*****
Taking a break from my usual temper-driving entertainment, I dabbled in a little game called Miitopia and came to this special scene, with a particular costume set and character mix which sparked an ounce of witty inspiration. I just so happened to cast favorite characters from my youth into this story. One of them, this redhead (though her hairstyle has been changed), you might know. Tell me which variation you like best. Enjoy.
****
I was outside late at night…or early in the morning, depending upon how you judge the time…when I saw an amazing sight in the sky, a reddish moon as big as a small cookie. I could reach up and pick the pink wafer out of the dark blue. The streetlamps had just turned off, signaling the end of night. The scene was serene. But, thinking about recent events, including weather/climate news, I couldn’t help thinking that red moon was a disapproving rabbit. The year of the water rabbit/hare, 2023, has not started well. Instead of new peace, there has been consistent discontent, uprising and–in terms of water–drought. In the year of a water animal, there has been noticeable absence of useful water. Fires are the talk of the nation. So, what is going on here? What is wrong, and how can it be corrected?
Food for thought as you bask upon my lucky photography.
***
Let me ask you, whoever actually takes the time to read what I write, what would you think, say, feel if I told you, “I love you, unconditionally. You’re very talented. You have a wonderful vocabulary and brain…but your living space is a pig mess. You are wasting your talents, doing whatever you are doing right now (which just might be honing your supposed talents, or just occupying your already troubled mind with some art therapy). You could look much better than you currently do. And, I wish you would let me help you fix yourself up…because, as you are, you’re not going to get the things in life you seek.”
Would you nod in compliance and promise to make improvements?
Would you curse and spit and throw things–including foul language–back at me, adding, “Who are you to talk like that about me!?” Would you make a public scene, damage property and risk being bagged by police?
Or, would you simply feel bile rise up the length of your throat and tension mount in your veins until you wish to scream and massage those pains away?
Would you struggle sleeping if someone repeatedly used such contrary words? Would you feel even worse if I violated your personal space, after several warnings and previous violations…er, forgiven (*cough* allowed to pass with trailing resentment)?
I’m inclined to go with option 3. But, that’s just me. [Or, are there actually others who feel the same?]
This is the crisis I face almost daily with my family, some members more than others. Not one member of my family leads an entirely healthy life. Not one lives up to the standards of my parents…who probably failed or broke their souls trying to live up to the standards of their parents. Yet, all are prone to being very opinionated without compassion, not even in an emotional/mental crisis situation. In fact, I am almost certain…certain members have a shady version of that lacking-emotional-awareness condition Elon Musk admits to having. They are loud-mouthed, ignorant Italians who are quick to ostracize me as a hothead out of control, even when I curb my own judging/opinionated impulses to attend their needs.
I don’t have the arsehole gene–at least, not anymore–that allows a person to spout insults and then excuse them as “hard truths.” If I ever do spout off, it’s after incessant prodding, much the way I took on my first childhood bully. He relentlessly criticized my young appearance behind my back. My brother told me to ignore him. But, every person has their limit of tolerance. And, when mine finally snapped, I turned and nailed the taller, older boy between the eyes without even seeing what I did; my eyes were dead and dark with anger, no mercy. The kid pushed one button too many times, reckless without conscience or respect, unwise beyond compare.
Even if I can spout off and call out what I think is wrong with my family–some would say I’m doing it right now–I take no pleasure in it. I don’t smile, afterward, like other members of my family do, making me think they are possessed. I once hit someone in the family for wickedly smirking after spouting off at me. I don’t applaud my action but stand by it. If I was too casual with such offense, I’d justify it all of the time, like those who “cuss like sailors” excuse their foul language. Instead, I have a raging conscience which occasionally overflows with stored up anger and frustration with how sick and stupid this world has become. Just writing or speaking about what bothers me makes me ill. Yet, if I don’t write this out, it seethes under my skin. Consider this my personal therapy session. Welcome to a violation of confidentiality.
