Source – off-guardian.org “…Why, against all the evidence, do they sneeringly and contemptuously defend the crumbling illusion that ‘the great and good’ are up there somewhere, have everything in hand, have only our best interests at heart, and are scrupulous, wise and sincere? That the press serves the people and truth rather than the crooks? […]
“This essay has focussed on what I consider to be the deepest psychological driver of conspiracy denial. There are certainly others, such as the desire to be accepted; the avoidance of knowledge of, and engagement with, the internal and external shadow; the preservation of a positive and righteous self-image: a generalised version of the ‘flying monkey’ phenomenon, in which a self-interested and vicious class protect themselves by coalescing around the bully; the subtle unconscious adoption of the sociopathic worldview (e.g. ‘humanity is the virus’); outrage addiction/superiority complex/status games; a stunted or unambitious intellect that finds validation through maintaining the status quo; the dissociative protective mechanism of imagining that crimes and horrors committed repeatedly within our lifetime are somehow not happening now, not ‘here’; and plain old fashioned laziness and cowardice.“
I often feel sorry for men. And those boys who try to become men, few as they may be nowadays.
I remember when my dad started writing poetry in middle age, in order to potentially ward off another divorce. It was a phase that didn’t last long and I don’t remember if his poetry was any good, but I remember being impressed by that effort. First he converted for her, got baptized and everything, then he attempted to swim, via words, the seas of emotion, alone, at high tide, with no training.
Doesn’t surprise me much. He’s always been impressive that way. Exactly that sort of way, actually. While dismally unimpressive in other ways.
I do understand that’s called being human.
But it bugs me this isn’t something we’re allowed to talk about, the being human part. The warts and all part. Because the sugar coating gets nauseating after a while. Besides, it’s not healthy, in that where’s the broccoli sort of way.
This is not allowed in my FOO (family of origin) and I know for certain, it’s not just mine. Broccoli hits that table only soggy and drowning in artificial cheese sauce.
Somehow over the generations there’s been a great divide happening between many aspects of familial and societal life, and leaving all conspiracy theories aside for a moment as to how that’s come to pass, there are clear and present repercussions being felt by the glaring lack of healthy masculinity being demonstrated currently in our culture.
Dad’s poetry efforts didn’t pan out. Too little, too late, I suspect. That pesky human error thing—hindsight, tunnel vision, any one of the 7 deadly sins—or whatever.
As flawed as I’m able to paint him, which depending on my mood might go pretty dark, it’s the unwashable tones that I prefer, whether that spectrum proves dark or light.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the skill, or the distance, to paint him well, to do him justice, warts and all, not even in words. But, someday.
All I feel able to do now is to demonstrate those parts of him I admire, and always have and always will, which comes down to pointing out their antithesis.
Who is Dad not?
This matters enough for me to post about publicly because there are a whole lot of heroes out there, but you’ll never learn about them until you turn off the TV and really tune in to what higher minds are trying to tell us, because it is becoming increasingly less common knowledge than it should be.
Examples of positivity masculinity exist and were once diligently cultivated. For every accusation of power abuse there is a man who gifted power, maybe even a dozen of them.
For every accusation of narcissism there is a man who dispersed his glory voluntarily upon those close to him.
For every accusation of arrogance, selfishness, egoism, betrayal, there is a man who knew, above all else, that what it takes to be a man is as tough as it is simple: never accept arrested development.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.” -Theodore Roosevelt
I’ve had a recurring nightmare for too many years to count. I call them ‘stress dreams’ and there seems to be a direct correlation between how little stress I actually have and the overwhelming stress in the dreams.
A year or so ago I thought they’d stopped, or at least I’d hoped. I’d even written about this hope at the time, with fingers crossed. But, a few nights ago, it came again.
The details of these stress dreams are always very similar. I’m in a large, dirty, foreign city, alone and lost. I’m roaming the streets, looking for help, having lost my wallet, phone and shoes. I never find help and wake up feeling miserable and scared.
In reality, I haven’t lost my wallet since I was a kid. I’ve only once been barefoot on city streets (Paris), by choice (what was I thinking?!). I’m not all that attached to my phone either. Maybe that’s why sometimes in the dream I never had a phone at all, but find myself in phone booths (remember those?) unable to recall the phone numbers of anyone I know, Hubby included.
