Be back a Sunday!
Open Thoughts : This is where I am
For the past few days, even weeks, I've been in a sort of rut with my writing and general creativity. Specifically, I've been wrestling with two larger thoughts - one on family and the other on guns, and after several hours spent on both, I got nothing. Every time I look at whatever I wrote the night before, I hate it, delete it, and start all over.
And this is more than just a bit discouraging.
How is this so hard? Why am I unable to think or articulate simple thoughts? Why does it all seem so flimsy and shallow?
I don't know, but over the past several days, I've begun to wonder if I should just give up on writing and blogging and pursuing this crazy idea that I might some day be considered a legitimate author. Because what's the point?
Good writers should be able to write, daily, and produce material worth reading. Good writers shouldn't misspell or misuse words and they shouldn't struggle so damn much to call simple ideas to a page, it should just happen, with the ease of routine, because they're good writers and that's what good writers do.
I'm not sure when this slippery beast of doubt crept in, but like a silverback gorilla who's bathed in butter and just slipped through an open attic window, this sucker is rather difficult to get a hold of and shove out the door.
So instead of writing, I watched this:
Grit is passion and perseverance for very long-term goals. Grit is having stamina. Grit is sticking with your future day in and day out. Not just for the week, not just for the month, but for years, and working really hard to make that future a reality.
I'm not sure about you, but I found this short talk somewhat encouraging but also fantastically terrifying because what she doesn't acknowledge is the absolute true possibility that although I'm working hard, I'm doing it all wrong.
Because even though I believe that "the ability to learn is not fixed, that it can change with {my} effort" that doesn't mean all and every piece of work and drop of sweat is growing and leading me in the right direction. And my deepest fear, I guess, is this: what if it's not?
I don't know.
I'm sure there are little anecdotes of "just try your best and it will all work out," or "it's okay to fail because that's where you learn and grow" and all that other bullshit we say to ourselves to make us feel better and to keep our spirits high, but I'm kinda tired of such empty talk and hollow promises. Because they're exactly that, hollow promises.
So what now?
I don't know.
Therefore, like Angela Duckworth, that's where I'm going to end my thoughts because that's where I'm at. And I'm not okay with that.
Here's to tomorrow.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Open Thoughts : On Creativity
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A Disturbing Film About the Night in 1939 When 20,000 American Nazis Rallied in New York City
In a noble effort to provide information helpful to current times, director Marshall Curry from Field of Vision gathered historical footage from various different archives to create the short film “A Night at the Garden“. This disturbing and difficult film spotlights that night in 1939 when the German American Bund (Nazi) gathered at Madison Square Garden in the heart of New York City to proclaim their patriotism as German-born Fritz Kuhn called for a return to a “white, gentile-ruled United States” with “gentile-controlled labor unions free from Jewish Moscow-directed domination" (via).
When and if fascism comes to America it will not be labeled “made in Germany”; it will not be marked with a swastika; it will not even be called fascism; it will be called, of course, “Americanism.” – Halford E. Luccock
The protester who jumped on the stage is Isidore Greenbaum. After being pulled off, he was savagely beaten, stripped of his trousers and fined for disrupting the peace (via).
Curry explained why he felt the need to make this film:
The footage is so powerful, it seems amazing that it isn’t a stock part of every high school history class. But I think the rally has slipped out of our collective memory in part because it’s scary and embarrassing. It tells a story about our country that we’d prefer to forget. We’d like to think that when Nazism rose up, all Americans were instantly appalled. But while the vast majority of Americans were appalled by the Nazis, there was also a significant group of Americans who were sympathetic to their white supremacist, anti-Semitic message. When you see 20,000 Americans gathering in Madison Square Garden you can be sure that many times that were passively supportive (via).
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : History : WWII Vets Reuniting with Japanese Soldiers
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Steinbeck's Nobel Prize Speech
Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Min Vackra Fru, Ladies and Gentlemen.
I thank the Swedish Academy for finding my work worthy of this highest honor.
In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence - but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches - nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
Furthermore, the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit - for gallantry in defeat - for courage, compassion and love.
In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
The present universal fear has been the result of a forward surge in our knowledge and manipulation of certain dangerous factors in the physical world.
It is true that other phases of understanding have not yet caught up with this great step, but there is no reason to presume that they cannot or will not draw abreast. Indeed it is a part of the writer's responsibility to make sure that they do.
With humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.
Understandably, I have been reading the life of Alfred Nobel - a solitary man, the books say, a thoughtful man. He perfected the release of explosive forces, capable of creative good or of destructive evil, but lacking choice, ungoverned by conscience or judgment.
Nobel saw some of the cruel and bloody misuses of his inventions. He may even have foreseen the end result of his probing - access to ultimate violence - to final destruction. Some say that he became cynical, but I do not believe this. I think he strove to invent a control, a safety valve. I think he found it finally only in the human mind and the human spirit. To me, his thinking is clearly indicated in the categories of these awards.
They are offered for increased and continuing knowledge of man and of his world - for understanding and communication, which are the functions of literature. And they are offered for demonstrations of the capacity for peace - the culmination of all the others.
Less than fifty years after his death, the door of nature was unlocked and we were offered the dreadful burden of choice.
We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.
Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world - of all living things.
The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand.
Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.
Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased ...
In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man - and the Word is with Men (via)
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : On Stories : Nobel Speeches
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Part of the story: A father's heartbreaking video about his dying son
"Filmmaker Christian Schultz tells the story of Finn Muedder, a 3-year-old boy who suffers from from Hunter’s Syndrome, a rare disease affects about 500 boys in the U.S., an estimated 2,000 worldwide. Researchers believe they are close to a cure, but not without expensive new research -- money Jon doesn't have -- he used what he knew to get the world out" (via).
It's not just about our family, it's about all these other families, and doing everything we can so that Finn and these other boys have a better chance at life.
He may be the first generation of boys who really has a cure.
Or, he may be part of the story, of boys, who brings the cure after him.
Finn and his family have established a GoFundMe page where people can contribute to curing Hunter’s Syndrome once and for all.
