Jonathots Daily Blog
(4523)
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4515)
But I’m suspicious.
Both about feeling and about good.
Feeling seems to have such great promise until it arrives with its anemic personality and unnatural bend to the dark side.
First and foremost, it is not satisfied to just have a feeling—but instead, offers a diagnosis.
What I feel may be just a burpless bouncing of discomfort between my shoulder blades but is interpreted in my strain of brain as a pending heart attack.
I may just be a little breathless, but this is translated as respiratory failure.
Maybe lazy has won the day but it’s so much easier to declare it a pending crazy.
But I definitely don’t feel good.
How can I tell?
Normally, after my kitty-kat nap, I go into the bathroom, piss and brush my teeth before heading into the music room to begin my afternoon writing session.
I did not piss, nor did I brush.
I came right to the music room and was no bettered by deleting efforts.
Something’s wrong.
Now, there is a beauty to this—and there is an ugliness.
Let me begin with the ugliness.
The ugliness is that I can accidentally sustain this feeling of uncertainty by fostering self-pity.
I can baby myself right back into the nursery.
Why? Because I’m fat.
That means every chest discomfort could be a coronary.
Every breathless exhibition is my BMI trying to smother me.
And every single pain that might exist in my legs is my aging, tackling me for the grave.
So you see, if I don’t get out of this mode, it will turn into a bad mood and it can mold my whole evening.
So I come into the music room to talk to you about it today.
I am not anticipating sympathy.
I’m not requiring that you confirm your mercy in my direction.
I’m using you as a sounding board. Maybe abusing you would be more accurate.
Because I don’t feel good.
But I will tell you that even as I talk to you about this, I feel a little bit better.
That little tiny headachy part in the front of my brow is gradually dissipating.
I know it’s nothing serious—I know I’ve underdone something, when overdoing would have been welcome.
Or I’ve overdone a plate of something when a saucer was in order.
But it doesn’t make it any easier.
I am fully aware that I am childish about my concerns and need to at least deduct the “hypo” off of my “chondria.”
When will that happen? Is that gone for all time? Have I robbed my self of a urination and a tooth cleansing?
You can see, it can become very complicated.
I don’t feel good.
I don’t think it’s going to end with my demise.
But I have to admit, there are times it does reprise,
And is important for me to know how to surmise.
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4234)
Clouds are just water vapor. They have no lining—certainly not a silver one.
This is probably the first thing any villager from Blanchport, Pennsylvania learns growing up near the West Virginia border, where eking out a surviving wage without hating your work is considered heaven.
Murtrand Gillogly was only seventeen years old when she met Benson. He was tall, muscular and worked in the coal mines, so had a little extra money—more than the average boy walking the streets or plowing the fields.
She fell in love. Well, at least enough to give herself over to him in the cab of his Ford pickup truck. They had only consummated their confirmation on three occasions when Murtrand found out that she had missed her time.
Not knowing what to do, she finally decided to go to the town doctor. “Murty,” he said. (That’s what all the locals called her.) “Murty, I want to tell you something real simple. You’re pregnant.” He peered at her. “I imagine that’s not good news for you, so I will grant you the privacy of keeping my mouth shut until you want to yap about it.”
The young girl was terrified but had enough sense to confess to her parents, her preacher and a few close friends. They all did the wrong thing—what often happens in small towns with small minds.
They condemned her.
It became especially problematic when after three-and-a-half months, the hospital, twenty-five miles away, confirmed that she was carrying twins. Benson, her boyfriend and baby-maker, had decided to hang around—until he received this latest news. There was something about two babies popping out that scared the living shit out of him.
He explained that because there was so much expense that needed to be covered, he was going on a “miracle journey.” That’s what he called it–a “miracle journey” to Las Vegas–to win enough money to take care of the family, for now and all time. Murty was suspicious—but still moved that he had the desire to be a breadwinner, even if the crumbs came from the gambling tables. She sweetly kissed him on the lips and promised to remain true.
That was the last time she ever saw him.
Six months later, by the ordination of nature and sheer will and purpose of the human body, Murty gave birth to two boys. Feeling particularly traditional and proud of herself, she decided to name one Clarence and one Cameron.
Concerning the community, no support and no real sense of acceptance came her way throughout the first part of the twins’ growing up time. For in Blanchport, Pennsylvania, once you sin, it’s not forgiven unless God shows up and does it Himself.
And He doesn’t come around very often.
So Murty did a little waitressing, telemarketing and even pumped gas down at the local convenience store, to keep shoes on four small feet and grits in three bellies.
