The Art of Conversation

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight

Why do we need to know why?

Usually, I hide my thoughts behind satire and humor – an attempt to disguise my jabs and punches directed toward the powers which drive public opinion and emotional response to a tragedy. But, today, I will write connected. 

Today, I will write with personal knowledge. 

Who is responsible for our children in school?

What are these individuals’ responsibilities?

How should these individuals be disciplined when they have failed at protecting the children?

After a tragedy, the question is always – why?

Why did this happen? A question that forces the mind into lamenting. A state of mind that does not work towards answers but dwells tirelessly on unanswerable questions and placates emotions. 

The question of why reduces the emotional response and slowly allows the impact of the incident to fade.  

Why? – a time-wasting question? Why? – is a pointless pursuit. Why? – is meaningless to prevent future tragedy. 

How? – is the correct question. 

How did this tragedy happen? 

Objective answers are born from how questions. Objective answers create definitive solutions. Definitive solutions correct the error and solve problems. 

Therefore, answers to “how” questions make “why” questions disappear. 

Why do we fear “how” questions?

Often, ” how ” questions do not shift blame, whereas “why” questions allow individuals to find fault in others.

“Why”- questions lead to blame games. These subjective solutions arrive on the scene eager to produce division and are often labeled “political .” Moreover, “why” is elastic and malleable. Easily manipulable in the hands of cultural, political, or dogmatic forces. 

“How” questions do not bend.

How did the individual enter the building? Through an unlocked door? Was the do supposed to be unlocked? Whose responsibility was it to lock the door? Easy questions with simple answers. Answers can create responses that will limit tragedy. 

So much more straightforward than “why.”

Maybe if we focus on the “How,” the “why” will not be asked someday. 

Just as a bartender is responsible for the actions of an over-served patron,  an administrator is responsible for students’ behaviors. 

Let’s, for a moment, return to the “why” question. Why did an individual do such a horrific act? 

Again, an asinine question. 

“How” did the individual arrive at such a state of mind?  

The “how” question could produce accurate answers. 

I challenge the schools and administrators to look at the disregarded discipline referrals or the redirected cries from teachers. What will be found are the answers to why these tragedies happen. Will we see a progression of discipline referrals that sat in administrator inboxes? Will, we will find a multitude of instances of threats and bullying. Will, we will discover administrators whose responses to teachers are “have you called the parent?”. Will, we will find crumbling builds with broken locks and lackadaisical School Resource Officers. Will we find days-upon days of in-school suspensions for children and young adults with mental illnesses? 

Will, we find a million answers to “how” did this happen? 

As for the why, one can only surmise that it lacks attention to these details. The detail that are the duties of the school principals and administrators are those individuals who should be criminally liable for the safety of the children. 

Francis Bacon’s “Of Riches”

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight

Major Robert Simpson Neighbors – A True Texan

Everything is bigger in Texas, including the tall tales. Those malleable stories build the pedestals, materialize the laurels, and fabricate the “facts” of the state’s iconic founding fathers – individuals whose sacrifices and servitude reward their memories with stained-glass images and names on universities.
These rough and tough Texans’, who lost and won, stole and gave, gained independence, then gave it away, histories are as dynamic as the shifting sands of Monahans.
Okay – I will stop.
Texas is fantastic, and the history is just great. I would not change a thing unless that thing would make history more extraordinary and the state that much more wonderful.
Sorry – I will stop.
Not all Texas history heroes have to have their stories inflated. One such fellow is Major Robert Simpson Neighbors. Neighbors was an Indian Agent, a significant player in the relocation of Kiowa and Comanche throughout Texas. Neighbors believed in going out into Commancharia and making connections with each tribe. This proximity allows a personal relationship with the tribes. Unfortunately, his modus Operandi caused many Anglo settles grief – as they felt his connection to the “savage” tribes inappropriate. Nevertheless, he continued to do his duty with fidelity and respect.
Neighbors ultimately helped create a reservation along the Brazos River just south of present-day Newcastle, Texas. This location was also a stone’s throw from Fort Belknap. Unfortunately, this was not a good location for the reservation.
The settlers’ outcries of Indian depredations rang out across the prairie, echoing off the hills. The heated exchanges between the groups exploded into violence. Something had to change. In attempting to do what was right, Major Neighbors organized the tribes and delivered them from Texas to an Oklahoma reservation.
Undefeated, Neighbors returned to Texas with the expectation to keep serving with consistent fairness. Instead, a bullet awaited him on his return to Fort Belknap. The shooter disagreed with Neighbor’s ideas.
Then, this true Texan was taken to the town cemetery and buried without much honor. Major Robert Simpson Neighbors rests in an unkempt cemetery in a cow pasture. An individual whose history is not inflated or fabricated. A Texan who sacrificed his life in an attempt to maintain peace.