They need to make hit their $2.5 million target by November. Otherwise, important experiments won’t happen.
Currently, they $640,000.
Beyonce : How to make lemonade
How To Make Lemonade is Beyonce's newest work - a collector's edition box set. "The retrospective will includes a 600-page hardcover book comprising unseen photos from the making of the audiovisual album, personal writing by Beyonce and handwritten lyrics and poetry by Warsaw Shire" (via).
If we dance to survive, than Beyonce and company are thriving.
Damn. She's good.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Art : Beyonce Videos
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I Have a Message for You
To escape Auschwitz, Klara Prowisor, now 92, left her father to die in the hands of strangers. Decades later, she got a message from. This short film, directed by MATAN ROCHLITZ, is her story.
Who knows how future generations will perceive the Holocaust and the extent to which it will figure in history. Perhaps in due time it will be just another event in the troubled timeline of our species. It is far beyond the scope of this film to engage with the enormity of these questions. All I know is that we are the last generation who will be able to meet Holocaust survivors in person, and I consider that a tremendous responsibility (via).
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Humanity : History : WWII Vets Reuniting with Japanese Soldiers
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Movies Inspired by Art
Vugar Efendi has put together "three chapters" that explore the relationship between films that have been inspired by famous paintings.
Some of them are spot on perfect, others are beautiful adaptations, but all show a deep and strong respect for the craft, the artist, and the long held understanding that good artists borrow, but great artists steal.
"An aspiring filmmaker with immense love for film, music and art in general," Vugar Efendi has been acknowledged by the likes of: Entertainment Weekly, Esquire, Vanity Fair, Elle, BBC, Canal +, and Indiewire.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Creativity : Inspiring Art
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Chimamanda Negozi Adichie : A Troubling Silence
After Adichie's criticism for implying that trans women are not “real women”, she defended her comments during a public appearance in Washington saying, “This is fundamentally about language orthodoxy. There’s a part of me that resists this sort of thing because I don’t think it’s helpful to insist that unless you want to use the exact language I want you to use, I will not listen to what you’re saying" (via).
“From the very beginning," she continued "I think it’s been quite clear that there’s no way I could possibly say that trans women are not women. It’s the sort of thing to me that’s obvious, so I start from that obvious premise. Of course they are women but in talking about feminism and gender and all of that, it’s important for us to acknowledge the differences in experence of gender. That’s really what my point is . . . if we can acknowledge there are differences, then we can better honestly talk about things" (via).
In an interview with The New Yorker, Adichie explains why this sort of behavior is so dangerous: because it's cannibalism.
The Left is creating it’s own decline . . . it doesn’t know how to be a tribe, in a way the Right does. The Left is Cannibalistic . . .
In the quest for inclusiveness, the Left is willing to discard a sort of complex truth. And I think there is a quickness to assign ill intent . . .
The response is not to debate, the response is to silence, and I find that very troubling.
After Adichie's criticism for implying that trans women are not “real women”, she defended her comments during a public appearance in Washington saying, “I don’t think it’s helpful to insist that unless you want to use the exact language I want you to use, I will not listen to what you’re saying" because " . . . if we can acknowledge there are differences, then we can better honestly talk about things" (via).
Arthur Brooks, a political independent, takes it a step further. In his discussion with Guy Raz, he argues that we need to need people who think (and talk) differently than ourselves in order actually do what is best for ourselves and, more importantly, the world.
Republicans and Democrats today, he argues, "suffer from political motive asymmetry. A majority of our people in our country today who are politically active believe that they are motivated by love, but the other side is motivated by hate. Most people are walking around saying, 'you know, my ideology's based on basic benevolence. I want to help people. But the other guys, they're evil and out to get me.' You can't progress as a society when you have this kind of asymmetry. It's impossible" and a little like cannibalism - eating those who think and talk differently than ourselves.
However, Brooks thinks this type of diversity is exactly what we need because within our seemingly irreconcilable differences, there is the best and perfect solution.
"When we talk in this country about economics," Brooks continues, "if you're on the right, conservatives, you're always talking about taxes and regulations and big government. And on the left, liberals, you're talking about economics, it's always about income inequality," which is good, because these are really important things. "But when it comes to lifting people up who are starving and need us today," he says, those things become distractions.
Instead of helping the needy or educating the poor, we argue over how, when, and where it should be done.
"We need to come together around the best ways to mitigate poverty using the best tools at our disposal. And that comes only when conservatives recognize that they need liberals and their obsession with poverty and liberals need conservatives and their obsession with free markets" because the problems of our country and of our world are a sort of complex truth. We are all too quick to assign ill intent or shaky motives to those on the other side, silencing any chance of conversation, debate, or growth. All the while, the needy die in our streets and nearby homes.
While the Left and the Right devour each other and eat their own, children starve, freeze, and lose hope.
But it doesn't have to be this way. We just have to change, accept diversity, and be the kind of person "who blurs the lines, who's ambiguous, {and} who's hard to classify."
"If you're a conservative," Brooks argues, "be the conservative who's always going on about poverty and the moral obligation to be a warrior for the poor. And if you're a liberal, be a liberal who's always talking about the beauty of free markets to solve our problems when we use them responsibly. If we do that, maybe - just maybe - we'll all realize that our big differences aren't really that big after all" (via).
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Dangers of a Single Story : Diversity makes us smarter
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A Forever Foreigner
This post was started in the final days of living in China, but in the midst of all the leaving and packing and thinking on other things, I forgot all about it. And I’m glad I did.
Reading it now, in my very American classroom on a dark and chilly Tuesday morning, has challenged my head and heart and daily life, because, months later, the words seem forced and empty. Fake even. I know they’re not, but since being back, what I’m discovering is that, several months ago, they were much easier to write than they are to live.
: Original Post :
“Have a good day!”
“Zài jiàn!”
The coffee is passed between us and I rush out the door and back to work.
My “teaching” day is over. Now all that is left is a few hours of quiet lesson planning and a hot cup of mediocre coffee.
But I can’t get that small interaction out of my head.
