C.G.Ayling

Category: General

General Topics

  • My Blog is Back!

    My blog is back…

    In 2017 I underwent a disastrous brain surgery, well disastrous for me at least.

    It caused me to lose the overwhelmingly vast majority of my memory and mostly eliminated my short term memory. Believe me when I say that being unable to remember a number longer than four digits brings one down to earth with a thump.

    One of the cascading effects of this memory loss was that I lost control of my blog. I also lost almost all of my computer knowledge, so recreating it from a backup I found on my PC hasn’t been easy – but here it is…

    Unfortunately the images that were attached to posts seem to have not been included in the backup – but all is not lost! Fortunately the good folks at GoDaddy were able to provide me with a directory backup of my hosting account. After copying that to my PC via FTP… sounds easy if you say it fast. I’m pretty sure I used to know what FTP is but no longer do, but GoDaddy assisted me in installing an FTP Client and walking me through every single step necessary to connect and transfer the file. Windows was then good enough to open the file and show me its contents, most of which are utterly meaningless to me, but some of which are the pictures and media I had on my original blog!

    As soon as I manage to successfully upload them and attach them to the posts to which they were linked they should once again become visible. Bear with me while that happens, no promises on on a timescale though!

    I must also try and learn how to use WordPress to make my blog look how I want it to. Right now it does not. In fact is isn’t even close, but all in good time.

    Please note that at least for the foreseeable future I will not me permitting comments on any posts. I’m sorry to do this, but I just don’t have the emotional energy to sift through and try and separate actual comments from spam.

  • on Guns

    In my youth I hunted regularly – not for sport, but for meat which we either ate or sold. For me any desire to kill another living creature ended after the war. But that is just me and other people are not subject to my feelings or beliefs. Generally, that is okay.

    Generally.

    It ceases to be okay when the feelings and beliefs of those other people lead to the injury, death, and suffering of innocents. Which leads me to the topic of guns in the USA, or more particularly, of the use of assault rifles in the commission of mass murders.

    Why are weapons designed for the sole purpose of killing other humans for sale in this country? The answer seems to hinge on the second amendment of the US Constitution, which reads, “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

    Are any of the people who have committed these horrific crimes members of a “well regulated militia”? I don’t think so, so why do they have weapons that only well regulated militias should possess? The US does have well regulated militias, they’re called the Army, Navy, and Air Force, along with their various branches.

    I’m not denying you the right to own and use hunting guns or target rifles. But if you want to bear a gun designed for killing other people then join one of these well regulated militias. Assuming they’ll have you… And if they won’t have you because you’re unfit to possess such a lethal weapon due to a criminal nature or mental deficiency then tough luck – you absolutely should not be able to get your grubby little hands on one as a civilian. Period.

    The time of the civilian population rising up to overthrow a tyrannical government by force of arms is long passed. So has the right for civilians to own weapons designed to kill other civilians.

    So how do we overthrow a government or any nature, let alone a tyrannical one? We use something called “the vote.” We don’t need to go into the streets or the hallways of schools or universities bearing deadly assault weapons with the intent to murder unarmed innocents. All we need to do is use “the vote”.  It is long past time we voted to eject officials who are more interested in obeying the dictates of special interest groups like the NRA than they ever will be in doing what the people who elected them want.

    Vote.  There is more power in that single right than there ever will be in any weapon designed to kill people, so use it already.

  • on Demons and Angels

    A tenet of my personal philosophy is balance in all things.  Throughout our lives we struggle to vanquish our demons, yet I’ve recently concluded we should do no such thing – for it is our demons that drive us and our angels that hold us back.  Perhaps this poem will evoke the essence of my feelings.

    ~ Demons and Angels ~
    ~
    It is our demons who spur us on
    and our angels who put on the brakes.
    It is our demons who press us to risk
    and our angels who whisper warning.
    It is our demons who force us to rise
    and our angels who calm us to rest.
    It is our demons who scream for excess
    and our angels who soothe us to caution.
    It is our demons who tell us we can
    and our angels who say we should not.
    Without our demons to press us onward
    our dreams soon race out of reach.
    Without our demons present and active
    our angels don’t soothe us,
    they’re silent
    instead.
    Without the raging of my demons
    I fear my angels won’t show me the way.
    I’ve somehow escaped my demons,
    is that life I feel slipping away?
    ~

    Please don’t misunderstand the meaning of this post – it has nothing to with good and evil or even with right and wrong.  It is about the forces that drive us and those that encourage us to accept the status quo.  I have chosen to equate the driving forces in our psyche to demons because they aren’t gentle, they don’t ask us nicely – they goad and prod us mercilessly and are never satisfied no matter how hard we try or how much we accomplish.  I’ve equated the forces that hold us back to angels because they praise our efforts while quietly encouraging us to accept our lot without conflict – this is a theme I’m certain you are all too familiar with in all major organized religions.