The road – to the gate – through the cow pasture – to his grave.
Restored 1960
Major Neighbors’ Stone – leaning against his raised grave?

Lost Essays podcast episode ten

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight

Nikolai Gogol’s “Diary of a Madman”

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight

John Bangs – Are Books Bad Medicine?

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight

The Calling – part one

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If only foresight were clearer. I would have dropped that photo, distancing myself from what would become a journey of heartbreak, a digging up of bones that would bring ruin. I could have just walked away, leaving her lying there among discarded ephemera. But, unfortunately, that was not the choice I made.
A slate grey sky.
Low clouds veil the sun.
Cold hard winter.
For two days, I have wandered from town to town mentally recreating what was once thriving, now crumbling efforts of society suspended in a lifeless reality – empty shells void of commerce and growth – lay in decay and ruin.
I question my motives. My choices. The pursuit. The illusive purpose I attempt to find. The reason for me to be here. In a nowhere town full of emptiness.
I have a life, career, and family. What do I hope to find among these ruins? What purpose does this adventure hold?
I suppose I search for just that, purpose. Purpose beyond the Dogmatic residual ideas I was born into – the egocentric plight that masses give their lives and deaths for. Meaning beyond the neatly prescribed checklist that society has accepted.
I walk alone among empty storefronts. Vintage stamped on the cornerstones. Masonry monoliths whose layers of facade break away expose yesterday’s attempt at renewal. They rise like headstones – weathering in a forgotten field.
I enter the only store opened, a junk / antique store – more due to my need for respite from the weather rather than a genuine interest in investigating the establishment’s wares. The interior is as void of life as the town that surrounds it. A lonely greying lady greets me upon entering. I return the greeting. Preceding under her watchful eye.
The air is stagnant but warm. Asbestos ceiling tiles stained and missing – create interesting patterns above my head. The floor gives way to my foot – unwilling or unable to return the force needed to accomplish its purpose. Plaster peeling – a general sense of despair radiates from the walls.
A room repurposed to collect the unwanted. A covered collection of discarded wants – the sole purpose of America’s ideology.
Dust-covered doodads, bric-a-brac, and discarded trinkets litter the shelves. Each was positioned in its pose years ago, today sitting unaware of its uselessness. Piles of cloth, clothing, bedsheets, torn, mildewed, and molded scatter across the floor, falling from overflowing boxes.
I navigate through the labyrinth of curiosities, scanning each trinket, quickly determining treasure or trash. Then, pausing to pick through boxes or amuse myself with coffee cup wisdom.
A feeling of loneliness begins to work up from deep inside. I stand among the unwanted, items of no worth, a collection of meaningless creations.
I begin to prepare my mind for a return to the cold loneliness of the outside – a box far in the back corner of this wonderful world of waste finds my fancy. I kneel down and dig through a collection of cut-up magazines and newspapers from decades ago.
Carefully extracting the items, I study each with keen interest. Objects that, at one point in time, were a treasure to its possessor. Brown and browning scrapbook pages stacked without respect, the delicate pulp breaks at the slightest pressure. Hardened yellow residue from tape – evidence of lost memories or purposely trashed ones. I organize my position, to begin the excavation of the discarded artifacts of the early 20th century.
Minutes turn to hours as I rummage.
Stacks build up around me.
I study each clipped photo from a movie magazine or molested Elvis photo, yearbook, or newspaper clipping, with intensity. My nose is overwhelmed with the aged paper; there is a smell hard to describe that only aging paper presents to the olfactory.
I cringe at the folds, the tears, the faded ink and pencil marks. My eyes strain to make out names and notes. The frozen black and white smiles – the still life of yesterdays, clouded photo paper of precious moments. The moments lost to time. Discarded by those who possess no emotional response to the image.
My fingers expel poison oil to the paper with my manipulation and relocation of the lot fracturing the composting compositions. I sympathize with the frailness. Empathize with the realization of being lost.
I shuffle through postcards finding random five by seven-inch prints of forgettable faces. Then my fingertips feel the heavy white stock of the souvenir photo sleeve for the first time. The folder aged well. Corners right. Color faintly yellowed. My excitement piques. A memory from the Persian Room, a place unknown to me, a cocktail lounge at Hotel Sir Francis Drake, San Francisco, its cover corrects my ignorance.


