The Disbeliever, The Believer
The young woman's ideas had never before existed.
Yet her teachers and peers ignored her genius. They refused her professorial and research jobs, precisely because
her ideas were so completely unlike any they'd ever seen before.
The young genius, underemployed as a small college instructor, slowly grew to disbelieve her own ideas. Every day she told herself, "My ideas couldn't have been right, or my peers would have recognized them as so!"
So one day she put away her papers and experimental notes, in her bottom desk drawer.
A few years later, one of her brightest students asked her for a research project, as he too wanted to someday be a scientist as well as teacher. With a pang of recognition, envy and fear for the young man, who was so much like she'd been, the instructor let her student riffle through her old notes from her dusty bottom drawer. The next day, the student ran up to her, excitement pouring out of his eyes. "Teacher!" he cried, "This work is magnificent! We must confirm it! Let me help you!"
The instructor suddenly felt her eyes brim with tears, and had to blink them back. In all her years on earth, she had never heard validation. Yet all she'd needed was that one word, from just one who had eyes to see. She knew that her work was
genius and had always
been so, even when none, including she, believed it.
That day, the teacher and her student together began to finish her work -- and, in the fullness of time, its genius was one day recognized by all. Thus, the future will belong to those who believe in the rightness of their dreams. - via Eleanor Roosevelt and Paul Wellstone January 10, 2009, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2015 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Sheep, The Shepherds
Bearing a little girl's name, she washed their homes out to sea.
Wandering before a flat beach where once had stood their homes, the people wailed through dry, salt-caked lips.
In time, bottled water slaked their thirst -- but there was
no draught for the thirst of the soul.
Men in suits came, pockets and suitcases stuffed with cash, and bought the aldermen of what remained of their town council.
Blueprints were drawn to carpet the beachfront in a fortress wall of 20-story condominiums and hotels -- where the townspeople would see only massive, 300-foot high grey walls, and smell only garbage tinged with sea-salt, when they turned to the muffled sound of the surf.
The people sat in the sand and, crying, sold their empty plots of land for a pittance.
But one man spat in disgust, and gathered all their signatures to place his name, and those of two other honest residents, on the alderman election ballot.
"Fight for your homes and your beach!" they cried.
They were elected as new aldermen of the town council.
They turned aside every stack of dollars passed toward them under the table.
They publicized every bribe of their fellow aldermen.
They argued in every council meeting and public hearing.
They voted as a bloc to hold up the corrupt high-rise developers.
They fought to rebuild their townspeople's family homes and beachfront parks.
Four years later, the three aldermen stood, shoes in hand, bare toes digging into the white sand, at the beachfront.They gazed at the new bike paths and parkways, the restored, broad public waterfronts and robin's-egg-blue gulf waves, the family beachfront stilt-homes and the low-rise, three-story condos and hotels -- and at the joy on their people's faces.
They set down their shoes, again and again, to shake the hands of the townspeople who flocked to them.
Then they picked up their shoes, looked at each other, nodded, and walked down the beach, home. Thus, the mantle of power must sometimes be grasped by those of good intent.January 3, 2009, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2015 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
-----The Final War, The Final Peace
The two Peoples were descendants of the same father and mother.
Over many generations, to neither People did God appear from the Heavens.
So did each People come to believe God to be different
-- and that their
belief was truer.
And each People converted, cowed and exterminated the other.
Proudly they marched into the future, their eyes firmly planted on their own feet.
It was a future of annihilation.
That day befell both Peoples when, in the ruin of their civilizations, just two combatants yet lived -- a young man and a young woman.
When they espied each other in the burned-out shell of a grocery, they stared hard at the other, then leapt into the other's arms -- stabbing each other through the heart with their knives.
As they lay down to die, so died their conflict -- and so died their two Peoples, and their beliefs.
In another land there also lived two other Peoples, with two beliefs, likewise warring to the precipice of annihilation.
In the ruin of the last city of their land, once again its last two combatants, a young man and woman, espied one another.
They stared hard at the other, then leapt into the other's arms -- tossing their knives away.
As they lay down to console one another, so died their conflict -- and so was born one People, of many beliefs. Thus, people must make beliefs, but beliefs must not make a people. -- via Rod Serling
December 27, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 3, "Emotion's Mastery"), by Frank H. Burton.
-----The Old Wound, The Bandage
Shipped home from war, the soldier bore a crusted wound.
