Category Archives: Mental attitude

Stay Grounded. Like a Gladiator.

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I watch several films repeatedly until my eyes are so weary it’s like seeing through Vaseline. Here’s my list. Don’t get crazy. You have yours. I have mine. Let’s not have a Civil War over films.

Don’t we have enough better reasons to start one already?

Ok, here’s my top ten:

  1. Roadhouse.
  2. Next of Kin. (Check it out).
  3. Gladiator.
  4. The Godfather Part II.
  5. Night of the Living Dead (and all its Dead-ish progressions).
  6. John Wick (except 2 – meh).
  7. Giant.
  8. Anything James Bond (except for Pierce Brosnan – too pretty).
  9. Wall Street.
  10. Bride of Frankenstein.

Gladiator, an epic film by Ridley Scott, came out in 2000 with a script Russell Crowe tried to rewrite on the fly. He called it ‘underdone’ and ‘half-baked.’

GARBAGE, even!

Characters in the original script were stuffed pasta shells with no cheese; Maximus was a cartoon character solely out for revenge (sometimes that works, but it’s iffy). So, the mission was to give the Roman General some raw heart, brooding pathos, and a kick-ass focus on vengeance.

Mission accomplished.

Critics hated it. But critics hate everything unless the coastal elites find it complex and pretentious enough for middle America to tune out because, you know, if you don’t live on the coasts, you’re a dolt.

Oh, and unless some dude is wearing a wig and heels, then it’s a MASTERPIECE.

The film’s first draft focused on Commodus, a deplorable, ethically broken character. The first rule in screenwriting (mine anyway) is you need to know who the good ‘guy’ is and like him or her. Maximus was indeed likable. Stoic, too.

Also, Russel Crowe is not too bad in gladiator garb if you’re into that sorta thing. I’m sure Gladiator Wars played out in many bedrooms after the movie premiered. Can you imagine Marcus Dadbodius and his pillow sword?

I prefer not to.

Now, besides the bombastic dialogue (again, which Mr. Crowe disdained, although I believed it fit for a military icon of Rome), there were character actions carved into the movie-watching psyche that sprouted the little voices in our heads to further guide us through who Maximus was inside. His depth enhanced his arc – from a revered leader of the Roman army to a slave to, finally, THE GLADIATOR.

EPIC.

What a saga. A comeback story. We love comeback stories. Well, we used to love comeback stories. Now, I’m really not sure. Now I think we love – pull out, come on my back, stories.

Anyway…

Maximus loved his family. They were brutally obliterated by the instruction of the evil Emperor Commodus, who killed his father, Marcus Aurelius, for the privilege.

In a tiny burlap sack, Maximus carried figurines of his slain wife and son- his inspiration to go on. Whenever Maximus opened that damn bag, removed those figures, and kissed them on the head, you just knew conflict was imminent.

He longed to join them in due time; he smoldered over them. And if you haven’t watched Gladiator already (it’s out over two decades, for God’s sake), I’ll happily go ahead and ruin the ending for you – He reunites with his family in the afterlife after saving Rome from the Clintons.

Oh, I’m kidding about the Clintons. Hillary was just an infant at that time.

Now, you may recall before Maximus engaged in battle, whether at the sweeping location of Germania or before entering a coliseum to fight men as hard as statues and even tigers, he bent to the ground, scooped up a hint of dirt, and rubbed it carefully between his hands.

Why?

From a character perspective, such a small action tremendously impacts our overall impression of Maximus. It’s a subtle, ritualistic motion, certainly. However, so powerful because Earth and dirt return us to who we are, who we miss, and forges a connection to the part of our lost selves.

Rolling in your own dirt is a path to rebirth and self-awareness. And I’m not talking about bathing literally here, although I hear mud baths are healthy.

I believe Maximus rubbed dirt in his hands to focus on the present. As a farmer as well as a warrior, he understood the power of focus because FOCUS meant LIFE over DEATH until it was time for him to die.

Sometimes, death is a rebirth, albeit sad. So is the conclusion of the film. But you don’t need to die to be reborn. I mean, you can, but that would be a damn shame.

So, here’s how to stay grounded. Like a gladiator.

