Norsk wouldn't get completely acknowledged independence (as in on paper) until 1905, but as far as daily life was concerned what they got was what was tantamount to independence. They had their own constitution and did things their own way.
Domination By Denmark
Danish Flag
So what did the Norwegians get? What happened? If the word "domination" brings about a feminine, possibly marital, sensibility and the imagery of a woman in a pivotal role, you'd be right. Queen Margrete ruled over the peaceful union of Norway and Denmark, which came about by marriage. Margrete was the daughter of the King Denmark and married the King of Norway creating a union between Norway, Sweden and Denmark that lasted 400 years. Well, after 125 years Sweden dropped out. Polyamory marriages are tough. But the union between Denmark and Norway was peaceful and both countries flourished. The way this matriarchal union came about was like this: Denmark ruled Sweden. Margrete's husband died soon after the plague, leaving her ruler of Norway. Soon after that Margrete's father died, leaving her also the ruler of Denmark and Sweden with the seat of government bing in Denmark. Hence the domination rather than conquering phraseology.
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The Loss of Feminine Wisdom and Independence - Finally
So how did Norway finally get independence? During the Napoleanic Wars, Norway/Denmark tried to remain neutral, but their economy was dependent on trade with Britain. Sweden allied with Napolean. Margrete had been dead for over 300 years and along with it here wisdom. Financially weakened by loss of trade due to Napolean's conquest of Europe and the beating he was giving Britain, Denmark gave Norway to Sweden. On May 17th, 1814, (Syttende Mai) Norway offered up it's constitution. In August, Sweden reacted violently and a deal was struck. Swedish monarchy ruled Norway, while Norway kept it's Constitution and Parliament. Ever pragmatic, Norway realized that paying taxes was cheaper and less costly in lives than waging war and otherwise they got to live life on their terms. Sort of like having a drunk father who you agree to call dad, but who lives elsewhere. The King was in Sweden, but they ruled themselves under their own constitution. Like a drunken father, Sweden was sometimes cruel and brutally violent; so in June 1905 the Norsk Parlement voted to break the union with Sweden. Fearing war, Sweden granted that break on October 26th, 1905.
Lessons useful for today?
Sure. History is a teacher to be learned from. How about: Peaceful pragmatism will get you more of what you want for less cost than war, and don't go messing with other countries finances or they will eventually revolt - violently if necessary! And, when you do win, don't rub your vanquished foe's nose in it. Hence, the Norwegians don't celebrate August 13th, but The Syttende Mai!
Lessons useful for today?
Sure. History is a teacher to be learned from. How about: Peaceful pragmatism will get you more of what you want for less cost than war, and don't go messing with other countries finances or they will eventually revolt - violently if necessary! And, when you do win, don't rub your vanquished foe's nose in it. Hence, the Norwegians don't celebrate August 13th, but The Syttende Mai!
Story Read @ Story Lab 4/20
From before I knew her
Dissecting a Moment
While Ronald Reagan was making up with his son in a Los Angeles Hotel, seeing his 20 month grandaughter for the first time and and Eastern Airlines 727 was dissapearing from a radar screen while approaching La Paz, South America; I was pressing the Play button on my answering machine. It's 1984 – December 28th __ 8:46 PM. Like smoke from a stubbed cigarette in an ashtray, a voice wafted up from the message machine.
“We're at Methodist Hospital in the critical care unit and you should come here for your father.” Click. Not my mother. I never have thought of my dad's second wife as my step mother; not because of her preternatural sense for the dramatic (as exhibited by taciturn and uninformative message on my answering machine); but because I was 27 when they became public on and 28 when they got married. Hard to call a woman you meet after graduating college – and whose age exactly bifurcates the age difference you have with your father – “mother”
“Call me Rindy,” she told me when that became evident.
