Jonathots Daily Blog
(3941)
art by smarrttie pants
Music: Madisonian by Jonathan Richard Cring
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3940)
It’s touching.
I’m touched.
Touch me.
From the minute we plop out of the womb, we scream—not for food, not sight, or to hear comforting words—and not to smell chocolate chip cookies.
We scream for connection.
Goddamn it—put me back against my mother’s skin. Let me feel some touch.
Then society, our educational system, religious training and our entertainment industry attempt to make us overly dependent on what we merely see and hear.
Touch is removed except for obvious situations, when we require intimacy.
We are told that touch is dangerous. You can contract diseases. You can over-commit your emotions.
Therefore, we reserve touch and withhold it. Matter of fact, when we even hear the word touch, we associate it with sexuality instead of humanity.
Some ideas persist:
Shaking hands, for instance. But we’re changing that to a fast fist-bump.
Holding hands. Isn’t a high-five enough?
A pat on the back. “Come on! You know I support you.”
There’s a national pastime to make things that draw us closer together seem unnatural. As a result, we cloister into smaller and smaller units, only allowing for fellowship in the catacombs of our own understanding.
I see you. I see what you’re doing. I want to let you know I appreciate it. I touch you.
I hear you. I love the sound. It makes me what to touch you.
I smell your human odor—your fragrance. Yes, I wouldn’t mind being close.
And certainly, I taste you. We are intimate. It makes me yearn to caress you.
It is impossible to foster human progress without touch.
Even as we argue about people coming to our country from other nations, is it not possible for us to honor those who emigrate while still being careful about their immigration? Can’t we be touched by their journey, and still ask them to stand in line and fill out an application? Why must we portray them as evil, nasty, rotten and devious?
When you remove touch, you hamper the hands, and when the hands retreat, the ability to assist evaporates.
Being touched is not a feminine thing, nor is it a masculine no-no. It is the only way that we’re sure we’re alive…and it means something.
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Temper is what happens when we ignore our anger.
Temper is the brat we thought was expelled—exiled far away—but suddenly shows up with a tantrum.
Temper is the frustration that spills out on the wrong person.
Temper is when we look like we have a short fuse and a big bomb.
Temper is caused by trying to keep from being angry.
The inability to articulate what is displeasing causes us to swallow our resentment, and then vomit it through our temper.
But nobody takes our temper seriously, assuming we are sleepy, stressed, or the new excuse—”hangry.”
If it comes to your mind and you find it distasteful, before your brain develops a plot against the world around you, speak it.
Share it. You can always be wrong.
On the other hand, temper will never allow you to admit your fallacy. Once temper decides to raise its ugly head, it demands that you defend it.
It is not defensible.
Because temper is too cowardly to simply be angry.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3931)
It was nearly dusk when the aging patriarch stumbled upon the make-shift camp of the two escaped lads–one his son.
Early in midday, a bus-load of tourists had spied the site as they journeyed and had casually, almost jokingly, remarked upon their return, to the townspeople, about the two boys they saw perched in the desert.
In the early afternoon, Jubal’s father was contacted by friends who knew about his missing son. He decided to follow the directions and retrace the bus route, to see if he could locate his wayward lad.
While the father was climbing the hill, still a good distance away, Jubal recognized him. “It is my Pada,” he said to Amir.
“Pada?” asked Amir.
“My name for my father,” Jubal said nervously.
Amir patted his shoulder. “You knew he must come.”
Jubal replied, half laughing, but mostly terrified, “I was hoping it would be yours.”
Amir shook his head. “I don’t expect him. He would never pursue me in the desert.”
“But he loves you?” asked Jubal.
Amir rubbed his chin and said, “He knows he made me and he takes that quite seriously.”
Jubal gazed at his father, who was now close enough to make out facial features. “What am I going to do, Pal?”
Pal did not know. He said quietly, “We’ll just have to take it as it comes.”
Jubal’s father stopped about a dozen meters away from the camp and beckoned to his son. “Jubal! You will come here right now. Stop this nonsense and pray to God that I will find it in my heart to forgive you of your insolence.”
All the words collided and exploded in Jubal’s head. God. Forgive. Come. Here. Nonsense. And even though Jubal was not sure what “insolence” meant, the tone of voice told him that his father considered it a great sin. Jubal felt his muscles tighten. He jumped up instinctively, in a ritual of obedience, but Amir grabbed his arms, pulling him back to the ground.
The father continued with renewed vigor, stepping closer. “I am not speaking to the wind,” he bellowed. “I have told my son to come to my side and return with me—now.”
Jubal sat, fidgeting, heart racing, mouth dry and his hands shaking. Pada moved closer to him.
Amir spoke. “Dear sir, we mean no harm. We are just boys on a journey of sorts, enjoying each other and the beauty of nature.”
The older man snorted like a bull. “You are certainly right about the ‘boys’ part,” he spat. “And little boys do not belong in the wilderness. They should be close to home where they will be safe.”
Jubal winced. Memories flashed into his mind of arguments with this man, where logic and reason were soon replaced with insult, then intimidation. How many times had he cowered in fear? How many occasions had he nodded in agreement when his heart screamed dissent? How often had he felt the hand strike his cheek in anger as he recoiled, submitting?