Now this next part might seem unbelievable, but it’s 100% true. On Friday I lost my wallet and two nights before that I had had the dream again. I didn’t even realize I’d lost it before a got a call. A woman’s voice from a nearby church left a message on my phone: “We found a wallet with your business card in it. If it’s yours, please call us.”
Not for one second did I think it was my wallet. I never lose my wallet! I went about my day for several hours after that wondering who at that church I’d given my business card to. I thought of several ladies I might call to see if they’d lost their wallets, in which my card could’ve been found, in order to be the Good Samaritan.
I was in the middle of making cheese (Munster, for more advanced cheese makers) when I had a sudden flash. Dumb move dipshit!
Remember putting your wallet on the hood of your car?
Remember retrieving your wallet from the hood of the car?
I checked my bag, sure enough, no wallet.
Hubby was coming inside at that moment and I repeated my foolishness. He jumped in the car with me and away we went.
We drove to the church on the beautiful quiet country roads just as the sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. I hadn’t realized it before, but this particular church is part of a very large and impressive complex—a retreat—spread out over rolling hills, with a big lake, lots of buildings and impeccably maintained grounds. To add to its picturesque-ness, there was an elderly man feeding the geese as we crossed the bridge to the main campus.
A stranger had found my wallet on the back road that was part of the property, a tiny dirt road, which I take as a shortcut to a friend’s farm. He turned it in to the groundskeeper, who took it to the church’s office manager, who in turn called me, all within a few hours.
The wallet was on the desk waiting for me, fully in tact, even with $220 in cash still there.
On the drive home I pondered my extremely good fortune. Not alone. Not barefoot on city streets. Not without help. Benefitting greatly from the kindness of strangers and on a lovely drive with my hubby on empty country roads at sunset.
And I thought, “What the hell is wrong with my artificial stress-filled dreams that can’t seem to align with my idyllic natural reality?”
This year Hubby and I passed our 17th anniversary Test of Marital Bliss, more or less devoted, mostly minus the bliss.
While at first blush this post might read like something of a roast of us both, I mean it actually to be a tribute to us both, to our loving growth, as well as a bit of advice to newlyweds, who will most certainly ignore it, bless their young hearts.
“Never go to bed angry,” was my grandfather’s advice, at my first wedding. That marriage lasted just shy of five years. While I did learn some great life lessons from Grandpa, that particular one proved pretty useless.
I’d rewrite it now as something close to the exact opposite: Never try to resolve any issue while angry. What better way to overcome your anger? A good night’s sleep.
My second attempt at marital bliss showed far more potential immediately. I’ve told this story of Hubby and I many times before, because it’s a great story. When he first proposed to me, in a tent at Exit Glacier in Alaska, we had just high-tailed it out of a precarious and perhaps even dangerous situation in the wee hours of the morning from the tourist boat where he’d been working for nearly a decade previously and had invited me to join him that summer season.
My presence there and his devotion to me was apparently causing a serious rift between him and his good friend/employer.
We found ourselves sneaking off the boat pre-dawn, strategically, while everyone else was out, because Hubby had lost all confidence in his boss’ professionalism and maybe even his sanity after an extremely inappropriate altercation the night before.
It reads more like fiction than real life, I do realize. But, isn’t that often how life goes? As we pulled out of Prince William Sound in the compact rental car stuffed with the duffel bags of all his possessions, we drove straight into a glorious and totally unexpected rainbow. Cross my heart, no exaggeration at all, across the valley as the sun rose above the mountain pass was the most gorgeous rainbow I’d ever witnessed.
I barked and awed and carried on enthusiastically to a mostly apprehensive man trying to hold it together during this incredibly bold and unprecedented move.
How could it not be auspicious, a wonderful omen, I raved, on and on?! After all, it was the most exquisite rainbow I’d ever seen. How could that be totally by chance?!
That is, until a few days ago.
On my birthday, as Hubby was flying offshore in the Gulf of Mexico, as he’s been doing for about a decade now, he took this shot from his helicopter.
Gorgeous, auspicious, but, he didn’t even think to send it to me at the time. That’s the real point of this post.
He took this shot because he knew I’d love it, that’s for sure. He’s not the synchronicity believer that I am, he thinks celebrating birthdays is for kids and he’s not nearly as impressed with rainbows as I am, clearly. I doubt he shared this shot with his offshore crew, because I doubt there are any among them who are so eager to gush over rainbows in the Gulf.