She loved her boys.
She was really proud of Clarence. When he was only seven years old, he walked by the town bank and noticed that somebody had dropped a hundred-dollar bill. His first instinct was a good one. He took it inside and presented it to the bank president (or some fellow wearing a tie) and explained that he had found it just outside the door, so figured it might belong to somebody inside.
The banker patted him on the head, told him he was a good little gent, and said they would advertise, letting people know the money had been discovered. But he added that if it wasn’t retrieved in the next thirty days, little Clarence could keep it.
He had a terrible time sleeping. He even picked himself up a giveaway calendar from down at the drug store and started marking off the days. The whole town was rooting for him. Matter of fact, he acquired a nickname. Instead of Clarence, they started calling him “C-note.” He liked it, even though he didn’t know what it meant. But when they explained that a hundred-dollar bill was called a C-note, he was flattered and overjoyed.
It was the twenty-ninth day of waiting to find out about the prize money when the banker called Clarence to his office. The little boy sat down, anticipating his hundred dollars—ready to scream just as loud as he could.
The banker smiled, cleared his throat and said, “Young man, I want to tell you how admirable it is that you brought the money in when you found it. Some boys would have run off to the candy store or hid it in a jar in the back yard. Unfortunately, I’m sorry to report that as it turns out, after the books have been budgeted and calculated, that hundred dollars belongs to the bank.”
Clarence cried. He tried not to do so. He tried to keep what the preacher always called a “stiff upper lip,” but even though his lips seemed quite all right, his eyes were pouring.
The banker came from behind his desk, put an arm around the boy and said, “Now, now. Don’t you cry. Because we at the bank have decided to give you five dollars as a finders fee.”
Now, it wasn’t much money. Certainly not a hundred. But it seemed to be enough encouragement to turn off the water faucets in his eyes.
He ran out of the bank with his five-dollar bill and down the street. He bought something for his brother, Cameron, something for his mother and something for himself. They had a wonderful night together, celebrating their sudden wealth and how much they loved each other.
Only one problem arose from the situation: Cameron was pissed off that he didn’t have a nickname, too. After much deliberation and even a little bit of prayer, he decided that from that point on, he wanted to be known as Camo.
It didn’t have any meaning. Yet from that moment, the twins became known as C-note and Camo.
Their eighth year looked similar to their ninth. And the tenth year was marked by a brief visit to some friends in Harrisburg.
They went to school, they wore the clothes provided, they smiled at the right adults and when those grown-ups weren’t looking, they had their fun.
One of their favorite pastimes was climbing an old mulberry tree down by the railroad tracks. It was a huge one—about eight enormous branches going up to the sky. Each boy marked his courage by how high he was willing to go on the branches leading to heaven.
C-note had made it to the third branch. Camo was still sitting on the second one, mustering up the courage to shimmy up the tree.
One day, they foolishly invited their mother out to watch them climb. She was terrified. She almost forbade them to do it anymore, but after much pleading she made a compromise. “You can climb that, but no higher than that third branch,” she said, pointing it out to them. She made them point it out, too, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding.
But it is truly amazing how quickly a mother’s advice evaporates in the heat and enthusiasm of a climb.
On the Monday morning before Thanksgiving, C-note decided it was time to go to Level 4. Camo was scared—shaking like a leaf.
C-note mocked him for his cowardice. “If you’re gonna be a big boy, you’ve gotta do big things,” he said.
Having never reached for the fourth branch, knowing nothing about it, C-note was unaware that the fourth branch was broken. And even though he was a young boy, his weight was still enough that when he grabbed on, a big piece of branch broke off in his hands and he fell to the Earth. The fall seemed to last forever, as he stared up into the top of the tree and the world began to spin.
All at once he landed—flat on his back.
He waited for the pain. He was surprised he was still awake. Suddenly his ears opened, and he could hear Camo screaming. And then, the sounds of one, two, five, maybe ten people running in his direction. He was so scared he pooped his pants. Now he was dying and going to stink.
Something odd, though, was that he didn’t feel damaged. He didn’t think he was dead. And when the people began to gather around him, he could make out faces, which meant his brain was still working.
It took about five minutes, but the doctor arrived, and with the assistance of a couple other men and one woman, they moved him gently, and the doctor checked him over for broken bones, cuts, bruises—and found nothing.
Camo explained that C-note had fallen from the fourth branch, which was about twenty feet up in the air. Then one of the observers looked down, pointed, and said, “Look! That’s what saved you.”