Its existence here seems unexplainable -this item – out of place in a town as forgotten as the Lindisfarne Gospels or the Khmer Empire.
I open the fold.
The left, void of writing, the right, a photo, a couple at a cocktail table, Vintage World War II era. He sat to her left. An airman, bars across his chest below his left lapel – late into the war? A celebrated soldier who now wears his valor on his uniform? Stoic in his presence. Finely trimmed mustache, an homage to Erroll Flynn – a style that dates him, even in the late 1940s. The edges of his lips straight, smile pursed slightly – presenting an air of indifference. His face is intense yet forgettable.


She, to his right, radiating a bright glow, evident even in the black and white photo. Her smile, forced, visual tension in her cheeks, her jaw clenched, locking down a brilliant yet forced smile. Her head tilted toward the right, away from the soldier, increasing the distance between the couple. Her eyes cast down cut to the right – as if this were a candid shot – a random photo.
It was not – it was a keepsake that was kept. It was a moment in a cocktail lounge in San Francisco, while the world, at war, found time to revel in the peaceful moments that joyous camaraderie empowered by libations offered, a quick snap of the shutter, a burst of light, an image delivered in a quick-flash that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would change my life.
I close the folder and study the image on the front cover – Persian Room San Francisco – I peek again at the photo – ponder the couple’s situation; something has connected me to this baryta paper image.
The heater kicks on, pushing out stale, dry heat onto the fragile memories surrounding me – pulling from them the moisture of life – I rescue my photo from the Persian Room from becoming a mummified memory – collect my find. I purchase the picture with little small talk, pull up my collar, and exit into the cold February air.

Featured

George Orwell’s “Books vs. Cigarettes” –

Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay Essays / Random Wanderings of Mind and Body (formerly Lost Essays)

A timeless examination of how to be heard.  — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/michael-hill31/support
  1. Christopher Morley's "What Men Live By" – A Lost Essay
  2. Francis Bacon's "Of Riches" Episode Eleven
  3. Woodrow Wilson's "A New Freedom" episode ten
  4. Theodore Roosevelt's "The Strenuous Life" – Episode Nine
  5. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary Of A Madman" – Episode Eight
Featured

After the Show

We fling ourselves into the pickup truck’s bed; caked mud fractures from my sunburnt calf, reminding me of the early morning rain and mudslides out on the lawn. We lay supine, smoking cigarettes in our soured clothes, matted hair blows across our eyes, as the skyline flanks our peripheral, our minds race along as the truck rumbles through the city.

Eyes sting with wind, sweat, salt—Memories, subdued by dehydration, labors to catalog the day’s rewards. Earlier, our counter-culture collective huddled together through rain, played joyfully in the mud, ran amuck, danced around fires, spilled blood, bonded in the chaos of adolescence.

The carelessly tossed cigarette expells a rapture of illumination as it dances across the pavement.

My heart beats to the day’s rhythm. My temples pulsate—an auditory impregnation of my body has occurred.

Today the left of center gathered as a community; cults of sub-culture received without judgment wandered throughout themselves, strolling without care to the soundtrack of their attitude.

City light fades. We have no concept of time, only light and dark. Yet, today we loved and lived, each sense was touched, and all who shared common interests expressed a bounty of emotion.

Our senses now suspend, unknowing our subconscious’s feeble attempt to possess the piqued expressions of this day forever.

We ride along, staring into the night’s sky. Silent, we prepare to return to the isolation of our homes where only memories and Memorex will deliver us.