I requested ages ago he take more photos while offshore, but I get it, he’s got a job to do out there, he’s not a tourist, and no one’s paying him to take photos.
But a couple of days ago when I asked if he had more good photos, he sent this one. I laughed out loud! I said, REAL photos please! NOT fake unicorn CGI gonna-fool-my-wife type photos! How dare you make fun of my rainbow love!
He swore up and down it’s real and totally un-retouched. And I gazed at it, truly amazed, stunned, in true AWE for at least a solid minute.
Then I said: “Oh My God! How on earth could you have not sent me this photo on my birthday, since it says right there that’s when you took it?!”
He looked at me like a deer in highlights for an extended moment, until I laughed. I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and laughed some more.
This was exactly the sort of thing, early in our marriage, that would’ve set me off. Proof, right there, front and center, of his thoughtlessness and insensitivity! Oh and how I felt that enticing tug of self-righteousness, don’t get me wrong!
But the wisdom of 19 years of loving this man, 17 years in wedlock-down, threw me, suddenly and unequivocally, into what I think is a State of Atlas Shrugs. She said, “So you got it a week late, and in a totally off-hand manner, but still, you got it. You really gonna cause a stink about that?”
And the still small voice of Wisdom replied, “No, ma’am!”
And the Reason of the middle-aged woman, now a Devoted Gardener for a decade, well accustomed to planting seeds three times before the right time strikes, realized the greater truth in that moment, beyond the banal ‘perfect’ timing desires of us mere mortals: Nature has a timetable that doesn’t match your Personal or Man-made calendar.
This is really the last straw and it’s clear I must find a way to demonstrate the resolute firmness of my stance. I will not comply, cooperate, collaborate, conform, or negotiate.
To that end, I’m going to coin a new mental disorder for myself and all the other poor dear souls seriously suffering for the idiocy of this current madness sweeping global civilization.
All those with Authoritarian Defiance Syndrome please step forward. Let’s join together in our victimhood, in that, at least, we can feel a part of the in-crowd again.
The scenario that did me in was serious indeed. In hindsight, with my 2020 goggles on, breathing freely without a suffocating face diaper, I’ve rewritten this conversation in a more sincere way, closer to the way I really feel. Authenticity is so important these days, or so they keep saying. How that fits in with covering the most expressive part of the face and the fine nuances of the voice, I’ve not a clue, but that doesn’t really matter now.
I gifted myself a birthday present and I was really excited about it. I’m not a big shopper at all, but I do love learning and adventure. So I invited Hubby and a friend to join me for a plant walk at the Caddo Mounds with a well-known naturalist in our region.
I was very excited, because I already tried to go on this plant walk last year, right before a manufactured tornado in the middle of the day during one of their spiritual ceremonies leveled the place, along with miles of the surrounding forest. Needless to say, the event was canceled.
Having already paid the $50 each for the afternoon walk, I received a courtesy call for the current event: Masks required.
Of course, I cancelled, despite my intense desire to learn from this expert on the flora and fauna in fall in our region and waiting patiently already a year and a half.
Why do I refuse? ADS. That’s right: Authoritarian Defiance Syndrome. I find it absolutely impossible to bow to tyranny. It’s not just that it’s even more ridiculous to walk around the forest in a mask than it is in the city. It’s the principle. Many will have no idea what that word means and even less what it looks like in action.
Another friend suggested I write to this expert and ask for special permission to remain free of required face diaper. I considered this option, and thought, what appeal might I make for such an undeserved privilege? Why should I be able to breath and speak freely while everyone else in the group is muzzled? How selfish. After all, I know folks who’ve got infections and rashes from wearing these awful things, yet still they comply. Is my suffering on par with theirs before making such a bold gesture as expecting special privileges from the expert?
What makes me so special? I haven’t worn one yet and it’s my goal to keep it that way. But, how? My concern is accelerating. It looks like this charade is not going to let up and in fact, the tyrants look to me like they are doubling down, with great pleasure.
ADS. The harder they push, the worse my condition becomes, it’s extraordinary. The more illogical they get, the more stubborn I get. Clearly this is an adverse condition that should make it into the DSM15, or whatever number the expert psychologist collaborators of tyranny are on now.