C-note, now fully conscious and aware of what was going on, turned around and saw a mashed wild turkey, which had broken his fall—but had also broken its neck. It was lying on the ground, looking like…well, looking like an eighty-five-pound twelve-year-old boy had fallen twenty feet from the sky on top of it. The bird did not fare well.
C-note was pronounced sound of body.
The turkey was dead on arrival.
Everybody laughed, then cried. And then, when it occurred to them that they had experienced a bona fide miracle of supernatural intervention, they sat down under the tree and got real quiet. Here’s what they thought.
“How did a turkey end up at exactly that place at exactly that time, when a little boy was falling from the sky, unless God Himself plucked it from the woods and placed it there, granting it final purpose? And we all know–this is one of the more noble ways a turkey can die.”
C-note was mystified and angered by the whole situation. He shouldn’t have been climbing the tree—not that fourth branch. Why did a turkey have to die because he was disobedient? And why was God going around asking turkeys to help dumb little boys?
It just didn’t make sense.
By this time the city newspaper—even though Blanchport was not a city—had sent a photographer to the scene. As they carefully removed the carcass of the sacrificial fowl, the photographer asked if C-note would be willing to kind of “re-enact” what happened.
He shook his head. “I ain’t climbin’ that dumb tree and falling again just so you can get a picture.”
The photographer patted him on the shoulder. “No, no. I just want you to sprawl out on the ground there and pretend you’ve got a turkey under your back.”
C-note squinted. Mrs. Marlins stepped in and explained what the photographer was trying to communicate in more kid-like language. So C-note spread himself out like he’d just fallen from the tree. The newsman took two shots, which appeared in the newspaper three days later.
In the meantime it was the talk of the town—no, much more than that. It was the only thing anybody could think about.
The preacher down at the Pentecostal Church was certain it was a sign from God that little Clarence was a prophet.
Some of the more sensitive folks who dressed up their dogs in costumes—that type—had a memorial service for the turkey.
And speaking of the turkey, something had to be done with it. It was suggested that it would be wonderful to pluck the bird, dress it and give it to Murty and her little family for Thanksgiving.
The grocer threw in some ‘taters, snap green beans, gravy and miscellaneous sweets to complete the deal. It was so thrilling.
The television station in Pittsburgh contacted the mayor and asked if they could bring in a camera crew to do an interview with C-note about the whole magical turkey event. (Although it never happened because some other more important news came along to delay them, the town felt important, always knowing they had been considered.)
It did nothing to calm the heart and soul-searching of Clarence.
He asked advice from his schoolteacher. Her words were, “Be grateful.”
He asked the oldest lady in the community—who everybody called Aunt Rachel—what she thought he should feel and do about the dead creature. She closed her eyes, looked like she was praying for a moment, and then said to C-note, “I just talked to the turkey in heaven…and he forgives you.”
Unimpressed with her response, C-note went to Deacon Connelly, who did a lot of hunting and had shot a turkey or two in his time. C-note wanted to discuss his feelings, but Deacon Connelly was so impressed with the fact that it was a clean kill and there was no need to remove buckshot from the carcass that he chattered away, unaware of the boy’s turmoil.
On his way home from Deacon Connelly, C-note ran across the drifter referred to as “the town drunk.” C-note was pretty sure his name was Mandrake. Mandrake was a nice enough fellow when he was sober, which was so in infrequent that nobody thought of him as a nice fellow.
But on this day, he’d only had a little bit of the juice. When C-note called to him, he answered, “Boy! I got a new name for you. They oughta call you ‘Fallin’ Leaves.’”
C-note was confused. He wanted to ignore Mandrake, but he kept going. “You see what I mean?” asked Mandrake. “You got yourself a dead turkey. You know why?”
C-note shrugged.
The drunk continued. “You have a dead turkey because that’s what your falling … leaves.”
Mandrake burst into laughter. C-note was not amused, even though he kind of understood the joke. It just seemed improper to be laughing so near the demise of his savior.
His brain popped up the word “savior” without him even thinking about it. It wasn’t like C-note thought the turkey was Jesus Christ. And even though Jesus might be saving his soul from hell, the turkey kept him from getting’ there.
It left him cold, a little frightened and humble.
When he got home and saw that his savior had been plucked, oiled and was heading for the oven, he burst into tears again.
Camo screamed at him. “Godammit, would you stop cryin’? Mama might decide not to cook it.”