When his thoughts drifted back to the red mud and copper stink of distant battlefields, his hand drifted to his side -- and picked at his wound.
And it bled anew.
One day, as he rocked back and forth in a wooden chair, staring up from his front porch into the hazy blue Appalachian Mountains, he felt wetness on his fingers and stopped picking at his old wound.
He glanced down and saw a bright red freshet of blood spreading on his cotton shirt.
Blood dribbled from his clenched fist as he cried, "Enough!"
He tore off his shirt, went inside and dug through his medicine cabinet, and pulled open a bandage.
Although it was the wrong shape and size, he nonetheless fastened the bandage tight on his old wound.
"I shall not so much as touch it -- if just for a single week!"
During that week, he caught himself, again and again, reaching toward his old wound. But each time the bandage restrained his fingers, when they felt the tight compress on his skin. At night he slept, fitfully, on his right arm, so that he could not pick at his old wound when half asleep.
And in the passing of that single week, his wound partly healed.
On the seventh day, he removed the bandage.
Although it itched and although he still rubbed it, the wound had sealed -- and never bled again. Thus, your wound will never heal until you stop picking at it.
December 20, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
-----The Safe Player, The Risk Taker
Money was victory.
Playing by that rule alone, one sister strove for personal success. But cocooned in her golden chrysalis, she left the world unchanged, a near unsolvable enigma.
Fulfillment lay beyond her, like nectar deep within the long-necked flower.
The second sister strove not for money, but the momentous. Yet, having aimed high, she fell woefully short, her attempts unremembered. In her drab chrysalis of failure and poverty, she, too, saw the world unchanged and insurmountable.
She, too, could not drink of fulfillment.
Yet both sisters knew one thing -- they had lived the best way they knew how.
They were comforted in that thought -- the first sister among the army that keeps the good and draws it from the world, and the second sister among the cadre that creates the good and redraws the world.
So each sister accepted the consequences of her choice -- one failing to dare, the other daring to fail. Thus, the greatness of an attempt is entwined with the greatness of its risk -- you must dare to fail, or fail to dare.
December 13, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Small Soul, The Great Soul
Great Sky River flowed above two raven-haired women of a forest tribe, long ago.
One young woman lived her life back turned, instead of face on.
She combed her long, black hair to entice the young men, but cared nothing for what lay beyond the cypress forest, or the far shore of Great Sky River.
Over years spent neither exploring nor questioning, her spirit shrank into a hard little ball and died, long before the death of her body.
But the other young woman lived her life face on, instead of back turned.
She ignored her hair and the young men, at least long enough to ask, "What is beyond the edge of the cypress forest, and beyond the edge of the horizon?"
"Who lives on the far shore of Great Sky River, or at its headwaters, or its end?"
Over years spent exploring, questioning, and gaining in wisdom, her spirit swelled so, that it could no longer remain inside her body.
And she overflowed into her people -- living on as teachings long remembered, even after her body had long since died. Thus, live on while your spirit is dead, or die while your spirit lives on.
December 6, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
Dedicated to Luke Somers' and Pierre Korkie's "great-souled" teaching, photojournalism and relief efforts to aid Yemeni citizens.
The Sunflower, The Barrenwort
The Sunflower dwelt in a small, tree-lined garden.
It grew tall, sinuous and broad of leaf in the fulsome light of warm days, and seeded many children.
But some fell into shade, and the Sunflower's face turned away as those children withered and died -- from lack of a soupçon of the sun's brilliant tang on their yearning leaves.
The Barrenwort dwelt in the same garden, beneath the dark crook of a tree.
It too grew broad, ruddy red and majestic, its crimson bloom bathed in the cool light of the moon, and it too seeded many children.
But some fell into light, and the Barrenwort held dark vigil as those children were stillborn -- from searing sunrays on their tender leaves. Thus, seek the soil in which you can grow.
November 29, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Negated, The AffirmedUntouchable.
It was her caste
, in this ancient land.
But she believed -- believed more than anything in her young life -- that she was the true equal of any who trod the soil of their land carrying the red spot of the highborn.
Slavishly working into the night, she saved money to enroll in private school, because she was forbidden to attend a public
On the first day she boarded a trolley for school, the trolley soon filled with highborn.
Frowning faces with red dots glared down at her where she sat, and voices called a gendarme.
