AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

AN ALTERNATIVE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE : A SPIRITUAL MESSAGE

by Paul Schroeder

A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path:
“The Spell of the Yukon”
               By Robert W. Service
“I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
   I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
   I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
   Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
   And somehow the gold isn’t all…”
I rarely ever worked overtime, or sought spare part- time jobs to make more money, seeking blue skies above to doing work indoors, and I relished my poorer beer pockets without ever developing or resenting the absence of a richer champagne taste.
Those ambitious lads of my childhood who entered finance, medicine or law,  worked 24-7 towards a salaried lifestyle that flew them first class, overseas to luncheon meetings and purchased them mansions in the  glass sky towers of Manhattan.
Effete, they would confess,”Those who say that money can’t buy you everything, don’t know where to shop!”
I  became a college instructor teacher who received a meager pittance, but though  I relished my bankers’ hours’ 9 to 3  job, I deeply longed for the respite of work, each academic year, within a ten week vacation, over the summer.
During academic semesters I recklessly ate up all of my sick days and personal days, taking escapes in the sun at the beach, and landscaped land escapes in three and four day weekends, at mountain lakes’ sites to hike in virgin woods alone.
Others in Higher Education had instead garnered many days, ‘in their bank’, saved up jealously, to trade for cash, losing one day for every two saved, upon retirement.
To me, counter intuitively, non providentially, time away to think was worth more, as an escape valve,  than half of some obscure future money.
Work was onerous and exacting, and freedom was a hiking-in-the-woods- relief, from fluorescent overhead lights, and the grinding grading of incessant exams and papers.
For release,  the best part of my chosen vocation, I lectured and pontificated, teaching American and English Literature, in a large lecture hall,  chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, during class instructions, throughout, to self medicate.
I am presently retired, thirty-five years in teaching, and have a modest lovely home and property, and as for wanderlust, I  have long found that armchair travel is the cheapest kind of travel, content to read brochures, than take inoculations, to explore the world.
Money aversion- ennui got worse as I grew older.
 I soon preferred the sidelines of copious earnings, a spent man, seeking  to relax and to write.
Why was I, so different, to care little for “success”, measured in hard work towards riches?
I wasn’t remotely money excited,  as a child, dimly knowing on a subliminal level that God didn’t place us here, on Earth,  on a special mission,  to make money.
A spiritual message experience, I received, as a teenager, a homeless runaway at seventeen, running from a divorced household of violence and police- being -called -by- the -neighbors,
became a core influence for my slant on monied life, a purposeful one of just getting by, instead of working hard towards earning luxuries.
It was Christmas time in New York City and I was seventeen years old, homeless penniless,  and wandering.
I had exited  the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West, where I had feasted for hours, on museum eye -candy, but my stomach  had rumbled with hunger.
And now back on the street, I found that it had been and was now, snowing heavily.
I wondered worriedly where I would sleep, that night.
 A local movie manager,  a friend, Paul Gary, said that I could, when in Brooklyn, sleep in a little used old loft room in his movie theatre, the Loews Oriental, in Bath Beach, Brooklyn, in a dusty, haunted costume property room.
I was the inhabiting spirit.
The smell of freshly roasted chestnuts,  sold to passerbys from a kiosk wagon, near to the museum’s stone steps, in a blizzard of snow, wafted my way and roused me.
I had no money in my pockets; I salivated at the  sweet nutty perfume.
 Chestnuts were a seasonal treat I had  enjoyed, at this very museum’s site, when I had a bountiful existence within my cantankerous parents’ marriage’s deep pockets’ circle of influence.
I would ask my parents,  they’d  fish for loose change and I would relish the sweet flavor of fire roasted hot chestnuts, now a new symbol of want and the faded memory of childhood .
I was alone upon the streets of Manhattan, hungry and had no money.
The  snow covered shoulders and face of the man who stood behind the kiosk wagon, were wrapped in steam; he was small and dark, wearing mittens with holes for the fingers.
The snow fell heavily in sheets that made a city of asphalt shock look gentler.
I  came close enough to  inhale the dark aroma of roasted chestnuts,  a childhood memory token, an olfactory solace for my pangs of hunger.
 I  noticed that on one side of his kiosk wagon hung a large piece of grey cardboard with a blue magic marker message upon it, his philosophy of the moment, but on an unconscious level, one  for the rest of my adult life.
A raised consciousness was sparked.
It read:
“I really don’t like making money;
I don’t want to conquer the world,
and I don’t wish to ever be rich;
I don’t even want to set the world, on fire;
 I just want to keep my nuts warm.”
A spiritual message, in a time of need, illuminated a larger life path.
Advertisements

GHOSTS AND CATS OF BLOCK ISLAND

GHOSTS AND CATS OF BLOCK ISLAND

by Paul Schroeder

Block Island, an oasis off the coast of Rhode Island, is where I have spent  time musing and walking.

 

Ghosts, seen on Block Island are only part of the paranormal show, in town.

One late September I and my wife stayed at the hotel 1661 INN at Old Harbor on Block Island for a week to celebrate a vacation where

we enjoyed an island off season, bereft of tourists from the mainland to watch an island gear down from summer and close up in preparation for the winter.

Only a few bird watchers clubs frequented the island then, for the weather was windy, cold, blustery and rainy,

storms which added to our desire to stay close to the inn and in each other’s close company.

One stormy and windy evening at  ten o’clock in the evening, I went out to the backyard of the inn, tacitly to watch the view of whitecaps roiling on Old Harbor and to socialize with a pair of goats, which roamed freely on the property.

Out on the harbor,  a quarter of a mile from the shore among the rolling whitecaps, I saw a flickering, blue triangular light that vanished and then reappeared a short distance from where it had been.