  1. What kind of simple action can you take to rewire your brain to focus on where you stand and not where you stood or will stand tomorrow? For Maximus, it was dirt. For you, it may be deep breathing. For me, it’s music, writing, or listening to the wind through pine trees. Whatever it is, engaging your dirt is an appreciation for even the smallest blessings you possess today.
  2. Identify your enemies. You have them. Work to cage the demons that cheer for you to bleed out and get a thumbs down from the Emperor. We all have an evil Emperor or entire empire inside us who seeks harm. Go ahead, name them: Complacency, procrastination, tribalism, negative self-talk. You must “WIN THE CROWD” to gain your freedom. Like Maximus the Gladiator did.
  3. Grow something. Anything. Maximus was a farmer at heart. He loved his land and the fruits and olives that thrived within. To stay grounded, you must grow something. A new skill, a refresh (like fertilizer?). Hell, grow something literally. Gardening can be therapeutic. Growth leads to self-awareness, appreciation of gifts, and overall well-being.

We are all gladiators. That’s why the story resonates. We all fight. The internal battles are the toughest. Gladiators were willing to die not so willing to kill. I say, take your time on the death thing and kill those thoughts and feelings that crush your spirit.

Sadly, to stay grounded, you’ll also need to remove people from your lives who repeatedly test your resolve. I’ve done it. I can’t contact enough friends to play checkers, but that’s my road, my choice, my dirt.

My actions are bearing so much fruit,

Maximus would be proud.

Now it’s your turn to ground yourself like a Gladiator.

Think Gifts, not Lessons & Life Will be Better.

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We’re living through a period of rancid word salad.

Like when pulling the baby spring lettuce you bought last year from the back of your fridge – what once was green and vibrant is now brown, drippy, and moldy.

That baby lettuce is dead.

Admittedly, some of the tactics we witness from the DC machine of word alcedama, hold enough gas to light up a small city, but, there’s a way within your brain to cleanse the words.

Yes, you are a word launderer.

A mental salad spinner that can gyrate the distress out of your harmful self-talk.

Listen, salad spinners were a big thing in the 70s and 80s.

Here are five ways to spin SPIN words to your advantage:

  1. LESSONS vs. GIFTS – A lesson seemingly sounds bad. We tend to use the word negatively. “Boy, I learned my lesson.” But every LESSON is indeed a GIFT. Even a terrible LESSON is a huge GIFT to self-growth. Marcus Aurelius lamented – “Convince yourself that everything is a gift from the gods.”
  2. CHORES vs. ACCOMPLISHMENTS – I get a big kick out of little things. Doing laundry, vacuuming, sweeping up the patio because I focus on the END RESULTS. Clean sheets accomplish better rest, vacuuming creates those lines in the carpet that keep me sane. Sweeping the patio clears debris so my pups can walk more easily.
  3. LAZY vs. RECHARGE – We don’t spend enough time recharging our internal batteries. Taking a nap, getting away for a quiet lunch or reading are ways to ease the pressure. From Daily Stoic – “The mind must be given relaxation,” Seneca said, “it will rise improved and sharper after a good break. Just as rich fields must not be forced… so constant work on the anvil will fracture the force of the mind.”
  4. OLD vs. EXPERIENCED – Personally, I disdain the word OLD. To me, it smells of giving up. It’s an excuse not to try. Mind-limiting nonsense. If you speak the word old you’ll do old things. You’ll place tight boundaries around your physical and mental growth.
  5. SETBACK vs. BLESSING – A chronic ailment, a physical illness, every setback must spin out of your head as a blessing. Reframing setbacks as blessings leads to resiliency to face challenges. Years ago, I lost a kidney due to high blood pressure from stress during a civil lawsuit. Today, my overall kidney function is within normal limits, my weight is off 40 pounds, I exercise hard on a regular basis and my diet over the last 5 years is primarily plant-based. I’ve never been so healthy and I probably wouldn’t have been if the blessing of losing a kidney hadn’t catapulted me to a more robust physical health regimen.

Words can make or break your spirit. Especially today.

Use them wisely to reframe your mindset.

Be a word spinner.

10 Life Lessons From A Grandma.

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Lord knows.

Nellie wasn’t a looker.

A photo of her at 40 – gray hair unevenly cut like a boy with an errant lawnmower. Wrinkles, double-chin.

Oh but that smile. In 1974 at age 40, she looked 70.

Nana was what you called a ‘custodian.’ At my Brooklyn New York public school.

PS 215. Gravesend.

Custodian: Fancy word for janitor.

She cleaned toilets. She would wave to me in the halls and I’d purposely evade her attention. Occasionally, I’d flash a courtesy furtive grin in her general direction.