    Be wary of your wishes, Fate might be listening.

  • a Dream, a Reality

    Dreams often feel like a frightening reality, but the most frightening reality feels like a dream.

    My eyes open. Don’t know where I am. It is cool. The lights are dim. I’m on a narrow bed with the back raised into almost a sitting position. But I’m not sitting, I’m lying down. Pipes all over. All over the bed, all over me. I’m facing the door, it’s made of glass, a double-wide door made of glass. The glass door is open, but nobody enters. They just walk past, without glancing in. Men and women, walking past, oblivious to me. I watch. Time passes. How to count the time? A green dot plots a graph I don’t understand. Rhythmic pulses of green leaving fading lines that disappear, then come again. I need to pee. I try to stand up. I cannot. Pipes in my way. Clear plastic pipes. One plastic pipe ends in my arm. I trace it with my eyes. It hurts to move my head. A bag, suspended from a silver pole. Drip… drip… drip. Two ways to keep the time. Pulses of green, or clear drops dripping into a pipe that feeds my arm. More pipes, these lead to my legs. Legs strapped in socks that have no feet. A gargantuan struggle. I overcome. Now I’m sitting up. Pounding pain in my skull. Three ways to keep the time. Clear drops that drip. A bouncing green dot that fades, then comes again. A drummer in my head. I reach toward my calves. Not enough strength to tug the pipes free. Pain, arching through my brain. Eyes squeeze shut. I don’t give up. Time counted three ways passes. Another fruitless tug. Coarse tearing rip. I force my eyes open. Not socks. A Velcro seam. It opens slowly. Uncovered leg is bare. A man walks past. He doesn’t see me. A few hundred drips of pounding green agony. Both my legs are bare. I swing them off the bed. As if on cue, a woman walks in. “What are you doing?” No threat in her tone. Just a question. What am I doing? “I need to pee.” Reassuring tone, “You don’t need to get up for that.” I struggle to make sense of that, but cannot. “I can see the bathroom. I need to go there.” I nod toward the bathroom door. My skull tries to explode. “Do you know where you are?” Where am I? Can’t shake my head. I meet her eyes. Gentle, reassuring eyes. “No.” She nods, as if no is the right answer. Is this place a secret? “Do you know your name?” I look down. Who am I? I must have a name. Doesn’t everyone have a name? I don’t have a name. “No.” She nods again. So, another right answer. A nameless man, in a secret place he doesn’t know. Urgency. “I have to pee.” I manage to stand. Why are my legs so weak? A single, jarring step. The pipe ending in my arm tugs taut. Got to pee. Irritation. My free hand reaches for the pipe. Tug. Rip it out! Got to pee! The woman calls for help. Reaches for my arm, holds it tight against another tug. “I’ve got to pee!” A man and another woman rush in. The man is much stronger than me. “He doesn’t know his name, or where he is.” The man’s face softens, “Calm down, bud. You’re in a hospital and your name is Charles.” A pause to let this sink in. It doesn’t. I know what a hospital is, but I don’t know Charles. He points at one of the pipes. “That’s a catheter. You don’t need to go to the bathroom to pee, you just pee. It won’t make a mess.” I know what a catheter is. I had one before. My first memory of me. I know what a catheter is. I had one before.

    Though you may think this is a poorly written story full of partial thoughts framed in badly written fragmentary sentences, it is not. It is an episode I remember while still in the ICU, written exactly as I remember it. A solid week of memory gone, apart from this dream like recollection.  When we’ve lost everything even pain becomes precious.

  • on GrandParenting

    Though I believe it should not be, grandparenting is very different to parenting.  As virtually any grandparent will tell you, being a grandparent is far better than being a parent.  Which is not to say being a parent isn’t a wonderful experience – it is.  However being a grandparent should mean you’ve raised your own child well enough that they are now themselves a parent.  There are few rewards greater than that.

    However this post isn’t about how fortunate we are to be grandparents, it’s about how different grandparenting is when compared to parenting.