Now, if you asked your family for a vacation from speaking to each other, just to have a few days without quarreling and listening to them bicker about you and everyone who’s not in the room, would your family respect that request or reject it and throw more hostile, threatening, stomach-turning dialogue in your already distressed face, like my family does?
I see myself in my father when he refuses to put up with “the silent treatment.” If anyone stops speaking to me, I tend to go after them and prod them to reconsider. But, if I ever sound like he does, I should be punched or shot by the person I am prodding. It’s just dumb, wrong and unfair. [Would any other member of my dear family confess the same?…wish to be punished for their stupidity? Only to fake a sad face and play for mercy, like a child saying they didn’t mean to do something. If I hit them, they’d go right back to verbally lashing at me or make threats.]
Another family aspect that has grown intolerable is gossip. My family struggles to speak with each other but seems to have no problem talking about others when they are not in the room. And, how am I to respond? Join in and be just as wickedly mousy? Speak without conscience about the one or ones who irritate the family member seeking my agreement (not my honest opinion)?
My parents, who might as well be divorced, constantly clash and then turn to me to take their side while venting about the other parent. My siblings, when they are not barking at their spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends in front of me, will confess what is not going so well with those spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends. Do I tell them to grow up and put on their big-people pants? Do I get loud, opinionated and tell them to “suck it up?” No. But, I DO (now) tell them–as calmly as possible–I can no longer tolerate the discussion, because the sheer weight of all that relationship conflict has further impacted my already troubled heart. I don’t offer my ear before they lay the load on me; I don’t get a choice.
Hearing about people not in the room feels like a plot to kill them. Anything I say could contribute to another fight or achieve nothing other than riling my family. Similarly, venting about someone not in the room leaves me with a somewhat guilty, unpleasant feeling. I understand how my family might desperately need counseling, but I am not the strongest person to take that job, right now. It is I who need a good counselor who won’t cost a fortune, limit me to an hour every week or two and pressure me to start taking risky medication. And, if we ALL need counseling, then is my whole family doomed? Cuz it sure feels like a wildfire about to consume the planet.
How many hours must I play counselor without being given the same breathing space to speak from my heart without confrontation and ridicule? How many times must I have the same argument about something I refuse to change, perhaps only because I’ve been poked and threatened so many times that I feel like a cat in a cage being poked with a stick.
When am I going to change? When am I going to change? When am I going to finally concede and live up to the standards of each and every judgmental member of my family? Never. And, the more they resent and prod me, the more I want to die. It may sound unsettling to hear/read, but I almost will getting fatally ill and letting illness take my life…because I can’t seem to do myself in (like so many famous faces have already done, leaving me rattled by their grim choices)…and I cannot find the courage to finally separate myself from my family, once and for all the remaining marbles in my precious yet deeply damaged head.
The mere fact that I cannot go to any member of the family with a seemingly simple problem/question without facing more challenges than a person on the lowest benefit rung of the USA insurance scheme…is disgusting. It’s always the wrong time…or too much talk…or me being a coward/baby. Yet, when any member of my family shows a need for help, do I ever…EVER dump upsetting words on them before lending a hand? No. Not unless they upset me, first. Not unless I’m already carrying a heap of resentment from recent conflicts.
I once asked a seemingly simple question about one line on a tax form. It took four days and three family members to realize I’d just have to find the answer another way, myself.
I helped my brother move a house-load of crap he could not refuse collecting from “friends” simply because the rest of the family was harping on him, and he’s my brother.