But grandma? Her wide smile never quit.

I loved my grandmother. It doesn’t sound like it, but I did. With everything I had. As a boy under the childish haze of immaturity, I was embarrassed.

As an adult, I realize she was the wisest person I’ve ever known.

I’m thankful she loved me so much.

Grandma’s life lessons stick with me. At five-years-old they went in one ear, rambled around between my ears. Over time, they found a place in my brain to settle, take root. Frankly, I think her wisdom is cordoned in a mental space not even dementia could set its long, dead fingers.

So, here’s to the grandmas.

  1. SCREW STEREOTYPES – Nellie loved people for who they were, not their appearances. Many days I recall her providing food to families at the school who were having financial difficulties. Often, she’d provide lunch money to students who forgot theirs at home. Grandma held fundraisers for the less fortunate and ironically, she was one of the less fortunate.
  2. BE NURTURING TO CHILDREN – Nellie would dress as Santa every year, saunter down the school halls in full beard, drag a sack and hand out pounds of candy to the kids in every classroom. The students and teachers loved her for it. Even the principal. Can you imagine someone dressing as Santa delivering candy at a public school today? So politically incorrect. You’d be fired – possibly arrested.
  3. BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE – Grandma dressed matronly, slovenly at times. Yet her heart was thread in gold. I’ll never forget her battleship gray and white-collared school uniform that made her appear twenty years older. People couldn’t care less. Neither did she.
  4. MAKE A KILLER BLT – Grandma wasn’t a cook, she was a worker. She helped support a family – brothers and sisters at a young age. She owned businesses, made dolls, spent hours on charities. But those BLTs. To die for. I know her secret to a mind-blowing sandwich and I’ll take it to the grave. Cook or make sandwiches for the ones you love.
  5. SMILE & SAY HELLO – Nellie’s bedroom window faced a busy street. It was a little, unassuming house in a row. Today, all gone, replaced by a high-rise. One of her favorite pastimes was to sit on a high stool at the bedroom window and listen to a beat up AM radio and her favorite station (1010 WINS – GIVE US 22 MINUTES, WE’LL GIVE YOU THE WORLD). She’d watch people walk by. There was always a wave, sometimes a hearty hello and a smile. Even when people didn’t return the courtesy.
  6. SAVE, SAVE, SAVE – Grandma was a Depression-era kid. Nothing went to waste. She wasn’t a hoarder; she just found a use for everything. My grandfather abhorred how she’d have him pull over the Ford Maverick because a salvageable treasure in a neighbor’s garbage out by the curve caught her keen eye. One year she found the coolest red wooden sleigh complete with ornate wood-carved reindeer. We had to lug it ten blocks to her house.
  7. EASY FORGIVE – My dad was always out on the town with some gorgeous woman two decades younger. He’d tell grandma he was coming by and never show. She would shake her head and lament that’s my Benny, smile and move on. She told me – ‘you can’t control what others do. Only what you do.’
  8. ENCOURAGE – Grandma always told me I could do what I want. I was smart enough. I could be the first in the family to attend college. She owned multiple businesses in the 1950s – a laundromat, a candy store. It was rare for a woman to take the bull by the horns. I think unfortunately, grandpa killed her spirit so she relented and gave up the businesses. Men weren’t excited about their wives doing better than they were. Unfortunately, I think that’s somewhat true today.
  9. BE A GOOD FRIEND – Nellie was a loyal and loved her friends. She listened, supported and engaged. And most important…
  10. TODAY IS EVERY DAY – Grandma’s shot at Stoicism. She wasn’t educated but she was wise. This lesson remains the most challenging and the most valuable. If I talked about my future or grew frustrated by my current situation, Nellie advised me to make the best of it, learn from the experience.

Today is all that counts.

Today is everyday.

Then she’d give me a hug.

And a BLT.

Sometimes, all you need is a hug and a sandwich by loving hands.

To make it through the school of life.

The Bullies Resurface. 2021.

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“The biggest bully I ever faced was underneath my own skin.”

Johnny Cash.

Paulie Greco emerged. Rising like a boneless demon between the cracks of schoolyard concrete. I couldn’t focus on anything else after that. For hours. Through massive, lead-paint thick Brooklyn public school windows behind heavy-gauge steel grating, I could still see him. Lurking.

I couldn’t stop seeing him. Waiting. For me.