“Have a good day!”
“Zài jiàn!”
They’re so simple, so basic, and absolutely so common, but in that simple moment, they broke through barriers, travelled over thousands of miles of differences, and connected two strangers, a short petite Chinese woman and a six-foot four American.
“Have a good day!”
“Zài jiàn!”
Spoken kindly, that small interaction brought a strange welcoming to my heart.
In a land where very little reminds me of “home,” where ordering large bottles of water requires assistance from someone who knows how to speak numbers one, six, and nine in mandarin, this small interaction allowed me to feel a small notion of acceptance, of not feeling so much like an outsider, and that I just might make it.
“Have a nice day!’ the lady behind the counter said with an accent that runs all the words together, putting the wrong emphAses on the wrong syllAble.
“Zài jiàn!” I responded without confidence and probably using all the wrong tones, but she smiled anyway and went back to work. So did I.
“Have a good day!”
“Zài jiàn!”
I crossed the street with my coffee in hand and a new spark of hope in my heart. No matter how many miles we are away from home, no matter how different life, the food, the language is, one thing will remain the same. People surround us, and if nothing else, that is enough to make anyone feel at least a small sense of Home.
I wrote that story within my first few months of living in China, and in a few short days, I’ll be on a plane back to America, with friends and memories of a land I may never see again, and I can only wonder what now? What does my time in China mean for the future? What truths can I hold fast to, in the coming days and months and years?
Because, what I loved most about the above short story is the excitement of a new adventure, the wonder of a new land. It’s something I want tuck deep into my suitcase and carry across the deep and endless ocean. I want to be a Forever Foreigner.
: A Forever Foreigner :
A Forever Foreigner is someone who, no matter where they live, is endlessly curious, even when the land and the people are no longer knew. Even when they begin to call the place they live, “home.”
After living and working in China for two years, we were ready for the mountains of Montana, big blue skies, American beef, and family. We were ready for our six-week summer break. What we got though, was a bit different. When we arrived, when we talked with friends and drove through towns, we realized we were suddenly visitors, outsiders, and no longer locals – life had moved on without us, and we had grown and changed without them. Suddenly, we didn’t understand, fully, our home, and home didn’t understand us, and it was the strangest of feelings.
Then our six weeks ended and we came back to China. On one of our first outings to restock the fridge and cupboards, Josey (my wife) said, “It feels good to be back. It feels like home.”
And it was.
The guards to our complex waved us in with smiles, the local shop lady laughed and ran their fingers through our girls’ blonde curls, and we walked the streets with confidence and familiarity. We were no longer in awe of the carts full of vegetables and piles of cardboard boxes. The street dancers were normal and the street food familiar– they were part of our daily routine. We navigated the busy and crowded streets with ease, on our way to our favorite market. We engaged in simple conversations with strangers. China was no longer a foreign land. It was home – at least it felt like it was.
Then, a little girl with straight black hair and big beautiful eyes pointed and yelled, “Weiguaren!” Foreigner. Because we were.. Even though it felt like home, we were foreigners, we are guests.
At first, this yelled proclamation was frustrating, because I wanted that little girl to know I wasn’t a tourist, I lived there – China was my home! Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if being labeled a foreigner is okay, great even, because a foreigner lives with excitement, with anticipation, and with the passion to explore new lands, new people, and new ideas.
In order to survive, foreigners must ask a lot of questions because they own very few answers. And I like that, because it’s humbling, and because often, the answers received are not what we expected. And so we learn.
Forever Foreigners want to be curious. Always. No matter where they live. They love simple stories, battle the mundane, and they love displaying their collected knick-knacks on shelves and walls for others to see and ask, “What’s the story behind that?”
: Knick Knacks, not Ikea :
Our first few weeks in China were hard because, like many new foreigners have experienced, our house was empty, and loud. The only furniture we had were the basics provided by our company– beds, dressers, a dining table, and a couch and loveseat complete with a few tables, but the walls were bare. So were the shelves and tables. So were the cabinets and cupboards. And so, like many foreigners before us, we went to Ikea, and for good reason. In one location, over the span of a few months, we were able to acquire pots and pans, rugs, a stand for our TV, lamps, towels, drill bits and screws, picture frames, a few plants, silverware, towels, school supplies, and several pillows of various sizes. Then suddenly, our house was full. And it was great.
But by the end of our first two-year contract, hardly any of that Ikea furniture (minus the plates and picture frames) existed. The personal had, overtimes, replaced the commercial.
On our trips to the surrounding villages, we brought back baskets and small stools. The small markets that sporadically tucked themselves throughout the city offered wall hangings, accent pieces, and kitchenware. The knick-knacks from travels filled our shelves and walls and decorated our kitchen. Some of our most treasured pieces came from nearby trash piles and antique markets where my wife had to engage in long negotiations for the product and its delivery. Suddenly, when anyone asked us where we got this or acquired that, the answer was no longer simple. It required a story.
And stories, meaningful stories, require time.
When meeting a Tibetan, for example, the differences of dress, food, lifestyle, and religion are easily noticed and can just as quickly be collected and stored in a box. They’re what tourist foreigners collect – stories of differences. Finding similarities, though, is much more difficult. It takes time to find and effort to collect because they demand patience; they take intentionality and a conscious effort to see another as equal – not different. It’s being relational, not stereotypical. It’s the difference between Ikea furniture and small market, handmade furniture.
Ikea can help fill a house quickly, but the knick-knacks of the people and the land that hold experiences and journeys and stories make the house a home, a blended home, and a home full of memories and humanity and laughter.
Forever Foreigners seek knick-knack stories, not Ikea stories, no matter where they live. And when they bring them home, they cherish them, protect and display them with care, and allow them to blend in with and compliment their cluttered home that is full of stories worth telling, over and over again.
: Be Laughed at :
No one likes to be the brunt of a joke, especially when we don’t know why. Anyone who’s ever lived in a foreign country knows this better than most, because they know how embarrassing and intimidating it can be to try and speak with a national in their native tongue. If they’re kind, they’ll smirk ever so slightly and probably correct pronunciation or choice of words; if they’re not so kind, they’ll outright laugh and maybe even tell a few nearby friends. But confortable with these early and continual failures is crucial to discovering a new land, learning a new language, and living beyond survival.