His mother tried to comfort Clarence, but he just could not wrap his mind around eating his savior. He didn’t think he could even watch other people devour his protector.
About four hours later, Mama came into the room and found him in a fitful sleep. She gently woke him up, whispering, “Dinner’s ready.”
He just shook his head. He didn’t know what to say.
She hugged him real tight—the way mothers are supposed to do in those situations. He was expecting sympathy, but instead, he got the razor of her truth.
“There’s two things I want you to understand, Clarence.” (She had never gotten used to calling him C-note.) “The first thing I want you to understand is that in five minutes we’re gonna walk out of this room and gorge ourselves on turkey and fixings before it gets cold. I will not hear any more nonsense about trying to preserve a bird that’s already gobbled its way to glory.”
She paused, eyes glittering. “And the second thing is, you can honor this bird by learning from it. As you eat this meal that we did not expect to have, you can speak to the meat provided and say, ‘Thanks for catching me. I’m sorry it cost you your life. No disrespect, but may I say, you sure do taste good.’”
C-note didn’t want to listen to his mother’s counsel, but memories of the yardstick she kept in the closet and occasionally applied to his backside made him more pliable.
For the rest of his life, he never ate a turkey dinner without thinking about the one that rescued his life. The one that kept him going. And whether it was a miracle or not, the intervention was sweet.
For every creature on Earth will eventually experience a falling…
And only time will tell what it leaves.
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4087)
She hurts.
He hurts.
You hurt.
I hurt.
They hurt.
We hurt.
It is a story told without resolution—a profile in defeat—a chair of comfort, set to the side.
It is a pain minus healing.
It is the word that should never be written or uttered again:
Being identified by your tragedy, characterized by your weakness or remembered for your sadness.
It is nearly drowning yet remaining in the water.
It is being battered and beaten and commanded to continue to wear your bandages.
It is the insincere belief that pity can ever be love, or sympathy, true mercy.
Victim
Victimized
Victimization
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(2715)
Yet another fool
Went into the school
To break the Golden Rule
While on the run
He took a gun
And shot his chosen few
Nine are dead
Is what they said
After commercial break
Experts are sought
A lesson is taught
About the creepy fake
Mama cries
Daddy lies
And old friends have their take
I sit and stare
As if I care
Stunned by the sameness
Looking for proof
Some lasting truth
To proclaim myself blameless.
Only nine
Slaughtered this time
A little less than before
But if nine were me
It would be different, you see
Someone shout and roar
But since I live
The little I give
My sympathy
Not much more
When blood is red
Folks are dead
Never to breathe again
Is the gun to blame?
Don’t use his name
Just bury our national sin.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(2254)
“Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.”
Many generations have used that little adage as a philosophy to handle the bullying, accusations and lies that fly around when our race attempts to jockey for position.
In times past, a man or woman were judged by what they did instead of what they said. (Honestly, a slip of the tongue is very common on the icy roads of daily fumbling.)
But the choices we make in how we interact with one another and the deeds we choose to perform are in our power.
Yet nowadays, we are obsessed with “right speak.” And “right speak,” by the way, is determined by the mood of the moment.
So very little is being accomplished because the whole world is self-conscious–to make sure and say the appropriate thing.
Religion loves this populie because it sets up a scenario for what we shall call a false persecution complex. If we can convince God that the heathen are attacking us verbally, perhaps some of our indifference and spiritual awkwardness will be forgiven, considering how bullied we are.
Politics uses this “be careful what you say” trend to attack opponents and also to pull up lame, hoping to gain the sympathy of the electorate over false reports.
And of course, entertainment finds this populie profitable because it allows them to test the boundaries of free speech and sell tickets based on alleged controversy.
Yet the most recent bizarre example is that of Donald Sterling and the tape that surfaced with his paramour, discussing racial issues.
First and foremost, that particular conversation he had with the young lady was private. I, for one, would not want things I share in my business meetings with friends and comrades to be trumpeted and played out on CNN.
Secondly, Donald Sterling has done many deeds of prejudice over the years, which should have been called out instead of using the back door of illegal intrusion to alienate and defile him.
Bluntly, I don’t want to judge anyone on his or her words. I will leave that to Almighty God. My job is to look at the fruit people bear in their lives, to determine the soul of their human matter.
Even though we’re not allowed to judge, we are entitled to view the efforts and deeds of our fellow human beings to ascertain their mission and goals.
Not only are we becoming too sensitive to words, believing they actually do break bones, but we are also creating a generation of false apologizers, who have turned repentance into a political maneuver and social evasion.
