If The Elephant In The Room Could Talk.

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Elephants are really smart.

Actress Kim Basinger, not long after her published financial struggles, took on a very noble cause: saving the endangered breed. Her celebrity drew worthy attention to the plight of these grand, lumbering creatures. I remember paying special attention, for two reasons: 1.) Kim Basinger had been raised among Bible-believing Christian fundamentalists, as had I; 2.) Ms. Basinger, a woman after my own heart, seemed to know something the rest of us would need to learn.

Re: Wikipedia:

“The elephant (both Asian and African) has a very large and highly complex neocortex, a trait also shared by humans, apes and certain dolphin species.

Asian elephants have the greatest volume of cerebral cortex available for cognitive processing of all existing land animals. It exceeds that of any primate species, with one study suggesting elephants be placed in the category of great apes in terms of cognitive abilities for tool use and tool making.[11]

The elephant brain exhibits a gyral pattern more complex and with more numerous convolutions, or brain folds, than that of humans, other primates, or carnivores, but less complex than that of cetaceans.[15] Elephants are believed to rank equal with dolphins in terms of problem-solving abilities,[9] and many scientists tend to rank elephant intelligence at the same level as cetaceans; a 2011 article published by ABC Science suggests that, “elephants [are as] smart as chimps, [and] dolphins“.[7]

Other areas of the brain

Elephants also have a very large and highly convoluted hippocampus, a brain structure in the limbic system that is much bigger than that of any human, primate or cetacean.[16] The hippocampus of an elephant takes up about 0.7% of the central structures of the brain, comparable to 0.5% for humans and with 0.1% in Risso’s dolphins and 0.05% in bottlenose dolphins.[17]

The hippocampus is linked to emotion through the processing of certain types of memory, especially spatial. This is thought to be possibly why elephants suffer from psychological flashbacks and the equivalent of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).[18][19]“

So, along with their obvious dominance in size among Earth’s living creatures, elephants apparently carry formidable capacities for comprehension.

Ergo the one stuck in the room, as it were, of our current public health aftermath. What would the elephant say, about the steadily increasing number of sudden deaths among our population?

The press releases had been identifying numerous cases of cardiac arrest; now, we note, the reports merely indicate death by “natural causes.” The latter phrase is usually employed to distinguish between those found under suspicious circumstances, i.e. homicide or suicide. Natural causes, however, cover a specific range: a.) massive stroke; and, b.) cardiac arrest. When one is found unresponsive, alone, at home, expired neither expectedly nor due to progressive deterioration, this is classified as a sudden death.

And, sudden death does occur. But, statistically, how frequently, and why do we now see reports of these daily?

The question is fundamental.

If only the elephant could speak.

Maybe a trip to the zoo is in order. My ears are open.

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Copyright 5/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively; no copying – in whole/part/by translation. Thank you for considering the questions.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Living The True Story.

arts education, commentary, contemplation, education, healing, human behavior, musicians, performance, plagiarism, plagiarists, professional musicians, psychology, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, The Independent Party, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A guitar player I know just posted a summary of his life, on social media.

Guitar players being legion on this planet, many of us tend to pigeonhole these ubiquitous musicians. We not so subconsciously sort them into: 1.) Great! 2.) Solid. 3.) …not so hot. And, then we go about our lives.

This man, however, was a breed apart. He’d done what our generation would have called “everything”. His fingers traveling so far beyond the frets had been in so many pies, professions, callings. And, because we all KNEW him, we also accepted his life accomplishments as valid. True. No question. They all really happened.

Now, why would we not challenge his veracity?

“We” are the generation that birthed the music of the ’70’s. The last intimate ballad. The recording that just was – no gimmicks; no video enhancements; no synthetic percussion; no studio production. And, we couldn’t have known how important this would become, to that fading value: history.

Oprah Winfrey recently spoke, at a Tennessee commencement*. Her topic? The Impostor Syndrome. By now, we all know its definition: “Fake it ’til you make it.”

And, what has this errant directive birthed?

George Santos.

Liar, extraordinaire. Now, facing the music of his masquerade.

Time was, if you did it, you could prove it; if you didn’t, no way could you find acceptance among the self respecting.

“We” aren’t sure who came up with the outlandish idea that faking anything in order to reach status of any worth was the way to go. One thing is certain: the service industry, just to name one, is rife with its following; how many phone calls to customer support yield “I’m sorry for the inconvenience” and “let me put you on hold”? Too many.