I felt the ice, the fear coursing through veins I didn’t even realize I had inside my body, my head. Until they started throbbing. 2:15pm. He’d been out there. Since noon. High noon. I recall shaking uncontrollably at my desk the closer the hands of the large black & white super-ticky clock hanging above the chalkboard inched towards 3.

My heart beat heavy in both ears. I wondered how I was going to live with no blood, no teeth. No spleen. I heard somewhere you could live without a spleen. That oddly seemed to calm me.

Would I be able to walk? Please god not the face was all I could think. Thinking positively – Perhaps a good pummeling would work off some of the belly fat I carried around thanks to Drake’s cakes, Yodels to be specific.

Let me tell you: I didn’t do anything to him. In fact, I stayed far from him. I was always aware of his space so I could purposely avoid it. He hated me because I was fat. I wore green corduroy pants in the summer (thanks mom). Come to think of it, I get why he hated me.

I was diverting the attention of a spic-guinea (an exotic, smarm-raised blend of Italian & Puerto-Rican and that’s what she called herself) beauty in spandex pants who didn’t give him the time of day – she liked my brains over his brawn. Go figure.

I was friends with his girlfriend (cute girls always liked to be friends with me because I was a non-threatening, funny troll-like figure). I had bigger pimples, maybe. For one reason, many reasons, every reason, this guy hated my guts. All I knew? I was dead soon.

No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. Rest In Peace. Your life shall cease...

Smashed behind a city school by a leather-jacketed beast. There he was – leaning against a shaky schoolyard fence. Greasy dark hair. Black leather with chains (as I think about it, looked stupid in June). He’d deftly bounce off the chain link, then shuffle – from one foot to the other. Right. Left. Right. Left. Rocking.

The cadence of a psycho planning a pounce on chubby prey. I’m sure he noticed me through the smudgy glass and steel-cage monster panes of glass. I know, at the least, he smelled me. My fear. I think it made him rock faster.

3pm was here. I couldn’t feel my legs, not sure how I rose from the desk…Numb. I walked slow. To the bulls-eye. Not sure of my fate. Listen, it was never leave or die. I didn’t want to live in the dank vastness of the mysterious boiler room, the beast anchored in the school’s basement.

Throughout your life they just re-appear. Those bullies…

Large corporate masters live to bully. Because they can. And since the pandemic, we as consumers have given them even more power to do so. Shareholders, Boards of Directors seem to encourage them (mostly by demanding greater results).

Bullies hate the truth, corporate bullies are seduced by narratives. They diminish in power once they know you’re not afraid and you possess the strength of the truth.

Today, many companies can pay less in wages, avoid raises, ask more out of you, work you out of a position for others less skilled, because they have the power. Yet, out of the other sides of their PR mouthpieces, they can preach social justice all the while pandering to China to preserve their profit margins. China knows this. They are not afraid. They think we’re dumber than Paulie in algebra class.

As for you, you can take your dollars and walk. They won’t care but you will. You can pick up and leave their captive cubicles and prevail in finding greater more lucrative ventures.

Get to know your inner bullies. The bullies who push against you from within. They do stick around until death. You know them. You’ve faced them. The ones who constantly, mentally pummel you. Telling you you’re going to fail, fall, falter. The ones who nag at you. Cajole you until you give up. It’ll take some strong self-analysis to understand your interbullies as I call them, but if you remain aware, you’ll face your internal Paulies head on.

Sure, you may stumble short term; oh, they’ll rock you, shuffle you up, but you’ll persevere eventually. It’s inevitable. The more you fight, the greater understanding you’ll have of a bully’s crude method to shake you. Your mind will grow smarter than your interbullies. It’ll take time but it shall happen. Never give up.

Don’t be bullied to be stupid with money. There’s a lot out there to taunt you to overspend or misuse credit. Stand your ground. The less you spend the more empowered you will become. The more secure you will become in your future. A bully should possess a negative net worth but not you.

Discover your reinforcements. Seek and then never forget what/who supports you. Understand the need to train for battle. Find friends (some you never knew you had) – exercise, a good diet, sleep, deep breaths, meditation, reading, heartfelt discussion, all need to be employed as you fight the bullies.

It’s ok to wallow in Yodels a bit (if you can find them). However, too many will weaken your body and spirit. Know when to shut down the devil’s food (which is a devil’s food).

