In high school (at least the one I went to), there was a language requirement. No, it couldn’t be English – I meant a language. Most people took Spanish, French…useful languages to know. I had to take Latin.

Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t ask for it. Even my parents had nothing to do with it. Latin was a requirement if you wanted to be in the Advanced Placement program (and I did). So I took two years of Latin. I can even still remember  bits and pieces of it. I wasn’t terribly fond of it at the time, however.

I am notoriously bad with languages. I’d taken a year of Spanish but was barely able to pass. Latin I don’t recall being much better in. Speaking languages has always been something I’m not very good at. I don’t have that ability to switch on in my brain and move from English to another language and vice versa. It’s a skill that some people have and that I don’t. Therefore on those rare occasions when I even attempt to converse in Spanish, I sound pretty much like an imbecile because I have to go so slowly and am constantly asking the other person to repeat themselves. I’m sure those who have tried to have a conversation in Spanish with me would much rather have all of their finger and toe nails yanked out slowly one a time than to have attempt another one.

Obviously that’s not going to be a problem in Latin. It’s not that I’m going to meet someone on a street corner who is conversational in Latin, let alone fluent. You have as much of a chance as meeting someone fluent in Sumerian. There are probably some academics who can carry on a conversation in one or both of those languages but there’s no real need to – not many Sumerians running around these days.

So why bother teaching a language that nobody on the planet speaks? In the case of Latin, it’s a root language – most of our Western European languages are heavily influenced by Latin. It is also used extensively in the scientific, medical and liturgical communities. The Roman Catholic mass is still celebrated in Latin regularly. Plants and animals are identified by their Latin names, as are diseases.

Still, does knowing Latin or Sumerian or ancient Greek have any sort of use? Knowledge is never a bad thing, even knowledge which is on its surface not useful. If nothing else it preserves a part of our history and our human culture which would otherwise disappear. This is important in that letting a culture die is no less heinous than letting an animal species go extinct.

I often hear young people complain that schools teach them things they’ll never have to know. What use is grammar, or algebra or geography when you have the Internet to look things up instantly? First of all, our brain is like a muscle – it needs exercise just like everything else. Sitting back on the couch, vegetating or playing Call of Duty or watching the Cartoon Network shuts your brain down rather than encourages its use. Exercising the mind is at least as important as exercising the body (and too many of us do neither these days) because one without the other doesn’t work very well.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m woefully out of shape. I need to exercise more than I do, and I’m fully aware that it’s not just an option – it’s mandatory that I make that effort. Exercise helps your body work at peak efficiency, gets your system running and makes you feel good. It’s like having a car; if you leave it in the garage all the time it’s not going to run very well. You have to drive it occasionally.

The same goes for the mind. As in most things, we tend to take the path of least resistance whenever possible. If something requires too much thought, we shove it aside and go for something that requires very little brainpower. After all, why not play a game that requires you to blast everything that moves rather than a game that requires you to figure out not just who to blast but when? The first is easier  and less stressful, the latter requires more intellectual investment. Which sort of game would you expect is more popular?

I have a nagging suspicion that we’re beginning to develop a bias against education in this country. Kids complain that it’s boring, adults don’t want to be taxed for it and there is a real sense that people who are intelligent are made fun of and are objects of suspicion. We deal with the lowest common denominator and the lower we can make that denominator, the easier it is to deal.

That’s why most people are woefully ignorant of the things that should matter to them. Not Latin – but of the things that come from it, like our legal system. Most people are unaware of the laws that are being made at this very moment that affect their lives. Most people are uncaring of what their politicians are doing except in a very general way. We’re preparing to undertake another presidential election this year; are we truly going to let the guy with the best ads win?

Learning Latin and learning algebra may not be useful in and of themselves, but developing the self-discipline we need to learn them is extremely important. When we are open to learning new things, we tend to be more aware of what’s going on around us. It’s clear that the powers that be would be more comfortable if we the people are more ignorant and so far they are getting their way.

I’m pretty sure everyone agrees that this country needs a great deal of change. How that change takes place is going to be something of a war in this country for our very soul and character. The most devastating weapons in that war will be our minds. Sadly, too many of us are setting out to go unarmed and an army unarmed is an army defeated before they even begin.

I have been somewhat absent from my blog for awhile and to be honest, I needed a bit of a break. It was depressing really covering a lot of the same subjects to death and in all honesty, I was really beginning to lose my faith in people.

I’ve always thought of myself to be optimistic and believed that people are basically good but I don’t know if this is something that comes with age or if there is a real change in people going on, but I see much more self-centeredness going on these days. People seem to only be about what short-term gains for themselves they can manage and the fact that we are all in the same boat together doesn’t seem to compute. Of course, I’ve been bemoaning this ad nauseam – I’m sure you’re as tired of reading it as I am of writing it.

It really falls to this – I really need to start taking some of my own advice. I have been so disappointed in people, so hypocritical about pointing out their sins that I forget one of my own tenets – forgive the sinner, hate the sin. People are of course going to do what’s best for themselves – that’s what we’re geared to do. Those in power have preyed upon the instinct since civilization began. Madison Avenue’s use of it is a bit more recent.

While I agree that we have to start looking at the larger picture and start realizing that life isn’t all about ourselves, I need to look at a smaller aspect of that picture before I can tackle the king-size photo. When I talk about “people” what I’m really talking about is a collection of individuals, all of whom are different from one another and run the gamut, from the practical to the dreamers, from the hedonists to the pragmatists, from richer to poorer, with every religious, philosophical and political belief under the sun. People piss me off. Individuals are friends, family, acquaintances. I can put a face on individuals. People are just a teeming mass of self-centered jerks.

When someone drives like a maniac and puts other people at risk because they’re in a hurry, even though it’s an individual behind the wheel I see people. When I read about Fred Phelps and his band of Kansas idiots, these are each and every one of them an individual but I still see people. When I hear another news story about corporate bigwigs and lobbyists telling congress that legislation that would help reduce our carbon footprint would be too expensive, these are all individuals at work but I only see people.

We are all of us our own universe. There are a few planets – friends and families – and the occasional comet (Uncle Harry coming in for one of his infrequent but chaotic visits) but really, we are the center of our own universe. The planets revolve around us. Of course, we also are part of other universes and revolve around other centers. Perhaps the analogy isn’t very apt unless you want to try a science fiction quantum mechanics multi-dimensional theory on for size but still you get my drift. Most of us are only capable of experiencing and seeing things through the filters of our own universe.

That we are part of a larger galaxy somehow eludes most of us. We just want to keep our universe free of hassle. No black holes, no gamma radiation bursts, just nice, clean, neat and easy. Everything in its place.

But that makes it difficult to see the world as its own universe and everyone in it as planets in their own orbits. We can see easier the big picture in that case than the individual planets – but because we can’t see the individual planets, we lose focus on the big picture. That has been my own sin of late.