At first glance, it looked like the angular sail and mast of a middle sized sailing craft, a craft in distress that struggled to make headway in the stormy waters, except that this sail radiated a surreal phosphorescent light, a glow that ebbed and waned like a dying flame .

The bluish sail’s color glowed in a purplish light and then vanished completely, only to reappear another short distance from where it was last sighted.

 

 

I initially surmised it to be a flame above the waves from ignited methane from the ocean floor.

I watched in  wonder as its shifting movements  made it jump from one location to another location every few seconds; its odd flickering flame glowing in a surreal sailboat triangular form, was something I’d never seen before.

It vanished completely, after a few minutes among the stormy waves, as though it had finally capsized .

The image of that strange vessel has haunted my memory for many years,

a famous Block Island ghost ship seen often in stormy weathers, by many others before and after me.

However, not until recently, some years later,  having read “Livermore’s History of Block Island”, did I realize that the book’s description of an oddly lit and shifting Palatine Ghost Ship seen off Block Island is precisely  what I caught and observed that windy white capped and rain swept evening.

Other ghostly goings-on prevail, there.
A woman seen carrying a clock, and observed talking to herself, is another famous full bodied apparition; she seemingly ignores the greetings of a rare tourist, on a deserted stretch of road at the  far end of the island, and then, clock in hand, she suddenly vanishes.

Even odder, some Block Island ghost stories are still in the making.

(from a communique from a friend):

“I was fishing off Misquamicut Beach in Rhode Island in 1995. I was in a boat, and we watched a big cloud of smoke appear off Block Island in the distance.

What  happened was that an airplane crashed into a restaurant.”

It appears that a young child, a wife and a doctor and his mother all perished en route,

in a small aircraft just before landing at Westerly Airport on Block Island.

The small plane hit a restaurant taking an additional islander life;

one small airstrip lay 500 feet parallel to a line of three coastal restaurants.

Block Island, an off-season haunt for me, now has the addition of these ghosts,  for the dead often remain at the site of their violent death, ghostly additions to  a place already  most assuredly  haunted.

There is resident talk of ghosts seen on the island, especially those spirits restless and active at the Old Town Inn, a hotel location, geographically central to the island.

I would often prefer to stay at the Old Town Inn, inspired by the stories of its often seen ghosts.

History indeed confirms that a State Senator who lived there in the early 1800’s, faced charges that he murdered his ailing mother for his inheritance, by throwing her down the long narrow stairway, a stairway still in evidence.

I surmise that he was acquitted.

But the staircase and basement area judge fate and history differently.

The owner told me that he had seen the bare bulb in the basement often spin of its own accord; it kept him and mainland workmen away from that basement.

Most locals were too leery an ilk to spend any real, required time down there, doing some essential repairs.

When restorations had initially begun, it had been noticed that all interior doors had been removed; when the new owners had queried contractors why this had been done, a disturbing answer had been returned.

The many doors’ constant opening and closing by themselves had unnerved, distracted and unsettled the mainland workmen.

They had removed the doors, and erased these house symptoms, but touched not the disease, itself.

Guests have asked the front desk about a ghostly woman, seen from their upstairs windows,  a spectre who has walked in the deeper shadows of the garden at night, in a pink, long, flowing gown, who has carried a pink parasol.

She can be  seen in the back garden, under a full moon, late at night, when weather conditions are perfect.

https://33.media.tumblr.com/6840e36a49f42a9997d0a04d5ba12deb/tumblr_nr7zaaz6y91sypuuko1_400.gif

I would stay here on Block Island, despite its ghosts, because it was far from  scenic views of the harbor, and from crowds of daily ferried tourists.

This central location on Block Island allowed me to be more reclusive in my wanderings, far from people, which was my nature.

I wandered among persimmon trees, apple and wild plum, across vacant meadows and fields whose scattered vestigial remnants of ancient  stone foundation fragments revealed where houses once stood.

On one such long walk, a deer froze in a field to then bolt from view and

on my return to the Inn, on that same cold, windy afternoon, I saw a cat

quickly scurry under the foundation of the hotel, a cat as orange in color as the drifting early October Maple leaves.

Only the feral cats who roam the streets of Block Island know its ghosts as permanent residents,  lost and not yet found.

Block Island’s feral cats, independent and grateful creatures, like solitary ghosts, have astonished me in the oddest ways.

Whenever New York City snow drifts high enough to seal all the doors and windows of February, I conjure an image of frozen kittens cuddling in the Rhode Island icy snow.

That image haunts me,  though I’ve never seen it.

I was informed when I inquired at the inn, that she was feral and would have to over winter on the island alone, that she belonged to no one and had recently had a litter somewhere under the cellar.

The staff, who took pity on her and who fed her, would soon leave by early November.

The hotel wouldn’t re-open until mid April; in deep winter snows, with a new litter of kittens, she would be on her own.

I was moved to go into town to buy some canned cat food and these I presented to the kitchen staff who cared for her.

I was told that I could

feed her myself, as she was just outside the kitchen, awaiting a handout..

I opened two cans and spoke to her, watched her as she fed.

I wondered aloud to the kitchen staff what fate might bring to those kittens when heavy winter snow lay against the outside of those abandoned

kitchen doors, all winter long.

Later, about ten o’clock in the evening, I heard a knock on my door that stopped my writing and upon opening the door, I found the chef outside, smiling warmly.

He asked me if I could follow him down to the kitchen.

She had, he said, been grateful to me and had brought me a ‘thank you’ gift, in eloquent cat artistry.

A large, dead marsh rat lay by the back kitchen door, fully displayed, on the welcome mat.

Puffed up and very proud, she paraded back and forth over it, purring and repeatedly making eye contact with me.

She had caught it and then she had brought it to me,  as thanks, but also as a token.