“We have to make a decision,” Rindy intercepts – she never greets – me as I step off the elevator onto the Methodist Hospital Critical Care Unit. Beyond her, my dad is at the nurses station phone to his ear. Right then, I know that we, Rindy and I, are not involved in any decision. My dad, a cross between Richard Nixon and Bob Dole was born, bread and accomplished at making unilateral decisions.
Once, when I was in college, I went to his office: oppulent, ordained, obsene and red; red mahogany desk, red mohogany credenza, red mahogany wardrobe, red mahogany conference table with – you guessed it – red mahogany chairs upholsted with maroon gabardine.
Wearing jeans, a leather bomber jacket with a ratty canvas knapsack slung over one shoulder, I set my black Bell full-face helmet on his desk. A wry smile crosses his face as he motions to the chair opposite the desk from his. It isn't, but the moment feels Shakesperean. “So, Dad, what do you do here all day?”
He holds up a finger for me to wait and watch, then places said finger on a speaker button. “Is there anything I need to look at.”
“Yes, sir.” Rita enters, sets a piece of paper in front of my dad, who reads it, signs it and hands it back to her. She exits.
“That's it?” I am incredulous. “What did you do?”
“I, ” he removes his jacket as if he has exerted some energy, “just made a decision.”
Now you see why we - Rindy and I – are not going to be making any decisions about – whatever cryptic event is taking place for which I had not yet been informed. My father's expression shows that it's a tough decision and that whomever he is on the phone with is also involved in this decision. I have only known one person with whom my dad would consult for a decision, making the person on the line his sister. I ask Rindy in the most direct, polite way with but with a practiced look that says don't fuck with me which I learned from my father,”has something happened to my grandmother.”
“We need to decide whether or not to take heroic meaures....” She reaches out to me with the sincerity of a campaigning Senator. I walk past her, realizing that I am not going to get an explanation.
My dad's eyes, shift sidelong toward one of many rooms that had the soft, regular, syncopated rhythm of a beeping heart monitor. The frequency of the beeps signals that my grandmother's vitals are slowing, like a train coming to a slow stop in a terminal.
Always petite, my grandmother looked nearly infant-like in the bed. So slight and so much smaller than three weeks earlier at the nursing home . She had things attached to her; just enough to monitor her journey from this life to the next. Clearly, she was well under sail.
Her eyes, part way open, had already gone wolf gray, the pupils already muted in color. I couldn't remember, had they been blue or – green. I moved to her, sure something was required of me, but what? Behind me my dad spoke,”Is there someplace we could sit?”
Inconsequential moments later, I was sitting in burnt orange vinyl with chrome frame chair, while Rindy and my dad are seated on a burnt orange vinyl with chrome couch. Rindy's daughter is there for her.
With clear executive eyes and a clear executive voice, my dad delivers the report on the accident that befell my grandmother, his mother. “The door next to your grandmothers room opens to basement stairs. Patio doors off the basement makes that door a fire escape. A couple weeks ago the fire marshalls said that door had to be left unlocked or the nursing home would be fined. Evidently, your grandmother thought it was the door to her room and fell down the stairs. She's suffering from a massive concussion.”
Rindy and her daughter begin prattling about law suits. In retrospect, I can honestly say that one of the few things that I am proud of my father for is that he took the high road and did not put the nursing home between financial retribution and the fire department. Bearing his usual mask of Richard Nixon, Bob Dole logic., my dad's eyes have started to glaze, covered by a thin syrupy wet layer.
Sixty one days earlier, I had turned thirty. I had not hugged, nor really touched my dad since I was ten. Any such display at that moment would not have been welcome given the kind of people he claimed we were; the stock we came from and our expected strength. I nodded. Once. “I don't think,” my father says in a strong level voice, “that we should take any heroic measures. However,” finally his voice cracks, “my sister – your aunt – needs to think about it and will call back.” He draws in his breath, drawing back the initial glaze of tears and says “If we can't come to a decision. You are the only immediate family member around.”
“Well,” Rindy starts, “I'm sure...” I stop listening. Some forty steps away, around two corners, a woman was making a journey from what we commonly agreed-upon as reality. Other than seeing her for Easter and Christmas, I know very little of her.