She sat still and calm, looking into all their faces, and then saw, peeking out from behind a saffron sari, the small, red-dotted face of a little girl. She smiled at the little one.
Then a gendarme pushed up to her, and yelled, "Untouchable, leave the trolley to make way for the highborn, who cannot sit next to you!"
The untouchable woman then looked the little girl straight in the face, and, instead of silently bowing and backing off the trolley, as she'd done countless times before, she straightened her back and said, "No. It is my right to sit here, as it is theirs to sit beside me."
Shock and anger erupted.
As two gendarmes hauled her off the trolley by her legs and arms like a sack of grain, she caught the troubled glance of the little girl, saw her pluck at her mother's shawl, and heard, "Mama, it's wrong to hurt the nice lady!"
And, as she sat in the dirt and looked up to see the little girl stare sadly back at her through a window of the receding trolley, she knew, knew
, that she'd won a victory that day. Thus, don't contradict who you are. -- via Parker Palmer
November 22, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Climber, The Precipice
Pride etched the stony face of a rock climber, who could scale the sheerest cliff or overhang using just her iron fingers and toes, and her iron stomach.
Cliffs from which most men turned away in fright she leapt upon -- her fingers digging into cracks too small to see from below.
Yet one day the climber chanced upon a precipice scoured by the breath of the underworld -- a sheer, volcanic glass wall so vertical and pristine, that she could see her own dismayed face reflected in its smooth black mien.
For days she camped beneath the black precipice, staring through binoculars for the slightest cracks and handholds, but saw none.
In desperation, she hammered spear-like pitons, but the wall merely sheared off clean facets at each hammer-blow. She made suction cups for her hands and feet, but even those could grip for no more than a few vertical meters the face of what seemed now to her a looming black obelisk -- her gravestone.
After many days sunk into depression, she awoke at dawn and saw the obelisk reflect the pink rays of the morning sun.
Suddenly she knew in her bones that this wall would remain, for all time, impregnable to her.
And in that moment the black wall suddenly transformed, behind her eyes, from a black gravestone into the shadow of her long-ago departed father, who loomed tall over her to shelter her from harm.
And so the climber walked away from certain destruction, standing safe on the ground. Thus, a fall reveals a thing of value -- where solid ground lies. -- via Parker Palmer
November 15, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 3, "Emotion's Mastery"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Astrologer, The Astronomer
Stardust speaks, if one but listens.
The Royal Astrologer, known throughout the realm, sat at the king's right hand. He stared at the sky, plucking from its patterns portents of import to the royal court - or at least of import about
the royal court. For his premonitions about the court's goings on, its subtle politics and its romantic intrigues, the Royal Astrologer had the king's ear and was made a rich man.
However, the king's eldest advisors also kept in their employ, in small palace eyrie, an Astronomer. Sometimes confused for the Royal Astrologer by carriers of missives and by new court pages, the Astronomer predicted things of interest less to the royal court than to the realm's farmers, hunters and tradesmen. Oft his pronouncements were droll, like, "The sun will rise earlier in the day starting in two weeks." Or, "The harvest should be planted 107 days from now, not 104 -- our calendar is drifting." The Astronomer was, in fact, boring. The king kept him on only because he so much trusted his eldest advisors -- who weren't very popular at the royal court either.
But then, one terrible year, into the eastern edge of the kingdom rode a great barbarian horde, and there they pillaged and waged war on the border villages. So large was the horde that all in the kingdom -- now filling to the brim with starving refugees from the border -- feared a full invasion.
Hence did the king call every advisor and courtier, and, before all the royal court, asked his favorite, "What, O great Royal Astrologer, will be our fate should we send excursions to harass the horde before they fully assemble to invade us?"
The Royal Astrologer, sweat popping from his brow, breathed heavily as he peered into the sky and pushed around the scrolls and charts scattered on his escritoire. Then he cleared his throat and, in a tremulous voice, said, "Uhmm, you may, O Great King, be victorious by decisive attack! But! But! Beware too
precipitous an action, for it, too
, is risky!"
"What is this?" the king spat. "Your advice, 'tis none at all!"
Then, from the back of the throne room, a measured voice penetrated the silence.
"You need not attack at all
All in the royal court turned to see the Astronomer, who was looking up from charts filled with intricate swirls, curlicues and numbers, and also staring into the sky, but with an ironic smile.