[Now, before you point out I called his collection crap, understand my family has a sickness for collecting which verges on hoarding. My brother is a “sentimental” sort who, like his (my) father, hates to see a “perfectly good” whatever get scrapped. But, without any logical plan and place for that thing, my family adds it to a collection, threatens storage space limits and goes on collecting until there is no more space and a purge is forced…only to pick up the habit, again, and restart the ugly cycle. No, the household wasn’t full of crap, but there were plenty of things no member of my family was ever going to use, including my displaced brother. Dare I say the smarter, more sensible solution would have been to let all of the “stuff” go wherever and to whoever it may attract and leave the ugly incident/scene with only the essentials to go on living independently, without requiring family to house a large portion of the hoarded items. And, isn’t it sickening to think my family would complain but comply with such assistance for my brother but not me? If my sister offered to help me, she would only do so to get the things SHE covets, as she is prone to do. Isn’t she sweet for helping herself out of my jam?]
Knowing he was already in distress, I didn’t turn and wave a finger at him, lecture him without pause for conscience. If he cried out “Enough!”…I wouldn’t keep badgering him. But, if the task had gotten to me, exhausted my tolerance, I might have opted to walk away. There were moments when I felt taxed, depleted, endangered by excessively heavy things while feeling concerned about a recently repaired elbow. I risked my well-being for him without argument. Can any member of my family do the same? Not yet, they haven’t.
Yet, how can I expect my kin to change? They’ve been this way so long, even before I found my voice, the very same voice I am–on one hand–praised for my intellect…and–on the other hand–insulted for talking too loud, too fast, too soft, too much. I’ve simply endured them so long, letting them push me to my breaking point. And, because I am so lousy at making friends, I feel without any other outlet than this blog. How sad.
Venting over.
Don’t be afraid to say something. But, be wary of doling out advice, especially if it is laced with critique. I am not in a tolerant mood.
*****
Listen, now, all who came to compete.
The torch is extinguished; the games are complete.
Your peers continue to celebrate
While you collapse under an emotional weight.
If you weep because you didn’t medal,
You don’t need to step off the eternal gas pedal.
Olympics come, and Olympics go,
With summer heat and winter snow.
The chance to earn gold, silver and bronze may be gone.
But, the flame of the sport burns ever strong.
Your time in the spotlight is at a rest.
But, don’t douse the fire still within your chest.
What lasts longer than a momentary prize
Is the image of sportsmanship left in our eyes.
Who came first, second or third might matter today.
Who we call our friend or inspiration should never go away.
The Olympics are just a small example
Of what we all wish to more than sample.
Those who choose war do not share the spirit.
If you happen to agree, let me hear it.
Television attempts to paint you as stars.
Deep down, only you know who or what you truly are.
So, cry your tears, today, and rest for tomorrow.
Time rolls on, and no one can truly live in sorrow.
As your life remains, so must your flame.
You came to play, and life is still all our game.
Game on.
~Writingbolt, Feb. 20, 2022
Looking at the pictures I find in my art scrapbook, a place where I go to drum up e-cards for those I meet and/or know online, I occasionally drift away with thoughts of jingle bells among other things. The holidays can be so commercial. And, I ask myself, “What is Christmas about?”
“Well,” I tell myself. “Christmas is about…”
The birth of the son of God, otherwise known as Jesus (for those who believe in the story). It’s his birthday above all else. Not the presents, shopping or Black Friday hype.
Ya know. Just thinking about Christmas conjures so many images! What would a winter holiday (for those who have it in winter) be without lovely women in cozy sweaters, sweater coats and festive sweatshirts you just want to cuddle til their arms fall off?! Oh, and all the stylish boots they have to pick from! So many boots.
So, Christmas is about beautiful women in cuddle-licious winter apparel…
And, the birthday of Jesus. Let’s not forget that.
But, I’m being self-centered. Maybe you don’t care for women in cozy-riffic winter apparel. Maybe you’re more interested in festive decor (indoors and/or outdoors): the trees, the lights, the candles, the artificial snow, the wreaths, the mistletoe, the stockings hung by the chimney with care, the coal, the chestnuts, the bells, the carolers, the lampposts, more artificial snow, the greeting cards from Christmases past and present, the fake presents, the birds and berries. Maybe you’d go so far as to wrap yourself in tinsel and hang ornaments from your ears! Hmm? Too much? What is too much, anyway?