“I’m sorry” needs to mean “I’m sorry” again. Otherwise, it’s just a gentler way of proclaiming, “Leave me alone.”
Case in point: the chances of me saying something wrong in a daily column are innumerable. But I will not allow you to judge me by a term, a paragraph, or even one entire essay. My life is available for review and is played out on any Google search. Click away.
With that in mind, let me tell you how I believe things should be reviewed:
1. Hear.
Yes, listen for something you agree with and then take the leap to believe in it. Stop trying to be safe with your language so you can please everybody. Commit to something.
2. Do.
Don’t preach at people. Don’t quote scriptures, the Constitution or the latest popular book. Take that belief you have claimed and put it to a challenge, to grant it credibility.
3. Share.
And then, once you’ve gained a testimony–a piece of evidence–don’t decide for others that they should walk in your moccasins. Just tell your story.
I am not going to be careful about what I say. Because of that, I will make errors that are sometimes contrary to my actual heart, life and doings. Instead:
I will hear things that I believe and follow them.
I will do those things faithfully to see if they stand the test of time.
And then I will share my story with no condemnation or criticism in your direction.
In a world where we decry bullying, we are all eventually cast into the role of bully. Then what do you do?
I think we are best served by going back to defending ourselves against sticks and stones … and regain our sense of humor about mere words.
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity
After an appearance earlier this year in Surprise, Arizona, Janet and I were blessed to receive a “surprise” ourselves. Click on the beautiful Arizona picture above to share it with us!
Click here to get info on the “Gospel According to Common Sense” Tour
Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
Click here to listen to Spirited music
Jonathots Daily Blog
(2228)
The conservatives insist that they honor women by extoling the difficulty of being a housewife and a mother.
The liberals scoff at these limitations, claiming to offer choice and equality while promoting young artists who refer to their sisters as “chicks, hoes and bitches.”
We are in a perpetual cycle–which ends up being vicious, may I add–because it offers women sympathy and mothers them without ever pursuing parity.
Oprah Winfrey, who would certainly claim to be a twenty-first-century feminist, still giggles along with comedian Steve Harvey, as he segregates the sexes by their cultural predilections, maintaining that it is some sort of God-ordained division.
Meanwhile, we’re in search of humanity, since masculine and feminine restrictions are driving us off the road and into the ditch. We really don’t have to look far.
Jesus came along to set people free so they wouldn’t have to be victims. He did the same thing for the ladies.
1. Even though he lived in a male-dominated society which had created a system of divorce in which a man could abandon his partner over any whim that might cross his mind, Jesus insisted that women were not emotional ditzes, and that the only reason for breaking a marriage apart was adultery, committed by either party.
2. Jesus made it clear that there was no need to have two different gospels–one pink and one blue–but trudged through all the areas near his home with men, women and children listening to the same teachings and commandments.
3. Jesus also made it clear that women’s money was good. Matter of fact, Mary Magdalene, Susannah and Joanna, three of his more affluent followers, were listed as underwriters of his traveling outreach; no men were ever given credit for donating funds.
4. Jesus wouldn’t let women play the victim. Whether it was the woman of Samaria, who wanted to produce a little deceit about her marital status, or the woman caught in adultery, who was forgiven by Jesus but also told to “go and sin no more,” Jesus made it clear that the true path to equality is to shoulder responsibility.
5. Jesus believed that women could “carry the baggage.” It was Mary Magdalene who announced his resurrection. The Book of Acts is filled with women who befriended nomadic disciples and opened their hearths and homes to the message of the Nazarene. If you remove the women from the early church, you have a lot of sermons, but no follow-up for the converts.
Jesus never mothered women, making them feel less.
He would not permit a condescending tone in their direction.
He challenged them to achieve humanity.
As long as women are talking about glass ceilings, unfair pay, mistreatment in the workplace, and even sexual harassment, they will continue to place themselves in the back seat of the vehicle of commerce.
Jesus only made one mistake when it came to women: he ended up betrayed because he picked Judas instead of Judith.
It isn’t that women aren’t treacherous–it’s just that the Jewish Council didn’t allow females into their meetings … even if they were plotting murder.
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity
After an appearance earlier this year in Surprise, Arizona, Janet and I were blessed to receive a “surprise” ourselves. Click on the beautiful Arizona picture above to share it with us!
Click here to get info on the “Gospel According to Common Sense” Tour
Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
Click here to listen to Spirited music
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A voice writing in the wilderness
Jonathots Daily Blog 