It is going to be difficult for me, but this is my New Year’s resolution; to see People as individuals and to understand that the reason that they are People is because they are used to not being seen as individuals themselves. I need to realize that these individuals are all individually imperfect – some would call them sinners. All of us individuals do not always make the best decisions – some would call these sins. To deal with People, I must learn to relate to them as individuals. I must forgive the sinner their sins, and relate to them rather than be annoyed by them. I must try harder to effect change through love and kindness rather than anger and frustration.

Two of the people I admire most in this world are Martin Luther King Jr., whose birthday we celebrate this weekend, and Mahatma Gandhi, the great Indian spiritual and secular leader. They are great men and justifiably revered because they felt the best way to effect change was through peaceful, non-violent means. Yes, it got them both assassinated but their lives will continue to affect the world long after I’m gone – centuries down the road even. My goal is to try and live by their example and work for a better world so that years from now, my grandchildren may not have to be as annoyed and frustrated as I am. Baby steps.

I’m not trying to compare myself to these great men. I’m trying to inspire myself with them. I hope that their examples will compel me to achieve things in a way I can be proud of, and to live with their examples of love and peace.

It is appropriate to reflect on, this long weekend, that the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream, one which remains unfulfilled forty years later. We may well be closer to it than we were back then, but we still have a long way to go. That can be taken as a reason to be bitter and angry, but were he alive today I suspect he would roll up his sleeves and say that there is still much work to do, let’s get out there and do it. His dream can still come true but not until we learn to hate the sin and love the sinner. It’s quite the New Year’s resolution, but one worth tackling.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 8,400 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 3 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

PROLOGUE I

Then

Excerpt from The Hero’s Guild Civic Guidebook 244^th Edition, edited by Guild Archivist Master Tivas Kusheri

SAFEHAVEN

Located at the confluence of the Sea of Storms and the River Tranquodius, Safehaven is a major seaport on the Southeastern Coast of the continent known as Kingsland, with trade routes to the continents Dynarus, Emach, Volsove, Finderes, Tomok, Ambrosius, Motar and Shelland, as well as the Eastern Empires, the Island Kingdoms and beyond. Safehaven has existed more or less in its current location for nearly a thousand years. Because of its strategic importance on both land and sea trade routes, nearly every species maintains an embassy here. Even the reclusive Mer are found here in larger numbers than nearly all the other seaports in the Realm. The Mariner’s Guild is a formidable presence in Safehaven, exercising great political power in civic matters. Elected officials of the township, including the Lord Mayor (the office of which is filled as of this writing by the honorable Alexandre de Bont) are almost always affiliated with the Mariner’s Guild in some way. A wise politician in Safehaven will listen when the Mariner’s Guild speaks.

As for the Hero’s Guild, we maintain a sizable recruiting and training facility in Safehaven as well as a regional assignments office more suited to much larger municipalities than Safehaven, but as many contracts requiring travel to other continents bring Guild members who cannot by reason of aversion or lack of funds use Portal Magic to transverse these distances, the necessity is there. Finding passage to even the most remote of locations is generally obtainable with minimal difficulty, and the Guildhall in Safehaven has a diverse roster of talents to fulfill any need.

Of course, the usual guilds, societies and confraternities maintain presences in Safehaven ranging from small offices to large complexes. As such, Safehaven maintains a population of fifteen to twenty thousand at any given moment. While the town’s economic livelihood revolves around the docks (and the public houses that feed, house and entertain the mostly transient population of sailors and teamsters), there is a large presence of importers, exporters and merchants that keep the economic engine of the transport of cargo running. While some farms surround the town, the Hills of Westmarch (in which Safehaven is nestled) are very dangerous and are a short distance from the safety of the town walls, making farming an occupation that requires a great deal of bravery and skill with arms. Part of the Guild’s contract with the town requires the protection of outlying farms, who supply the town with much of its food supply (although fishing is the main source of food for the town). Guild magic users can find plenty of work weaving protective spells around the various farms and ranches near Safehaven. A number of Imperial Wilderness Outposts, staffed with a minimum of a garrison of men, maintain vigilance in the Hills for larger threats, including the armies of Ur Bathog (which is a perilously short distance away on the other side of the River Tranquodius).

Because of its proximity to Ur Bathog (less than 100 miles away) and its strategic location on Realm shipping lines, Safehaven has unfortunately drawn more than its share of attention from Ur Bathog during all three wars. During the Bad Times following the most recent conflict when the Armies of the Underground overwhelmed the Realm and the Spider Queen sat on the Throne of Brightness for a time, Safehaven suffered most grievously under the boot of Ur Bathog. As a result, Safehaven became a hotbed of subversive activity against the Spider Queen, most of which manifested themselves as raids against the Black Fleet of Ur Bathog. The most daring and infamous pirate based in Safehaven during those years was Kerland Rodo, whose ship the Red Wind created a great deal of difficulty for the Queen and her occupying force. Many of the vaunted warships of the Black Fleet, Ur Bathog’s finest sailing ships, went to the bottom of the Sea of Storms courtesy of the courageous crew of the Red Wind. Many magical items coveted by the dark Wizard-Knights of Ur Bathog, the dreaded Plaguebringers, were looted by Rodo and his crew. After years of harassing the Black Fleet, the Spider Queen eventually turned an inordinate amount of attention to Kerland Rodo, who was slowly driven to Hunter’s Point near the border of Ur Bathog itself, where he was engaged in a fierce battle with Admiral Mantis, the Scourge of the Seas. Although the raiders fought bravely, they were terribly outnumbered and the Red Wind was eventually fired and sunk. While a few of his inner circle survived, Rodo himself was never seen again following the battle. It is assumed he was killed during the encounter, or died of his wounds shortly thereafter.

                                                *                                   *                                   *

            The sun was sinking low in the nearly cloudless sky, a nearly perfect afternoon, neither too hot nor too cold. Summer’s end was approaching, the kiss of autumn was in the air. A good day to die, thought Kerland Rodo with a grim smile. He lay in the bottom of the rowboat, feeling the motion of what had once been the captain’s gig of the vaunted corsair Red Wind as the survivors of his inner circle rowed down the River Tranquodius. His closest friend, Cintas Tolsever of the Woodland Elven, was busy trying to Heal him, but Rodo knew his friend’s efforts would be in vain. No, Kerland Rodo was dying and he knew it, and the thought didn’t distress him quite so much as he thought it might have. For a 39-year-old man, he felt very old and tired but he had been feeling that way the past year, as the Black Fleet with their thrice-damned Plaguebringers had closed in on him. All of his skills and cleverness had been devoted to evading the wrath of the Spider Queen; he had been of little use to the suffering people of the Westmarch. Of course, fighting a hopeless war against the forces of darkness will tire a man out some. The thought brought a slightly ironic grin to his once-handsome face, now pale and blood-streaked.

            His gaze turned to the southwest. The plume of smoke that marked the final resting place of his beloved Red Wind was still visible in the distance, which brought a pain to his heart much sharper than that of any of his wounds. Rodo sighed. All things must end, and he had known all his life that his end would come sooner rather than later. An oracle in the Island Kingdom of B’Landes had foretold it.