    By the time we’ve become grandparents we’ve gained knowledge that is virtually impossible to gain any other way than through personal experience.

    We’ve learnt patience, and we’ve learnt that pressure doesn’t pave the way to good behavior.  We’ve learnt it is better to walk with them than it is to push them from behind.  We’ve learnt that life is a difficult path best trod in the company of those we love most, and we’ve learnt our children and grandchildren count high in that number.

    We’ve learnt that the most important rules we can teach our young aren’t about possessions, they’re rules related to relationships.  We’ve learnt enough to gently teach them the importance of compassion, understanding, and tolerance.  We’ve learnt enough to know that offering love is the surest way to receive it.

    We’ve learnt the appropriate response to mistakes is not an angry word spoken in chastisement, it is a kind word spoken in love.  We’ve learnt that something broken can be repaired or replaced, but that a broken heart is much harder to mend.

    We’ve learnt that a hug is not only a wonderful gift, it is also a wonderful reward.

    Perhaps most importantly of all we’ve re-learnt something young children have yet to forget…  We’ve re-learnt that unconditional love, which we hold in our hearts, is a better reward than anything we hold in our hands.  {Except perhaps the hands of the ones we love…}

  • Memories, of clean water

    Recently, I believe as a result of my surgery, I lost my appetite.  My hunger for food is pretty much non-existent, while my appetite for liquids knows no bounds.  Literally.

    The other day, while walking Bacon after a rainstorm, I looked at the water flowing in the cement troughs down the side of the road.  It looked so delicious it was actually tempting to kneel and drink it.  Of course I didn’t.  No, not of course, I don’t think there is really any “of course” about it.  I managed to prevent myself from doing so.  Yes, “managed” is a better choice of word.  Perhaps seeing the rivulet reminded me of the tiny little streams in Rhodesia, particularly in the Eastern Highlands, from which I often drank as growing lad.  Such delicious water, untouched by man, filled with minerals absorbed from the rocks over which it flows.  The memory of the taste of crystal clear, clean water…

    A memory of what I had, yet have no more.

  • on Torture

    I’m sure every civilized, thinking person will agree that torture is the domain of barbarians.

    Yes, torture absolutely should not be allowed.  Unfortunately it is, and the number of people here in the USA who condone it is nothing short of astounding.

    The US Constitution, the supreme law of this land, prohibits the use of cruel and unusual punishment.  Period.  It doesn’t say “don’t do it unless it’s expedient”, its eight amendment states, “Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishment inflicted.”  How is it possible to misinterpret such a categorical statement?

    Yet people come out with unmitigated nonsense like, “They do it to us so we should be able to do it to them.”  When did two wrongs start making a right?

    I’ve also heard multiple Americans say, “If we have to torture someone to stop an act of terrorism, I’m okay with that.”  This sounds almost logical, as do the most seductive of lies.  Unfortunately history has abundantly proven that tortured people do not tell the truth, they tell whatever it is they think their torturer wants to hear.  Are we actually naive enough to think some captured jihadist pawn knows the precise details of an impending act of terrorism?  Perhaps it’s time we stopped watching so many action movies and TV shows with no basis in reality?  Perhaps it’s time we stopped believing the hype and started learning from history?

    There’s so much we could learn from history, but it’s such a difficult lesson…

    Doing what’s right is never as easy as doing what’s expedient – but right is right forever, expedient is only temporarily convenient.

  • What’s the deal of?

    Included in this post is an unscripted recording I made of my Granddaughters, Eden and Ariadne, when they were staying with us recently.  The recording was caught with my phone, so please excuse the variable quality and the low volume.

    Very young children, Ariadne is three, have an amazing way of expressing themselves and learning language.  For reasons known only to her, Ariadne decided that instead of asking “Why?”, she’d ask, “What’s the deal of?”  When young children ask questions, I think it is our duty to answer them as comprehensively and truthfully as possible.  You’ll also hear the voice of Eden and Ariadne’s Great Grandmother, who was also staying with us but has since returned to Africa – I miss you, Mom.

    The best thing about good answers is how they lead to better questions.

    I hope you enjoy listening to this as much as I do.

    In case you're interested, the principle character in Malmaxa is a form of Eden drawn from the ether before she was born.  In many ways the resemblance is uncanny.

  • Out of the Mouths of Babes

    Our three year old granddaughter, Ariadne, is a gem and a consistent user of amazingly appropriate expressions.  In this she shows a remarkable resemblance to her mother, my oldest daughter, Tamryn.