It’s also essential to the mind of a Forever Foreigner.
Forever Foreigners are not nearly as concerned about ego as they are about learning and discovery. Open and continual failure reminds Forever Foreigners that failure isn’t as scary as it seems, and it reminds us to get over ourselves and explore because there are worse things than being laughed at. Like staying safe.
When we’re willing to be laughed at, we’re willing to be wrong. And when we’re willing to be wrong, suddenly, the landscape of discovery opens and stretches out beyond what our limited eyes of understanding can see. If we’re willing to be wrong, we ask questions, seek help, and open ourselves to strangers and hidden blessings. Instead of being stuck in the rain, huddled beneath trees and waiting for the clouds to break, we find ourselves sitting with monks, drinking green tea, and communicating through smiles, puffs of smoke, and silly hand gestures. And we laugh, because sometimes there’s no better way to say it.
Forever Foreigners laugh because of differences, not at them. And it makes all the difference in the world.
: Then the Plane Lands :
In just four short months, the optimism and idealism of these words have been challenged and even ignored. Suddenly, being a Forever Foreigner seems like a foreign idea, and right now, I don’t really feel like I have the time for it.
“In truth,” Tim Cope writes in his memoir, “Ruslan’s news that he could guide me for just two more day was a mutually convenient way of parting with our rapport in-tact. I was already tired of trying to understand the world as it was filtered through his eyes, and I was looking forward to a new chapter” (pg 110).
Coming back to America, in many ways, was like returning to an old and difficult chapter that I’ve never really understood and have always kinda been excited to leave.
Because in America, there are Ugly Plates, racist assholes, and thousands of people who look just like me. Adventure seems lost; living as a Forever Foreigner impossible.
So what now?
One of the deepest memories I have of China was a day, about midway through our first year, when Josey and I both were desperately missing America. It was an early December weekend and we were aching for Pumpkin Spice Lattes, family stockings hung by chimneys, and the laughter of old friends. We even looked online and considered flying home. When that failed, we invited over two single girls who had moved to China just a few months prior. Like us, they were young foreigners and were missing home.
That night, we ordered “Burning Logs” from Netflix, sat around space heaters, and developed some of the sweetest friendships China could offer. Over the next several years, Aunty Beck and Aunt Sarah would watch our kids blow out candles, travel with us through several countries, and share Chinafied Thanksgiving meals. We would fight, walk out on movies, and spend Christmas morning sipping coffee, eating tea-rings, and opening simple gifts.
We would stay up way too late (or at least Josey would) and share stories of struggle, victory, and life. We would turn a foreign land into a sweet home. Because that’s what Forever Foreigners do. Even when they don't feel like, they pop popcorn, make a phone call, and patiently collect new knick-knacks.
Then suddenly, several Christmases later, they sing carols with some of their favorite people in the world.
And it is beautiful.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : On Living : Open Thoughts
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How Curious George Escaped Nazi Germany
Curious George is the mischievous child that still lives inside us all, a swinging catastrophe with an envious joie de vivre. But everyone’s favorite chimp almost didn’t make it to the page. The story goes way back to 1940 as Nazi forces prepared to invade France. German-Jewish artists H.A. and Margret Rey fled Paris by bicycle, carrying the original manuscript that would later become “Curious George.” From there George traveled the globe, trekking down to Lisbon, sailing across the pond to Rio de Janeiro, finally making his home in New York. The rest, of course, is history, as our primate protagonist climbed his way into our hearts and onto the world’s stage.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Real People : Great Big Stories
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That Sunday Evening Feeling
It descends quick, normally between the hours of 5 and 7.30pm, being especially felt when the weather is turning and the last of the daylight has burnished the sky a shade of crimson pink before plunging into a sea of concluding darkness.
Even since I was a child, I understood this feeling but could never articulate it. As an adult, not much has changed; Sunday evenings are still my least favorite time of the week.
Recently, I came across an essay which argued that "The Sunday evening feeling is ordinarily associated with work, and the idea of going back to an office after a pleasant break." Therefore, the uneasiness or weight we feel is our conscious telling us that "we are going back to the wrong sort of work" (via). But that didn't really resonate with me because I don't work in an office or job I hate. I love and believe in my job and will, consciously, stay in it for the rest of my life
So why do I still feel the weight of a typical Sunday evening?
Because life still isn't enough.
The article continues:
We normally manage to keep the insistent calls of the true working self at bay during the week. We are too busy and too driven by an immediate need for money. But it reliably comes to trouble us on Sunday evenings. Like a ghost suspended between two worlds, it has not been allowed to live or to die, and so bangs at the door of consciousness, requiring resolution. We are sad, or panicked, because a part of us recognises that time is running out and that we are not presently doing what we should with what remains of our lives. The anguish of Sunday evening is our conscience trying to stir us inarticulately into making more of ourselves.
I don't quite agree with everything said, but I do think there is something there. Like the idea of our consciousness banging on a door, reminding us that time is running out, and fast.
Suddenly, spending most of Saturday morning skimming Facebook updates seems like a waste of precious time and that hour at the mountain lake should have been all about teaching Eden how to skip a rock, not taking pictures of my kids searching for them. Instead of watching football, I should have played it, with my son, as the snow fell from trees.
What if that Sunday evening feeling is a little nudge, a jab even, reminding us that time is running out. That even if we live well into our 70's and 80's or well into our 90's, the end will come faster than we expect and when it does, it will be too late, there will be no more weekends to try again.
What will we have to show for it? What will we have made of ourselves? Of our families? Of the world around us?
I like the way the essay concludes:
We should not keep our Sunday evening feelings simply for Sunday evenings. We should place these feelings at the center of our lives and let them be the catalysts for a sustained exploration that continues throughout the week, over months and probably years, and that generates conversations with ourselves, with friends, mentors and with professionals. Something very serious is going on when sadness and anxiety descend for a few hours on Sunday evenings . . .