            Wearily, Rodo raised his head. “Cintas my friend. Did the circle…” he coughed, spitting up a trickle of blood that Cintas didn’t fail to notice. “Are they here? Where is Quinn Goodreaux? I do not see him.” The elf answered gravely. “Dead. A rock troll stove in his skull as he protected our escape.”

 “And Fortunato? I do not see him either.”

            Cintas’ voice was quiet. “Also slain.” He paused, almost unwilling to say the words that must follow, but he knew his captain had to be informed. “By mortisvag blade.”
            Rodo sank back, letting out a groan, although he had never yet made a sound despite horrific wounds. The sound was part grief for his friend, but part realization that his worst fear had come to pass. “Ahhhh, Gods. Then his soul has gone into the darkness. By nightfall, his corpse will belong to the Spider Queen and the Army of the Underground will come to our very doorstep with the undead Fortunato at its head.” Cintas nodded sadly, his handsome face composed as befitting his Elvish heritage but his eyes showing the great pain in his heart. At least, Rodo thought he saw it. The dying may see things not as they were, but as they wanted them to be. Cintas was as stoic as any of his race, but Rodo knew that the elf was as aware as he what would happen if the Queen were to find what was hidden in the Cavern. If Kerland had the strength, he himself would have been screaming in frustration. So much had been sacrificed and it would all be for naught if the Spider Queen looted his caverns. His lair was a labyrinth filled with traps but eventually she would find it. It was inevitable now. If he could have cried, he would have.

            All at once, what he had to do came to him as if whispered to him by some merciless God. He shuddered and felt his body chill. Cintas, seeing this, threw a blanket on him, misinterpreting the significance of his horror for pain. The pain of his wounds paled besides what he must now endure. He closed his eyes and shuddered. Oh Gods, the burden that he had to bear; this was too much.

            When he spoke again, his voice was barely a harsh whisper. Rodo was finding it more and more difficult to speak. “The Orb must not be taken. We cannot allow it. The Mer…?” Cintas shook his head. “They suffered terrible losses, my Captain. Barely a hundred survive, not much more. They could possibly stand a few moments against the might of Ur Bathog, but no longer. They would be wiped out in a matter of minutes, and the Queen would still possess what she has sought for so long. It may be that we must attempt to destroy the Orb.”

            Rodo opened his eyes then. He seemed strangely peaceful, Cintas thought, but the steel that had made him a formidable captain was still present. The dying man turned his gaze to the elf. “We do not know that we can destroy the Orb, Cintas. We also do not know that in destroying the Orb, we may be achieving the very thing the Spider Queen is after. We must also remember the prophecy. A warrior, the Lost Child, will find it. His son, the Statesman, will protect it and the son of his son, the Great King, will at last use it to banish Darkness forever. We cannot destroy it, Cintas. We must not.”

 “What do you suggest then, Captain Rodo? We can remove it from the Cavern…find a place of safety for it.”

 “No, the damned Plaguebringers would know in an instant that the Orb was vulnerable. Its presence would draw them like a moth to flame.”

            Cintas frowned. “What, then? Fortunato will know the way to safely lead the Queen and her army right to it. He can hand it to them himself. The Hills of Westmarch are much safer for the Orb than the Cavern is.” Cintas didn’t like where this was going and felt an icy hand grip his heart as his Captain whispered “You have the right of it, but nonetheless the Orb must remain in the Cavern.” Rodo coughed up a fresh dribble of blood. “I have a plan, though it is a fell one.”   

            The dying man took in a long, shuddering breath. Even breathing was difficult now; soon enough he would not be breathing at all. “Your people have a ceremony that they perform in times of great need. A spell of protection that ties the spirits of the dead and the living to a single object or place…” Rodo’s body was racked by hacking coughs and more blood and spittle trickled from his lips. Cintas sat back abruptly, his eyes wide with horror as he realized what his friend was asking. “You wish me to perform the Shinia’a Zarus? Gods and trees, Kerland, no! You’d be condemned to an eternity of torture, never knowing rest. You’d be compelled to kill to protect the Orb and with each death your soul would become bleaker, more hollow. At last you’d be worse than a ghost. You would be a mindless, soulless spirit compelled to remain and kill without knowing the reason why, full of pain that cannot know surcease, at least until the Lost Child comes to rightfully claim the Orb and you might just kill him for spite. I cannot sentence you to such horror, Kerland.”

            The dying captain clutched the hand of his friend. “There is no other way. And once the Lost Child comes to claim the Orb, my soul will at last know peace, or at least oblivion.”Cintas tried to speak. Other options would spring into being, but his logical, orderly mind would shoot them down before he could speak them aloud. The sound of the oars dipping into the water and the grunts of the oarsmen underlying it were the only sounds as Kerland lay, his eyes closed, the blood from his wounds pooling in the bottom of the boat.

            Eight men had survived the fury of Ur Bathog at Hunter’s Point, and all of them were in this boat. Besides Cintas and Rodo was Simon Cambridge, a small, lithe man who had, with typical modesty, awarded himself the title of King of Traps. One of the craftiest thieves in the Realm, Simon had devised many of the traps in the Caverns that were meant to protect the men who lived there. Now, those same traps would protect a treasure beyond price, if they held. Simon noticed Cintas’ stare and gave him a weak grin. Well-loved by the women of Safehaven, Simon Cambridge had survived the battle without a scratch. He always seemed to fall on his feet, like the cat that was his animus.

            Kren Forgelighter rowed beside him, his Dwarven frame more than equal to rowing the boat, though it was a task he would scarcely have trained for in the depths of Fire Mountain. Kren was a magnificent warrior and a talented weapons master. The dwarrow had seen more than his fair share of tragedy already, and by the looks of it, would see more this day. Kren was silent, giving complete concentration on the task at hand and yet if a soldier of the Army of Hate had appeared on the shore of the river, no doubt he would have been the first to notice. His flame-red hair and beard were matted with dried blood, some of it his own but most that of those he had fought with such valor on the deck of the Red Wind in the final moments of the battle.

            Andor Morgan manned the tiller, one arm broken and nearly useless. The blonde Clirrican was the war strategist for Rodo, nearly as clever as the captain himself. Much of Rodo’s success was due to Morgan’s meticulous planning and preparation. Morgan’s vanity, however, was a weakness that sometimes infuriated the elf; the two were never close. Morgan had thought himself Rodo’s closest friend, and he was, if you considered only humans. Perhaps Cintas resented Rodo’s friendship with Morgan, as Morgan clearly resented Cintas. However, there was also mutual respect between the two for the other’s talent and ability.

            Rhodes Jamar, helmsman of the Red Wind sat near Morgan. Jamar, a native of Safehaven, had many generations of mariner in his blood. He had what Rodo called “a tracker’s gift” and had the uncanny ability to predict what a ship’s captain that was being chased by the Red Wind would do. Cintas could not recall an occasion that a ship, once in Jamar’s sight, had gotten away. The leather-skinned Jamar was broad-shouldered and splay-legged, but strong with the broadsword, as many dead piled near the Red Wind’s wheel would have attested, had they been alive enough to do so. Jamar was not a handsome man, but his blazing intensity was unforgettable. He turned now to Cintas, a worried expression on his unlovely face. “Cintas, we are near to the Cavern, perhaps five minutes.” Cintas nodded. The elf knew his decision would have to come soon, but how could he decide to damn his closest friend’s eternal soul?