It had somewhat assuaged my anxieties about her and her broods’  chances of survival, facing an icy cruel winter, with no food,  alone on the island with only ghosts, as her company..

I recall that cat’sunflawed nature, uncomplaining and noble

show of gratitude and
courageous

resiliency,  all of which unfurled her fearlessness.

 

Ghosts and cats who roam Block Island would wander alone in the coming ice storms,

and she, bereft of food,

with new and hungry kittens to feed,  would face a winter

of killing blizzards.

GRANDMA’S RUSSIAN ADVICE

Grandma’s Advice

by Paul Schroeder

Just before my grandmother on my mother’s side died at the age of 95, I whispered a kiss in her ear and thanked her for her wisdom.

One odd piece of advice, that she had taught me when I was a child, I had carried close to my inner ear, all of my life.

It had been an Independence Day warning, borne of a distant Russian wisdom, one that she had whispered to me four decades ago, when I was nine or ten years old, impressionable and the apple of her eye.

The imprecation that I got from her, the warning whispered in my small rapt ear when I was nine or ten years old had been an odd warning that ruled and guided my life, and through angst, had come to define a larger part of what I called my soul.

Her ‘Russian optimism’ for the world, was childhood overwhelming for me.
For her, life was always a cup of optimism, half filled ….. but, with something, that could  likely kill you.

Now, she at ninety-five was far from that woman who in giving advice could be ironic and poetical.

She had used lipstick as a rouge to color her cheeks and then decided that her whole face was of a pallor that also needed color, rubbed lipstick all over her face.

She was quite a shock when I got onto the seventh floor of the retirement home and turned the corner and saw her sitting in a wheelchair, as though apparently waiting for me.

 

She still had her sense of humor.

She earnestly asked with a childlike innocence if I could bring her some new makeup and some big diamond jewelry for her to wear to dress herself up, when I visited her next?

Cautiously, I had asked her, skeptically dubious ;”What type of diamond jewelry?” She had said;

“Expensive, fancy jewelry.”

She labored under the delusion that she was in a hotel in Miami, one that slouched in basic standards;

“The meals at this hotel are terrible, but what is a person to do?”

She did not ever surmise herself to be in a nursing home near the beach in Coney Island, Brooklyn.

A person’s senior mind can lend a type of psychic anesthesia that acts in many ways to protect it from uncompromising and painful truths. .

Now I was an odd adult.

I wanted her to know that I loved her, how her whisper had returned years later as my gratitude.

I had loved to cherish ideas; a rare few philosophers had touched my early soul .

Dr. Seuss had barely competed with grandma.

But, he  wrote : “Be who you are and say what you think, because those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind, don’t matter!”

 

But grandma didn’t recall her similar advice or the small pleasures and agonies of our past.

My other odd philosopher was sitting here in her wheelchair, armed and propped with a pillow/ alarm that would audibly alert nurses in the retirement home if she pitched forward and left her chair’s upright fixed position.

She was different the next time I saw her, the way she used to be ;

” Hello, Paul; sharp as a matzoh and twice as crummy!”

“How come you don’t call your grandma more often? Humph!!”

“Humph;You going to wait until I’m in the cemetery and THEN you’ll visit me?”

“I’m sorry, that you’ll be sorry, but THEN it’ll be too late!”

This was the same verbatim greeting that I had gotten from her over the years over the telephone .  I presumed that I was calloused to it all.

 

It always deeply riddled me with guilt but I never let her know, but instead I saw it rather as a good sign that she was still feeling feisty.

When she successfully aimed ring-toss-Velcro-guilt in my direction, I rationalized, she must be feeling much better.

I quickly tried to change the subject; ” Grandma I remember that boardwalk we can see here in Brighton Beach from a time when you were fifty years old and I was about nine years old and I still remember the good advice that you gave me, back then.”

“What advice did I give you?”

I told her.

It had stayed with me for many years as a token of her wisdom.

“You brought me to you on a bench on that boardwalk, in Coney Island, on a hot 4th of July afternoon, when the whole family was there suddenly hugging and kissing each other,

happy for once, to be all together and happy seeing the fireworks, and then you whispered it in my ear:

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams,” You told me.

“What?”, she said, so I told her again;

“Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams.”

 

“OH!”, she said,”I am VERY sorry, if I ever told you that!.”

“I AM very sorry.”

I reminded her, however, what an impact she’d had on me then.

“That whisper, as a recommended life philosophy, was both poetry and  true and that, your advice, really stayed deeply with me.”

 

Taken to heart, it had allowed me to remain aloof and separate from everyone, as a type of self protection,  to preserve my OWN dream.

 

She looked at me as though I were some stranger in a dream.

I said it, again;

“Don’t get too close to people, you’ll catch their dreams.”

She was thoughtful and then looked worried.

 

She looked into my eyes.

“I never told you THAT.” …

 

“You shouldn’t get too close, because…”

“Germs”, she said.

” I said that you’ll catch their GERMS.”

“I told you and your sister MANY times;

“Don’t get too close to people, ’cause you’ll catch their GERMS.” she said, again.

 


“And YOU’RE supposed to be the smart one?!”
“Oh,” she groaned in pain.
“Take me over to the dining room; it’s still too early for the lunch, but I want to get there anyway, early.”

That wrong belief had overshadowed every relationship in my life with an ambivalence and a craving to just be left alone.

If one was alone, one was safe from what people could do to you, I had always reasoned.

But, I had been running away from my own shadow.

Two marriages and a dozen influenza later, I had realized her truth, too late.

CHILDHOOD ALIEN ABDUCTION

A Childhood Alien Abduction

by Paul Schroeder

Q:  “When were you first aware of aliens?” / “what’s your first recollection of aliens?”

I shall never forget my first alien abduction recollection; I was about six years old or perhaps a little younger.

As a child I saw alien entities rarely described anywhere in alien related literature.

