The Divide

I think about what is right and wrong.

If people do not agree with me, then I am ready to discuss how they think about the subject.

A good friend of mine did an excellent job of teaching me about the other side of the argument. She said that she does not think about what is right and wrong. She just knows what is right and wrong.

My friend and I are divided. Since we are extremely tolerant, we are able to remain friends.

I first read about such the divide in a book by Thomas Sowell over a decade ago. I have heard/read similar libertarian discussions over the years. These discussions did not come home to me until my friend gave me the viewpoint above--she knows what is right and wrong, just like Sowell, et. al. said she does.

How do the people on either side of the divide view each other? Since my friend is so tolerant, I will leave her, in particular, aside in this analysis.

To me, the folks on the other side should think--should do analysis. They do not have impure motives. They are honest folks that have faulty methods.

But the folks on the other side see right and wrong as obvious observation that needs no method of analysis. So they view me--who differs from them--as purposefully choosing evil.

These are the two worlds.

A few years ago I was in the DMV, listening to a conversation between two young women.  One was telling the other how to achieve the good life.  "Have your baby.  Apply to this place for your housing.  Apply to that place for your support check.  Apply to this place for your medicaid.  Apply to that place for . . . " 

The one was teaching the other a life plan.

Young women like thise end up being supported by government--never learning personal responsibility.  For me, that is no life at all.  Such a path gives no hope of achieving any meaningful purpose.  Typically, those mothers remain single and poor.  Their children will be poor.  They will more likely fall into a life of crime.

My heart breaks for these young women.  My heart breaks for their children.  I hate the system that robs them of the opportunity for achievement--though they are willing participants, I understand that a corrupt system will corrupt them, too.

But this is on my side of the divide.

On the other side of the divide, my friend's heart goes out to the single mother with no means of support.  How will her child live?  Where will they live?  We must give her housing and food and medical care and other necessities.  It is only right.

On my side of the divide the answer is to tear down the system that encourages the terrible existence.  A child must be a burden to the girl's parents if she is to be seriously taught not to bear children that she cannot care for. 

That is tough.  For me it is tough love--and the only kind of real love. For those on the other side of the divide it is hate.

Part of the divide is analysis vs. emotion.

Part of the divide is short run vs. long run.

But there is little hope convincing someone on the other side because both see the other's approach as alien.  Now and then someone has an epiphany. 

The people to whom I have spoken that have come over to my side of the divide have felt the ephiphany as powerful as being hit by lightning.  And the epiphany is as rare as being hit by lightning.

Abductions

In China you can abduct a baby and sell it in a rural area for $4,500.  About 2,500 cases are investigated each year.

Sounds like a writing prompt.

Sparks

My seventeen year old has been taking part in online political discussions lately.  Maybe because he was raised by me, he lives in my world--the world in which one cannot spin straw into gold.

My son is amazed by the ability of people to deny and denigrate arguments that come from basic assumptions that one cannot live without.

One bugaboo that these folks are worried about is "net neutrality," which, in his community seems to have no concrete definition.  There is some agreement that if a law were passed guaranteeing net neutrality, your internet service provider could not limit massive downloads that take up lots of bandwidth--such as downloading movies.

But, it turns out, that if you force your ISP to accommodate the big downloaders, you also force them to inconvenience moderate users.  So which is best?

The invisible hand smacks everyone around in this way.  The ISP wants to maximize its profit by creating a service that people are willing to pay for.  The ISP has no incentive to hurt a user for the sake of causing hurt.  The ISP likes happy users.  And when some users make others unhappy, the ISP is out to provide the most overall value for users, whomever they are, since the ISP is rewarded more for providing more value--and this works whether the ISP is a monopolist or a competitor.

We can let ISPs and individuals both have freedom.  Or we can have government decide which users are angels and which are devils and set up rules by which some are hurt while others are helped. 

But government does not have skin in the game.  The ISP loses money if they have more unsatisfied customers.  The government does not.

In addition, who knows which unintended consequences the government will create when it tries to solve peoples' problems?

When my son is overcome by the strange view that comes form the other world, he has to unburden himself. 

And that is the sound of thinking.

The Truth About The Balloon Boy

I was home when the balloon blew across much of Colorado, pursued by helicopters and ground rescue, possibly carrying a six year old named Falcon, possibly alive, possibly dead.

The balloon touched down lightly.  Maybe he was alive!

He was not there.  Falcon's brother said he saw the him fall out.  Could he still be alive?

He was hiding in the attic the whole time.

Yes, the hoax cost multiple law enforcement agencies lots of money.

It was the best thing on television since the chase of the white Bronco.

Good entertainment at any price.

Bread and a Lie

I was an only child at age three.  My mom walked into the room and saw a loaf of bread on the seat of my high chair.  It was squashed flat.

She asked, "John, did you squash this loaf of bread."

I said, "No."

Kids have no idea how transparent their lies are.