If my condition were severe claustrophobia (in fact my case is fairly mild, relatively speaking) would I be required by the social rulers to ride in a crowded elevator everyday? Would that not seem to be a cruel punishment of a mentally handicapped individual?
Obviously it’s ridiculous on its face that masks should be required in an outdoor setting. And to pour a little salt on the wound of my ruined birthday plans, my friend is going anyway. Nice.
In the meantime, I’m practicing my routine, for the next time I have to sacrifice to the many tyrants and the hordes of worshippers who love them.
Clerk: Ma’am, you’ll need to wear a mask. Ma’am (me): You mean a face diaper? I’m so sorry, I can’t wear one of those. I suffer from ADS. Clerk: It’s required, ma’am. Me: No, you see, I have an exemption from my therapist, it’s right here, Dr. Freeman, psychological condition, you see it marked right there, ADS. Clerk: It’s not a face diaper, it’s a mask. Doctors wear them all the time, they never have any problems. Me: Oh, but you see, that’s exactly why I didn’t become a brain surgeon. The first time I had to wear one in medical school I had an attack, that’s when I was diagnosed with claustrophobia. They didn’t know about ADS back then. Clerk: What’s ADS? I’ve never heard of it before. Me: Don’t worry, you will, they are popularizing new syndromes all the time. This one’s going to be really huge, my astrologer told me. Clerk: Well I find it offensive when you call a surgical mask a face diaper. Me: That’s because you’re not performing surgery. Clerk: But diapers are for babies. Me: Potato-PoTAto. Where you see a mask, I see a diaper. Can’t you see now what a serious mental condition this is?
Just when I thought I’d heard the best anti-vax speakers and arguments that there are, I hear this lady! Holy smokes, she’s on fire, I have to share it right now, even though I need to listen three more times at least, then rinse and repeat, so I can recite this wizard to every vaccine worshipper I meet!
So happy to meet, Amandha Vollmer, introduced through James True, who I keep talking about, because he keeps crushing.
If I had to claim a favorite presentation of the year so far, this would be it. I’m armed with info and poetry from her words—the next sewing circle, campfire, swap meet, square dance, town hall meeting, potluck, trek, shop or queue—I’ll know just what to do. And say!
And even if I only do one of those activities, because I’ll never wear a mask, I know I’m super infectious, by nature, so those experts say. So you better watch out! 😉
I’m something of a stickler for words, but what can I say, when you teach foreign languages for two decades a fetish for ‘le mot juste’ just comes with the territory.
Furthermore, when you love being a student as much as I do, it’s expensive to disagree with your teachers.On the other hand, it’s far more expensive to not disagree when I think a disagreement is in order.
Which brings me back to a recent post where I disagree with my current favorite teacher, James True.I don’t think I was persuasive enough in my argument, because he tried to shame me with group-think in front of the whole class (by class I mean his YouTube audience).It didn’t work though, because my love of words is far stronger than my capacity for shame, or group-think.
I lie awake at night thinking about such things.In the wee hours, that is usually between 2 and 3 am, I often get inspiration in the form of annoying insomnia.It’s a fairly small price to pay for what occasionally turns out to be a spectacular insight.
So, I’m trying again, Professor True, to convince you to shift your expression ‘Compassion is not consent’ because I think it’s not accurate.Embedded in the word compassion is consent.Its etymology is ancient, unlike more modern words like empathy.But, I already mentioned that in my first failed attempt to persuade.
And, I don’t want to just negate the expression, because I think I understand what is meant and the sentiment behind it.Instead, I’d like to offer what I think is a more precise phrase in order to refine it.
Consider instead, if you please: “Compassion minus consent.”
Understanding is based in intellect.Empathy/sympathy is emotionally-centered.But compassion comes from the core. I think so far the good professor would agree, because he talks often about the importance of being seated in one’s pelvis, though he uses more colorful expressions for that fact.
I believe these subtle differences in expression have considerable impact and can be used by nefarious powers against the greatest intentions and wills of man.A couple of examples:
“We are all One” or “We are all in this together” is a kind of bastardization of an absolute truth: Everything is connected.We live in a holistic system.I believe this means that in the mind of man is buried the ancestral wisdom of all ages.I believe this is true because I’ve experienced it personally.Someday I’ll have the skill to express it.But I don’t yet.