And we would be wise to consider it. Before it's too late.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : On Living : Resume VS Eulogy Virtues
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To my friend Ron Hardy : On How to Build a Fort
Eleven years ago, one of the best friends a boy could have passed away. From about 2nd grade to 8th or 9th grade, Ron and I were brothers. I've even written about his mom before because every boy should have a second mom like her - she is one of the best.
When Ron and I entered high school, we went our separate ways. We were always friendly and enjoyed reuniting at parties or games or wherever else life crossed our paths, but we grew distant enough that when he passed, I didn't know about it, and wouldn't, until almost six years later.
The night I found out Ron had passed I remember needing to discipline my son, who was five at the time, but every time I sat him down to talk, I saw Ron, and I just couldn't do it. I ended up holding my son and crying, thinking of the friend I used to ride bikes with, play basketball with, steal chain nets from the nearby park with, trick-or-treat with, and build endless forts and fires with. He was a good friend. And suddenly, I really missed him.
Recently, to try and honor and remember him, I've thought of writing short stories, every October, that bring out the spirit and character of Ron and our friendship. This is the first of those stories.
We were not perfect friends and we were not perfect to our neighbors, but looking back, I do believe our friendship was perfect. And I hope both my boys will someday be as fortunate to have Ron in their lives.
"In the endless war against weakness and despair, {stories} are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation." - John Steinbeck
On How to Build a Fort
My dad always told me that when things break, they grow back stronger. My science teacher disagrees. She says that’s a “misconception” and that when something is broken, whatever comes after is still broken, but I don’t think so because, if it were true, Ronnie’s fingers wouldn’t have healed and he wouldn’t be my best friend.
How it happened was like this. We were building a fort with some old wood we’d found in the small forest behind my backyard. The wood was dirty and warped and stained with rain and sun, but we didn’t mind because there was enough to build dreams and we had all day to do it. We just needed a few of my dad’s tools.
For the most part, my dad is pretty relaxed with me borrowing his things because he’d rather me be outside than watching TV or playing videogames. His only rule is that I put everything back where it came from. I’ve learned, over the years to not break or bend or come close to forgetting this rule because the consequences are severe.
Ronnie, however, doesn’t really understand my dad or his rules so he isn’t afraid to get more tools or rakes or things we don’t need but look fun but are easily forgotten. When I say no, he gets mad and threatens to leave.
As much as Ronnie is fun and laughs and knows how to make almost everything better, he also has a slight temper. Especially when he’s wrong about something he thinks he’s right about. Like the time we were fishing in the small pond near his house and he thought he could catch a bullfrog with a bobber. I told him it wouldn’t work but he didn’t believe me and spent most of his time trying and cursing. When I started catching them with my net, he started complaining that my bobbers weren’t the right size and that’s why he wasn’t catching them. When I told him he’s just too dumb to catch bullfrogs he threw down the fishing pole, my fishing pole, and stomped off, leaving his bobber bobbing up and down, silently, like a bobber should. Until the biggest bullfrog I’d ever seen gulped it down, but Ronnie was too far away and I never told him about it.
See what I mean though? A temper.
And I can always tell when Ronnie’s starting to get upset because he starts saying things that are completely unrelated to what we’re doing. Like when I told him he wasn’t building the fort correctly, that we should be using the wood to cover the walls first, so people couldn’t see in, he started talking about his other friend Jake and how he was going to take him camping instead of me.
I pretended not to care and went to get more nails from the garage, and that’s when I found the hatchet. It was an older hatchet with a smooth handle and a couple of nails pounded into the top to keep the blade from flying off. The tip of the blade had a few small knicks in it, like it had been beaten against the side of a nail or something, but I didn’t care, I just knew we needed it. So I fit the handle inside my belt loop, grabbed a handful of nails, and headed back to Ronnie and our fort, the handle of the hatchet dangling down and knocking my knee.
When I got to the fort, Ronnie was tearing bark of a nearby tree – the roof of the fort had collapsed, just like I knew it would.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You didn’t build the walls strong enough,” he said, tearing off a large piece of bark and throwing it at the fort.
“Stop doing that,” I said, dropping the nails and pulling out the hatchet, “My dad hates it when we damage the trees.”
Ronnie pulled off another piece then walked over to the fort.
“I told you,” I said moving a few pieces of wood with the hatchet, “we need to build stronger walls before working on the roof.”
“If we don’t have a roof then everything we put inside will get wet,” Ronnie argued, and I could see him eyeing my hatchet.
“I know,” I argued, holding up the hatchet and inspecting the blade, “but we need stronger walls first.” I put the hatchet back into my belt loop and picked up one of the larger pieces of scrap wood, “Get the other end,” I said, nodding.
Ronnie threw the piece of bark at me, missed, then picked up the other end, “Where’d you get that hatchet?” We set the wood across the three 2x4s that were sticking up from the ground, “Hold this,” I responded.
Ronnie walked over, “Let me do it,” he said, reaching for the hatchet.
“Hold on, let me do this one first.” I turned the hatchet backward and used it like a hammer, the way my dad does when we’re camping and he can’t find his hammer.
The two nails went in quickly. “My turn,” Ronnie said, again reaching for the hatchet.
“Hold on, let me check something real quick,” I inspected the wood, its sturdiness, its quality, and other things that take time, a trained eye, and a hatchet.
“Brian,” Ronnie said, “just give me the hatchet. You don’t need it for that.”
“One minute,” I said, making my final inspections, “okay – good,” finally handing it over.
He grabbed it, “Hold this for me.” And I did
Ronnie and I have built dozens of forts over the years and every time we do, without exception, someone gets hurt. Sometimes both of us do. Like the time we uncovered a bee’s nest and we each got stung three times. Ronnie blamed me because I hit the nest with a stick, but that’s not true. When I told him so, and that he didn’t know anything about bees and nests and how to get rid of them, he started throwing small rocks at me until we couldn’t take the bee stings anymore and had to run to Jake’s house to see if we could swim in his pool.