For  many years of research on this subject I had until much later in life, never come across similar descriptions by any other alien abductee or anyone else who has described someone else’s experiences with alien entities.

Now, I know that these tiny E.T. creatures are ubiquitous and closely associated with other entities , who abduct human beings aboard craft.

Two tiny, wizened aliens came for a visit with me late one summer night at ten o’clock in the evening and must have stunted my growth by scaring the bejeebers out of me, when I was a very young child.

This happened a short while after both parents had put me safely to bed for sleep; I remember being awake and listening to the night symphony sounds of crickets and katydids chirping loudly on Shore Road, an apartment overlooking the Narrows in Bay Ridge.

I recall that I was wearing my pajamas and that I was in bed, alone and wide awake in my bedroom.

Two astoundingly diminutive non human creatures hovered outside my fourth story bedroom window, an apartment window which had no fire escape or ledge.

They appeared no larger than 12 inches long, from alien head to alien toe.

They were puppet like with small wrinkled, wizened, gnome like miniature features on little heads which were completely encased in what clearly looked like glass see-through diving / space helmets.

(In retrospect, they apparently did not seem to breathe our atmosphere’s particular oxygen and mostly nitrogen air mixture.)

There were two of them, floating outside of my window tapping on my window screen!

They were dressed in small, snug, tight fitting silver/gray reflecting flight suits.

I recall that their tiny helmet encased faces were very ugly and most wrinkled.

And what, if anything, back then, did a five year-old know about creatures who were strikingly aliens, a helmet’s purpose or of shiny, snug-fitting ‘flight suits’?

I can see them, still, as though I were fully back in that moment..

They bobbed and hovered, just outside of a  fourth floor apartment’s flimsy ill fitting wooden window screen, tapping on the window above with little hands!

Ugly space puppets in glass helmets and flight suits!?

Again,  a slightly stronger tapping at the screen.

It grew strangely silent, all insect sounds suddenly ceased, a bizarre quiet when aliens electromagnetic craft are close by, which has since been labeled, the “Oz effect”

A large dresser-bureau was between my bed and the window.

I leaned the front part of my body sideways off of the bed and almost halfway to the floor and twisted my head to see around the bulky piece of furniture, to

peer out towards the window.

Suddenly scared, I could also no longer hear the television sounds coming from the living room in the next room where my parents were watching television, audible just moments before .

Two ugly, miniature, dark, puppet like, clear helmet-encased, gnome-like non-human creatures, stared  back at me through the window!

As they bobbed gently up and down in midair, I heard a conversational exchange between them, the sounds of which I have not forgotten for fifty years since:

It was a buzzing sound like hornets in a jar.

I recognized, even then as a very young child, that they were talking to each other, first one then the other, back and forth, a conversation without words in an odd hollow buzzing exchange; it sounded just like angry bees in a glass jar

My eyes opened wide and I shrank back in fear and pulled the blanket over my head.

Nothing this wildly astonishing had happened to me before and the fear almost stopped my breath;

I was so filled with fear that I could scarsely breathe.

My mouth and jaw instinctively fell wide open in awe and terror.

Then an idea surfaced and repeated itself:

” It’s critters who want in, but it’s not possible”, I thought, in abject denial, and I dived under the blanket.

I could not at all accept, and was without any frame of reference, for what I was seeing!

A tapping on the screen.

On impulse, I drew the blanket away from my head and peered around the corner of the bed, but raw

 fear insisted that I peek and not expose my whole head, to their view.

I quickly swung around to peek, still in abject disbelief, out of the window.

Two pairs of eyes looked back intently and

there was a tapping on the screen.

I exploded backwards into the bed in panic and  threw the blanket over my head, this time paralyzed with panic.

Electric waves of fear ran across my forehead and down my arms.

I was so filled with fear that I could scarcely breathe.

“I could have imagined it”, as a thought echoed in my skull

but I could not bring myself to look again, my fear was so great.

I huddled in the corner of the bed terrified, in agony of a terrible dilemma.

I was too scared to think about calling my parents; I wanted to believe that these creatures hadn’t seen me, though I had seen them.

My dilemma was unique:

If I didn’t look again, my young mind stunningly realized, I would never want to believe that what I saw, was really real, and soon my curiosity burned  as strongly than my fear.

But, if I looked again, and they were still there,  I could lose my mind to fear!

I peeked again.

They hovered, bobbing in air, staring back at me!

In what may have been a child’s hysterical reaction to an experience of extreme high strangeness, or  alien mind control, I immediately fell fast asleep.

I’ve no notion of what happened after that moment.

Those tiny gnome-like aliens, no bigger than 15 inches or so, are now associated with greys and with human abductions, I have, in later life, learned.

Reptilians, small darl greys, and tall grey aliens have always been here, and UFOs are as native and terrestrial to our planet as are thunderstorms.

These are the game wardens of this preserve that we call ‘Earth’,
 and like all good game wardens, they do not ever let the creatures within, suspect that it is, indeed, a preserve.
They are technologically advanced and are inter dimensional as well as inter galactic.

  They cloak their presences,  and do use the same astral dimension that ghosts and demons, use to enter and exit our physical reality.

The lower Earth animal forms seen as reptiles, mantids, amphibians, felines and lepidoptera insects are mirrored and echoed by the higher technological forms seen aboard craft by abductees, life-forms who have lent their DNA, eons ago to create this preserve.

That’s why ‘Earth’, is the rare jewel of varied life, that it is, it is among countless dead worlds.

We, too, are constructs of their menu’s creative meddling, edible simians who knot neckties and  ride public conveyances.

But as a product, humankind is much more than mere served meat on a reptilian luncheon plate, because our spiritual essences, something as a race of beings, we are barely aware of, is also harvested:

When people ask them,”Where are you from?” “Where do you come from?”, they are often told,”We come from within.”