Entire enterprises are populated by the oblivious, whose only observable skills include Googling Wikipedia, submitting a screen grabbed report, taking a long lunch, and leaving early. Gone is what used to be called “toil.” Sweat, and blood. Feeling that good kind of tired, at the end of a highly productive day.

On the other hand, jumping on the treadmill of the masses, striving to achieve, hoping somebody notices – that led our generation to the Land of Diminishing Returns. A life really well lived used to be its own reward; now, we lean back in our proverbial rockers and watch the vastly under-experienced sail past us, some of them actually flying, never breaking basal body temp, and swinging from one brass ring to the next like a cage full of monkeys.

Enter the devices of man, as catalyst. Robotics; artificial intelligence; pre-programmed machines, replacing live workers. Perhaps the current generation in charge feels obliteration nipping at its heels; maybe the going motivation is just getting through the day without losing grip on the ledge.

Yet, the glimmer of hope pulsates. Vinyl records are back. Being able to touch something made by another human, without threat of its virtual presence vaporizing in the next second….

In our collective gut, we sense that returning to authenticity is our only survival. Living the true story – the only path which will lead us away from extinction.

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*I didn’t listen to the entire speech; any thoughts verbalized in this piece which resemble statements she made therein are entirely coincidental (or, channeled?).

Copyright 5/12/2023 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is(inspired by guitarist et al, Joseph Popp) and whose name really does appear above this line. No copying – in part; whole; or, by translation – permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively. Thank you for being real.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Sins of the Culture.

contemplation, faith, family history, grief, healing, human behavior, Judao-Christian theology, memorials, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, religious belief, sectarian Fundamentalism, social commentary, sociology, tributes, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

NEWLY-EDITED/FINAL EDIT.

Three weeks ago Tuesday, an earnest man died.

While raising his family, he and his wife lived socially separate from the “world”, ascribing to a set of beliefs which dictated that they “touch not the unclean thing.”

Such a system of belief came to include his relationship, familial though it was in real time, with me.

That man was my cousin. Though we’d grown up literally around the block from one another, in recent years I would be shunned — never contacted; never included in family gatherings, though remaining the only [ and, solitary ] blood relative still living in the same county.

Apart from one conversation with his wife, circa 1995 (the year mum died, she paying several visits to the house to help with Mum’s hospice care) – I had never actually told him anything about my life, directly. As a couple, they did provide great kindness to my father, inviting him several times for dinner after mum died, and supported an orchestra in which I had performed for many years; but, upon my retreating from that organization in the wake of both a horrid harrassment scene and failure to secure a contract, I could not recall any further voluntary contact from either of them.

In fact, following the final four years of my father’s life, most of which were spent as live in caregiver at either his house or mine, the next time I would see them in person would be when we all attended his nephew’s wedding reception. Though we’d been seated together at one of many round tables, no eye contact was returned and no conversation entertained. Only one comment, from his wife, remained with me, to replay over and over in my head: “You LOOK like somebody I know….?!”

At the time, I remember thinking afterwards that perhaps they’d been repelled by the black, Grecian-styled gown which I’d worn as professional dress at another wedding having just completed performance; typically, the garment was sleeveless, with two bands of stretch jersey meeting at an Empire waist, securely covering both breasts but, by a certain standard, a “plunging” neckline. Though no aspect of my body’s private parts were at all exposed I was, possibly, inappropriately attired for their company. By attending that wedding reception wearing that dress I had committed an offense, against them.

Sin.

Enmity from God. Disobedience against laws and precepts, as outlined in the Holy Bible.

To the Roman Catholic system, sin is clearly delineated within a hierarchy: Venial, or “lesser” offenses, which include transgressions; all the way to Mortal, those grave, serious and, frankly, felonious. Accordingly, punishments are doled out by means of penance requirements, after the requisite confession.

But among the Christian church’s innumerable outgrowths, from conservative to liberal, sin would come to carry a remarkably malleable definition – and over time, I would learn, subject to a legion of interpretation.

Herewith, the school of my own life.