So, it was inevitable that after giving Ronnie the hatchet and watching him pound in a few nails, someone would get hurt.
“Okay,” I said, “give it back. I need it for something.”
“I’m not done yet,” he said, looking through the pile of warped and rotting wood.
“Ronnie, it’s mine, give it to me,” I said, reaching for it.
He held it back and kept looking for something, but I think he was just stalling.
“Ronnie,” I yelled, “Give it back, it’s mine!”
He turned, “I was going to change my mind and take you camping instead of Jake, but now I’m not.”
“I don’t care!” I said even though I did,” Take ‘em. Just give me the hatchet!” and I reached again for it.
“You’re a dick!” Ronnie yelled and threw the hatchet toward the little ditch that ran alongside our yard. It wasn’t very deep, but it was muddy.
“What are you doing!” I yelled, pushing him in the chest, “That’s my dads!”
Ronnie stumbled back a bit then rushed at me because he’s a fighter. I’m not. Even though I’m taller and a bit stronger than most of my friends, I’ve never been in a fight. Ever. But Ronnie has, several times, “because sometimes, you have to,” he says, but I didn’t really know what that meant.
So when Ronnie picked up a stick and started swinging, I picked one up too, to defend myself. But Ronnie wasn’t defending, he was swinging and swinging, like warriors do in those old movies, and I was scared because my hands started to sting and Ronnie was getting closer and closer.
Then, suddenly, after a really hard swing, Ronnie’s stick broke. The shattered piece twisted around and smacked me on the shoulder, stinging more than the bee stings combined, but it didn’t matter because now I had the bigger stick; the piece left in Ronnie’s hands wasn’t much bigger than the hatchet.
So he threw it at me, and missed. But I didn’t. When I swung, I hit him square on his hand, and the crack sounded like the breaking of a stick.
Instantly, Ronnie started yelling and screaming and crying. I’d never seen Ronnie cry before so I didn’t know what to do but get my mom. She checked his fingers, put ice on them, then sent him home and I was left to clean up the fort and search for the hatchet. By the time I found it, my dad was home, Ronnie’s finger was broken, and I wished I hadn’t I hit him.
“How’s the fort?” my dad asked, “Okay,” I said. “It keeps falling down.”
“It’s because you didn’t build the walls strong enough,” he said, then showed me how.
I didn’t talk to Ronnie for almost three days but it should have been a whole week. My mom said we needed a break from each other so I asked if I could go for a bike ride instead. When I rode past his house, Ronnie was in the front yard, and he was wearing a cast.
“Holy crap!” I said, riding over, “how long do you have to wear that?”
“Just a few weeks,” he said, and he was smiling. We both laughed.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“No, it just itches.” He turned his hand over, like we were both inspecting it for further breaks, “I’ve already lost two pen caps inside,” he said.
We both laughed again and the new kid came crawling out from behind the bushes that line Ronnie’s house, “What’s so funny?” he asked, holding a football.
Ronnie ignored the question, “Wanna play?” he asked.
“Sure,” and I set my bike against the tree, “here” I said, holding out my hands and jogging away from the new kid. His pass fell about three feet short and several yards behind me.
Ronnie laughed. So did I, and I couldn’t stop. I ran over, picked up the football, threw it to Ronnie who tried catching it with his one good hand but dropped it quickly, and we laughed a little harder.
When Ronnie threw it to the new kid, it slipped through his hands and hit him right on the forehead and I fell down laughing. I could hear Ronnie’s high pitched laugh, the one that comes out only when he’s losing control, and it made me feel good. I laughed even harder.
The new kid didn’t seem to get it though.
He’d moved in about a week prior and lived just down the street, and he had an older sister. When they first moved in, we tried to find the window to her bedroom, but never did.
The new kid tried once more to throw a pass but I didn’t even try running after it, “What the hell man,” I yelled, the ball bouncing awkwardly a few times in the grass, “Next time we’re gonna invite your sister.”
I heard the footsteps coming before I saw him, but not in time. When I looked up, the new kid was already there and he ran into me like a wrecking ball and I landed on my back, the wind knocked out of me. I tried to breath, but I couldn’t, and the new kid stood above me, tears in his eyes and lower lip quivering.
Ronnie came flying out of nowhere and jumped on the kid’s back, cast and all, and they both stumbled forward. But the new kid was big and mean and he threw Ronnie off. Ronnie ran and the new kid chased after him.
When my breath finally came back, I ran after them both. Ronnie turned at the street, which gave me a side shot at the new kid, but he saw me coming and sidestepped then pushed me so hard I almost fell again. But I didn’t. Instead, I shoved him back.
I was ready for my first fight, because I had to, because Ronnie is my friend.
The new kid put up his fists.
I didn't know what to do, so I stood there and Ronnie came back and stood next to me, and we stood there, together, as the new kid held up his fists and fought back tears. He looked from me to Ronnie then back to me, his fists up and ready.
“Hey!” Ronnie’s mom yelled from the front door, “You knock that off!”
We turned. She was standing halfway out the front door, one foot outside and one foot in, “Ronnie, I think your friends need to go home. It’s dinner time!”
We looked back at the new kid who glared at us both for a bit then turned and ran home.
Ronnie and I looked at each other, “You wanna stay for dinner?” he asked.
“Sure,” and we turned toward the house, “but first I gotta call my parents.”
Ronnie’s mom looked up from the stove, “I thought I said your friends needed to go home?’
Ronnie and I looked at one another, “But -” and he looked from me to his mom and she looked at me, “Okay. But the other kid is gone?”
“Yes,” Ronnie said, and I picked up the phone to call home.
After dinner, I signed Ronnie’s cast and wrote, “Sorry.” Ronnie said he was too and within a week, his cast we off.
We never saw the new kid again, or his sister, because his family moved away a few days later. But we did finish the fort, and when we went back, after the long and brutal winter, it was still there. So we built a different fort. And this time, no one got hurt.
In memory of my loyal and forgiving friend, Ron Hardy.