So, Christmas is about decorating the house til your eyes bleed red, white and green. [Well, for those who decorate, anyway.]
Not for me. No. For me, it’s about all the beautiful women of the world in cuddle-uptuous winter apparel…
And, Jesus. It’s his birthday. Ya know? Show some respect. Don’t forget the Nativity set while you’re searching the attic, basement, garage and/or closets. That’s the most important piece, if you’re respecting the core of Christmas.
What about the kids and kids at heart? Maybe you’re the Kris-Kringle-coming-down-the-chimney-with-his-sack-of-goodies-to-grab-some-cookies-and-milk type. So, for you, Christmas is about a chubby bearded guy in a red and white suit coming to your homes to deliver presents before enjoying your holiday cookies with a cool glass of milk.
W-Wait. Didn’t I start this piece by mentioning jingle bells? And, what about snow? I know some of you down south might have your Christmas festivities in hot summer weather. But, I cannot imagine Christmas without jingling sleigh bells and gently falling snow covering the landscape in powdered sugar on a peaceful night. Just think of all the Christmas music people put out every year. Oh, my gosh! I forgot about caroling! ‘Can’t get enough versions of Deck the Halls and Jingle Bells; can we? Do you ever hear holiday carols with hot desert winds and seagulls squeaking over a swishing surf? [If you’re lucky, there might be one or two.]
So, if you forgot eeeeverything else: the women in winter apparel, the fat guy bringing you stuff down your chimney (or however he gets in there if you don’t have a chimney), the caroling, the cookies…and Jesus. Well, don’t forget him if you’re going to call it Christmas. But, Christmas is also about jingle bells on a sleigh swishing across a carpet of soft white snow on a silent starry night.
–Back off, Rudolph! You, too, Burl Ives snowman. I know. I’m sure I’ll get to you holiday movie icons soon enough. Go sit down with Ralphie, Charlie, Rex and Herb, Garfield and Clark. And, keep your hands off Mrs. Griswold.
…What were we talking about, again? My mind just drifted into this picture of a woman with lovely brown hair sitting in her cuddly white sweater coat while the snow gently falls outside her picture window. That’s what it’s all about, folks. Christmas is about women in cuddle-tastic winter apparel.
And, Jesus.
And, hot cocoa. Lots of hot cocoa.
Happy holidays from Writingbolt.
We’re pursuing space exploration and migration…er, domination of other worlds (like the very aliens we’re told to fear in movies) yet we don’t have ideal control of/peace on our own present home world. What sense does this make?
When we think of air travel these days, we run into little warnings of immunizations and all sorts of other concerns we should take before venturing even on what is supposed to be a pleasant but temporary holiday/vacation. Why do I get the feeling there are far less concerns about venturing into deep space and recreating the Native American massacre and/or African enslavement just for the satisfaction of some restless humans with a closet case of claustrophobia? I’m not entirely content with what’s going on here on Earth, myself. But, I don’t think it’s at all wise or sensible to just start pouring all this money and resources into chasing a hoop dream on some other planet which is surely occupied by those content to have a planet without invaders.
Most importantly we must NOT repeat our past mistakes (as mentioned above if you missed them). Otherwise, our disgusting aspects won’t just be an Earth problem/bad memory. They’ll be a galactic one. I, for one, have no desire to live out the clone wars, the dawn of the terminator/machine or any number of dystopian/bleak/frightening possibilities our strange minds invent. And, I’d rather interact with other species peacefully. But, presently, humanity is unable to do that as the dominant species of this world.
Let’s clean up our mess and make what we have liveable. When that happens, I’m sure other space travelers who aren’t hampered by past vices will be happy to greet and interact with us. Or, we’ll avoid bringing our diseases–hopefully–to other worlds.
What about you, reader? What’s your take on this?