I believe this is also what NDE (near death experience) is about.There is an ‘extended consciousness’ realm and I do believe some folks are able to move between these realms (sometimes against their will or comprehension).We used to call it shamanism and try to cultivate it, now we call it schizophrenia and try to control it. Professor True has several excellent posts on this topic.
Another example: “All we need is love” or the myriad variations that have bombarded us for several generations through art, film, books, music.I’ve already said my piece on this a couple of times, so I won’t rehash it again.
I’m all for love and compassion.I just think to saturate the culture with it or suggest it’s the magic bullet to end our social woes is actually undermining it. True love and compassion should be earned and dished out sparingly.Empathy, sympathy, understanding should be extended as far and wide as humanly possible.Kindness, care and concern should be liberally applied, perhaps even where it’s not deserved.
And compassion, minus consent, is something awesome I could aspire to—I know it won’t be easy—but it seems to me a worthy goal of an enlightened social order.
In any case, these men are totally crushing in this best Apocalypse ever, and are so much more entertaining than this post. Do something both fun and healthy for yourself on Father’s Day and check them out!
She gave us a million dollars, surely we can grant her this one thing?Keep it alive, that’s all she asked.
Her mother, she says, was a saint.This jade came through her, and through her mother, and her mother’s mother.Jade is a special sort of plant, kind of like a Wandering Jew in that way, give it what it wants and it’s immediately invasive, take it out of its narrow comfort zone and it withers dramatically before dying.Your negligence would be in the spotlight for months while you went on not noticing, or, not caring.
She was a saint, it is said.She could knit through wails for twenty minutes before noticing a thing.Once trance broken, “Oh, Oscar stop already” muffled huff, return to needles.Oscar scoffs, and stops.
Saint is code word for Expert of Dissociation.Give the lady another medal. She could read or knit or drown in TV while the seas parted around her, and remain oblivious.She could minimize and whitewash every ‘love bite’ and ‘love pinch’ and smile, or shrug, or eye-roll her way through a dozen abusive slurs.That’s what it means to be a saint.
Long-suffering Jades, pass it on, don’t forget, don’t neglect, and always, pass those seeds on.
I’ve had a recurring nightmare for a decade or so.This is not unusual for me, I’ve had them all my life, the contents and themes just shift.
I only have an elementary knowledge of dreams and their symbolism and I avoid over-researching in this domain, because I believe these things to be highly subjective.But still, I try anyway to record them and discern their meaning through dynamics happening in my life and all around me.I know someday I’ll have a broader lens and previously unseen layers of the dreams will be revealed at the right time as long as I don’t fall for the illusion and convenience of ‘forgetting’.
This most recent recurring stream recently ended and I’m so glad for that.I believe energetically the message the dream meant to convey was purged, after a traumatic few months last spring, which thanks to any kind readers who’ve hung around that long and are paying attention, because I don’t have to repeat the entire storm scenario.
This recurring nightmare was different, but very similar versions of losing everything and being lost—being alone in a big, foreign, sometimes bustling, sometimes abandoned city, unable to contact anyone because I was without money, had lost my wallet, phone, even my shoes and sometimes clothes.I’m always barefoot in these dreams, on the pavement of a foreign city, completely without support or resources.
Then just over a week ago the dream shifted, dramatically, for the better.It started off just the same, no wallet, no shoes, no phone, no contacts, in another crowd, of this time all women.I’ll skip the boring details.It was some kind of meeting group in a mall, I set my bag down for minute, then walked outside.Once outside I realized I’d forgotten my bag, knew just where, went right back in, but the bag was gone.I immediately yelled at the women there to give me back my bag, that I know someone took it, and I was very angry.
All of sudden, a woman threw my bag back at me.And then a dozen women began throwing at me all the wallets I’d ever ‘lost’ (in the dreams).I was stunned, but happily so, and was marveling at all the different shapes and colors of them from over the years.My anger that they might have been stolen, and my shame that I’d lost them, dissipated instantly.I smiled, dropped them all and walked back out the door.
Today I read two excellent article by Michael Tsarion, and listened to an interview on it.It struck me that these passages are related somehow to what I hope is the permanent passage of this nightmare for me, and also where I think the culture in general is currently circling the drain.
I wish I had the insight now to connect the dots for any curious readers, but I’m afraid I don’t.I think it’s one of those cases of knowing what you’re doing without knowing what you’re doing.