Amir spoke again. “We will return when we return.”
The hulking presence advanced more quickly toward the lads. Iz and Pal interlocked their legs and arms, becoming one flesh.
With a final lunge, Iz’s father reared back and slapped his son. Pal squeezed closer to deflect some of the blows. Pada continued to smack his son over and over again, until he finally stepped back from exertion. The brutal insanity of the moment hung in the air with a frightful wheeze and a pending sob.
Iz screamed, “Pada, please stop hitting me!”
The old man, panting, replied, “You will come home with me.”
“I won’t. Not now,” said Iz.
Pada glared at him. “What are you trying to do?”
In a tearful voice, Iz replied, “I just want to be with my friend.”
Pada reached out to grab his arm. “You are embarrassing our family, and you, young man,” he said, turning to Pal, “you are a disgrace—leading my fine son astray. It is the way of the heathen.”
Iz screamed, “He is not a heathen! And he did not lead me astray. He is Pal, my friend, and I am Iz—his friend.”
Pada stopped pulling and demanded, “What is this Pal and Iz?”
Iz wanted to explain but as he looked into the unflinching, unyielding face of his father, he chose silence. The old man raised his hand once again to strike, and Pal leaped to his feet, holding the grenade in front of him. “Don’t touch us!”
Pada paused, gazing at the weapon in Pal’s hand, alarmed, but more amused and perplexed. “What’s that?” he asked scornfully.
Iz eased to his feet next to Pal and answered. “It is a grenade. I stole it from an Israeli soldier.”
Pada shook his head. “And what do you plan to do with it?”
Pal replied, “Nothing if you will stop beating us and leave us alone.” He choked back tears.
Pada struck another threatening pose. “I don’t have to leave my son alone, you little pagan.”
When Iz heard these words, he snatched the grenade from Pal’s hands and moved toward his father. Pada backed up in respect to the weapon. “You don’t even know how to use that, do you?” he challenged.
Iz chuckled. “And that would be a good thing?”
The father remained motionless, exchanging glances with Pal and Iz. “If you kill me, don’t you kill yourselves?”
Iz’s eyes filled with tears. “I haven’t lived long enough to miss life, but you—you are old and have many more memories to lose. Don’t test me, Pada. Everything I believe in is right here. I don’t know whether I’m right or wrong. I don’t care. I’ve found a friend. If I go with you, I will never have that friend again. If I stay here with him, all I lose is you.”
The old man peered at his son, not certain of the boy’s motives, but definitely convinced of the intensity of his emotions. He pointed a finger at Iz and threatened, “I will be back, with the police.”
Police? Iz and Pal hadn’t thought that far ahead. But now it was more than a boyish prank.
They just might have to decide whether they could live or die with their decision.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3937)
A. The Milwaukee Beer Guts
B. The Duluth Truth Boys
C. The Birming Hams
D. The Montana Santas
E. The Cleveland Browns
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation for this inspirational opportunity
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3936)
I like to work on two things and give myself four days.
When I do it this way, it becomes more of a lark instead of a project. Working on myself cannot be a project, or I tend to become defensive, and when I fall short of my own goals, blame others around me for the failure.
I don’t like to work on one thing—then there’s too much focus, and disappointment follows if that single item is not addressed well. And taking on three things is not ambitious—it’s the kind of arrogance that Mother Nature likes to slap your hand for and put you in the corner, on time out.
But if I can find two simple things to address in a ninety-six-hour period, I can rub them up against each other, and they will start competing for first place in productivity. Now, I’m not talking about big things. If you’re a liar, you probably shouldn’t swear off lying and think that in four days you’ll overcome your Pinocchio spirit. Or if you’re dealing with some sort of addiction, ninety-six hours will just bring you to the place of having a gnawing brain and a twitchy body.
I’m speaking about the areas where we interact with other people, and the quirks we possess that hold us back from achieving even what we want to do.
If you take four days, pick two of these and find a way to keep a sense of humor about back-sliding, you’ll be astounded at how much progress you can make, and how the evidence of improvement is nearly enough to convert you to your own move of faith.
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 | Jonathan on 1 Thing You Can Do When Your F… |
| Anonymous on 1 Thing You Can Do When Your F… |
| Anonymous on 1 Thing You Can Do When Your F… |
| Anonymous on 1 Thing You Can Do When Your F… |
 | Nolan on 1 Memory About Jonathan Richar… |
 | Maxine Mantooth on Drawing Attention … Dece… |
| Steve on From the Stacks … Octobe… |
| Maxine Mantooth on Scrambles … October 20th… |
| Maxine Mantooth on From the Stacks … Octobe… |
| Maxine Mantooth on Scrambles … October 13th… |
A voice writing in the wilderness
Jonathots Daily Blog 
3 Things … January 31st, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3942)
You Can Do While Waiting for the World to Stop Being Crazy
Don’t follow the Pied Piper. You ain’t no rat.
Study history—what works and what has failed.
In evaluating what is suggested to you, apply one test. Does it make humans kinder?
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- 3 Things
on January 31, 2019 at 1:55 pm Leave a CommentTags: crazy, history, human kindness, list of 3 things, Pied Piper, rats, social commentary