I returned recently to a copy of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian (or The Evening Redness in the West), because it had a lot to teach me, in a literary way, about masculinity and violence.
I was brought to those words when I thought of the pattern of violence in schools, and how not only the tools of these massacres a pattern, but also the boys and men carrying them out. Here are ten gleanings, drawn mostly from the words of the antagonist, Judge Holden: Continue reading →
We’re talking about it. Here’s an outline for a comprehensive plan that involves everyone doing their part. Sure, some of it may be naive, and almost none of it was my idea. But hear me out. Here’s what I think everyone can do to reduce gun violence nation-wide. Help me tweak this. Let’s crowdsource it. If the feedback is supportive enough, we just might send this suggestion on to politicians, pundits, preachers, parents, and peew-peew peddlers.
We can call it The Ballistic Pruning Accord
[Note: All listed measures are assumed to be taken voluntarily, except those taken by government authorities. In addition, this list does not include measures already taken in most areas, such as intruder drills and locked-door policies in public schools.] Continue reading →
After reading a book in a parenting class called Shepherding a Child’s Heart by Tedd Tripp, I concluded that his own parents must have been obsessive compulsive, since their last name ended with a double p, their son’s first name had to end with a double d.
More importantly, I learned a valuable model for identifying different parenting types. Tripp’s major thesis is that parenting—which is what he means by shepherding a child’s heart—is all about shaping. Continue reading →
[The following poem was originally published in Versewrights.]
Monday morning hates his job
a case of himself
saying hi to Bob in the hall
who says hey back to him in the hall.
The coffee percolates, drips
a long day inaugurates a long week
and it all goes downhill from there.
Meet the sisters of the arch:
Fat Tuesday, Hump Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday
drinking martinis round a table every afternoon
and sleep heavy that evening
after they hang up the phone
full of the day’s daily review.
Friday announces herself
steals the show
is twenty-three years old and
addicted to coke.
Saturday morning wakes up late
does not remember Friday or
what he did to her.
He sits in the house all day in his socks
when he’s not running marathons
or out of town.
Sunday afternoon is an old Brit sleeping
in a musty armchair
a wooden cross hung limply on the wall behind him
a glass of brandy forming condensation by his side
as he snores
the game blaring on the telly.