I couldn’t feel anything. The greater Paulie became in my line of sight, the more steadfast my pace. I wanted to flee but I kept walking. Straight.

Closer. Closer.

I recall closing my eyes to stop my legs from heading out of Dodge. I wasn’t going to run. I didn’t do anything wrong. If I got beat so be it. With all the adrenaline running through me I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. So it appeared to be an opportune time for a thrashing.

I just wanted one good shot. One good kick. One surprise that would shake him. I stopped close to the rock-a-bully. He was in mid-swing. About seven feet away. I tried to move in but couldn’t. Frozen. He moved towards me. He spoke. Rough Brooklyn. Mostly hoodlum. Mumbled.“You talk to my girlfriend?” “Yea,” I said. What was I going to say? “She’s in my homeroom class.” “I know people. I’m related to gangsters. You understand that?” I knew that.

“I know people too. I hang out at Torragrossa’s Funeral Home. I watch them embalm dead people after school. You think my mother could get a discount if you kill me?”

I continued before he could say another word: “You need to realize I won’t die so easy, though. If I can take you with me, I will,” I said. No reason why. Anger perhaps. All I know is I meant it at the time. I had nothing to lose.

At that moment his girlfriend, my friend, ran up (reinforcements) and screamed at him not to touch me or it was over between them. He backed off.

Pussy 1, Bully 0.

A few weeks later I found out that he was a bit scared of me after that incident. It wasn’t his girlfriend’s threats. It was the fact that I watched the dead being embalmed and it didn’t shake me up.

It was a bit of information he wasn’t expecting. It was a surprise. A shock.

Bullies hate surprises. Shocks. The truth.

And apparently the embalming process.

Who knew?

9Robin Franks, David Perka and 7 others2 Comments1 ShareShare

The Town I Never Knew.

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I know so well…

Can only be reached by a single-lane road.

Comprised of rock, the path bleached white from the sun; further crushed to pebble from the universe of dreamers before me who have perhaps traveled here…

To the town I’ve never been, others have never been, too.

Don’t ask me how I know.

I’ve participated in the crush of these stones, although I have never been behind the wheel of an auto. My feet have not tapped a gas pedal or rode the brake. Yet, I have gone 35 mph over hills through wooded canopies to get to the place I never traveled.

I pass a farm on the way to the town I never knew.

A shadow man rides a tractor through vast acreage, uniformly tilled. He never fails to wave as I pass. His hand gray smoke, it disappears to a whisper and reunites with the wheel of his machine.

I make sure to return the greeting before I enter the town I have never been.

Eyes on the road. Broad-leafed trees afire in fall, a perpetual season of harvest. Boughs relent, drip low in orange-red homage to those who pass underneath.

Limbs extend in the direction of this hamlet. They point directly to the place I visit often and yet I have never been…

Verdant arteries spider down jagged hills of blood-red dirt.

At bottom, green melts into blue-emerald water. White caps twirl, roll, collapse into the clear. The peaks, briefly sunkissed before collapsing into blue, then rise again in a steady, calm cadence.

But, I haven’t experienced the cool of this water on my skin…

A cliff across the waves. Majestic, comfortable and worn with time. Houses pepper the strata. Each place, distinct. Each occupied. At least I think. Lights on, shadows shimmer in windows.

A special abode. Constructed mostly of redwood. An expansive, wraparound deck; a wall of glass showcases an unobstructed view of the town I never seen, close or afar.

In the living room a majestic tree, it prospers through a wood floor. The biggest Bonsai. Six-feet tall – highly unusual for such a species. A floor-to-ceiling stone hearth captures embers that never die, perpetually warm. I never planted this tree. Nor have I sparked an eternal flame that warms inhabitants and visitors. This seems to be a safe place.

The walk through town, visitors who enjoy the view from the deck, have been occupants in my head – a persistent dream for going on four years now.

I am relentlessly at peace in this house I’ve never been…

I enjoy the company when it decides to arrive. I have no idea how and why they’re there.

The air, cold. Not a bite, just a nip. The winds pregnant with warmness of wood on slow glow. Jasmine rises and is carried by air. The fragrance of rosemary permeates dusk. The sky, bluebird blue; dissipating heat births broiler waves onto a blood-orange horizon as warm water relents to the cool of the night.

The town itself is small. Quaint. Aged with whitewashed exteriors, they badly require a coat of paint. Some structures are brick. Inside each establishment, the walls replete with cedar panels.