That is, after physical abductions, their possessing energies are deposited, not unlike the lamprey parasites that they are, within the multi layered human psyche/mind.

Director of CIA, Admiral R.H. Hillenkoetter: “It is time for the truth to be brought out in open Congressional hearings. Behind the scenes, high-ranking Air Force officers are soberly concerned about UFOs. But through official secrecy and ridicule, citizens are led to believe the unknown flying objects are nonsense. To hide the facts, the Air Force has silenced its personnel.” p. 58, quoted from New York Times, February 28, 1960, p. L30

SEX IN PUBLIC, OR SHALL WE DANCE, INSTEAD?


by

Paul Schroeder

 

“Sex isn’t the answer; sex, is the question; the answer is, “YES!” (Woody Allen)
Mark Twain once said, “No sane person dances”.

Must one be crazy to dance,

publicly ?

I thought long and hard about that statement, approached it from different angles of thought and pondered it.

Orthodox Hasidim Jews, believe that wild dance, ensemble, is a way to approach sublime Divine attainment, most tribal and ancient.

Is it the case that

those who were deaf, could not hear the music and thus thought the dancers insane?
What makes a person gyrate sexually in front of strangers? I finally accept that dancing is publicly symbolic sex, with the exception of Lambada, which IS sex, most graphic in public.

Lap dances and belly dances enthrall men as consummate sex fantasies unfurled, and these reside deep within our psyches.

Men who routinely go to “topless” bars to watch naked women dance, harbor a wild and degrading fantasy, an addictive stimulant, that seems just as unwholesome as public sexual gyrations to music.

But sex, in public?!


Sometimes, watching people dance, at weddings and parties, in, you’ll forgive the expression, “ballrooms”, I can see the symbolic give and take sex act in dance.
Waltzes and Tangos are elegantly choreographed and highly polished sexual moves in partner synchronicity and poised ‘give and take’.
I do also think that alcohol loosens inhibitions on the dance-floor as well as in dating.

Why do you think that men are so very willing to buy ladies drinks?!

“On-stage dance takes from sexuality practices “off-stage” and imaginatively stylizes them and possibly reinforces or challenges these practices that include expressions of sexual identity and attraction, flirtatiousness, friendliness, exhibitionism, eroticism, and love-making.”

(Hanna, Journal of Sex Research / March-June, 2010 )

Would one who is a Buddhist and contemplative, dance or would he resist the impulse as unabashed sexy exhibitionism?

After all, what is,”sanity”, if “no sane man dances”?

Drinking alcohol during a “cocktail hour”, before public dancing at such affairs may assist the temporary insanity inherent to very public sexual gyrations called dance.

Sexual unabashed exhibitionism?

I can often resist the impulse to publicly gyrate, or to circle dance or line dance amidst a large group of people by recalling Twain’s sentence.

But, if dance is truly symbolic sex, the horizontal mambo, then group dancing brings to mind another quote:

“Sex between two people can be a wonderful thing, among ten people, it’s just fabulous!”

(Woody Allen)

To me, having unabashed multiple polygamous sexual partners is demonstrated by line dancing.

Dancing in public, however symbolically obscene in its blatant sexual gyrations, is not likely to expose one to HIV or STDs.

For one like me who will not dance, I wonder about the biological absurdity of dance and of sex, for many species have dance-specific mating rituals wherein if the dance is wrong, the mating doesn’t happen..

 

There has to be a more dignified way of expressing your deep love and affection for another human being, because despite our spirituality,

the human body is a odd marvel, in that it has its waste disposal plant, immediately next to its amusement park.

But these days, older and more jaded,

I’m a cheap date, for myself, and even after sexy-self-love, I don’t even take myself out to dinner or to a movie..

“Want to dance?”

Since public dance is blatantly sexual and thus, embarrassing, in public,

I and Twain, shall instead, sit this one out.