Back in the late 1970’s, Mum hosted a German boy in our home. Not the typical exchange student, Roland hailed from the Schwelm assembly of our sectarian, fundamentalist Plymouth Brethren fellowship. He had secured a tool and die apprenticeship, of sorts, with the local Penn-Erie Schober, a machine shop owned by a wealthy, Swiss shipping magnate who himself was a member of the Zurich fellowship. Roland worked at the shop during the day, staying with our family nights and weekends and, invariably, attending the Gospel Assembly Hall with us both on Sundays and for every weekday “meeting”.

Roland was tall, blonde, and quiet. His English was halting, most notably his “v” sounds always slipping into “w” like Elmer Fudd. But, unlike his bold, cartoon counterpart Roland blushed, easily. And, he avoided eye contact with most everyone – especially me. I, on the other hand, on the cusp of college swiftly developed a crush, which would last until our tearful goodbye the following year.

My first alarm sounded during one of the earliest Gospel meetings held on Sunday evenings, at the Hall. Arriving just in time, I’d slid into an empty seat just beside him at the end of a row. His countenance ran crimson, his head elevated, nostrils flaring; clearly, my presence beside him was excruciating.

Later, he would disclose: German Christian men and women, both single and as married couples, never sat together during any meetings of the Plymouth Brethren. Men occupied one side of the worship room; women, the other. And, all ultimate relationships were, even still as late as the 1970’s, discreetly arranged by parents of agreeable families.

I was s.t.u.n.n.e.d.

This was the ’70’s. Granted, women’s liberation had not touched the Assembly of the Plymouth Brethren; but, arranged marriages had gone out with the advent of indoor plumbing!

Oh, but no; Roland was quick to intone that the Lord did not condone flagrant socializing between male and female adolescents. And, like all serious brothers of the Brethren, he had a Scripture to support his position.

I don’t remember the Scripture. I do remember his face, his skin, his averted gaze, and his physical discomfort which I had caused simply by sitting beside him.

Eventually, Roland returned to Germany. A few years later, Mum took in yet another German boy from the Brethren. Again, this young man would also work at Penn-Erie Schober. Hans-Jorg was completely different in both appearance and carriage, from Roland. Always smiling, happy, loving the outdoors, his English was fluent; we all enjoyed him, especially Mum who could, at last, carry on lengthy conversations about so many topics for which she was starved. I, however, was away at college, so my interactions with Hans did not include sitting beside him for any reason.

In 1984, I took my first trip overseas, traveling first to Scotland and, from there, across to the European continent. My visit at Roland’s home was brief, toward the end of my time in Germany; but, meeting up first with Hans-Jorg in the town of Remscheid, I’d been entertained at two eateries, one for “spaghetti ice” and the other a classic German pub.

As we sat, awaiting our sumptuous brunch of omelet and salad, Hans ordered a mug of beer. As it turned out, Germans were very keen on their beer, at virtually every meal except breakfast! (In Paris, I’d also been offered wine with dinner, which I declined.) Furthermore, Hans told me that cigarettes were very common in Germany; during the short social time between Morning Worship/Communion and Sunday School, all the men would stand outside, and smoke!

Regardless the decade across American history, the assembly of the Plymouth Brethren in the United States condemned both drinking and smoking. To them, along with s-e-x, these were sins – and, their offenders, living “in sin”. In fact, if one among the closed, accepted fellowship was found to be indulging in either, said violator was “put out” of the fellowship – no longer permitted at “the Lord’s Table” to accept communion.

Yet, here I was, in both France and Germany, among members of the same fellowship, the wine and beer flowing freely, the cigarettes puffed and inhaled at will.

At this juncture, my notion of sin began to evolve. How therefore, I mused, was God to judge anyone, and by what standard? And, if God’s standard was flexible, how could mere humans pass pronouncements of any kind upon one another, Christian or infidel?

Being obedient to the Almighty God takes conviction, determination, and a harnessing of the human will. Knowing how and when one is displeasing God, apparently, depends entirely upon where one lives on the planet.

My cousin is now where he knows, even as he has already been known by his Creator. The place is Heaven, where God sits on the throne and Christ beside him, they one and the same. Easier now to accept three in one, let alone two, in these times of quantum and string theory and non-locality. With God, all things are possible, after all.

One day, time will become eternity. Apparently, repentance is still the order of the day for humans, forgiveness the modus operandi of the Divine and, finally, acceptance.

Given time, how might we mortals hope to define what we can and should mean to one another?

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Copyright 4/8/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation, permitted; sharing my blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS feed. Thank you for respecting the history of someone other than yourself.