A pub, a tiny restaurant – lit candles on every table, a grocer; a shop that sells dried flowers and tinctures. I can never make out shopkeeper faces except for smiles. Although nondescript, these folks radiate warmth and invitation.

These friendly souls beckon me to stay, but I never do. There’s no time for that yet. I need to depart…

The people I see for who they are; the ones who visit the town I never been and house I never lived, are those I know. Or knew.

They are people long gone.

Loved ones from the past. My past. Friends, family, mentors. It comforts me to see the serene expressions on their faces as they investigate and enjoy the town I’ve never been.

Mind you, once I succumb to sleep, I have no idea if the town will ever again enter my nocturnal thoughts. I have no idea who’ll I’ll run into.

A couple of nights ago, dad came by. Haven’t seen him in a while. He tried to tell me something. His mouth moved, formed words. Yet they were non-sensical, jibberish, as much as I tried to understand.

I probably wasn’t ready to hear what he was saying.

The town I never walked is a place of comfort. I’m always excited to visit. The home with the Bonsai tree is a sanctuary, a fortress of love.

I watch the sun from the deck as it gives up the last edge of light. The dying warmth makes everything gleam; the dull, faded wood of the town I never been, appears to glow.

I drove someone who’s alive into the town I never been.

Her breathing radiates with the sun. A slight crinkle to her nose when she smiles which I can never forget, makes me believe she’s earned a visit to the town I never been. The burnt of leaves warms the already-natural beauty of her face.

We navigate a convertible through the trees.

She’s happy for the adventure.

And with this woman I’ve been to the house I never been…

The farmer waves.

The shopkeepers smile.

The Bonsai bows.

The woman’s hair captures the sweet fragrance carried on air.

The town thrives.

But with eyes open, life has a way of saying.

Visit me whenever you like, you cannot stay.

We’re not ready for you.

You are not ready for us.

But someday, this white road you travel will be your last.

And it’ll be the best day, ever.

A History Lesson in Resiliency.

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As a small child, Washington yearned to be a British officer.

While other children were playing games, doing what children do, Washington gravitated to rigorous study of famous battles as recreation.

He lived the victories and defeats; with extraordinary precision, a young George envisioned and documented battle strategies, actions he would have taken to turn around and win losing engagements.

Washington possessed an indomitable fire fed by love for the home country. In his view, Britain was an honorable, unstoppable world force. Washington’s plan, early on in childhood, was to be an English patriot, ready, perhaps even anxious, to fight and die for king and country.

So, what series of events occurred that turned a searing heat of unstoppable love, dedication and passion for a home country into the ice of disappointment? How did a boy and young man eager to die for king and country turn and become the father of a new nation?

How does a passionate believer in and contributor to a country to take over the world morph into a searing combatant against his first and greatest love? What does that do to a person inside? How did that twist him? How did he mourn? How did Washington reinvent himself? Turn love into hate, ostensibly dispassion, to calculate and fight against a home country he now perceived as an oppressor of people he loved?

Virginians first. Then a scraggy mess of countrymen, Americans, he took on to fight a beast 100x the size? Awaiting the French, attempting to keep the cause alive until they arrived.

Listen, I couldn’t build out a fictional drama character or develop a protagonist for a full-length feature film as perfect as the circumstances which turned Mr. Washington.

A change of heart so dramatic, men with less resolve would have folded or disappeared into private life never to be heard from again. Washington did indeed do just that for a period. At 27, he retired from military service to Mount Vernon only to become an innovator at agricultural techniques founded by farming expert Jethro Tull.

A man lives and breathes false truth, encounters a series of adverse circumstances, (some emotionally devastating), which continually confront and mar that truth.

Concurrently, an alternate truth begins to emerge. A truth this man doesn’t want to admit and fights against until one, last devastating personal setback, turns him completely, causes him to retrench, only to emerge different, beholden by a new truth.

Is one man’s fiction another man’s reality? I l believe it to be so. Every fictional character is in some part, another’s reality. I’m sure we all know people who have overcome obstacles that would have broken others.

The stock market is fiction. Prices of stocks are based on stories those who get sucked in to the stories. Supply and demand of stories, possibilities, hopes. All regulated. Mostly, fiction.

So, how and why did Washington change so radically? What can we learn?

WASHINGTON UNDERSTOOD THE VALUE OF RETREAT, RECOVERY & RESILIENCY.