MILITARY COMBAT MEMORY OF MY FATHER


COMBAT AND MILITARY MEMORY OF MY FATHER : I COULD HAVE TOLD HIM THAT I LOVED HIM

Combat and Military Memory of my Father: I Could Have Told Him That I Loved Him
by Paul Schroeder
My father parachuted into Germany and was captured that same week; he and his Screaming Eagles company buddies were holed up in a farmhouse armed with machine guns when a Tiger Tank rolled up to it and put its muzzle into a window and fired.
He recalled his ferocious gnawing hunger and told me that at the prisoner of war camp at night, when he slept, mice would creep into his buttoned shirt vest pocket to steal the few crumbs of bread he had hidden there before he could awaken and slap his pocket.
He weighed eighty-eight pounds when he was liberated.
At another time, on a work detail outside and beyond the barbed wire fence, he saw a skeletal group of Jews, literally walking skeletons, and in abject pity he threw a piece of his bread over a fence to them, which they all frantically scrambled for.
The supervising German sergeant of those doomed Jews saw him do this and walked over to him and put a Luger into my father’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
The gun misfired.
Twice.
His mind and lifelong emotional mental state were never the same after that incident, and for the rest of his life he remained tortured, an unhappy and mostly unpleasant man.
He would, many years later, angrily retrieve moldy bread and brown wilted lettuce from the trash, raging about ,’wasted food’, and we all learned that for our peace of mind, food garbage had to be thrown into the incinerator, long before he came home, from work.
He told me that he witnessed the killings of women who had assisted anti-Nazi resistance fighters, women who were hung from piano wires in a slow strangulation that delighted and entertained the German Waffen S.S.
But he seemed calm telling me that it took some over an hour to die, in this fashion, from this form of German murder, for the the slimmest, most lightweight women who were hanged, struggled longer against their nooses.
The prisoner of war camp’s confinement had chafed his soul.
Even long after the war he could escape the inglorious restraints and confinements of marriage and work , to seek the open ocean to fish for striped bass and bluefish.
He loved fishing more than anything or anyone, in his life, and ached for fishing, to be free and alone on a landscape of waves, with only gulls for company.
He spent all of his spare time, nights and weekends, alone on the open Atlantic ocean, a peaceful landscape of land escape, far from dangerous and murderous distant coastlines.
When he thought that I was old enough to be of assistance to him, he brought me into his escapist world of fishing solitude, and far out on the waters of the Atlantic, far from any constricting shore, told me his memories, of a horrific war. .
When I was young, eight, nine and ten years of age, my father woke me every Friday night at 2:00 A.M. and by three fifteen A.M. we were out in the waters of Long Island, in his boat, fishing for striped bass and bluefish until the sun came up and fish stopped feeding and taking lures.
We watched the gulls; wherever they were raucous and feeding, we caught many large fish, as schools were underneath, forcing the bait to the surface, which attracted the birds. It was a foolproof technique.
After the sun came up, we sat and jigged the bottom for fluke and flounders, languid bottom feeders, while we sat under the shade of the Marine Parkway Bridge.
Bereft of the engine’s roar and the slap of the waves against a speeding hull, we sat, and he would speak to me of the horrors he had seen.
Every weekend of my youth was spent this way, catching large fish.
I was agog and seasick for days afterwards.
The pitched sickness of the waves, the sharp sour stink of fish, the stench of gasoline from the engine, the foul pungent odor of the, ‘piss-can’ and his poignant recollections of the horrors that he had seen during the war, combined to make me deathly ill, each time that we fished together..
I envisioned deep trenches in the furrows of the waves, filled with sobbing, and doomed families of Jews, as German Waffen S.S. driven bulldozers, pushed tons of soil atop them, to bury them, alive.
Once, after listening to such tales, told in his low, monotone voice, I eventually noticed that each time I netted and landed a fish into the boat, the water would swirl and splash a few seconds afterwards, and I asked my father the cause of this bizarre occurrence.
He blithely told me, casting a lure from the boat, that the fish’s mate would break the water, seeking his lost mate, following after, in a futile search.
In that moment, with the boat at my feet filled with flopping fish, jaws gaping in airy suffocation, the horrors in his stories resurfaced:
dead children in the streets, who resembled dolls, their jaws and eyes open,
skeletal Jews with pleading eyes,
children murdered before their parents’ eyes,
of a Waffen S.S. who used his machine pistol to separate a close knit family, and of their wails of separation, which years later, would ring in my father’s head.
I suddenly realized, in horror, that each swirl and splash of water, after I had pulled one fish into the boat, was a mate and thus a broken heart, that fish were individuals, with feelings, and not just mere products!
The horror of fish, dead and dying at my feet, of loved ones’ final, forceful separation, in a frozen moment, broke my young heart, and I found and resolved, that I could no longer bear to catch, or to ever again, eat fish.
Recalling these memories is not a freeing and therapeutic catharsis, instead I feel a sad nostalgia, a morbid whimsy .
As a writer, it is difficult to capture the strained, forced familiarity of families’ troubled interactions, governed by fruits of traumas, into words.
I have carefully locked the vault door against the worst recollections, the horrors of living with him; he had absorbed the repeated brutality of his experiences.
Throughout life, he radiated the same heavy-handed violence to those all around him, using fists, where a word, instead, might suffice.
Those recollections, if unlocked behind my mind’s protective vault doors, would make these experiences, herein, pale, by comparison.
When I can hazard to open those vault doors, doors made of three feet of steel, therapeutic and freeing might then ensue.
Debriefing combat troops, is still nonexistent; one arrives fresh from combat to San Diego Airport or Kennedy International Airport.
The injuries that our most recent troops have sustained in Iraq and Afghanistan, unseen and unmeasured injuries, are deep and painful scars on their souls;
many, after drug and alcohol addiction fails to assuage their grief, take their own lives, in suicides suffering from combat angst beyond words.
I recall General Patton coming under criticism for slapping the face of and calling a coward, a young soldier, in a field hospital, who was trembling, with severe shell shock.
Even the military fails to understand what happens to America’s young men who have been taught all of their lives,”Thou shalt not kill”, after they are trained to be killing machines and then aptly fill the job description for a tour of duty.
Americans must unite to reluctantly resolve to fight a broader world war with ISIS, for though America does NOT want war, WAR wants America.
America, is NOT at war, for America is busy shopping in malls; our military, however, IS at war.
Their souls are forever tainted, degraded and crippled by official legal murders.
How is one to understand?
Rather than wrongly judging that my father wallowed in these memories, he instead was surely drowning, within a deeper struggle, far removed from self pity.
Though he never once told me, within the recollections of the circle of my life, that he loved me, I found that I instead should have told him then, and often, that I loved him .
EPILOGUE:
Just before he died, at eighty-four, after a lifetime of no contact with him, I visited him at the Saint Albans Veterans Hospital Facility.
How I learned that he was there, is a paranormal story beyond belief, but one reserved for another time.
Even after a stroke and a heart attack, confined to a wheelchair, his bristling aggression and smoldering anger had still radiated.
He had angrily cursed God, when I did mention God, to him; he had repeatedly cursed God, saying that there was no God and as proof, offered me what he had seen, of the long ago mass murders of Jewish infants and children, by Ukrainians and Nazi Waffen S.S. troops.
He had repeated that because of raw evil allowed to run rampant, he was thus an atheist, one who didn’t believe a single word about God and then, he had openly cursed God, again.
I had chided him by saying that although God WAS all loving, that even God, might get annoyed, to be cursed so.
As for wholesale murder of innocents I reminded him:
‘Church taught hatred of Jews, as murderers of Jesus Christ, fueled the Holocaust, the Inquisition, pogroms, ghettos, and rabid antisemitism and NOBODY hates the Church, more than Jews, nobody…’
Slowly, I had realized a more positive note, an element of rescue,  a spiritual coup de’ grace:
I had been driven by unseen forces, after twenty-five years of no contact,  to bring along to his bedside, a spiritual message to deliver to him.
I said that he was wrong; that the proof of God only seemed so invisible because it was too merged within our consciousness and within everything all around us, to be too easily detected.
I had told him that I had, over years of learning, away from him, become psychic enough to glean more:
that we are NOT people, having spiritual/ paranormal experiences, but are  undying spirits, within a DNA nanotech-contrived housing, instead, having human experiences.
That we ‘step out of’ our bodies at death, as we do our cars and our clothing, in physical life.
And we are no more our bodies, I had said, than we are our clothing, or our vehicles.
I had assured him that I had learned that our consciousness actually reincarnated often, to learn spiritual lessons, that God gives us many lifetimes to refine our souls and to learn lessons that we set out for ourselves.
With some pride, I had reminded him that his lifetime’s recollections of horrid war experiences, revealed a braver and nobler inner spirit, than most, to have chosen such harsh and horrid lessons.
He quietly listened, with no vague inkling of acceptance.
A week later, preparing to visit him, again, I got a phone call from the hospital that he had passed in the night from a second and final heart attack.
Some months later, while I was playing my bass guitar, (playing music, much like sleep, or hypnotic television watching seems to suppress my left brain’s blocking aspect, and paranormal experiences occur) in my living room, his face suddenly loomed into my mind’s eye and I suddenly felt his closeness.
Instead of an accompanying sad heaviness, his energy radiated a youthful joyous presence.
Stunned, I psychically acknowledged him, with love, but also with great worry; I cautiously admonished him for hazarding to linger so on this plane, and asked him to quickly jump into the Light.
His accompanying joy, a mixture of freedom from worry, from bed-worn immobility, from war-time sadness, with an element of love and thanks, thrilled me.
Perhaps, I had I had been sought to deliver that message, to him, in much needed time.