Daughter of God (Excerpt)

The moon looked up at Hept from the water of the washtub. “Bess, do not put those sheets in yet,” she said.

A thin breeze set the glowing surface aquiver. Bess said, “What you see in the water, Miss Hept?”

“A man is on my property, Bess. He bleeds. He aims for the old stables behind the trees.”

Bess dropped the woven basket of clothes. “Is he a outlaw? A soldier man? Is he running to or running from?”

Hept frowned. “He’s running from. Another man, one of Moseby’s cavalry, just crossed the fence line at the lower forty, by the creek. I am going into the house to gather my bag and my shotgun. You hide inside.”

The whites of Bess’s eyes shone. “Miss Hept, don’t you go out there with them men. We both hide inside, up high in your room where you can pick ‘em off with you rifle if they comes close.”

“Obey me, Bess.”

Hept took her leather satchel and the Lenderhaux shotgun from the cedar chifferobe and waited for Bess to situate her thin black body inside, butcher knife in hand.

Outside, Hept paused to scry at the tub. One man lay in the abandoned stable while the other followed the trail the first had left in the expansive hay field. She murmured a prayer to Thoth.

At the tree line Hept took a pinch of the powdered blind rat eye out of her satchel, blew it into the air, and walked through the cloud, whispering in the old tongue. The men would not see her now, unless she was walked through a moonbeam.

No one moved outside the stable. The mossy door was ajar; the frame bore fresh knife scars, exposing wood that had never seen this world before, but was now dry with nary a drop of sap. “Nary,” she thought. Bess would have said it that way. Hept was becoming comfortable with the language of this time and place.

She smelled the blood of only one man. She crept inside, quiet as a snake, lifetimes of practice, feet inching their way in dapples of moonlight shining between boards, through knot holes, and through cracks in the shutter of the hay loft window.

The man was in the last set of stalls, sitting back against the wall. She slunk to the opposite stall and crouched, the steel of the shotgun comforting her as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He had removed his shirt and held it against his upper chest, nearly under his arm. Only a fold of the cloth was not soaked black. She did not see a gun near him. Perhaps that was a knife beside him. He might live, if the other man did not kill him. But, no, he was too weakened to prevail.

At first when the man began to whisper, Hept thought he was praying, but then decided he was not.  “I’m sorry I didn’t finish bricking the footpath. It was your birthday present. I saved money for half a year and worked for three days. I probably had another two days to go. I wanted you to be able to walk from the carriage house to the back door without getting mud on your skirts.” He took a shuddering breath. “I would have finished, but I was due at the regiment and they came for me. I couldn’t linger until you got back. I wanted to see you on your birthday. I don’t mean to complain. I just want to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ And, ‘I wish I could have come back to you.’”

Hept blinked. Few men were worthy of women. Most of them were not worth the effort that it took to pour boiling oil in their ears--to say nothing of the value of oil.

She winded the other man--Moseby’s raider. She wanted to talk to this man--this creator of pathways--this man who truly loved his wife. The creator of pathways coughed. His throat was surely dry from loss of blood.

Moseby’s man called, “Come on out, Yank. I’m not gonna’ shoot you--just take you into custody. Walk out slow now, so I don’t get jumpy and shoot you by accident.”

“Liar,” the bleeding man breathed. His left hand went to the knife. He was left-handed--he was bad luck.

“Easy, Yank. Nobody’s gonna’ get hurt.” Moseby’s man sidled through the door.

The bleeding man crouched on one knee.

Moseby’s man crept onward. Hept wanted to warn the bleeding man that he was breathing so hard that he could be heard--that before he could spring with the knife, that Moseby’s man would shoot him dead. It was not fair, but it was the way of things. She was torn inside, but her mind was her master. She would not interfere. The breathing turned to panting.

The hammer clicked back. Moseby’s man’s gun wavered, aimed in her direction. The panting--it was her own!

The creator of paths sprang at Moseby’s man from behind.

The revolver thundered. The muzzle flash blinded her. The ball slammed into her forehead. Bone shattered. Flesh tore. Blackness enveloped her.

First Time Writer

I saw another first time writer tonight.  They always start their stories the same way.  Two years ago, I was one of them.  Here's the story.

Jorgamundor laced up his left work boot, stained with oilfield muck.  Jenny was still sleeping.  Jenny had been so upset lately.  But Jorgamundor knew why.

He remembered when Jenny's mother had yelled at her in front of him last week.  His poor wife had been so ashamed.  "She never loved me," Jenny had sobbed to him that night.  And now she walked around morose all the time.

Yesterday Jenny had even forgot to pick up Smolish, their 6 year old, from school.  Now Jenny was worried that the school might report her to social services.  And they might, too.

Then Jorgamundor put on his right work boot.

First time writers want to tell everything all at once. So it's twitch a finger, long flashback, twitch another finger.

It's cute, in a way, seeing it being done over and over.  "Awww, wook at the widdow witer.  I wemember when I was wike that."

Now I have other problems!