            Near to Jamar sat Reid Sarkasian, Rodo’s bard and wizard. Even now, the rotund human was muttering incantations, hoping to confuse any longboats from the Black Fleet that might be following. So far, he had done a magnificent job. Reid was a man of great passion, but he had never taken a woman to his bed, as far as Cintas knew, which was to many human men the measure of a man. The Elven made their measure on ability and accomplishment, and by that measure, Reid Sarkasian was as great a man as any in the boat. His formidable talents had saved them many times, and he was as devoted to Rodo as any man in the Circle, save one.

            Crouching next to Rodo’s prone body was the last of the survivors. Jupa of the Windward Isles, master of the cudgel, was Rodo’s bodyguard. He was the greatest warrior of the entire crew, a chief among his people. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, several ribbons decorating his locks, each one symbolizing a battle he had been victorious in. The side of his head was shaved in the manner of his people, marking him as an important man in his tribe. Elaborate tattoos, depicting his family history, decorated his head, chest and neck. The thick torso of Jupa bespoke his strength, not only of body but of character. Jupa was a simple man, given to simple thoughts. The strategies of war bored him. He preferred to wade in and hack away, but he was disciplined enough to change his style when fighting an enemy of superior numbers, and he had done so with great success. He wore only a leather loincloth. Bonechains dangled from his ears, nipples and around his waist. It was he who had carried Rodo from the burning deck of the doomed ship, although he had been gravely wounded himself. He had refused any Healing, insisting that Reid and Cintas concentrate their energies on Rodo. From the blood that bubbled out of the gash in Jupa’s side with every heavy breath, Cintas reckoned that Jupa would be following his beloved Captain into the Eternal Forest not long after.

            All of them were good men, all legends in their own way, but most important to Cintas, all friends, they were family when you get right down to it. It was Rodo who was the greatest among them, who had fought the tyranny of Ur Bathog and used its riches to feed and clothe the starving and hopeless citizens of the Realm, who were slowly dying under the yoke of the Spider Queen. He had fought the good fight and saved countless lives with his own blood. It was just not fair that he should die this way. And, to consign his soul to eternal suffering for his troubles, never to know the peace of Zindr’anamor, the Forest Everlasting? Cintas found the taste bitter in his mouth, all the more so because he knew his friend was right this one final time. Gods, he deserves better thought Cintas to himself and that was as much prayer as he was capable of giving. The Gods had abandoned the Realm, it seemed.

            “I will do it,” said Cintas in a strangled whisper. Rodo nodded and closed his eyes, seemingly more at peace now. More violent coughing and more blood dribbling from his lips. Cintas knew, as any good healer would, how terrible Rodo’s wounds were. Will alone was keeping their captain alive, it certainly wasn’t his ministrations. Morgan looked back at Rodo worriedly, then looked up at Cintas, his eyes asking the question he could not bring himself to speak aloud. “It will not be long now,” Cintas said quietly. Morgan looked away. The others heard it too. Cintas thought he heard Sarkasian choking back a sob. He dared not look; the emotion in these men were almost more than the elf could bear. Jamar was the one who spoke. “There is the entrance. Pull for the shore, lads.” Nobody in that boat, save Cintas and perhaps Rodo knew an even more terrible truth about the Shinia’a Zarus. For the ceremony to work properly, three others must die as well. Cintas wondered who among them would be willing to lay their lives down with their captain.

            The boat beached on a wide shoreline at the foot of a gently sloping hill. The more able-bodied men picked up Rodo’s litter, Jupa now too weak to handle it alone. They carried him into the hills that had sheltered them for so long. Rodo was glassy-eyed, occasionally grunting when the bearers stumbled. Jupa led the party, cudgel at the ready, staggering at times, a fresh flow of blood erupting from his wounded side. His loincloth was almost black, soaked through with the blood of his wounds, and the blood of the warriors of Ur Bathog, whom he had sent to whatever Hell awaited them.

            As the sun descended to the horizon, the perfect afternoon coming to an end, they came to the entrance of a cave, made nondescript by hanging vines and underbrush. It didn’t look like it could go back more than a few meters, but once inside, a magic word spoken by Sarkasian revealed a passage that went deep into the ground below the Hills of Westmarch. Silently, the men carried their leader into the familiar stronghold they had lived in for nearly twenty years, all knowing that this time, he would not be leaving it.

            They expertly navigated the often confusing labyrinth of passages, past lethal traps set in better times by Simon Cambridge, past rooms filled with fabulous wealth, plunder taken from the treasure galleons of Ur Bathog. At last, they came to what appeared to be a dead end. Quickly, Sarkasian chanted several words of power while making a broad circular waving gesture with both arms. A door came into view, undetectable even by most magical means. The door led into a chamber unadorned and Spartan. Only a pedestal of limestone in the center of the room served as furniture. On the pedestal sat an unremarkable crystal sphere, polished to brilliance, about eight inches in diameter, and wound with silver filigree. From the interior of the crystal, a soft blue-white glow emanated, lighting the room, casting no shadows. Expert magic users, such as Sarkasian and Cintas, could detect the enormous power that the artifact contained. Even those without magical ability could feel that this was no mere glowbulb.

            The bearers set down the litter and stepped back. Rodo was nearly white-faced, eyes closed, breathing ragged. The shadow of death was clearly upon his face. Cintas knew that Rodo couldn’t survive even another hour. He spoke for his friend in a soft, strong voice. “My friends, our captain is near death. The fellowship of the Red Wind is no more.” Jupa groaned and sank to the floor, no longer able to stand. Tears were streaming down Sarkasian’s face, and the others appeared to be on the verge of weeping themselves. All could sense something of enormous importance was about to happen. Cintas didn’t intend to keep them waiting. “Captain Rodo has asked me to perform an ancient rite that we Elven rarely perform. It is called the Shinia’a Zarus which in our tongue means “woeful binding.” It is much more than that.

            “The purpose of the ceremony is to bind the soul of an individual to a place or an object, and install that soul as the protector of that which it is bound to. It is not something we Elven do lightly, for it forever separates that soul from the afterlife, and denies that person a peaceful death. It also, over time, warps that soul in ways that cannot always be predicted, or even imagined, removing as time goes by anything of the light that once dwelled within it. Our captain has asked me to bind his soul to the Orb.

            “There is no other way to protect the Orb. The armies of the Spider Queen will arrive here in hours, the secrets of our Cavern betrayed by the soul that once belonged to Fortunato, stripped from him by the Spider Queen and her cursed mortisvag blade. The Army of the Underground would take the Orb to Ur Bathog and present it to its dark ruler, and she would plunge the Realm into eternal darkness and pain, worse than now, as unimaginable as that sounds. It would mean the destruction of light, justice and peace. It would mean the end of life itself, as she makes herself into the goddess she dreams of becoming. We cannot destroy the Orb, for we do not know what its destruction would do to the Realm. It might end all life in all the worlds and dimensions; it is that powerful. Our world would never have been, and all our lives and those we love, and those we revere would never have occurred. We have one option open to us now, and it is a terrible one.