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

“Sex is not the answer.

Sex is the question.
The answer, is ‘YES’!”
(Woody Allen)
Since sex is less than five or ten percent of a marriage, those who marry just for sex, find imposing reasons later on in the relationship, to not confine sex, within the parameters of their marriage, but remain as faithful, as their options and opportunities.
After all, man DOES need woman for the artistry and complexity of friendship, for filial fun, cute socializing, profound partnering, and deep soul intimacy, but they may not ALL BE with the SAME woman.
Women wander sexually, as well, as statistics reveal, that every other wife strays to another’s arms, for love making.
I often thought that women had it better ; if I were a woman, without any love, I’d be down at the docks,  no underwear, waiting for the fleet to come in, with my skirt pulled over my head.
But these days, older and more jaded,  I’m a cheap date, for myself, and even after sexy-self-love, I don’t even take myself out to dinner or to a movie..
There surely HAS to be some more dignified way of expressing desire and passionate love for another human being, because the human body is a sad marvel, with its waste disposal plant, immediately adjoining its amusement park.
Sex, is forever something that parents are loathe to discuss with their children; when I was a child of seven, they mentioned the fearful danger of sex, saying, “not to play around with sex, because it was,”playing with fire.”
At seven years old, I recall thinking,
“Well, I HAVE a hose…
But one who marries, just for sex, is buying a 747 jet, just for the little bag of peanuts. Surely, there’s other ways to get peanuts, if that’s all that you really want.
Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, and will  as soon marry for breasts, as love love, an idea so repulsive and childish, that it takes much head shaking, to comprehend.
Yet when men themselves, in later life themselves develop breasts, they chafe ingloriously,  upset about those clearly unmanly acquisitions.
                                                 