Thank you for reading.
Cymatics: Science vs Music
now this is pretty cool.
"Everything owns its existence solely and completely to sound."
Love that. And somewhat believe it.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Movies Without Soundtracks : Music
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How to be Creative
If you look past the narrators voice, this video is actually really inspiring.
There is a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don't. It is not the writing part that's hard. What's hard is sitting down to write.
Resistance is what stands between the life we live and our unlived life - between what we are and what we want to become. Resistance is to be considered evil. Yet, it can be helpful. It points us to our true calling, it can be felt when we fear starting a creative project. This fear means it is something that we need to do, something that we have a deep love for. . . the more resistance you feel towards a project, the more satisfaction you will have when you finish it.
We can beat resistance by how we conduct our creative projects. In short, the amateur waits for inspiration. The professional knows that it will come after he starts." The professional acts in the face of fear.
Then, at some point unexpected, the muse will come, and we'll be able to catch it.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Inspiration : On Living
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Before bears hibernate and the kids move out
My friend recently asked, "How's the house coming?" "Slowly, but deliberately," I told him, but that was only partially true because, in all honesty, it's not really going. In fact, it's crawling. Our lamps don't have shades, our kids are sleeping in sleeping bags, and up until yesterday, waffles were made by eyeing the measurements for ingredients - thanks friends for sending us measuring cups!
We don't have much, but we have enough. The desire though, to buy and build and make a home, to design rooms and decorate walls is infectious and, at times, pretty consuming.
It's how we spend our evenings, our weekends, and where we devote our thoughts and dreams until, suddenly, we stop it hits us; we're running out of time.
A few years ago, October 1st became a family holiday weekend, and with most of our kids never having see an American Fall, we planned to continue the tradition this year. But then the van needed work, the cupboards ached to be filled, and the pile of ungraded papers jeered and sneered and sat. So, on the Tuesday before we were supposed to go, we cancelled.
That night, standing outside the van and camper we'd just dropped off at Josey's parents, we argued about the week, the cancelled weekend, and why we even moved back to the States. We had hoped and dreamed for more family time and simple adventures together. Not garage sales and weekend projects.
In an instant, under the dimming sky and beside a row of towering evergreens, I suddenly changed my mind. "Let's go," I said. "The camper may not work, but we have a tent, blankets, and a van that can get us there. Let's just go."
That quickly, the plans were back on. But by the next morning, once again, I had my doubts.
Then, this song came to mind:
What I love about this song is not the lyrics or the immediate significance, but the memory I have of when I first heard it. I was around ten and my dad had taken my brother and I fishing to some northern lake. We stayed in a truck camper, watched the Chicago Bulls win the NBA Finals over the Los Angeles Lakers in a bar that over looked the lake, and for the first time, ate hash browns and eggs, "a fisherman's breakfast."
I remember asking what a silver spoon was and, even at the age of ten, feeling the weight and significance of wasted time and, more importantly, not being able to get it back.
My son turned ten just the other day
He said, thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play
Can you teach me to throw, I said, not today
I got a lot to do, he said, that's okay
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed
Said, I'm gonna be like him, yeah
You know I'm gonna be like him
"Yeah," I told myself, "we need to go camping."
By Thursday night, we were huddled and cuddled in a small cabin just outside Casper. Because the cupboards can wait; making a life and spending time with our kids can't.
Yet, somehow I still wasn't convinced. Every time I filled up the van, whenever we paid for our campsite or loaded up on PB&J's, hot chocolate, and dried oatmeal, I felt guilty, nervous, and overcome with doubt. "Is this wise? Am I doing what's best for my family?" Because right now, there is nothing saved for them. No college fund, no two months security savings, and no promise that if the van breaks down I can afford to get them home without calling family for help.
Shouldn't we have just stayed home?
When we pulled into the campsite, "Beware of the Bear" signs were posted and stapled everywhere and each campsite came with a "Bear Box" - a metal box with a small lock meant to keep the bears at bay because, "Bears are scavenging for their last bit of food before they hibernate."
Whenever bears are mentioned, even if it's in passing because one was sighted almost ten years ago, every sound, every gust of wind, and every movement in the dark is a bear coming to feed on me or my children. That night, I slept with the axe nearby. By 3:30 I was up and building a fire because I can only assume they're terrified of fires. If not, I don't want to hear about it. Leave me my simple comforting lies.
My family wouldn't knuckle the sleep from their eyes for another four hours, so I had some time alone, in the dark, with my axe, coffee, and wandering thoughts. And, once more, I mulled over our decision to leave for the weekend.
What's one weekend away? Does it really make a difference?
What's one weekend at home? Does it really matter if we're home or not?
I had no answers. Just doubts. And something was wrestling over there, by the tent, but no worries, it's just Judah going to the bathroom.
"Morning buddy," I say, adding a few more logs on the fire.
"Morning" he mumbles, heading back into the tent.
And the doubts continue, Do my kids even notice? Do they even care?
The answer would have to wait because Elias was starting to fuss and Josey could use a morning of sleeping in and the sun was about to rise, so why not go for a walk?
A half hour later, Elias and I made our way back to the campsite and were greeted by laughter, simple morning conversation, and the snap and crackle of a newly enlivened fire.
We made breakfast, drank hot chocolate, and cuddled under blankets. We talked of bears, why evergreens are called Evergreens, and wrestled with what would happen if our thumbs fell off?
Seriously. What would happen?
For hours, Judah and Eden lined up matches all along the rim of the fire pit and watched as the heat finally won over and set the little red tips on fire and Zion climbed WAY TOO HIGH up a nearby tree because, this is what happens when we get out into the woods and away from home, we find ourselves in spontaneous and unpredictable moments, moments always hoped for and cherished as a parent.
Then it was time to get more wood.
"Dad," Judah said while I stacked a small pile onto his outstretched arms, "Don't forget we need to cut a pile to leave behind."
I hadn't forgotten and was hoping neither had he. Ever since our trip to the Great Wall, It's been a short tradition, leaving behind a "bless you" gift, and has become a staple of our camping adventures. When we returned, arms full of wood to leave behind, our campground neighbor walked over, "to see how many kids you have." he said.