            “The rite is costly. Kerland Rodo will die in its performance, but his death is certain regardless. The ritual, however, requires three lives to follow him in death, to aid him in his responsibility. They will be specters, not bound to the Orb in the same way; they will be called to it by Rodo when aid is needed, so they will know some peace, but it is a fitful slumber. They will be released to eternal rest when the Orb is safely in the hands of the Lost Child. There will not be enough left of Rodo’s soul when that happens to allow him any sort of rest. I myself cannot be one of the three, since it is I who must perform the ritual. Three of the six of you must decide here and now to die. It will be painless, I can promise you. Time is short, so you must choose quickly.”

            Jupa struggled to his feet, his eyes filled with pain. He could not speak, but he tapped his chest twice. I will go, he gestured. Cintas nodded. “You were a foregone conclusion, warrior of the Isles. Who else?”

            There were looks exchanged among the remaining men, then slowly Reid Sarkasian stepped forward. “I will go. I have nothing left in me, and I am tired. Let other bards sing songs of me!” His lips twisted in a ghastly approximation of the easy, crooked grin that the cheerful, outgoing bard was known for. Rhodes Jamar stepped forward immediately. “My beautiful Red Wind is ashes flying on the breeze to safe harbor among the stars. A helmsman without a ship is of no damn use to anyone. I will join my ship and my shipmates in the Hereafter.” Cintas noted the great sigh of relief breathed in by Morgan.

            Simon Cambridge let loose a long, shuddering sigh and then spoke. “I suppose I should die now as well. That way, the secrets of the traps of our cavern will never fall into the hands of the Queen.” Cintas smiled sadly at the thief. “Simon, my friend, your words do you credit, but we only need three. You shall live, and make your way to our friends in Shile. You know of who I speak. They will help you forget and deny the Queen your knowledge.” The self-styled King of Traps hung his head and nodded quickly; Cintas could see the tears falling from the eyes of the thief.

            The elf then turned to the stout, flame-haired dwarf. “Kren Forgelighter, our people have been enemies since the sun and the moon were new. And I say to you that I have never known a stouter friend or a warrior I’d more wish beside me in combat. You, along among us, have children and family to tend to. Your duty now lies with them. There is no shame in walking past the dark door the others pass through.”

            Kren looked up at the elf, and Cintas was oddly moved to see the tears flowing without shame down the dwarrow’s cheeks. “Cintas, our people have ever known enmity, and at first I was part of this company because we fought a common enemy greater than even one another. I have grown to trust you and have named you grishak, dwarf-friend and welcome in every dwarrow forge. You and yours will always be welcome in the feasting halls of clan Kren.”

            Cintas nodded. He looked at the men who would live and smiled. “Morgan, Kren, Simon, you must leave now and scatter to the winds. The armies of Ur Bathog converge on this place, and the reanimated corpse that was once our comrade Fortunato will lead them to this very room. Take what supplies you need, but be gone in five minutes. I will begin the ritual then. Anyone still in the caves when I begin the rite will be caught in the spell and share the fate of these men.” He touched his fist to his heart, then his index and middle finger to his lips and forehead in the traditional Elven gesture of farewell. “We will not meet again in this life,” he said.

            Wordlessly, Morgan, Kren and Simon left the chamber. Stopping only to retrieve food, water and weapons, all three left the cavern the way they had come in and not a one looked back, each walking in a different direction but none towards the west, where the army would be coming from. None of them would ever return to the Hills of Westmarch again in their lives, nor would any of them meet one another again.

            Inside the chamber, Jupa lay against the base of the pedestal, panting as it became harder for him to breathe. Cintas knew that Jupa was perhaps an hour away from death if left alone, but would in fact die much sooner than that, at the hands of his friend. The thought was unnerving for a moment, then the elf banished it from his mind. He had a ritual to perform.

            Sensing that Morgan, Kren and Simon were beyond the range of the magic that the ceremony would unleash, Cintas turned to the men who were about to die. “My friends, I love you all. Fare well, until we meet in the Forest Eternal. My captain, may the Gods take pity on you.” Rodo was barely breathing, his eyes glassy. The three condemned men sat in a triangle around Rodo’s supine body. Cintas stood outside the triangle, apart from the three whose spirits would be torn from their bodies. He began chanting in a mellifluous contralto words from a language spoken by no living elf. ’Kikiaka’a sinila moso trillcatar…”

            The sound of his voice was oddly comforting to the doomed men, and a great peace filled the cavern, as the love these men bore for one another made a statement to the Gods who may or may not have been watching. A strong white light began to shine in the triangle, enveloping all four men, who found themselves falling asleep. Cintas continued chanting, unmindful of the tears that fell like rain from his golden eyes. The ceremony was more beautiful than he thought it would be, and it was much easier than he’d anticipated. It didn’t take long at all for it to be completed. Cintas then left the room, at peace with what he had done, and so left the caverns of his youth for the forests of his homeland, moving quickly through a land ravaged by hate and cruelty, finding some surcease among the green coolness of the woodland. For the rest of his life, he would be hounded by agents of the Spider Queen but they would never defeat him. He would die an elder, revered among his people. Of Kerland Rodo and the shinia’a zarus he would never speak of until the day he died.

            Several hours after the ritual had been complete, the peace and quiet of the empty cavern was shattered by the arrival of the Drow, accompanied by legions of orcs, goblins, hellspawn and other creatures allied with the Spider Queen. They came into the caverns, gibbering with hate and madness, focused on carrying out the will of their heartless ruler. The zombie that had been Fortunato pointed them unerringly to the hidden door of the Orb chamber, and opened it, unleashing the fruits of the shinia’a zarus.

            They say the screams took many days to die.

The old saying goes that you can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family. You’re more or less stuck with them. As far as I’m concerned that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I have been known to pick on my sister from time to time, particularly when we were young. I’d make a few choice remarks about her height, finding ways to emphasize words like “short” as in “she sure got the SHORT end of the stick. Hawhawhaw!” I was sure a comedian back in the day. I used to like to pull her hat down over her eyes. She’d look at me with her jaw jutting out. My sister was feisty back in the day. It’s a wonder that she didn’t kill me before I was 18.

She was also my biggest defender and when someone made a rude remark about me in the hallway at school, I heard her tear a bigger and older person a new one over it. For my part I once chased someone across the school parking lot because he made a remark about my sister. Say what you want about me, but if you make a remark about my family you’re more than likely to have something painful rammed up your hiney.

Families are tricky things as well. There’s an awfully thin line between well-meaning concern and sticking your pierogie where it don’t belong. Being family doesn’t give you the right to determine how others should live, who they should love and how they should spend their money. That can be a very hard thing to live by, especially when you see someone heading for disaster and heartbreak. You can give someone the benefit of your experience but once that’s done, back off. Say your piece and shut up, which is a pretty fine policy to observe on nearly every occasion in any case.