Writingbolt's Creation 
The Masked Price of the Olympics
Tags: 2022, athletes, Beijing, China, commentators, covid-19, crisis, editorial, entertainment, fame, friendship, glory, incentive, IOC, medal, media, Olympics, opinion, peace, perfection, politics, pressure, psychology, publicity, racehorses, rehab, Russia, safety, scandal, sponsors, spotlight, together, truce, unity, weather, winter, winter olympics
***
This year, 2022, there is sufficient buzz about the unpleasant politics and inhumane behavior under the snowy surface of the Beijing winter Olympics. Some people are particularly agitated and claiming this will be a stain on Olympic history. They say the IOC has been corrupted and bent to the sway of profits and commercialism, as if this is something new. With so much focus on the global economy, why WOULDN’T handing the reins to China happen? That’s like asking why the USA gets to call the shots when it comes to who has use and ownership of nuclear weapons.
The USA has plenty of history in inhumane behavior; so now that porcelain China shows some rotting ivories, it’s the enemy of all humanity? It’s Nazi Germany? The IOC, however that works, took the easy road and let the biggest financial source on the east side run the show for two years out of the past twenty-two. Big deal. [Well, if China has any sort of military/financial merger in the works with presently hostile-looking Russia and Mr. Putin, it could be a big deal…for everyone. Yet, that’s just the regular cup of coffee in global news; two nations reaching an agreement that scares the rest of the world like birds on a wire.] And, what happens when the USA or Canada gets the reins, again? What if someone digs up dirt on the west side? Ooh. I’m shaking in wonder.
Certain nations refused to send political figures to Beijing as a sort of boycott, trying to make a statement. China supposedly responded by attempting to appear innocent of any crime in the public eye…and re-using a song from the previous Olympics for one of their world-unification displays. [I thought that was rather tacky.] And, regardless of what people in suits and ties fail to agree upon, the games go on with so many highly (and some poorly) trained athletes risking their lives in more ways than one to get a slice of fame, income and glory, branded with logos and sponsorships, stalked by cameras. Is it any wonder any one of them crumbles under the pressure?
Under the clouds of racial and political discontent, there are the same athletic struggles and stumbles seen year after year; athletes, sometimes, just failing from lousy weather/course conditions. If I go back and look at every Olympics season, I’m sure to see someone suffer some sort of emotional, psychological fracture. One “perfect” athlete, in particular, chose to make a spectacle of herself by driving drunk. Another turned to violence against a competitor. Others suffer some sort of shocking health crisis which I doubt any sponsor wants to advertise and/or fund; it reminds me of those ads for the “wounded warriors.” The “racehorses,” who get pumped up to the highest level of pressure for the entertainment and gambling of others, go from the spotlight to rehab and misery; and we just keep moving on from season to season, sending more “warriors” to the slaughter. Fun!
Just as I am writing this piece, I am watching the national news representative(s) repeatedly stab a particularly dazzling, beautiful, fiery blonde starlet with icy shards of doubt and discouragement for making one mistake in one race of one event in which she is eligible to compete. Who, other than myself, thinks she will have a psychological breakdown, especially after being spotlighted for coping with the grief of losing a parent? Come on, humanity! Show your shining star some compassion!
Idiots, with your stupid repetitive questions about her one lackluster performance! Shut the freak up and let her ski! I’m giving you a 98% deduction for being near-complete morons. You’re not even worthy of being complete morons; you’re still imperfect. What separates you from complete morons? No one knows. Live with that. Or, better yet, get yourselves involved in some stupid cancel-culture scandal and just go away.
Most of the time, most seasons, the real disasters faced by “star” athletes get washed out by the talk of technical errors, medal counts and the general push for tourism, advertising the host nation and other vacation venues around the world…because, it seems, whenever it’s Olympics season, it’s also vacation/travel season. Everyone is pushing everyone to get out there, explore the world and fuel the global economy, including those sponsors who are placing bids on all the young (and a few not-so-young) racehorses otherwise known as Olympic competitors. So, what’s the big deal with one host nation having poor ethics and making faulty promises in the big scheme of commercialized competition?