Washington embraced strategic retreat, avoiding major engagements until he felt the opportunity was right. On occasion, it was never right, and he needed to re-group and find an alternative plan to victory.

Self-preservation and those of his men was paramount. Live to fight another day. Small victories, flanking attacks forged morale for a ragtag army that at times didn’t even possess shoes.

Britain scorned Washington numerous times, turning him down for major battles. A tremendous disappointment.

In 1754, British leaders galvanized against Washington when at the Forks of Ohio not far from Fort Duquesne (occupied by the French), Washington, an officer in the British Army along with men he marched through mountainous and dangerous terrain of Maryland and Pennsylvania, met up with a band of Iroquois to confront a French party of 35 men, fifty-five miles from the Forks.

What Washington perceived as his contribution to a first battle between two of Europe’s greatest empires, turned out to be an eventual well-publicized massacre of diplomatic messengers. One of the messengers named Jumonville was carrying a letter which was to be delivered to English authorities declaring Ohio Country as French territory. He was the first to be slaughtered by the Iroquois.

The attack was particularly gruesome and later didn’t write well in periodicals back in the home country, especially due to the brutality of the Indians who split open French scalps with tomahawks and rinsed their hands in victims’ brains.

As Russell Shorto wrote in his impressive tome – “Revolution Song,” – “The event, the series of fateful missteps by an inexperienced provincial officer, whose signatures carried the official weight of the British Empire, meant that, for the first time an event in North America would trigger a war in Europe.”

Back to the battle: It was only a matter of time before more than 1,000 French soldiers back at the Fork would know of the combat and seek to attack. Washington retreated with 400 men to a wide meadow and built a makeshift fort in the middle of it to await the next encounter.

French military head up ironically by the brother of Jumonville, passed through the gruesome massacre, now even more motivated to confront Washington and his men. With swift and diligent attack, the French took positions behind trees and rocks and precisely began to pick off Washington’s group.

They picked off men on horses, they killed more than 100, forcing Washington’s hand to surrender. The Indians had run off before the French arrived.

Military protocol at the time required George Washington surrender in writing. The French drafted a document. Washington signed it.

What the father of our country didn’t understand was that he was placing his name to a document that referenced the “assassination” of Jumonville. Washington believed the document referenced the death of the French leader, not an assassination. Unfortunately, it was probably due to the lack of skills by a novice interpreter. No matter. Washington signed a document of admission to the assassination which made the battle even more repulsive to the British.

To make matters worse (can you imagine?), a letter Washington wrote to his brother bragging about the encounter, referencing how the whistle of bullets to be a “charming sound,” was exposed and published in London Magazine.

A prominent writer portrayed Washington as foolish and the consequences dire – “The volley fired by a young Virginian in the backwoods of America set the world on fire.”

I’m not sure about you, but this series of events would have convinced me to leave the military and never be seen or heard from again. And Washington did indeed do so. For a bit. He went straight to the earth. He pondered a new life as gentleman farmer. He learned to grow tobacco on a commercial scale, he became a voracious reader and student of several heady topics including the law.

So, how do we take in what Washington experienced, how he reacted, and reinvented? Obviously, he was a Stoic in the making. He was a student of the German philosopher Nietzsche without knowing, either.

Tom writes in his book – The Divided Era – a well-sourced tome about the long-term divisions in our country (today isn’t all that different from the past.)

“Washington had extraordinary public and private character. He was virtuous in the classical, selfless sense. Combined with his notoriety, Washington’s character would permit him to accomplish unprecedented and revolutionary things.”

It was just who he was.

Nietzsche described human greatness as:

“Amor Fati or love of fate. Don’t bear what is necessary but love it.”

Marcus Aurelius said:

“A blazing fire makes flame and brightness out of everything that’s thrown at it.”

Epictetus lamented:

“Do not seek for things to happen the way you want them to; rather, wish that what happens happen the way it happens. Then you will be happy.”

Washington was an empath.

He took in the pain of others.

The Stamp Act and taxation by Britain forced oppression upon him and his brethren; denied him and his fellow man the freedom to prosper.

Thus, the rest is history. The man who loved and wanted so much to be loved by the British, found a new and greater love, a bigger mission, a higher truth. Mostly from great setback. Just like those incredible characters in films and series we are hooked on.

A non-fictional American story that resonates today.

The “Bird Box” Path to Sanity in 2019.

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We all have a Bird Box.