It is human nature, however, to wish our families were perfect – that they could give us something we want (financial support) rather than what we need (moral support). We all want the kind of familial closeness we see on television and in the movies; loving, caring families who kid each other sure but when the chips are down then the ranks are closed and the wagons circled. We want the tenderness and warmth of a holiday gathering with our familial elements coming from every corner of the globe to the picturesque house we grew up in somewhere in New England. We want the Norman Rockwell painting.

In real life, families aren’t like that. Families can be snarky, sometimes downright irritating. Families require patience and love and caring and sometimes we get far less out of them than we put into them. Families can be hopeless.

Because we love someone doesn’t mean we have to like what they do, or how they treat us. Because we are blood related doesn’t mean we have to approve of what they say or do. I know that there are things I’ve written that members of my family have pulled me aside and said “I really don’t agree with you there,” and there have been occasional hurt feelings among the more conservative elements in my family when I’ve written things critical of the Tea Party, organized religion and conservatism in general. I’m sure that there are those in my family who think I’m an A-hole for writing those things.

That’s okay. We’re not always going to agree. My son the conservative has completely different political beliefs than either Da Queen and I do; that has led to some spirited dinner table discussions. He has every right to his beliefs and although I don’t share them, I support him in finding his own system of beliefs. I hope I can change his mind of course, but I won’t love him any less if he doesn’t.

And that’s family. It’s not all showing up at Mom and Dad’s house at Christmas, playing touch football at family reunions or vacationing at Disney World. It’s supporting each other even if we drive each other crazy (and I assure you, we all do). Do I wish some of my relatives were different? Do I wish they were kinder, less secretive, less obnoxious? Sure I do. That doesn’t mean I don’t love them for exactly who they are, nor do I expect them to change who they are. I just expect them to be able to be in the same room with one another.

That’s not always possible, even in the best of families. The sad thing is that we waste so much time in petty disputes, quarreling over he said-she said situations that in the long run are trivial and meaningless. Family may be forever but family members are not and I’m of an age where they are beginning to disappear one by one. My father’s entire family unit is gone; most of his relatives I never got to know, which is partially the fault of my parents for not including them in the lives of their children, but also my own fault for not seeking them out on my own.

I do cherish the family I have, from the Ritchots and Sopkos in Winnipeg , the Michelinskis in Toronto, the Iveys in New Mexico and the Lenigs in Philadelphia and Colorado Springs and of course to the deVillalvillas here in Florida and in Connecticut. I love my friends, don’t get me wrong – but family is family regardless and that occupies a special place in one’s heart.

Yeah, you can’t choose your family but maybe that’s one of the miracles of life that we love them even though we’re kind of stuck with them. Do I look at those wonderful TV and movie families and suffer a little gene envy? Sure, I would love to have those sorts of holiday gatherings in those bucolic settings but that’s all fantasy land. I love the family I have and treasure every minute I get to spend with them. We are far from perfect, but I bet there are people who would love to have the family I got stuck with, and I’m sure the same is true of yours as well. Even though it’s not thanksgiving, that’s a reason to be thankful for every day of the year.

It’s a given that life is at best a difficult proposition. None of us get through it without getting bloodied in some fashion. All of us have those dark nights of the soul that, when morning comes, leave us exhausted and intimidated. It’s a wonder any of us ever make it out of bed.

In a metaphorical sense, most of us actually haven’t made it out of bed. We’re there with the covers wrapped tightly over our heads, our entire posture telling the world to go away. The world has a habit of not listening to our wishes however as much as we would like it to.

You see, the thing is that we’ve watched our country stolen away from us under our very noses; while we were lounging in our beds, our opportunities have been eroded, our jobs have been sent overseas, our mortgages have been sold to a predatory financial institution who know that finding a way to foreclose is a way to easy money, and our politicians have become policy instruments of big business. All of this has gone on and we still refuse to get out of bed. “I don’t wanna,” we whine like petulant children on a school day, “You go to school, mom!” we shriek.

I grew up in a conservative household and viewed the activism of the ’60s as the work of drugged-out socialists whose agenda was to reward the lazy with government handouts and tax the middle class out of existence. As I grew older, my world view began to change as I realized that not everything my father and those like him told me was entirely correct. I learned to see the activists of that time and later as young people committed to changing the world into a better place, not just for themselves but for their children. The social change that rose from their efforts – civil rights, the women’s movement, environmental protection and the end of the Vietnam War – serves as a proud achievement and a reminder that change can be effected if enough people are willing to stand up for it.

Now we live in an era where complacency is the norm. People sit in front of their computers, their iPads, their television screens and watch the bad news trickle in. They listen to late night comedians joke about political scandals and faux pas. They watch their bosses nervously – those who have jobs at all – and hope they still have one next week.

I have come to admire the Occupy Wall Street movement that has with little fanfare or press coverage made it clear that there are those who are no longer going to stand for big business raping the people of this country. They are serving notice that there are more of us – the ordinary citizens of the United States – than there are of the superwealthy. The arrogance and lack of ethics that plague the American corporate culture at this time – the philosophy that profits are far more important than people and that short term gains outweigh the long-term health of the economy – have been noted and will no longer be tolerated.

In a strange way, I even admire the Tea Party. I disagree with many of their economic ideas, and I believe that some of those ideas have helped lead us into the mess that we’re in. However, the people in it have at least stood up for what they believed and have effected change in this nation. That is to be respected. They may be fighting for ideas that I think are not very bright, but at least they’re fighting for something.

Until recently, the left hasn’t really done that effectively, not since the ’70s anyway. We need to take a good hard look at what is important to us. Do we want a country with a strong, growing economy based on innovation and establishing new technologies?  Do we want a government that protects the rights of its citizens, from the wealthiest to the poorest and does what’s right for the people of the United States ahead of what’s right for the businesses of the United States?

Do we want to leave our children and our children’s children a planet that is protected by responsible, intelligent environmental policies? Do we want out military to act as a defensive deterrent rather than a bully sent out to protect the interests of Big Oil? Do we want the wealthy to pay their fair share of the  tax burden and our government to attack the deficit not just by slashing spending but also by generating additional revenue (which is how most responsible businesses – and individuals – get out of debt)?

Even if you believe differently than I do, it is our responsibility as citizens of this democracy to stand up and participate in it. Not just by voting and putting signs out on our lawns, but in becoming well-informed on the issues rather than relying on sound bites to make our decisions for us. We need to communicate with our elected representatives and express our needs to them and hold them accountable when they aren’t acting in our interests. We need to attend town halls and question those who run our government. All of this requires time and effort – time we sometimes feel we don’t have between working long hours, obligations to our family and friends and all the things that take up our day. Being involved can be a pain in the ass.

But it’s also our responsibility. I’m sure it was a pain in the ass for the generation that lived during the Second World War to go and fight fascism and expansionism, to sacrifice for the good – for the very survival – of our nation. They did it however, and our nation is here today because they did. We don’t have a threat that’s as obvious as the Nazis but we have something far more insidious because it comes from within.