"Why say you so, sir?" demanded the king.
"Sire, I never have much of interest to say to you, it seems -- but this
time, I do."
The Astronomer pointed toward the east.
"In five days, falling stars shall streak the eastern sky, as they have done on the same night every year since time out of memory. But these barbarians don't study the timing of the skies as I do. Send a messenger to their Chief, two days from now, telling them that the gods will send a sign to them in three nights -- a sign of their army's downfall in battle."
The astronomer paused and calmly gazed across the entire assembled court.
"You will probably turn the barbarians away without a single blow of a sword."
That summer, a horde turned home, and a Royal Astrologer was demoted in place of a Royal Astronomer.
Thus, predict from fact, not fantasy.
November 8, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Leaves, The Compost
Far above the earth, a great tree arched over a mountaintop.
In a raging maelstrom of rain and light, the tree was riven. In a blast of green leaves and fire, it fell in twain.
Its broken wood was chewed by rats and grew wormy.
Great mushrooms sprouted from its broken heart, and ants chewed its leaves.
Woodpeckers tolled a staccato dirge on its greying bark, and bears stomped its roots into the mud.
As the flaking shroud of the great, fallen tree was pulverized and smashed into the earth, it began to compost.
Fermenting and darkening, it became the richest of soils upon the mountain.
And upon those loamy remnants of the great tree, the seed of a new tree alighted -- and grew great and tall. Thus, from compost arises soil -- from decay of the old, will arise the new.
November 1, 2010, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
Dedicated to Orbital Sciences Corporation's "SS Deke Slayton" Antares rocket and Cygnus cargo ship, and Planetary Resources Corporation's Arkyd-3 asteroid mining explorer, destroyed 6 seconds after launch from Wallops Island, Virginia. Space entrepreneurism is a heavenly road, but no less a hard one.
The Laggard, The Lapper
Broadcast on every television in every land, the race would crown the fastest miler in the world.
The contestants lined up on the track.
The stadium roared.
The starting pistol fired, and instantly the racers leapt into motion.
But then, in all the homes, pubs, and sports bars across the globe, the images and sounds of the race winked out -- and roars of frustration bellowed from those places that day, mingled with a faint announcer's voice, "Due to a technical difficulty..."
For agonizing minutes, none except those in attendance at the very event knew what was happening in the race.
Then the satellite image was restored, still without audio.
Back to the world's eyes appeared the silent vista of a tight pack of runners -- with one lone runner loping far, far behind.
As the camera zoomed in on the laggard, laughter filled the homes, pubs and sports bars -- with yells of, "How did that
pathetic runner get in this
The crowds jeered even more as the laggard fell further and further behind the pack of world-class runners straining for dominance -- and jeered most of all when the laggard simply threw up his hands, stopped and walked off the track, instead of following the others into their final lap.
Only at that moment did the audio come back on.
And only when they heard the laggard runner sob and wave to an insanely cheering crowd, did the now hushed peoples of the world understand.
The "laggard" had nearly lapped all the others. Thus, running behind others means you are much slower -- or much faster.
October 25, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Pickpocket, The Tailor
Handy little man, he thought himself, believing the world owed him whatever it hadn't locked away or tied down.
His nimble fingers flew over women's purses and men's pockets alike, and flew with the speed of thought.
The Pickpocket took such pride in his craft -- but couldn't tell a single soul. At night, in lonely, dark taverns, he mumbled about greatness into his beer mug.
Also in the same city lived another handy little man, who believed that the world owed him only what he could barter for his handiwork.
His agile fingers flew over women's and men's garments alike, repairing rips and tears in them for pay.
The Tailor took great pride in his craft, and word spread throughout the city that he mended clothes so quickly and well, that no trace remained of their original tear.
Then, by the nimble hand of Fate, the Pickpocket and the Tailor were cross-stitched.
The Pickpocket's hands had flown into the Tailor's pocket -- and were impaled on the set of needles the Tailor kept there for his work. The Pickpocket yelled loud and long -- long enough for a constable to grab his collar and carry him off to jail.
But the Tailor had felt how light the Pickpocket's fingers were. He paid to have the Pickpocket released into his custody on probation -- and hired him to help his growing tailoring trade.
In the years that followed, the Pickpocket too became a tailor and full partner -- and by joining the society of people who traded good for good to live, became a well-respected and honored member of the community.