    The latest tale of Ariadne is of her desperately wanting a beanbag cat with oversized eyes.

    Ariadne saw it while in a fabric store with her mom and fell in love with it.  After a few days she finally talked her mom into acquiring it.  They arrive at the store, only to find the beanbag cat is now accompanied by a beanbag dragon.

    After examining both, Ariadne changes her mind and chooses the beanbag dragon.  They take it home, where Ariadne diligently proceeds to take off all its price stickers and attached labels.  After all, aren’t Dragons priceless creatures that don’t deserve to be labeled?

    The next day Ariadne tells her mom, “I’ve changed my mind, I really want the cat.”
    Tamryn responds, “No, you chose the dragon.”
    Ariadne, “But the cat will be lonely without us.”
    Tamryn, “Too bad.  You picked the dragon, so now you have to stick with it.”
    Ariadne, “I want the cat as well!”
    Tamryn, “Not going to happen!  You’re not getting the cat.”
    Ariadne, “Oh, but I think I will…”

    On another occasion, when her mom denied her something she wanted, Ariadne issued the ominous warning, “You’re going to regret this…”  Remember, Ariadne is barely three years old 🙂

    I’m sure there are morals to this story but I’m too tired to find them, so instead I’ll leave you with some trivia…
    When in dire financial straits one of the last things parents stop buying is toys for their children.
    If you want to learn more about Tamryn, you can find her in Malmaxa.  She is both an extraordinary person in my life, and an extraordinary character in my alternate world.
    To find the origins of the name Ariadne, you might refer to this google search.  No, Ariadne doesn’t yet appear in Malmaxa, but she does hold an extraordinarily special place in my heart.

  • The little joys in Life

    There is little that gives me more joy than watching the actions of baby animals. It is both mentally fascinating and emotionally rewarding – a combination that is pretty hard to beat.

    Back in the early 1960’s we lived in a tiny little town called Melsetter in Southern Rhodesia.  We had to be mostly self-sufficient so every year we’d get day old chicks, which we’d raise for meat or eggs.  Anyway one year my dad decided to change things up a little and got day old ducklings instead.  He brought them home, safe and secure in a large box lined with straw, laid the box on the kitchen counter-top, gathered us kids around, opened the box and asked, “What are these?”

    My younger sister Sarah, who must have been about four years old at the time, looked into the box with wide eyes.  Somehow she knew they weren’t day old chickens, but they sure looked like them!  So she said “Chockens!”  My dad didn’t correct her 🙂.

    On the lawn in the front yard we had a wire mesh enclosure that we’d always used for the chickens.  In fact, for reasons I’ve never understood, we called it the chicken-run. The ducklings were placed in this and were perfectly happy, after all if it was good enough for chickens surely it was good enough for chockens?

    The chockens may have been content, but my dad wasn’t.  As he explained things, ducks were water creatures, and as such they needed a pond in which to swim.  So we marked an extension of the chicken-run on the ground, dug a decent sized pond, sealed it with cement, filled it with water, and let it sit to ensure it didn’t leak.  This effort took days, during which the chockens watched with interest, their little bodies pressed up against the fence so they could gain a better view.  The last thing we did was extend the chicken mesh fence to include the pond, leaving the separating fence still intact.

    The big day came.  We herded the ducklings… no, I should make an effort to get this right – we herded the chockens up to the far end of the chicken-run then my dad pulled out the separating mesh wall, thereby converting the smallish chicken-run into a spacious chocken-run, complete with built-in pond.  We all stood back and waited for the ducklings to make the much anticipated dash for the pond.

    It didn’t happen, they just stayed in the area to which they had been herded.  After a while my mom decided to get things moving and shooed them toward the pond.

    And that is when something really interesting happened…

    When the ducklings got to the line where the fence had been they all stopped dead, little bodies pressed up against the now imaginary fence.  They were quite unable to cross it, no matter how many times we tried to urge them past it.  Eventually we resolved the problem of the invisible fence by carrying them over it and plopping them into the water, where their instincts took over and their webbed feet kicked into action.  I’m pretty sure they thoroughly enjoyed their first ever swim.

    In many ways we humans are just like those little duckings, or those little chockens if you prefer 🙂.  How?  We become so used to the boundaries of our existence that we are quite unable to realize they are self-imposed, artificial, and that we can step over them any time we want.  The next time you reach the walls of your chocken-run I encourage you to simply open your mind and fly over them – I think you’ll love the pond you find when you do.