not in my inbox

*********

I realize that you send chain e-mails from time to time and that is fine. Once in a while they are humorous or cute and I appreciate that. However, I found this particular e-mail completely offensive and unnecessary. In our home we often have three wonderful kids who also happen to use the computer quite frequently. As a rule I don't try to hide anything from them and as such it is completely possible that they should happen upon my e-mails from time to time. Their names are *******, *******and ********, and the author of the e-mail you sent me might refer to them as 'yellow.' 

The above being said, we try to be as honest with them as possible in an attempt to give them a healthy world perspective. I consider the chain e-mail aptly titled 'Proud to be white' to be not only dishonest, but also classless and racist. Racism thrives on attitudes like those expressed in this e-mail -- attitudes that ignore the privilege that white members of society enjoy.  Why is there no White Entertainment network?  Because EVERY network is a white entertainment network.  It's like saying "woman doctor" -- the assumption is that doctors are, by default, male.  

In keeping with showing our kids a healthy attitude I would appreciate them not seeing racist e-mails coming from people in my family. 

Beyond all of that, even if we didn't have children I still would not appreciate receiving racist e-mails. I realize that everyone is entitled to their own opinions in this world and that is fantastic, but when I receive messages based upon the assumption that I not only agree, but should also help spread the ideas I lose respect for the people that send such messages. 

Again, I'll grant that people are entitled to their opinions and you are no exception. I will never ask that you should change your opinions, especially on account of me, but I will ask that you refrain from sending e-mails concerning 'Proud to be white' style subject matter in the future. 

Thanks,

*****

The perpetual attempt at perpetuation

It is a completely logical aim for any society to seek both the perpetuation of itself and of the individuals that comprise its populace. To this end governing bodies  are put into place and laws are created to afford a means by which said government can attain this sought out self-perpetuating state. 

Mouth of the Bayou

So there I sat, hard upon the rocky soil under that solid tree. While the sun cast sleepy orange rays through the haze, I watched as that aging house slowly faded, panel by failing panel. 

Many years stretched out, before and behind me. I could remember a time when those panels shone brightly in the evening sun and the windows reflected a grassy lawn before the bustling mouth of the bayou. Funny -- just as I could readily remember these picturesque days, I could just as easily foresee the day when the decrepit timbers of this strong house would slump here upon the rocky soil in one lifeless heap. 

Honestly, it isn’t out of sadness nor some somnambulistic impulse that I recite these thoughts of mine. I feel no pity for those strong timbers, nor for those mourning souls who have long since deserted the site. It’s really more of a morbid curiosity that I have, and a wonderment at such forces as might have conspired to bring about such a strong house and, in due time, crumble it into such a pile of languid timber. 

Sixteen Gauges

Rounding the corner, the soles of my boots barely clinging to the slick diamond plating, I could see the last cluster of white and yellow gauges. Sixteen gauges to go, I thought. Resting the grimy clipboard on the handrail I quickly jotted down some pressures and temperatures before returning to Main Control.

After leaving the bright engine room I made my way aft before finding the weather-decks.

It was sometime before my eyes adjusted, but when they did I sank into the rhythmic motion of the ship as it sloshed through that cold sea of whitecaps and glowing stars.

muck boots

The air was rife with the deafening hiss of a dozen torches and the clamor of dropping metal plates. It was cold, damp, and -- aside from the dizzying display of sparks -- it was dark as well. Is this hell? I wondered, as I trudged through the ankle-deep muck on the floor. It was so early in the morning as to feel like it was still late at night, yet those who toiled away in that dismal place couldn't be concerned either way.

Hot sparks shot up my arm and clung to the crevices in my thin gloves as I cut away with my torch. Not only am I freezing, but I'm getting burned as well, I mused, as a cluster of fiery debris clouded my vision and stung my hands. The hole punched and the piece ready to be hauled away, I moved on.

"That one's punched, and what's next?" I called as I collected the burning line in my hands.