And, forever after, he plucked coins only from out the ears or noses of delightedly shrieking children. Thus, the greatest civilizing force in the world is the handshake.
October 18, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
The Shortcut, The Straight Road
Anonymous and uncertain were the sisters' destinies.
The younger was a sharp beauty, who loved fine things. As men flocked to her, with casual dismissal she took shortcuts through their purses and hearts.
She married a corporate man -- then divorced him to marry his boss.
In middle age, her beauty faded and her husband leased a younger wife.
Now wealthy, but alone, she walked the terrazzo and parquet floors of her hollow mansion, seeing only inward.
She found in her life only what she'd brought to it -- baseness, and unremitting, upwelling regret for her expedient acts, and the injuries they caused to herself and others.
The elder sister was of softer mien, who loved fine people. As thoughtful friends, colleagues and loved ones orbited about her, with considerate deliberation she walked toward her desires straightly.
She married a thoughtful man -- and supported him with all her heart and mind.
In middle age, her career and family flowered to full bouquet.
Now wealthy in body and soul, she walked the garden paths surrounding her family home, a small grandchild's hand in hers -- and paused to look within, through the reflection of her granddaughter's lucid eyes.
She found in her life what she'd brought to it -- exaltation, and unceasing, upwelling gratitude and pride for the longer road taken, and the extra acts of kindness that healed herself and others. Thus, your path in life will mirror your spine.
October 11, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
We have conquered that which is without -- now we must conquer that which is within.
Dedicated in admonishment of U.S. hysteria concerning its non-existent epidemic of Ebola virus, while ignoring measures to halt its real epidemic of children's enterovirus.
The Fretter, The Solver
Laid off, two men trudged to the pub to nurse their ales.
The younger worker, looking down at his coal-blackened hands sadly, said to the other, "I've nae use for these anymore, except to lift a pint! What am I to do?"
The other, wiping the foam off his grey mustache, twirled its tips with his fingers, belched, and said, "Do anything you damn well want to! We've our freedom, laddie. It's not like we lost our hands, or our heads -- we only lost our jobs!"
Then the older worker stood up, threw a shilling onto the bar, hitched his overalls and cocked his cap.
"So, mate, better than worryin' it 'til we're six under, what say we start the rest o' our lives, eh?"
Thus, fretting is not solving.
October 4, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
Reason, like gravity, is the weakest of natural forces, but in the end creates suns. -- via Alfred North Whitehead
Dedicated to U.S. state-by-state efforts to counter federal prohibition of the medicinal and recreational sales of marijuana, both prohibitions causing death and misery -- one by allowing illness to go untreated, the other by creating black markets, gangs and crime.
The Terns, The Turn
Flocks of arctic terns took southerly wing with snowflake's fall.
Onward the terns flew into warmer days without cease, over the great Midwestern shield of the continent.
But then, with the dawn of a high sun, a flock scattered in twain as, right through their midst, dashed a young tern -- flying north!
The leader of the tern flock swerved about, and soon they caught up to the young tern.
"Hola, young one!" the lead tern yelled above the flutter of their beating wings. "Why fly you north?"
"Does a tern not migrate north?" the younger tern barked.
"Indeed, we do," the lead tern replied, glancing back at his flock to see them all still riding his tail. "But, young one, we think your season is turned around! T'would be safer -- and more fun, I assure you! -- to head back south this season."
"But it was way too hot down South! I almost died of thirst!" the young tern cried.
"Ah, so you've been on this path a long while, then. But trust us now, young one. The South will become cooler and wetter with the coming season. To the north you will find only death."
The young tern looked over at the lead tern, with mild panic in its eyes. "But I've been on my path so long! How can I just turn around and abandon it?"
The lead tern skeewed a friendly laugh, and replied, "Just follow me, young one -- follow us all!"
And the lead tern wheeled about in the sky, heading once more toward the noon sun -- and, among his flock, followed at his right wing a once misguided but brave young tern.
Thus, the life you lead now can yet lead elsewhere.
September 27, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
To harm from faith is evil.
Dedicated to the Flood Wall Street protesters, and in admonishment of capitalists' refusal to accept the reality that fossil fuel use is fueling runaway global warming, and their consequent refusal to see that such willful blindness endangers the survival of our civilization and our species.
The Charm Bracelet, The Callus
During coffee break at the clothes factory, one's well-manicured fingers stroked the charms dangling from her bracelet -- the other's fingers rubbed a callus.