“Would you like to see your grandmother,” My dad's voice cuts through the bullshit. I nod and in moments we stand around a fragile human container of a departing soul. The heart rate monitor displays 22 beats per minute. Departure is imminent. Something should be said, but what? Then, I know. I slip my hand into the hand of a woman whom I can't ever remember touching before. Her hand slowly, not reflexively, closes around my fingers. Suddenly, I know much, so much and so many things more important than details and events about my grandmother.
The phone rings at the nurse's station.
Dad and Rindy leave. My grandmother holds on to my hand and I hold hers. The heatbeat monitor slips down to 16 beats a minute and the nurse turns it away, shutting off the auditory alert, looking to me for approval. I guess I gave it to her. In peaceful silence my dad's voice enters like a soft rain against a window. I am with my grandmother and I just stay with her, as strange as she has been to me. Finally she departs. Her hand doesn't relax. Her breathing had been so slow, that there is no perceptible change. He eyes still remain wolf gray, but I know she has left. The nurse looks from the monitor which only she can see. She nods
And that is the moment. Not the moments before or the moments after when I let my father know he and my aunt weren't faced with any awful decision. That was the moment I realize that Jung was right. At some level, beyond our words and revealing eyes and knowing nods we are connected. If only we would just stop and allow it. It was a moment both beautiful and horrendous, not only for the trivial passing of my grandmother, but for the realization of waste.
While Ronald Reagan was making up with his son in a Los Angeles Hotel, seeing his 20 month grandaughter for the first time and and Eastern Airlines 727 was dissapearing from a radar screen while approaching La Paz, South America; I was pressing the Play button on my answering machine. It's 1984 – December 28th __ 8:46 PM. Like smoke from a stubbed cigarette in an ashtray, a voice wafted up from the message machine.
“We're at Methodist Hospital in the critical care unit and you should come here for your father.” Click. Not my mother. I never have thought of my dad's second wife as my step mother; not because of her preternatural sense for the dramatic (as exhibited by taciturn and uninformative message on my answering machine); but because I was 27 when they became public on and 28 when they got married. Hard to call a woman you meet after graduating college – and whose age exactly bifurcates the age difference you have with your father – “mother”
“Call me Rindy,” she told me when that became evident.
“We have to make a decision,” Rindy intercepts – she never greets – me as I step off the elevator onto the Methodist Hospital Critical Care Unit. Beyond her, my dad is at the nurses station phone to his ear. Right then, I know that we, Rindy and I, are not involved in any decision. My dad, a cross between Richard Nixon and Bob Dole was born, bread and accomplished at making unilateral decisions.
Once, when I was in college, I went to his office: oppulent, ordained, obsene and red; red mahogany desk, red mohogany credenza, red mahogany wardrobe, red mahogany conference table with – you guessed it – red mahogany chairs upholsted with maroon gabardine.
Wearing jeans, a leather bomber jacket with a ratty canvas knapsack slung over one shoulder, I set my black Bell full-face helmet on his desk. A wry smile crosses his face as he motions to the chair opposite the desk from his. It isn't, but the moment feels Shakesperean. “So, Dad, what do you do here all day?”
He holds up a finger for me to wait and watch, then places said finger on a speaker button. “Is there anything I need to look at.”
“Yes, sir.” Rita enters, sets a piece of paper in front of my dad, who reads it, signs it and hands it back to her. She exits.
“That's it?” I am incredulous. “What did you do?”
“I, ” he removes his jacket as if he has exerted some energy, “just made a decision.”
Now you see why we - Rindy and I – are not going to be making any decisions about – whatever cryptic event is taking place for which I had not yet been informed. My father's expression shows that it's a tough decision and that whomever he is on the phone with is also involved in this decision. I have only known one person with whom my dad would consult for a decision, making the person on the line his sister. I ask Rindy in the most direct, polite way with but with a practiced look that says don't fuck with me which I learned from my father,”has something happened to my grandmother.”