“Basically, human consciousness and behavior are directed by the search for pleasure and the avoidance of pain. The Marcusans decided to co-opt this basal tendency and use it as a tool for building the utopian society they wish to see replace Western civilization.
The Marcusan plan was to establish a society based on the Pleasure Principle. They believed they were following the course of history, and that their dream was quite rational.
Success was assured as long as one systematically removed obstacles causing distress, want and injustice. Hence the welfare dependent “Nanny States” that now proliferate throughout Europe and America. Hence the endless supply of bread and circuses and “good times” had by all.
Nine times out of ten, there’s not much wrong with the psychopath’s sexual life. Why should there be? It’s just a physical act. Because no feeling is involved, and because there’s no genuine care for the other person, what’s the problem? The psychopath has no hang-ups in this regard, no need to sweat bullets like a neurotic or seek out head-shrinkers to help him develop confidence with the opposite sex. Sex is mere recreation for the psychopath.
Indeed, male psychopaths often have no problem getting dates. Many women actually find themselves attracted to them, adoring the fact that they can finally be with a “man” uninhibited by loathsome morals, ideals, sensitivity, hang-ups or qualms. They just get on with it, and don’t care about boring social graces. In extreme form this condition is known as Hybristophilia.
Since the psychopath is unencumbered by emotion, he can easily focus his brain and learn things quickly. If he already has a high IQ, his success is certain. This is why we find a great many psychopaths in high places. They covet the power offered them by religious and political appointments. Our present hierarchical systems make it easy for psychopathic types to excel. Indeed, our world is infested with them. Without upgrading our psychological knowledge, we have no way of ridding ourselves of their loathsome presence.
Sadly, no expert on pathological types dares utter a word of this in public. There’s no longer any mention of the effect on society of psychopaths in high places, and no comment about how whole nations can be psychopathic.”
My maternal grandfather taught me to waterski.These are my best-worst memories of our relationship.They began when I was 6, with special water skis for kids.I remember he used to sing a song while he bathed in that lake about ‘the soap that floats’, Ivory, the only soap he used. “If you don’t use it you’re a dope.”
He used to stock-pile toilet paper too.He’d scan the sales and drive miles out of his way to find well-priced toilet paper.He said during the Great Depression his mother used to ration his squares as a child, an affront that clearly stayed with him until death.
When I went to volunteer in the Czech Republic with the Peace Corps, he made sure in my Care Packages, sent by boat back then, of course, included toilet paper.I cherished those packages.The toilet paper was way better, but it was more that he had proved himself right that really mattered.I’d shrugged him off, learned the ‘hard way’ as they say, wiped with something resembling tree bark, or, with my hand while ‘in Rome’ and realized toilet paper did really matter.
But, bidets are better.I never did get a chance to mention that to him.
Anyway, the moral of this story is about the rope.I was 6, learning to waterski on child-sized skis, from a man who thought the best way to teach me to swim was to throw me in the water without a ring or a life preserver of any variety.
Usually my awkward suffering made him laugh.If it made me even extra hot and bothered to be laughed at, he laughed harder.
My first attempt at waterskiing though, he got everyone laughing.Like I said, I was 6, on special skis made for children.He coached me, and well, he really did.He gave me some expert advice which I will never forget, he said, “Imagine yourself up.”And I did.And it worked!I was up, it worked, I imagined myself up and I was up, he was brilliant!
And then I was down.Down HARD. Skis still trailing, hanging on to the rope, expecting, somehow, I guess, who’s to know, that somehow I’d get those skis back under me again from that death-defying position?!
Choking on water.Nearly drowning, hanging on for dear life.And far away, from this crazy craft directing me, and these crazy folk telling me what to do, mostly wrong for the moment, I heard, a Very distant, “Let go of the rope!Let go of the rope!Let go of the rope!”
And finally, I did.
And I went to my Grandmother there in her lounge chair on the banks, and in my 6 year old furry, coughing up lake water, choking, but still managing to belt out to her: “YOU said this would be FUN!”
And she laughed. The woman who never water-skied in her life. She tried to hide her laughter, but it just muffled under her faux-concern for my just-released from real torture stature, but I saw it, inside, she was laughing.
It’s a buoy now though, as it wasn’t then, because they taught me more about the world in that 20 minutes than anyone ever has before, or since.