"My lucky bracelet will get me a promotion, and someday I'll run my own factory!" the first woman boasted.
The second woman had no money for even a manicure, let alone a charm bracelet. She'd saved her cash and invested it. She considered her lucky charm the callus acquired on her sewing hand from years of working overtime and over lunch breaks to make more money.
The woman with the charm bracelet often gossiped about the second woman.
"She's crude, with no charm! And look at her hand!"
But, since the second woman never spent much time on her coffee break or at the water cooler listening to idle gossip, she heard little of these insults, nor cared to.
Instead, she taught other industrious workers how to maximize their pay by sewing clothes in less time.
One day the foreman halted shop production and assembled the workers.
He turned to the woman with the callused hand, and said, "I am retiring, but I've watched your hard work, and the way you train the others. You will be our new shop foreman."
Then the retiring foreman turned to the first woman and said, "I've also seen your work, and heard your gossip and insults about those who've worked harder and saved their money."
He glanced down at the charm bracelet tinkling above her now sweaty, wringing hands.
"I hope your lucky charm is worth some cash. You're fired."
Thus, effort is rewarded more than luck.
September 20, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
Imperfection is the essence of striving.
Dedicated to the strivers among us -- who did not fear failure.
The Spinning Cog, The Toothless Cog
Revolving makes one sad.
The Cog knew it.
The Machine spun the Cog around and around, and the Cog grew dizzy and disoriented.
It knew only that it hated its job, but saw nothing better for it -- because it was part of The Machine.
And The Machine was all that counted -- or so the Cog thought.
Then, one stuttering cycle, one of its teeth got knocked out.
The Cog had lost a tooth!
Once part of The Machine, it was cast into the dirt.
The broken Cog sat, rusting and still, facing the empty sky.
It knew the hopeless peace of utter uselessness.
But one day the Cog was picked up by a young gypsy, spit-scoured and oily hair-polished to a burnished silver sheen, and a leather string knotted over the gap in its teeth.
For the remainder of its days it dangled under her billowing shirt, to come out every night before the hearth and make the orange firelight dance in smoky tents.
Thus, new uses may replace, and even better, those lost.
September 13, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
We all have dreams. -- via Joey Cheek
Dedicated to the failures among us -- who did not fear striving.
The Privileged, The Underprivileged
Opposite poles of the world were the birthplaces of two girls.
The first girl, bright of mind and heart, was born on a continent of wealth.
She attended a private school with individual tutors in the languages and sciences. Her parents smoothed the way, with money, for her matriculation at the best university in the world -- where she excelled. She relied on family connections to be placed in a major law firm upon graduation, with a starting salary one thousand-fold larger than those in lands on the opposite side of the world.
In time, she passed on the fruit of her many achievements to her children.
The second girl, equally bright of mind and heart, was born, in that distant pole of the world, on a continent of poverty.
She was barred from schooling because she was a girl -- so the languages and sciences remained to her only a fog of wonderment and confusion. Instead, her parents sold her into forced prostitution to ensure her brothers would prosper. From a small brothel waiting room, she quietly watched the television images of well-dressed students walking the halls of universities around the world. Once her body was used up by men and shriveled from AIDS, she was fortunate to be placed in a hospice so that she wouldn't die in a gutter. Lying in her sickbed, she overheard that women at the far end of the world made one thousand-fold more money -- for one person -- than the money her entire hospice made in a year. Irony briefly transformed her wan countenance.
In time, she passed on, the fruit of her many possible achievements plucked by not a single soul.
Thus, people can pull themselves up by their own bootstraps -- if they've been given boots.
September 06, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
Indirectly known truths are convergences of multiple independent streams of information: If the streams aren't converging, aren't multiple, aren't independent, or aren't information, truth isn't established.
Dedicated to the 14 year-old inventor of Email, V.A. Shiva Ayyadurai.
The Aristocrat, The Inventor
Neath the rubber trees swayed pots of gold.
The plantation's hereditary owner was an aristocrat of fabulous wealth.
Living in an opulent palace with a mighty family crest emblazoned on its pediment, every day he hunted, golfed, or shopped for exotic tapestries and robes; and every night he hosted salons and balls.
Politicians and celebrities flocked to his plantation and ate of his roast duck, caviar and ancient wine -- and ate of his very presence.