We’ve been asleep far too long and it’s time to kick off the duvet, stretch our limbs and go about our business – the business of protecting our rights and insuring that our children have the same if not better opportunities that we do. How we choose to go about that is entirely up to you – whether you believe in liberal thinking, conservative thinking or something way out in left field – stand for something. Or fall for anything.

Earlier this month, I fulfilled something on my bucket list; I went to Paris. With me were my wife, my sister (whose birthday we were celebrating), my niece (her daughter) and my mom. It was one of those trips that had a lot of magic; from the moment we landed at Charles de Gaulle airport I was enthralled.

The architecture of Paris is unique. When you see the buildings there you know you could be in no other city in the world. Paris goes beyond its architecture however. Paris isn’t just a collection of buildings and museums. Paris is a lifestyle and an attitude.

Parisians have an understanding about life. Life is meant to be lived, and lived well. It is meant to go at a pace that allows one to savor it. Lunch breaks in France are 90 minutes long, and paid. Here in the States, they are 30 minutes long and unpaid. That should tell you everything you need to know about the differences between French culture and American.

In case it doesn’t, let’s look at French culture. France didn’t invent culture but they certainly refined it. While there is a perception that there is a haughtiness about the French, that they consider theirs to be the only culture, I don’t think that’s true. There has been an infusion of late of Asian influences in French cuisine and in the culture of France and I find that delightful to be truthful. It puts lie to the rumors that the French are inflexible about their own culture.

I wouldn’t blame them if they were, however. They have a wonderful appreciation of art, of fashion, of cuisine. We Americans tend to look down on those things. Our culture is one built on testosterone; these things aren’t manly by our standards. We look on them as effeminate, wimpy conceits that are the province of matrons and gay men.

That’s bullshit. I don’t think a real man has to justify his likes to anyone; I’m manly enough to admit I love art and cuisine. Fashion isn’t my style – that doesn’t mean that men can’t be interested in it though; there’s nothing un-manly about wanting to look good.

The French love their action pictures as much as anybody. If you don’t believe me, check out anything by Luc Besson or Olivier Megaton (best name for an action director ever). They also adore the sensual, which is also definitely un-American. Our Puritan souls don’t allow for anything that doesn’t  have to do with making money.

But there is more to life than working our asses off and watching football over the weekend. Our souls need more; we need to recognize the good things in life and enjoy them for what they are. That doesn’t necessarily make us sheer hedonists, but I don’t think that ignoring anything that our senses appreciative is particularly healthy either.

In France, people don’t live to work – they work to live. Life shouldn’t revolve around your job – your job should revolve around your life. That’s not an un-American thought; quite the contrary. It is far more civilized than that.

Here in the Orlando area, there is a teacher at Mount Dora High School by the name of Jerry Buell who has a Facebook page. By all accounts he is an excellent teacher, even winning Teacher of the Year.

He is also a Christian and a conservative. Nothing wrong with that either; however, on his Facebook page, Buell reacted quite strongly to the news that the State of New York legalized gay marriage. In fact, he said that when he saw the news on television, he “wanted to throw up,” further characterizing gay unions as “a cesspool” and homosexuality itself as an “abomination.”

These remarks got him suspended by the Lake County School Board. However, there was such an outcry from the Christian right that he was later reinstated, the rationale being that his remarks didn’t “interfere with the operation of the district.” Both the ACLU and the hyper-conservative Liberty Counsel defended the Teacher.

What I found outrageous was that his Liberty Counsel lawyer, senior counsel Harry Mihet claimed that Buell’s comments wouldn’t make gay students feel unwelcome in his classroom, a concept he called “an outrageous leap of faith.” It’s somehow comforting to know that lawyers for the Christian right are as prone to spinning as outrageous lies as the lawyers for the other side.

Of course gay students are going to feel uncomfortable in his classroom. How would you feel about a teacher who publically said you are an abomination and that you shouldn’t be allowed to marry or raise children? Or let’s put this another way – if a teacher who happened to be an atheist put on his/her Facebook page that Christians are pedophiles who never outgrew the need for an invisible friend (which is something I’ve heard an atheist friend utter, so take that for what it’s worth), the same people defending Buell’s free speech would be demanding the hypothetical teacher’s resignation, let alone suspension.

The truth is that Mr. Buell is in a position of authority, in this case as the teacher of young people. As a person in this position, he should have the common sense to understand that his remarks can be hurtful to his students, and create an atmosphere of hostility in the classroom. He should also be aware that there are consequences to our actions.

Freedom of Speech may be a right but that doesn’t mean it comes without consequence. Just ask Al Campanis, the former General Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers who lost his job for making disparaging remarks about African-Americans, or Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder who did the same. When you are in a position of authority, it is expected that you are going to understand that there is a way of stating your beliefs and there is a way of not doing so.

You may believe that gays are inferior human beings and shouldn’t be given the same rights as heterosexuals. That is your right to believe it. It is even your right to say it. It is not your right however to create an uncomfortable or hostile atmosphere for gay people in doing so. Your free speech doesn’t cover that, because the people you’re talking about have rights too.

There is a simple concept when it comes to Free Speech: You can’t just say what you want to say just because you feel like saying it. That’s not freedom of speech – it’s diarrhea of the mouth. Like it or not, your freedom to say whatever you like carries with it the responsibility of choosing your words carefully so that you don’t abrogate the rights of others.

The electronic frontier of social networking has created the ability for us to express ourselves to a larger circle of people than ever before. However that is a double-edged sword. It means that what you say on your own time in a social medium like Facebook or Twitter is available to be read by anybody. There are laws that prohibit the media from slandering or libeling individuals. Those laws exist to prevent the media from abusing its position. Now that we are all, in a sense, our own media outlets, we should be governed by the same sense of responsibilities. If Mr. Buell wants to express his views privately, he shouldn’t post them on a public forum. If he does so, he should accept the consequences and not cry out for a right that does not protect him in this situation.

Nobody is saying that Jerry Buell doesn’t have the right to an opinion or even the right to express it. However, if expressing his opinion creates a situation in which he is incapable of doing his job, his employers have every right to take steps to correct the situation, something which the Lake County School Board failed to do. And if a student of Jerry Buell’s feels uncomfortable having him as a teacher or feel that the learning environment is a hostile one, the parents of said student have every right to sue the Lake County School Board for it, something which could cost the taxpayers of Lake County but more importantly the students of Lake County who are caught in the crossfire. Personally if my son were attending Mount Dora High School, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near Jerry Buell’s classroom. One has to wonder what parents of non-Christian faiths who have kids at Mount Dora High School think of all of this.

Finally, it comes down to this; one of the other rights our Constitution guarantees us is the separation between Church and State. Every time Jerry Buell walks in his classroom carrying his conservative Christian opinions with him (as former students of his say he does), he is violating that Amendment and so is the Lake County School Board.