Later, pushing a steel-laden wheelbarrow through the mud in the dark, I laughed to myself. This is too ridiculous to be miserable about.

"When was the last time I played with a torch anyway? I can't believe I remembered how to use one at all," I said aloud to myself as I continued on my merry way.

Relief

So there it was, the answer to all of my hopes. 

A little blue circle and a new unread e-mail. Just a few days earlier I wrote a quick  one of those myself, offering my support and volunteering my efforts. Now the ball had been tossed back and it looked serious.

 "Be prepared to be called up," was mentioned along with something about disaster relief. That's it, I'm going, I thought. My mind raced in circles and I couldn't get over the fact that such a response was forthcoming. When I had sent my simple e-mail just days before, I had never expected this. Although I sincerely wanted to go help and was truly pledging my actual support, I had completely imagined it would fall upon deaf ears. 

"I just wanted to let you know I got the e-mail and am willing to volunteer," was the tag-line of my overly eager voice message. 

Not expecting to hear anything on the subject for days, I tried to put it out of my mind, but the excitement persisted. Still I pushed it to the back of my mind as best I could and we headed off to the bank.

About half way to the bank the yeaowl of the phone caught my attention. It's that number, I thought anxiously. 

That was too fast. This is serious, I might be gone by Monday, I couldn't help but muse. "Hello....this is," I answered as patiently as I could manage. "Oh, absolutely.. that makes sense," I uttered as the conversation continued and my hopes were dashed against rocks. But, tell me there's a chance, I wished. 

"Like I said, whatever they need I'm willing to volunteer," I finished as I closed up the phone. 

"He said it could take weeks or might not happen at all," I passed on.

"I'm sorry," was the condolence she offered verbally. The hug and sympathetic eyes however meant much more than any words that could be said. We completely see eye to eye on this stuff, we thought.  

Walking back I was a wreck of emotions. Excitement, doubt, anxiety and confusion play for a pretty potent stew and I will be brewing into the foreseen future. Well that or until the phone rings again. 

Cutting

It was cold dark and silent, not a stir of the air could be noticed.

Slowly a humming made itself heard on the far side of that metal bulkhead. It started lowly in the background and seamlessly crept into the immediate foreground. The darkness gave way to the slightest of red glows, and it was perfect placidity. The hum and the glow were almost soothing and hardly congruent with my surroundings. 

As time passed the glow turned bright and seemed to emanate a powerful heat; the hum took on a higher pitch. Maybe it was a little more in-your-face, but it was still relatively pleasant. It would've made for an easy day, sitting in front of a glowing bulkhead. The heat was even an improvement from the dismally cold outdoors. 

Eventually the red glow had progressed through its stages and the faintest whisper of smoke could be seen trailing up towards the overhead from the center of the now bright red circle. It almost smells like a fireplace, I thought, as I watched the whisper of smoke climb into the air. The heat was getting pretty dramatic and I moved myself back from the surface a bit, so as not to get burned.

It's interesting that some seemingly smooth transition, which could've lasted for decades, gave way so quickly. 

As the humming continued to sharpen I noticed a bowing near the center of the now bright red spot. It was at this moment that the hum turned into a deafening hiss, and the bright red spot erupted into a fountain of burning metal. Within a flicker of the smoke trail, the space around me was engulfed in the most unpleasant burning smell and the shrill scream of the torch was unbearable.  

I watched in awe as this wholly miserable spectacle turned intricate and the violent flames began to dance and draw a bigger circle. Shortly the finely tuned torch flame marched straight across the bulkhead, drawing a red line as it went along. The flame was bright, but tightly grouped. It was not the quaint glow of earlier, however, it moved with determination as it sliced a distinguished path. 

Soon the path had come full circle -- the once glowing red spot ceased to be as the light from outside flooded the space and the bright cutting flame pulled away. 

The dismally diffused light penetrated the once-sanctuary compartment and brought with it the clamor from the yard. 

It's not even ten yet, that didn't last nearly long enough, I thought.