He was a friendly man, as most campers tend to be, and he was out camping with his son. "I wanted to leave three days ago," he says, "but my son wanted to stay a few extra nights, so we stayed." He nods at his son who is a freshman in college and busy tearing down their tent. "I tried camping with them as much as I could," he says, reaching out and tugging Elias' thick onzie, "but I regret not doing it more."
We talked for a bit more about the weather, the fishing in Wisconsin and how we both would rather fish in Canada. Then, he bids us good luck in the coming storm, and heads back to his son, Chrysler minivan, and their long ride home. When they pulled out, he waved, and I felt a little sense of relief.
Maybe we are a bit reckless in going to the mountains when our lives are in chaos, maybe I should have stayed home, worked on the house, and saved money on gas and simple cabins, but we didn't. Instead, we went to the mountains, and I think I'm okay with that because, when it's all over, when Judah, in eight short years, is on to his freshman year or Elias is packing up to move across the world, or my girls no longer fit in my lap and ask for morning hugs, I don't want to "regret not doing it more." I want to be confident that I did my best, that I soaked up every moment and minute I could, and that I worked hard for my kids to always know that they came before things or jobs or financial security. I want them to know that when life was hard, Dad made time for them, and that he took them camping
I want, "{they'd} grown up just like me" to mean they've become collectors of memories, not things. That pockets full of pinecones and shoes full of burrs are more precious than rooms full of furniture or bank accounts full of cash.
In the future, if I have to apologize to my kids, I want it to be because we built too many campfires, spent too much time counting the stars, and collected too many lakeside rocks.
How is our house? It's empty.
How is our life? It's chaotic.
But how are our hearts? They're full. Because for a long and beautiful weekend, we had nothing but each other, the mountains, and a collection of simple moments that will last a lifetime. We had am eight hour car ride in a seventeen year old van where, with the snow swirling outside, my kids sat in the back and talked about whatever kids talk about.
Our hearts are full because we have each other, sweet friends, and few distractions.
Although I'm never really quite sure if what I'm doing is what I should be doing, I do know I can never go wrong with investing in life with family because I wasn't put here to make a living life. I was put here to make a life - for me, and my family.
And sometimes, that means coffee in the mountains, instead of breakfast at home.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : The Mountains have a Way : Get Out More - Tetons, 2017
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Old Portraits on Weathered Canvases
Working atop faded street maps, vintage National Geographic magazine covers, and decades-old stationery, London-based artist Mark Powell (previously) draws the wrinkled contours of his subject’s faces with a standard black Bic ballpoint pen. The weathered portraits of both famous and anonymous people reflect his antiquated canvases both in texture and tone as he traces the topographies of their faces across literal street maps or paper materials that have traversed the world. Powell’s drawings have grown in both scale and detail over the years, magnifying the impact and density of each piece. You can see more of his recent work on his website where he sells a number of prints and quite a few originals (via).
By recycling the envelopes, he is in some way preserving a bit of history and the tales behind the sender. He says this is why his work, which is primarily portraiture, focuses on older characters that appear to tell their own stories from the very creases and wrinkles of their faces (via).
Powell’s portraits are amusing in the way they incorporate the lines and postage stamps of the envelopes into the wrinkles and shading of each distinct face. Each portrait becomes as much about the canvas as it is about the person depicted, adding another layer to examine as the viewer gets lost in the eyes of the subject (via).
"Each portrait becomes as much about the canvas as it is about the person depicted, adding another layer to examine as the viewer gets lost in the eyes of the subject." I love that.
The dance between our lives and the canvas and the struggle of muddling through the many layers so as not to be lost, or thrown away with yesterday's trash, and forgotten.
This one might be my favorite.
You can see more of Mike Powell's work on his website or following his blog where will find some cool postings on Music to Draw to, Parts I and II, and other cool things.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Art : Beautiful Portraits
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Getting Out More : Jackson Hole
Headed out for the weekend with my favorite crew! Be back Sunday.
Enjoy the weekend!
Some pretty awesome drone shots
Nature and Romance
Niaz is a director, commercial photographer and film maker based out of Los Angeles who loves "creating awesome stuff!"
These arial shots seem to fall easily into such a category.
Laguna Beach
Lost in a Forest
California Sunset
Pursuit of Happiness
Floating
Santa Monica
You can see more of Niaz's work in his portfolio or follow him on Instagram.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Guardian's best drone photography : Photos
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One Team - One Country : When a President embraced a controversial sport
Every now and then, Sports and ESPN actually have something worth sharing.
The documentary, The 16th Man, is perhaps one of the greatest short films about race, love, reconciliation, and humility that I've ever seen.
There could be no democracy without peace. No liberation without reconciliation (via).
I understand that there are many differences that break the parallel between Nelson Mandela's story and President Trump's current narrative, and I get that to compare the two is unfair, for many reasons, but the climate is pretty close. Or, at least, it could easily become so.
But where I ache to have a president like Mandela is this: Mandela loved his enemies as much as his friends. Instead of creating division and instilling fear, he calmed and soothed tension, even inviting those who hated him to be some of his trusted advisors - much like another great President. Mandela, through grace and patience, prevented a war. He didn't instigate them. Because he understood that his role, his power, was to be used as a tool to serve, unite clashing people groups, and embrace an entire country - not just those with whom he agreed.
After spending 27 years in prison, Nelson Mandela, president of the very people who imprisoned him, believed more in the power of love and compassion and forgiveness than he did in the guns.
So, when it came to sport and the debated Springbok, Nelson Mandela embraced it, believing it had the power to change the world.
"In a country torn apart by racism, the game of rugby was a symbol of violent division. Yet, one man say it as a path for peace, when all roads seemed to lead to civil war."
The Springbok, the sport of rugby, was a symbol of their country, so Mandela embraced it, and the men who played it, uniting 43 million South Africans.
And the people chanted their president's name, rejoicing, as one.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Presidents : On Power
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