“We need to decide whether or not to take heroic meaures....” She reaches out to me with the sincerity of a campaigning Senator. I walk past her, realizing that I am not going to get an explanation.
My dad's eyes, shift sidelong toward one of many rooms that had the soft, regular, syncopated rhythm of a beeping heart monitor. The frequency of the beeps signals that my grandmother's vitals are slowing, like a train coming to a slow stop in a terminal.
Always petite, my grandmother looked nearly infant-like in the bed. So slight and so much smaller than three weeks earlier at the nursing home . She had things attached to her; just enough to monitor her journey from this life to the next. Clearly, she was well under sail.
Her eyes, part way open, had already gone wolf gray, the pupils already muted in color. I couldn't remember, had they been blue or – green. I moved to her, sure something was required of me, but what? Behind me my dad spoke,”Is there someplace we could sit?”
Inconsequential moments later, I was sitting in burnt orange vinyl with chrome frame chair, while Rindy and my dad are seated on a burnt orange vinyl with chrome couch. Rindy's daughter is there for her.
With clear executive eyes and a clear executive voice, my dad delivers the report on the accident that befell my grandmother, his mother. “The door next to your grandmothers room opens to basement stairs. Patio doors off the basement makes that door a fire escape. A couple weeks ago the fire marshalls said that door had to be left unlocked or the nursing home would be fined. Evidently, your grandmother thought it was the door to her room and fell down the stairs. She's suffering from a massive concussion.”
Rindy and her daughter begin prattling about law suits. In retrospect, I can honestly say that one of the few things that I am proud of my father for is that he took the high road and did not put the nursing home between financial retribution and the fire department. Bearing his usual mask of Richard Nixon, Bob Dole logic., my dad's eyes have started to glaze, covered by a thin syrupy wet layer.
Sixty one days earlier, I had turned thirty. I had not hugged, nor really touched my dad since I was ten. Any such display at that moment would not have been welcome given the kind of people he claimed we were; the stock we came from and our expected strength. I nodded. Once. “I don't think,” my father says in a strong level voice, “that we should take any heroic measures. However,” finally his voice cracks, “my sister – your aunt – needs to think about it and will call back.” He draws in his breath, drawing back the initial glaze of tears and says “If we can't come to a decision. You are the only immediate family member around.”
“Well,” Rindy starts, “I'm sure...” I stop listening. Some forty steps away, around two corners, a woman was making a journey from what we commonly agreed-upon as reality. Other than seeing her for Easter and Christmas, I know very little of her.
“Would you like to see your grandmother,” My dad's voice cuts through the bullshit. I nod and in moments we stand around a fragile human container of a departing soul. The heart rate monitor displays 22 beats per minute. Departure is imminent. Something should be said, but what? Then, I know. I slip my hand into the hand of a woman whom I can't ever remember touching before. Her hand slowly, not reflexively, closes around my fingers. Suddenly, I know much, so much and so many things more important than details and events about my grandmother.
The phone rings at the nurse's station.
Dad and Rindy leave. My grandmother holds on to my hand and I hold hers. The heatbeat monitor slips down to 16 beats a minute and the nurse turns it away, shutting off the auditory alert, looking to me for approval. I guess I gave it to her. In peaceful silence my dad's voice enters like a soft rain against a window. I am with my grandmother and I just stay with her, as strange as she has been to me. Finally she departs. Her hand doesn't relax. Her breathing had been so slow, that there is no perceptible change. He eyes still remain wolf gray, but I know she has left. The nurse looks from the monitor which only she can see. She nods
And that is the moment. Not the moments before or the moments after when I let my father know he and my aunt weren't faced with any awful decision. That was the moment I realize that Jung was right. At some level, beyond our words and revealing eyes and knowing nods we are connected. If only we would just stop and allow it. It was a moment both beautiful and horrendous, not only for the trivial passing of my grandmother, but for the realization of waste.