Teachers bring in their value system into the classroom; they are, after all, only human. However, part of the job of teaching in public schools in this country is to leave your religious beliefs at the door. While often religion fuels our values, we have to be able to separate the two if we are to conduct the business of the United States according to the principles that the Founding Fathers laid down. People have the right to follow any religious belief they choose. They simply aren’t allowed to bring it into the classrooms of public schools with them. If you want to have a religious education for your child, send them to a school run by your particular faith. If you want to teach the values of your religion to children, do so in a school run by that religion. It’s a pretty simple proposition.

In other words, there are places where it’s appropriate to express your faith and other places where it is not. There are places where it’s appropriate to express your political beliefs and other places where it is not. There are also forums where it is appropriate to express your opinions and others where it is not and there are jobs where you may freely express your opinion on the Internet and others where it is not. To paraphrase the Byrds, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven – a time to speak out and a time to shut up.

I’m not sure when it happened but compromise has become a dirty word. Somewhere along the line our political leaders have decided that working together is tantamount to giving up on their ideology and that winning elections was more important than governing this country. But it isn’t only in politics that we see the change in attitude.

It is in our own lives as well. We have become geared to a “my way or the highway” attitude. More and more people seem to have the impression that the world exists so that they can life the way they choose to.

You can see that in their ideologies. More and more these days, people adopt a political, religious or philosophical stance and from the time it’s developed until they die, there is no changing it, no reasoning with it, no arguing with it. You can, for example, argue persuasively that climate change is occurring on this planet, show them the raw data, tell them that the great majority of scientists on the planet agree with it – and they’ll still refuse to believe it because Rush Limbaugh told them that it was a bunch of hoo-hah.

When did we grow so inflexible? Why is it that we have become so sure that we are right that there is no other option? I can’t figure it out, but that seems to be more and more the case. People actually listening and debating, discoursing on the various topics of the day, that doesn’t happen very much anymore. People are more prone to sloganeering (“The Bible said Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”) rather than stating a position with any sort of reason or rhyme. We’ve become our own sound bites, and we’ve actually begun communicating in them.

Part of this is a by-product of our shorter attention spans. We can’t be bothered to think – it requires too much effort – so having our opinions handed to us in short, easily digestible sentences is preferable to developing one of our own. We are content to take the easiest course of action in nearly every case – a course of action that allows us to sit at home and surf the net or watch cable. I shudder to think what would happen if a Nazi-like menace would appear now – I doubt this generation would have the stones to sacrifice the way our parents and grandparents did back in the 30s and 40s.

But then, those were children of a Depression, used to making do with less. We are children of prosperity and plenty, used to instant gratification. The idea of sacrificing for the common good has become as archaic as rotary telephones. We are the Me Generation with a vengeance; We’re Generation RFN and God help anyone who takes away our cell phones.

We have become culturally unable to balance our own personal needs with those of society as a whole. We are unwilling to compromise and accept things that are uncomfortable to us for the sake of others. That is the kind of thinking that the executives who thought it was OK to milk every dime out of this nation’s economy so that it could all go to the super-rich have had for years. It is that kind of thought that allows them to accomplish what has been the economic rape of this nation.

We live in the time of Louis XIV; we just don’t know it. The balance of personal wealth hasn’t been so skewed towards the wealthy since that era. Even the robber barons had the sense to preserve the middle class; the super-rich of our era are relentlessly making dinosaurs of that social stratum. It is conceivable that our current wage slavery will become so severe that we become literal slaves, making only enough to survive and unable to leave our jobs or do anything for fear of being fired.

The riots in Britain are symptomatic of the growing unrest in the lower classes. People are feeling pushed against the wall; people who are desperate and have nothing to lose will turn to violence. That happened in Egypt and Libya and in Britain. The writing is definitely on the wall. If things continue to deteriorate here, I can’t imagine that we won’t start to see rioting here and bloodshed.

Those who have power and wealth live in fear of losing it. Those who are greedy with both face the consequence that if they push the people too far, the people will eventually push back. It is a lesson that the rich haven’t learned in 2,000 years and happens in nearly every society periodically – it just hasn’t happened here. Yet.

But it will if we’re not careful. Those who sit at the top of the ladder have the furthest to fall. If they aren’t willing to compromise, if they aren’t willing to allow the rest of us to live our lives in peace. The lesson of history is one that those who only have room in their heads and their hearts for greed seldom learn.

We all carefully cultivate the image we present to the world. That image often changes depending on the situation and who we’re presenting it to. The common denominator is that the goal is to present the image that best accomplishes our goal, whether to be admired, pitied, liked or wanted.

Often we enhance that image by embellishing the truth, or adding outright falsehoods. Things to make us seem more mysterious, more accomplished, more alluring. We do that even with those we care about most in our lives; sometimes our motivation in those cases is not so much to impress but not to disappoint.

It is very rare indeed that we show our true face to anyone completely. There’s a good reason for that; revealing who we really are makes us incredibly vulnerable. This is where we can be truly hurt – our true selves ridiculed, disliked, not loved – not the way we want to be. It becomes very difficult for us to open up truly.

And yet we want to be liked for who we are as well. This is one of the great contradictions of human nature; we want so much to be liked as is and yet we spend so much time creating this façade. It almost seems like we’re working against ourselves, trying to be a person others would like us to be, rather than who we really are. We work at cross purposes with ourselves.

Still, those masks we wear sometimes crack. It’s tough keeping up appearances, after all. Sooner or later our true selves make an appearance. Often this ruins friendships or wrecks relationships. Often the complaint in relationships that she/he changed is actually a case where the façade came off and the real person inside emerged. They hadn’t really changed at all – they just revealed their true selves.

Part of the problem is that we don’t trust others to like us for who we are. We feel the need to impress, conforming to a certain aspect that others show us. They like motorcycles? We become Hell’s Angels. Are they into English folk music? We just became Fairport Convention’s biggest fans. Do they like the beach? We learn how to surf.

It truly is amazing what we do for the approval of others. We become who they want us to be, usually at the expense of who we are. It’s a tricky situation; sometimes in becoming who they want us to be we integrate that into who we are. Our need for that person’s approval is so great that we incorporate it into our own personalities; it’s kind of sick when you think about it.

But nobody can keep up a fiction forever. Really becoming our persona is a rare occurrence; it is more common for our personas to break down and crack open. These fissures start out small and slowly grow until we are unable to hold the fiction together. Often it’s a relief as we are finally allowed to be ourselves.

Sometimes it is necessary in order to attract the attention of others to appeal to their sense of vanity, to create a common ground where one might not exist otherwise. Sometimes it’s the only way to create that bond, and once created in many cases we can be forgiving of a little bit of deception.

Not always however and not when cut from whole cloth. There needs to be at least a glimpse of the real you inside the mask otherwise the leap from persona to person is too great to reconcile. There is a middle ground that allows us to appeal to the person who we are interested in while remaining at the core ourselves.

That’s a tight line to walk though. It’s usually best to stick to who we are as much as we can. Not all of us can be a great actor, an Al Pacino or a Meryl Streep. We are much better at playing the part we know best – ourselves.