Category Archives: human behavior

relationships; society; sociology

FEAR.

Deep Questions, Deep Thoughts, human behavior, love, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

By now, every civilized person who has ever been to a counselor or read a self help book knows: the emotion behind anger is fear.

Fear drives anger.

And, anger is usually expressed as aggression.

Hence, aggressive behavior is fear-based.

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Sometimes that fear is rooted in a need to protect self, or those loved by self, or things owned and treasured by self.

Other times, that fear is rooted in a perceived threat to power or control.

But, fear is at the root. And, the consequent behavior is: aggression, sometimes brutal.

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Enter the system of control in place to enforce laws intended to maintain order.

If there is fear driving a threat to a loss of that system of control, those in place to enforce its laws will behave aggressively.

The result: police officers, on the offensive. Ready to use their power, aggressively.

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I believe that, in America, white police officers are afraid of black people, and black people are afraid of white police officers. Now, fear drives both. And, the behavior of both has become aggressive.

Those with official power behave aggressively; those who feel powerless behave passive-aggressively. Both are simply afraid of the other.

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In America, white people who are afraid of black people were taught to be afraid of those they do not know. Black people were taught the same thing. Many white people who actually know black people, and many black people who actually know white people, have established trust one with another. And, even love.

And, I was taught that perfect love casts out fear.

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Jimmy Carter should be consulted, and others like him should be running our country. Individuals with genuine compassion for the downtrodden, the powerless, and the fearful.

We need to start over. As simplistic as it sounds, we need to dig up our forgotten ability to pour out authentic love for one another. If we do not, we are doomed to destroy ourselves.

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And, all because of being scared to death.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  9/24/16       Please share. Thank you.

 

 

 

Social Class.

contemplative essays, human behavior, psychology, relationships, social commentary, sociology, , , , , , , ,

 

The United States has been a “young” country long enough.

For a couple centuries, our society has tried to hide its foibles and national offenses behind the disclaimer of youth. Still developing; not enough “history”; plenty to learn.

But, that argument is getting old.

The globe is now flat. Any culture is within reach; anybody can see, hear, taste, connect. There are no more excuses.

So, what haven’t we learned, yet?

We’re almost up to speed with regard to early childhood education, but still nowhere near the Asians though we have, at long last, taken their lead. The way we do business has rendered our collective skill regressive. The monied have bought out power, and with it, authority.

But, most importantly, we still have no respect for our elders.

We don’t honor our founding fathers, we abuse our ancestors, and we surely don’t even recognize the wisdom of age. Rather, we’re stuck, in arrested development, like an adolescent addict.

In countries like China, the oldest person in the room still gets the greatest degree of attention. And, it doesn’t matter the level of education, or wealth; the only factor is years lived. In such societies, age is the only quality that equates with entitlement.

Oh; but, not in the good ole’ USA.

Here, the older you get, the less anybody even listens to you. Old people are nothing but a burden to the eager and clamoring. They move too slowly; they get in the way. Entire institutions, from within all professional disciplines and created by their up and coming, are firmly in place to deal with the aging by committing them into collective isolation.

The funny thing is, the brain alone has proved capable of something about which youth knows little. By middle age, the capacity for merely absorbing new information is displaced by an ability to integrate data, and that across multiple disciplines. In short, the older person is far more likely to cross reference, from both factual and experiential material, connecting even seemingly disparate pieces and bits to draw conclusions that used to be termed “wise”.

Wisdom isn’t all that rare. It’s just rare among the young. There are some things, yea most, that require time to learn.

And, it’s definitely time.

Take a lesson, America. The older have cultivated the long view; they embody insight. Quality of life is best gleaned from the voice of experience. If you just stopped long enough to actually listen, there might be one right nearby.

Lean in.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 9/12/16    All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

Joe Rozler.

arts education, classical music, classical musicians, creative writing, dreams, guest poets, human behavior, musicians, performance, personal testimony, professional musicians, social commentary, sociology, tributes, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Buffalo, New York doesn’t get nearly enough press.

Or, I should say, it gets far too much of the dreary kind: Snow Belt Capital of The Rust Belt. The End. Thank you for coming.

But, nestled between the heart and soul of the big Buffalo is a bird. A song bird. His name is Joe and, if I had my way, he’d be the household word where everybody else calls home.

Granted, there are enough televised competitions already presenting the freshest young talent. And, occasionally, hidden gems have found their way to these stages. But, for a legend in his own time, there is no Tv show. That is because a Tv show could never do justice to the likes of Joe Rozler.

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I met Joe in the halls of Fredonia State University, in 1980. He was probably loading equipment from a practice room to the trunk, heading off to a gig at the Jumping Frog on Route 5 for the weekend. All I remember was that voice, and a pair of legs that went on forever. And, his rendition of “Imagine” by John Lennon.

To say he seduced me is an understatement. I was completely overtaken, mesmerized by every sound he made and the way he made it. That, and the faint scent of Royal Spyce: he had me, with a warble and a hook, for life.

We were both the odd ones, returning after a two year absence – me, to earn enough to fund myself across the finish line, he to follow his bliss. Mark that last phrase; Joe never did anything but follow his bliss.

And, we’d both converged in the midst of completing that last bastion of fallback options, the Bachelor of Music in Music Education, a certificate that told the world in official terms that we were qualified to do what we were already born to. We were creatives; college was just where we came of age.

Or, I did. Joe was already the oldest soul on the block, caught in a body that bounded around like a nine year old at summer camp.

I’ll never know what precise configuration of DNA, or momentary inspiration, drove Joe to be who he was, but I do know this: Joe always knew. And, that was enough for Joe.

A natural rebel, he never wasted time submitting to any authority, or system, or institution that prevented him from living out his life’s intention. In school, he was already writing arrangements and selling them to a studio in Utah; in the summers, a metal band from Germany enlisted his keyboard wizardy for their tour.

But, the only thing Joe ever intended to do was sing, or play, or sing and play, the song.

Oh sure, we completed the requirements to obtain the degree. He played a piano recital; I played one for cello. Mine took six hours a day, and four months of those, committed to two works of music. Sitting in the audience for his, I remember thinking about hearing him do two straight sets at the Frog, engine revving until I thought he’d just pop right there in front of everybody, and deciding that this lone piano recital was just a parenthesis, merely the half time show of what would become the totality of his life.

As it turns out, thirty five years hence, I was right.

By now, there is no tune ever written that Joe has not sung. He, at the age of something like sixty,  is the oracle of the American songbook. He has become the song.

So, while lesser mortals steamroll through their days, clamoring for their piece of the greedy pie, bowing at the feet of expectation and the promise of reward, Joe Rozler will still be singing. And, you’ll swear you never heard anything else quite like him in your life.

All you have to do is find your way to Buffalo. You can shuffle, or you can hustle but, however you make the trip, Joe will be there when you arrive, just a couple blocks shy of Elmwood, at the piano. With his guitars and synth, and even a ukelele, nearby.  And, if you’re lucky enough to catch his solo act, he’ll play them all, nearly simultaneously, just for you.

The song will be yours. You’ll recognize it. You’ll remember it. You’ll know it. And, he’ll be bringing it on the most dazzling silver platter your eyes and ears could possibly behold.

Joe Rozler.

The American songbird.

Buffalo Hall of Fame.

Buffalo, New York.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 9/8/16      Please share, liberally. Thank you!

littlebarefeetblog.com