November 12, 2016

Bow-Wow

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , , , , at 7:55 am by chuckredman

I have decided to be a dog. Dogs don’t have a President. And they do just fine without one. Well, they could use a few more parks and a few less kennels.

Or a bird. Even better. Birds can fly above all this nonsense. They can fly to lakes or forests, over mountains or almost as high as the sun. Donald Trump cannot control the sunshine, or the land, or the oceans. Except for global warming, that is, which he won’t lift a finger for.

Our mistake is confusing reality with our society. You won’t find reality in this so-called world that we’ve created. Reality is in nature. It’s in the deserts and canyons and jungles and rivers. It’s in all the beautiful species who cohabitate. Go out and take a hike today, explore the hills, trees, whatever you can find. Be a dog. Chase a rabbit. Howl at the moon.

Ruff, ruff.

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August 8, 2013

Immortality

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , , at 7:50 pm by chuckredman

No one is really alone; those who live no more echo still

within our thoughts and words, and what they did is part

of what we have become.

– “The Blessing of Memory,” Meditations before Kaddish

(Thanks, Pat.)

July 3, 2013

One size fits all . . .

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , , at 8:41 pm by chuckredman

Mortality may be the kindest gift of all.  And it’s the only gift that keeps.

June 22, 2013

Old words, still true

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , , , at 10:02 am by chuckredman

Above all, innocence alone

Commands a kingdom of its own.

This kingdom needs no armed defense,

No horseman, nor that vain pretence

Of Parthian archers who, in flight,

Shoot arrows to prolong the fight.

It has no need of cannon balls

And guns to batter city walls.

To have no fear of anything,

To want not, is to be a king.

This is the kingdom every man

Gives to himself, as each man can.

Let others scale dominion’s slippery peak;

Peace and obscurity are all I seek. . .

Death’s terrors are for him who, too well known,

Will die a stranger to himself alone.

— Seneca, Thyestes (1st century A.D.) – translation by E.F. Watling