Personally, if I wanted to boycott an Olympics, I’d refuse to send my nation’s athletes as well as my political elite. Just skip the games, completely. Sorry, athletes, your insane amount of rehearsing, physical training, rehab, building up the hopes of sponsors and promotional efforts were in vain. You have to understand that politics got in the way of you enjoying the spirit of global peace and friendly competition. That is…if the Olympics ARE a source of global peace and friendly competition.
How friendly is competition so strongly operated by commercial sponsors? How friendly is competition in which athletes run the risk of ruining their bodies for life just to get a tenth-of-a-point edge above their competitors? And, how are athletes from every nation that can send them supposed to feel the unifying spirit of the Olympics when their every move and breath is under scrutiny and threatened by questionable leadership?
If I was a competitor in the Beijing winter games, and someone filled my head with all of the political unrest circling the host nation, not to mention the prevailing concerns over general health and the whole COVID-19 scare, I’d be sufficiently afraid to even set foot in China. One wonders what gives so many the courage to compete, considering the circumstances. Is it all concern over finances? Is an athlete’s paycheck from temporary, fleeting stardom worth the risk, better than getting a regular job? [And, if that last bit is true, what does that say about the global economy? It sucks? Jobs, in general…suck?] Is it like a $100 gift card to get a not-very-effective vaccine shot? Are fears for safety and security washed away by financial promises from gambling sponsors? And, how is the competition still fun when so much is “riding on the line” and a tiny mistake can separate stardom from “nothing?”
Once upon a time, the Olympics were a truce between warring factions of the world, a break from the usual conflict over land ownership with the hope of dissolving animosity with fair and non-lethal competition, a little amusement to break up the quarrels over who makes a better king or emperor and who gets to enslave the people of a land that looks like easy prey. They were not the deadly contests of Roman gladiators. No one was being thrown to the lions. And, no one mistreated the lions for sport or commercial gain.
If you look at recent Olympics, you might see a few casualties who are essentially lion food when they leave the host nation. Of course, there are also those rare champion, legend stories of athletes who suffer horribly one year and then pick themselves back up to win some sort of medal or prize in another Olympics. But, those are truly rare cases. And, the media like to make everyone watching think anyone who breaks their body into a million pieces or suffers the big bad “C” can recover and be the next shining star, be that next contender to wear a suit covered in the logos of financial backers who all want a piece of the glory achieved by one fragile human being.
So, you see, while some are so furiously concerned with politics and inhumane treatment THIS year, we are neglecting the racehorses who often enough suffer just as badly. Some might be kept in prisons and/or forced to work under unpleasant conditions. But, even the most prized athletes are coming out of the shadows of their training spaces to expose equally troubling secrets, sometimes years after they were shining so brightly in the spotlight. And, it wasn’t a high-ranking political figure who deserved the blame; it was someone on the training staff.
The Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics are nothing special; they certainly are not as shiny as the 2008 edition. But, I have yet to see a single Olympics in which everything went perfectly or was completely innocent and entertaining. Every year there is something that leaves me a little sour. On that note, I don’t aspire to appear in any Olympics competition…but I’d sure love to be in that stadium at the opening and closing ceremonies, befriending people from around the world who share my passions, ideally initiating friendships that I can carry with me the rest of my life.
The best of every Olympics comes in the little moments you see happen between athletes from competing nations, when two individuals, working so hard to earn the most coveted medal, share friendly words and affectionate gestures. Differences fold under the emotional weight of relief. The temporary rivals know the fight is over, and friendship is free to begin. And, that is the true medal, the real prize of every Olympics games. You can’t capture it with a drone or cellphone camera. You can’t wear it around your neck or on a nylon jacket; you wear it in your heart. No sponsor can claim credit or take any money from that. It’s the best of humanity; it’s eternal hope for our future. And, that is what I prefer to be the focus of my Olympics experience. It’s not gold, silver or bronze. It’s priceless.