So did Society men and women revere him -- even though his rubber went into the bullets shot from the guns of the junta that, with him, ruled those who slaved on his plantation.
The inventor lived in a two-room rental on the outskirts of the city, abutting the plantation shantytown.
Every day he taught the poor children who slaved among the rubber trees; and every night he created new uses for the gum that dripped from the rubber trees.
After years of effort, he created a sterile powder to stanch the bleeding wounds of the injured. This brought him a measure of wealth, but not enough to interest politicians and celebrities.
Yet the poor -- who saw him heal the lashes on their backs inflicted by the aristocrat's cronies, and sate their starving minds with his teachings - revered him.
Thus, neither thief nor inheritor of wealth revere, only its creator.
August 30, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
Not all who wander are lost. -- via J.R.R. Tolkien
Dedicated to the Community Ambassadors of Saint Paul, MN, who take to the streets to positively interact with and mentor at-risk youth, heading off social confrontations or potential run-ins with the police, and offering connections to jobs, skills training, college programs.
The Warrior King, The Car Salesman
Power once strode an ancient empire in the body of a warrior.
In merciless campaigns, he rode his steed over the steppes, wielding a bloody spear.
He conquered and pillaged the lands surrounding his ancestral birthplace -- and in time became king of all he surveyed.
The stories of his terrible exploits passed into history, then into legend -- and then into dust.
Millennia later, in a modern city, power again incarnated.
In the body of a man who, though dreaming of ancient adventure, was a car salesman.
When not kowtowing to prickly, disdainful customers -- who looked up and snickered at his tight necktie, and the bulging sports coat constraining huge muscles -- he imagined galloping down upon them bareback, his pony-tailed hair free in the wind and a curving sword in hand, lopping off their heads.
Customers complained about him -- although all they could say was that they felt a chill, whenever his brilliant-green eyes alighted upon them.
So, in time, was he fired from his job as a car salesman.
Yet he found a way to stride through his modern world.
Accepting that pillage and plunder were criminal and dishonorable, he became a soldier and peacekeeper.
Although he never became a warrior king, nor passed into legend ere into dust, he found his place in his time.
Thus, do not yearn for the best of times -- do your best in the time you are given. -- via The Lord of the Rings
August 23, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
To win a rational argument by evoking emotional irrationality is a sadly pyrhhic victory.
Dedicated to "T'Pring," Star Trek actress Arlene Martel.
The Literal, The Intuitive
Detectives were dispatched to the home of a missing person.
The junior detective was young and eager.
Briefly perusing the missing man's home, he noticed no signs of an altercation. "My husband's suitcase and clothes are gone!" his wife cried. Leaning deep into the junior detective's chest, the young woman sobbed.
"My husband's been so unhappy after losing his job, and with his responsibilities as a provider!"
The junior detective consoled her, breaking away only long enough to jot in his notebook that the man had deserted his wife.
The senior detective was an older and slower man.
He looked closely at the woman's face, and asked, "Where do you think your husband is now?"
For an instant, as he watched her eyes dart toward the backyard, the detective felt a deep chill. Then the woman looked down at her feet, sobbed, and cried, "He's just vanished...oh, we loved each other so much!"
The senior detective walked into the kitchen for a glass of water, and, as he drank it, stared out the back window into the dark backyard.
"'Loved,' not 'love,'" he murmured.
In the bedroom, he confirmed the man's clothes and suitcase were missing.But in the bathroom, two toothbrushes still lay on the sink.
When next he returned, with a search warrant, the senior detective found the missing husband and his suitcase of clothes, spread beneath a bed of newly planted roses in the backyard.
Thus, emotions must be clues -- and you a detective.
August 16, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 3, "Emotion's Mastery"), by Frank H. Burton.
Might makes no right.
Dedicated to the fortitude of Iraq's Yazidi people; and in admonishment of ISIS' genocidal invasion of the Yazidi religious community and abduction of Yazidi women, in contravention of the teachings of their own Prophet.
The Wasp, The Ant
Droning wafted through the forest as the Wasp hovered, searching.
It found a caterpillar feeding on a large leaf.
Flying down and landing on the caterpillar's back, the Wasp stung it. The caterpillar fell to the ground, unmoving.
Then the Wasp laid its eggs inside the caterpillar to incubate its young, who slowly consumed the caterpillar from the inside.