Are men more juvenile in their primitive sexual drives and emotional makeup, and are women, indeed, far better human beings than men, providential, sensitive, charitable, strong and beautiful?
This DNA primate difference can be demonstrated, at a very young age: if you place a group of five-year-old girls, in a room together, they sit, talk and relate to each other with civil chatter, sharing, and with often surprising wisdom.
 But, if instead, you place a group of five-year-old boys, in a room together, they will soon roll all over the floor, like shaved gorillas, lost in individual combative power fantasies.
Nevertheless, our lingering social notion is that men are more important, more apt and more likely to be leaders,  a hard social prejudice to quell.
Equality,  in passion, is immediately easy to demonstrate:
When a cop on the beat encounters a young couple making love in the tall grass, in a park, he does NOT tap their shoes with his nightstick to angrily demand:
” All right, now, WHO’S in charge, here ?!”
Progress is being made and HIStory, will eventually become HERstory..
But women are still naive, and are not the least bit aware of men’s glandular functioning concepts towards women:
When men view a woman’s public, licentious exaggerated undulations, in dance, consummated sexual fantasies unfurl
deep within men’s psyches, visualized fantasies/daydreams dominate, of private encounters, with these licentious, and actively lithe women.
For women, seen by men, rarely grasp that their public dancing, is clearly nothing but overt symbolic sex.
Is this why is it still a man’s world, and so much easier, in society, to BE a man?
We equate physical beauty with inner goodness, which has allowed nice-featured  and handsome psychopaths like Ted Bundy and Jefferey Dalmer to serial (successful) murder so many duped women and duped so many gay men .
Men are suckers for a pretty (merely perfectly symmetrical) face and will sacrifice marriage, family and children for a dalliance with one..
But, it’s easier to BE a man because, as a man:
Each solitary, individual feature on your face always stays its birth shade and original color.
(Methinks, that If men wore makeup, most would be disconcertingly prettier than many women.)
If a man chooses, he might, perhaps, consider a cosmetic shave, but ONLY to some parts of his face and neck.
You, as a man,  can always wear shorts despite how awful your legs do look.
Your last name, regardless of marital -legal battles, stays put.
People do not ever stare at your breasts and your nipples when you’re happily chatting with them.
You are genetically and socially blind to any but the biggest wrinkles in your clothing.
Calorie intake and belly size are never a crucial consideration.
You always have the consummate and total freedom of choice about the growing of a mustache.
You don’t have to remove all of your clothes just to pee.
You can wake up just as attractive as you were when you went to bed, rather than have your beauty somehow deteriorate, during the night.
You can more easily, socially, defend your space, with knee-jerk displays of violence.
Woman, as the pretty sex, is a relatively new idea.
Pirates who wore the perfumes, jewelry, silks and frills echoed this olden concept of male beauty; a classical nude in statue, was almost ALWAYS male, historically, in ancient Greece and Rome.
This classic maleness model of beauty oddly reversed itself in the eighteenth century and women became the “pretty sex”, instead.
Throughout the animal world, whether it flies or swims, the male is STILL the colorful sex, the female, the drab one.
But since the eighteenth century, sexual and cultural reversals have oddly persisted in human affairs, and women instead have become the pretty sex.
Today, women who carry a few extra pounds, live longer than the men, who mention it…
Straight men, do not adorn themselves towards being highly polished- exceptions exist for politicians, actors, sports-stars, head gangsters, and police detectives, for within these men, narcissism, a sinful sense of entitlement, and monumental ego all loom.
In those megalomaniac ‘types’ , highly-polished self-preening is also accompanied by bullying.
But the question remains, for the sake of guile and deceit: how curried and airbrushed is too curried and airbrushed?
The first thing I look at, when I see a polished, curried woman, is her eyebrows; if they’re natural, it’s a blast of honest sexuality that curls my toes.
If they’ve been removed and severe Groucho-Klingon brows, of crayola, or worse,  tattooed eyebrows, I experience an anxious ‘turn off’  and a social warning of duplicity, and then, all of my antenna are up, and waving..
But, why are so many women who look like floss, patina and veneer, the very shallow types, who a man has to pay, for an intelligent conversation?
It is, In truth, because they have long cared ONLY about their outsides, and not ever about, their ‘insides’.
‘Beauty’ television commercials and ‘beauty’ magazine ads feature graphics of highly curried women extolling Western society’s virtues of vacuous, narcissistic women, who gaze back at us, made over into a man’s surreal vision of what ‘beauty’ should look like..
In Maine, at a lobster restaurant, I went to the register to pay and behind the counter, opening the register, was a tall, strikingly handsome, buxom woman, in a formal ballgown who sported a large handlebar mustache.
Her startling visage has stayed with me, for many years, resplendent and role indigestible..
It’s a cultural facade and mirage of the sadly discarded true value of beauty, which always comes from within.
 A man in our culture says,”You’re beautiful”, before he says, “I love you”, and thus a woman is wrongly taught , that if beauty fades, then love must also fade.
Poorly informed, desperately seeking love, she runs scared to the beauty parlor, nail salon, hair stylist, cosmetic facial and breast implant surgeons, willing to suffer to maintain an airbrushed, curried, artificial “beauty” , so that “love” will not also vanish.
Men perpetrate this hoax until they themselves believe it.
Men admit that they LOVE women who look hot and who act hot;  homespun, often unwilling women, by comparison, are like radiators, men have to keep touching, to see if the heat’s coming up.
Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, more vain than women and more duplicitous in satisfying their hormonal drive.
Thus, using men’s sex drive, women, culturally, have been taught guile and deceit from a tender age, to ‘trap a man’, by using their physical, sexual allure:
They shave armpits,
shave legs and mustaches,
dye their hair,
use eye-liner,
mascara and false eyelashes,
face makeup,
(“Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy”)
face foundation,
earrings,
tints of rouge blush,
sport uplift brassieres,
apply perfumes,
apply lipstick,
go for Botox or plastic surgery to erase facial wrinkles,
surgery for the installation of silicone fake breasts,
wear high heels,
designer fingernails,
contact lenses,
  paint fingers and toes.
They put on things, to make them look bigger, and things that make them look smaller;
then, they meet a man, and  they want, “honesty”!
Man, refuses to accept that makeup glamour fools the eye and deludes the heart, until he awakens after the wedding to see his bride without any makeup, and in shock thinks, “WHO is THAT?!”
Can such preoccupation with sexual camouflage avoid extra-marital diversion , and allow longevity and truthfulness towards a meaningful marriage?
Many couples who have lasted together forever, don’t have to work hard  to get along  in marriage.
“When you work too hard to make the business of marriage work, you get tired, and when you’re tired , you get annoyed, and  arguments start, and when arguments start… you’re out of business ..'”
(George Burns)
I remember being stopped and asked once, at Disneyland, by a graying and aged couple to photograph them, for they admitted that it was none other than their fiftieth anniversary.
I saw the way he held her hand and how they hugged and kissed as I struggled to find and frame the picture.
I wondered what wisdom and marital advice they might share, for too  many, marriages end in divorce.
Marriage, for too many men,  is just like a tornado: in the beginning, there’s sucking and blowing , and later on … you lose the house.
Whatever happened to the woman and to the man who could not live, without each other?
He went East, and she went West, and they both lived.
My wife went over to speak with his wife to comment on how sweet they looked together.
I returned the camera when he slowly made his way to me and I asked him the $500,000 lulu question:
“What’s the secret to being married, so successfully, for so long?”
He looked confidential and wise and peeked to see if his wife was engaged in conversation before he spoke:
“You gotta cheat”, he whispered.
Men are like linoleum floors. Lay ’em right and you can walk all over them for thirty years. ~ Betsy Salkind