We just don’t pay enough attention to our internal Bird Box: It’s called “the gut.”

A flutter which arises when things aren’t quite right – although on the surface it appears to be biz as usual, a tingle, a quiet thought that seems to come out of nowhere attempts to cut through the noise and gain our attention. Unfortunately, we tend to ignore our gut when it advises us to flee – whether it’s a cancerous relationship, a job we hate, a family member that causes grief – we talk down to or discount our “Gut Box.”

In a popular Netflix movie, Sandra Bullock and two children are focused to escape an ominous force that motivates observers to commit suicide. Victims stare into nothing, hear voices of deceased loved ones, perhaps experience their greatest fears, their pupils get weird and then BOOM. Suddenly, poor bastards are jumping in front of cars, stabbing themselves in the neck with scissors. Blindfolds are a necessity.

Birds can detect when this invisible death mist is rolling in. They go into a frenzy. The heart of the film is a blindfolded crew of Bullock and two children who must travel a treacherous river to safe haven. Ironically, a home for the blind located downstream.

Our three protagonists have the ragged clothes on their backs and death-grip on a box with a strap. The box has holes. Inside the box? You got it. A couple of birds. Nature’s ADT against “the thing that causes you to horrible things to yourself.” Personally, I thought it animal abuse. I mean, aren’t there enough birds to pay attention to in the sky without having to keep captive two parakeets in a tiny box?

But I digress.

Anyway, you don’t need play to hunter or hit up Petco to stock up on birds. Inside your body is the best primal warning system on the planet. I thought about calling it a “Turd Box” but that’s gross.

So, How do we trust our guts more often? Why do we tend to ignore when the birds start flutterin’?

Random Thoughts:

Remain vigilant with each human encounter no matter how minor it appears.

I was involved with a person who exhibited signs of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Over the last 3 years, I’ve spent hours reading all I can about narcissism only because the word gets thrown around flippantly – I truly wanted to understand it. Most important, I wanted to figure out who I was and why I fell so hard for someone with this alleged condition.

The gut nudged me on numerous occasions to get the hell away. However, my thoughts, mostly my heart, promptly suffocated the birds; I carelessly discounted my Gut Box. I was in denial. I thought it would get better. It didn’t. It got worse.

Only rivaled by a negative experience with a former employer, this was the worst association of my lifetime (so far). I have nobody to blame but the person who stares at me in the mirror. I’m fortunate it’s happened once. I know people immersed in repeated instances, entrenched patterns with those who are unhealthy for them.

Now when my Gut Box flutters, I listen. I am conditioned to conclude, depart, and never look back. It took pain to awaken my respect for the Gut Box.

Never be afraid to walk away or at the least, fully explore what your inner voice is telling you.

Don’t discount the feeling because…

Your gut is a survival tool. The best early-warning system you got. Ignore it at your own risk.

Ignore the “Bird Box” and the next step may be a pine box (or whatever they use for caskets these days). In reality, ignoring the Gut Box may cause death, too. It’ll just take longer and possibly be more painful than anything Sandra Bullock would need to deal with if she dared to remove her blindfold.

Your inner warning system deserves attention. Stop the attempts to rationalize or squelch the voice. As children, we observed people through clear lens. As adults, our lens are smeared and warped by life experiences and biased perceptions. The more proficient you become at verbal and physical cues, the stronger a gut sense will become, too. The gut is the ultimate people “decoder.”

Be an observer. Work out your core Gut Box. Stand outside life and look in a bit. 

Sit in a coffee shop or any populated public place with pen and paper and notice how those around you behave. Can you pick up on verbal and physical cues? Anything you can do to sharpen observation skills will help to work out your core Gut Box.

It’s acceptable to disengage with those who set off your internal sense of danger. No questions asked. Sure, you will mess up a couple of times. The collateral danger is worth long-term health and sanity.

Ironically, a well-toned Gut Box can make you seem psychic. You’ll deftly anticipate whether an association needs to conclude or a relationship is worth the effort.  A Gut Box will allow you to engage with the world and not cut yourself off based on negative episodes of the past, thus making you increasingly socially adaptable!

So, watch Bird Box. Personally, I thought it was meh. No big deal. Too many holes in the script, but enjoyable.

Focus on the Gut Box in 2019.

It’s the best early-warning system you got.

Discard the blindfolds that life has placed over your eyes.

It’s a matter of life or death.