The newborn wasps broke out from the caterpillar's body and flew toward the sky, in search of more caterpillars as hosts.
As the wasps grew in number, the caterpillars grew scarce, until few wasps or caterpillars lived.
After one of the last of the wasps fruitlessly searched for prey in which to lay its eggs, it fell to the ground, dead.
While its body mouldered, a skittering noise approached it from below. Two antennae reached up and sniffed the mildewed chitin; then the Ant brusquely moved on, searching.
The Ant found a small cave in the rich soil, and then skittered up to a partly eaten green leaf, whereon it found an aphid.
The Ant bent down and, caressing the aphid's back with its feelers, picked it up gently in its jaws and carried it back to the cave, to live in comfort.
Each day the Ant brought the aphid a piece of leaf to eat, caressed it, and drank its sugary droppings. The Ant grew strong and laid a colony of its young, all of whom marched out to find and breed more aphids.
As the ants and aphids grew in number, the forest teemed with their colonies.
Thus, to use others destroys all -- to work with others renews all.
August 9, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.
Life requires no other to justify itself.
Dedicated to a teenager, on the 70th anniversary of her final diary entry: "Believe me, I'd like to listen, but it doesn't work, because if I'm quiet and serious, everyone thinks I'm putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I'm not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be ill, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can't keep it up any more, because when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I could be if ... if only there were no other people in the world. -- Yours, Anne M. Frank."
The Meaningless Life, The Meaning of Life
Skin as grey and marbled as the ancient colonnade she leaned against, a wise grandmother watched her two young charges explore the Ruins of the Ancestors, long ago fallen to decay.
One grandchild darted from behind the white robes of his twin sister, and climbed upon a great, fluted pillar of marble, fallen and half-buried in the grass. There he grabbed a twig from the top of an olive tree and brandished it over his head.
"I am the conquering King!" he cried, stabbing his wooden sword into the ghostly bodies of men to come.
His grandmother watched her small grandson, and saw the man he would become -- and her face grew as solemn as the cold marble under her withered hand.
Yet the other grandchild, gathering her robes about her legs and unshodding her sandals, quietly joined her grandmother, there on the marble stairs of a small temple to a god long ignored.
She stared at her brother's strutting swordplay, then at the broken temple columns, and the azure of the empty sky -- then turned to her grandmother and asked, "What is the meaning of life?"
The wise woman's sad gaze broke away from her grandson and, growing radiant, swung toward her.
With dawning joy the old woman stared at her granddaughter's querulous blue eyes, and then, reaching out a wrinkled hand to caress her smooth cheek, replied, "Oh, my darling grandchild! In asking that question, you have answered it."
Thus, the meaning of life is that it's the meaning of life -- you are that you are.
August 2, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.
Radicals are gestated in sophistry.
Dedicated to the Hebrew University psychology study showing that agreeing with ideologues to an extreme level -- to the point of Argumentum ad Absurdum -- can trigger them to question their ideology. And dedicated in admonishment of biblical creationist Ken Ham's assertion that intelligent life elsewhere in the Universe is impossible because all extraterrestrial civilizations would be damned by God to Hell with no hope for salvation -- a stance which ironically may attain that extremity of absurdity capable of driving children away from fundamentalist religion.
The Human, The Sentient
One day a human looked up into the zenith of the heavens, arcing above her blue and green-swathed Earth.
She saw a small, cloudy galaxy far, far away -- Canis Major, pulled along like a puppy on a leash of a billion stars.
The human felt a lonesome chill in her heart, and heard a distant voice calling to her -- and wondered, "Is there anybody out there?" She devoted her life to listening to the radioed songs of the spheres -- listening for but one word, one tune, one message.
And she pointed her antennae to Canis Major.
But there was only silence.
One day, a million years hence, a sentient will look up into the zenith of the heavens, arcing above its small, blue and red-swathed world.
It will see a huge galaxy spiraling above it, so, so close -- the Milky Way, pulling its own galaxy into her vast, slow embrace.
The sentient will feel a lonesome chill in its center, and hear a distant voice calling to it -- and wonder, "Is there anybody out there?" It will devote its life to listening to the radioed songs of the spheres -- listening for but one word, one tune, one message.
And it will point its antennae into the arms of the Milky Way.
And shall hear.
Thus, we are not alone, and we have a purpose.
July 26, 2014, excerpt from The Parables of Reason © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton.