The Sal Mar Construction

The Sal Mar Construction

By Bill Schaeffer

I was an Undergraduate student at the University of Illinois, studying engineering, and trying to make sense of the world;  and trying to have fun on the weekends.   I saw an announcement for an experimental music concert and thought it would be fun to attend.   The student price was reasonable and I had nothing else to do.   I had some interest in synthesizers and rock music and liked the albums of Emerson Lake and Palmer that I had heard.    This could be fun. 

The concert was in a small studio in Kranert Hall.   The room seemed circular, or at least the chairs were set up in a box or circle.     The room was dark and everything in the room was black, black curtains, black floor, black ceiling.   Against one wall stood the Sal Mar Construction, silent and menacing.    It was about the size of a refrigerator and mostly gray metal, like army surplus electrical machinery from the 1950’s.  

There was a shelf that stuck out from the center of the box that had smooth silver buttons inlaid in the surface.   The buttons were arranged in a simple geometric pattern and there were no markings or labels of any kind.   It did not look anything like a keyboard or a teletype keyset; it seemed to be more like the control panel for a space ship, or a time machine.    The surface was smooth to the touch and the buttons appeared to be activated by heat or galvanic skin response.

Out of the top of the machine burst a huge bundle of wires.    These wires were connected to speaker housings hanging throughout the room. The back of the speaker housing was a smooth bubble of clear Plexiglas that allowed the electronics to be seen and gave the whole assembly a very futuristic look.  The speakers were one of the amazing parts of the machine.   There must have been at least twenty different identical speakers hanging from the ceiling by invisible thread.  These boxes each housed a single car stereo speaker and a small light bulb that acted as a circuit breaker.   If the voltage was too great the light would glow and protect the speaker.  As the concert progressed, the lights would be activated more regularly and gave the impression of little robotic fireflies glowing to the futuristic music.   .

We were seated in aluminum chairs and waited for the concert to begin.   The studio was silent, except for the low hush of people talking and rustling around trying to find a seat.   Eventually the lights dimmed and Salvatore Martirano entered the room.   A solidly built man with a graying beard and thick mane of hair, he projected an aura of confidence, amusement, and reserve.    He said a few words, but I do not remember what they were, and then he sat down at the machine.   The lights were dimmed except for a pool of light illuminating the machine and the man sitting in front of it.

For a long time he sat still in front of the machine.  Then he moved his arm and gently touched the control panel.  Nothing happened.   He touched it a second and then a third time and then a sound erupted from the machine.  A loud electric squirt of a sound shot out of the machine and into some speakers on the opposite side of the room.   Then another sound followed, like a big ripping electrical buzz saw, and then some little clicking and whistling sounds and then a series of sounds that can only be described as big, wet,  electronic farts.

The sound was incredible, and dense and spacious.   For a long time the machine would emit strange noises and then these noises would move around the room from speaker to speaker and eventually disappear, only to be replaced other strange sounds that also moved around the room on invisible trajectories.  We could guess their position by the activated lights in the speakers.

These sounds seemed to have shape and volume as they moved around the room, but the eyes could see nothing to connect with these sounds, only the occasional blinking of the little speaker circuit lights.    It was like being in a cave and hearing bats flying overhead, but you cannot see them. But these sounds were like huge mechanical flying machines and groaning spirit entities from some other dimension; and they  were flying just inches over your head.

The whole time, Salvatore sat like a great wise magician slowly guiding the concert experience with occasional gestures of his arms.   It was unclear exactly how he was controlling the machine.   I watched him closely, and only occasionally did his motions seem to have a direct effect on the sound.   Many times, however, it seemed as if he was just stroking, or petting the instrument, as if he was psychically coaxing it to reveal patterns long buried deep within its architecture.   Like the machine needed the loving strokes of the great master to get it to slowly reveal the cryptic secrets buried in the very heart of mathematics, electricity, and logic.   And we, the audience, were witness to this strange spectacle.  As if watching a pagan sorcerer  conjuring up spirits from another world, but instead of seeing specters of horror we were hearing marvels of another age.   We were hearing prescient echoes of the future yet to be.   We were hearing the first sounds of the next new era of man.   Sounds so strange and unfamiliar that they were as frightening to us as the gunshot and the steamboat were to the primitive man.

As the concert progressed, the sounds increased in their volume and intensity.   They whirled around the room in a beautiful and violent cacophony.   It was as if we were musical explorers and all familiar reference points of pitch, melody, rhythm, timbre had long since been abandoned.   We were novices again traversing in an entirely new musical space.   We were the aliens -- listening to a master’s lecture in a strange yet familiar foreign tongue.    It was as if the space between sounds had somehow been unfolded to reveal whole new landscapes of noise that lay hidden within the quietest pin drop.

It is difficult to say how long this lasted.   For a long time, we just sat there trying to make sense of the sound  and the volume and the little lights on the speakers.    And then it was over.    The noises suddenly abated.   They became less frequent and insistent as if they were being called back into the machine.   And then silence.  Silence, and the lights were slowly brought up.    No one knew what to think.   We weren’t even sure that it was music, but we all knew that we had heard nothing like it before.    We were dazed, and slowly filed out of the room, blinking our eyes as they adjusted to the lights in the lobby.  

We didn’t really know what had happened, but we were sure that we heard the future somehow, and we were not sure what to think of it.   It was frightening, and complex, and unpredictable, and we couldn’t wait to hear it again.    Little did we realize exactly how long it would be until we had another opportunity; and that it might never happen again in our lifetimes.  Irregardless, we knew we had just heard the future.

Copyright©2009, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

Adequate Piano Player's Manifesto

The Adequate Piano Player’s Manifesto

By Bill Schaeffer

I promise that I faithfully read the following articles and consistently use these principles to guide my professional behavior to uphold the dignity of the job of professional piano player.   If I cannot read very well, I promise that I had someone read it to me and I was paying attention.   I affirm that I understand the following principles and that I can actually play a few songs on the piano.

1.  I promise to write the gig on the calendar and arrange for reliable transportation, unless I cannot find a pencil, or my girlfriend has to work.

2. I promise to bathe, shave, and wash my hair before the gig.   I will wear deodorant and brush my teeth.    However, if I don’t have enough time for all that, I will at least shave with an electric razor in the car on the way over.

3. I promise to wear a clean shirt, and clean socks, and clean underwear, and pants without stains on them.   However, if I do not have time to do laundry, I will still wear pants and a shirt; but if I don’t have any clean underwear, then I just won’t wear any.

4. I promise that I won’t bring any friends to the gig so they can get free food and drink, unless they are really good friends and I haven’t seen them in a really long time.

5. I promise to know how to play “Happy Birthday,” “Charlie Brown,” and at least three Christmas songs, but I refuse to play any polkas on the piano, unless it is the Beer Barrel Polka.

6. I promise not to chew gum, eat food, or put lit cigarettes on the piano, unless I was real late and didn’t have time to get dinner first.

7. I promise not to drink excessively unless the piano is out of tune.

8. I promise not to tell “off color” jokes, or use profane language, unless everyone else is doing it anyway; or it is a real funny joke.

9. I promise not to talk about religion, or politics, unless a guest says something that is just plain wrong. 

10. I promise not to dance with the guests unless she is very insistent and her husband is a bad dancer anyway.

11. I promise to take regular breaks and I might take a few irregular ones also.

12. I promise not to drink the expensive vodka if the guests can see me.

13. I promise not to smoke in the kitchen, urinate in the bushes, or instigate fist fights on the front lawn.

14. I promise I won’t try to borrow money from the guests or the family of the Hostess.

15. I promise to leave the gig, in my own car at the appropriate time, unless I am offered a ride, or the bed upstairs is very comfortable.

16. I promise not to show up unexpectedly six months later asking for work, or food, or a ride to the store.

17. I promise to play at least one song, all the way through, without any mistakes at all.

I have read, and agree to, the terms of this agreement.  I promise to uphold the letter and spirit of this document, unless it just seems like way too much work.

Name:

Date:


Signature:

Girlfriend:

Other Girlfriend:

Probation Officer:

copyright (c) 2009, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

The House that Dripped Blood

The House that Dripped Blood (a true story)

By Bill Schaeffer

I was only 6 years old.   In the beginning of the summer, and my baby brother Scott was sick with the bronchitis.    He was only a baby and had a humidifier running in his room.

Our house was a little one story square home with wide wooden siding.   It was painted white with yellow trim and was built only a few years earlier by Joe Kime, Builder.    In the summer, the house was bright and happy in the sunlight.   We had no air-conditioning and the windows were open.  A few small twig like trees were planted in the front yard and there was a long gravel driveway that lead to the street.   Along the outside of the driveway was a flowerbed where my mother grew an assortment of constantly blooming flowers.   

It was a beautiful sunny day and we were driving home from church.   My father was a salesman and got a new car every two years.   This year we were riding in a new, dark blue Plymouth.

As we turned the corner of our street, we couldn’t believe our eyes.     The house was dripping blood.    This was like a horror movie, except it was real.    Coming out from beneath the wooden siding were long drips of blood red liquid staining the sides of the house.    The stripes were about two inches wide and vivid red.

The drips were randomly uniform and could be seen along the front and sides of the house.    The effect on the bright day was unmistakable.    The happy little house,  white with yellow trim, was dripping blood red streaks of color.

My father was beside himself with disbelief and quickly jumped out of the car to inspect the colored drips.    I was relatively young and quiet natured so I did not know what to think.    I did not know how unusual a phenomenon this was.    To me it seemed only natural that a house should drip blood red color streaks on occasion, because we were witnessing the event right here.

Immediately my father began plans to repaint the house.    The next weekend, my father scraped the paint off the sides of the little house with  long metal razor blade tool.   It was silver with a red handle.   It took the whole weekend and was a lot of work.  It was determined that the wood siding was “green” and the red sap dripping out of the boards gave the blood red color to the drips.    Sitting in the summer sun to dry for a week, my father painted the house the following weekend. 

The entire house was clean and white with yellow trim once again.

This was a tremendous effort and my father worked very hard.   Both he and my mother were mortified by the blood red drips and they talked about it incessantly.   Perhaps it was the humidifier inside for Scott that added moisture to the wood outside, and caused the drips?    Perhaps it was the humid summer heat?  

The weather, however, was sunny and it had not rained.

In any event the house was repainted and the whole event was just a memory.

The next weekend it was another hot and beautiful day as we returned from church.  As the car pulled up the street and into the drive, we saw the house  was “dripping blood”  once again.     I cannot remember if the streaks were exactly the same, but the effect was exactly the same.    Wide blood red streaks of color were dripping from underneath the wooden shingles.    The color looked just as saturated as the previous time and just as uniformly distributed.

My father could not believe his eyes.   He leapt out of the car in disbelief.   This was a phenomenal let down after all that painting work.   My father went back to E & G home center and bought some more paint and a blow torch.   This time he was determined to solve the problem.   After scraping paint off of the whole house he took the blow torch to dry the wood siding.   He went the length of the entire house torching the bare wood with the flame - board by board by board.  Then, he primed the house and painted the entire house once again.

And then, incredibly, it happened one more time.   We were driving home from church on another sunny day in August and the house once more appeared to be dripping blood.   My father was speechless and stunned.     This was beyond belief.   It was incredibly disheartening after already painting the entire house two complete times.

This time, my father called everyone he know to see how he could possibly solve the problem.   He had men come over to the house and look at the problem.   Finally he got some little aluminum wedges that he could hammer up underneath the shingles to let moisture out and keep the wood dry.

One more time, my father scraped the entire house with an aluminum scraping tool.  Then he took the blowtorch and dried the wooden siding till it was almost burnt black.  Then he hammered these little aluminum wedges up under the wooden siding.

Then, after priming the house he painted the entire thing one more time.    After watching all this, I asked if I could help.  My father gave me a paint brush and a small square to work on.   I was very proud to be able to help.  After I finished, I showed my work to my father and he just painted over it, with his big brush, and did not say hardly a thing.

Finally, the problem was fixed and the house never dripped blood again.   Since I was very young at the time, I did not have an opinion as to the cause or uniqueness of this event.   I just watched it unfold over the course of the summer.   My parents maintained that it was the humidifier in Scott’s room that caused the  siding to get moist and drip red colored sap.  

There are several problems with this explanation.   Most houses have a moisture barrier that keeps the inside of the house warm and dry when it is wet outside.    According to my recollection, the house was never damp, muggy, or humid inside -- even when it was raining outside.    There was never any mildew on the floors or walls of any of the rooms.   In fact my mother was a diligent housekeeper and the house was always clean and nice inside.    If a humidifier could cause the siding to bleed, then surely we would have noticed moisture inside at other times.

Another interesting feature is that the blood red drips were always the same density, same size, and same saturation of color.   One would think that if the wood was green; each successive manifestation of sap leaching out of the wood, would be less colorful and less intense than before.   But, this is not my memory of the incident.   Each manifestation was equally vivid and impressive.

I can think of no external events that coincided with this occurrence.   It was not raining and the weather was a beautiful sunny day each time.   In fact, there was very little rain all summer long if I remember correctly.

And then, the summer ended.   And we never really talked about this again.

However, when my parents bought their next house, they got aluminum siding that would never need repainting.   Also, the siding could not possibly leach colored sap, because there was no wood.  And, they got red colored siding.   Barn red siding with white trim.  Perhaps they thought even if the new house dripped blood, no one would even see it against the red aluminum siding.

Additionally, one could say that it is almost as if the house itself was trying to turn red, and then it finally did turn completely red when we bought the next one.

copyright(c)2009, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

I woke up early this morning

I woke up early this morning.   When that happens, if I cannot sleep, I get out of bed, and read or think about life until the day begins.   This habit of waking early has been reinforced by the occasional need to wake up at 4:30 AM to make an early 6:30 AM call time for an acting job.

Today I was reading selections from the book “The Great Ideas, A  Syntopicon II, Man to World” published by the Encyclopedia Britannica in 1952.  This was the second volume in the series of books “Great Books of the Western World”

I had just finished reading the section 92 on Theology.   This is to me a very disturbing product of the human mind.   The fundamental base of Theology seems to be irrational belief that, defies logic, refutes logic, and refuses logical analysis.   At the same time, Theology uses the tools of logic to build arguments and prove concepts that seem to be fabrications of the human mind; utterly unrelated to almost any aspect of the external “real” world that I can see.   It is exasperating to try to understand a doctrine that holds blind unthinking obedience to be the highest virtue and logical analysis, or doubt, to be a crime.

Curiously, Theology exists in most all different Religions of man.

Then I turn to section 94 on Truth.  The discussion starts with a short clarification on the difference between moral truth, which is speaking your mind and honestly reporting your thoughts; and physical truth which is the narrative of actual events that occur in the world. 

 

I turn the page and am surprised by a piece of paper sticking out of the book in the next page.   This is strange that I did not notice it before.   It is a sheet of old yellowed stationary and there are a few sentences written in a neat feminine handwriting on one side.  The paper is torn in half at the bottom of the written text. 

 And this is what is written, “It is simpler and less demanding to have a closed mind than an open one.  One can long to be free and yet, when freedom is imminent, have it loom as a fearful burden.  Suddenly there are too many choices, there is too little structure.”

copyright(c)2014 Wm Schaeffer

I don't want to work today

I Don’t Want to Work Today

                by Bill Schaeffer

I woke up early, refreshed and new

The morning birds were singing true

The gentle sun was peaking through

the window curtains of my room.

A springtime breeze blew through the sash

and brought the smell of fresh lilac.

I took a breath and opened my eyes.

It was just a second before I realized,

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

I lay there then for a moment or two

hoping to remember what I must do.

And as I was running through my routine

A foreign thought entered in my brain,

I could call in sick and take the day

to spend how I want, in my own way.

“But that wouldn’t be fair to my team at work

But it would be a lot more fun, that’s for sure”

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

I sat up straight and thought real hard,

“I bet there’s plenty I could do in the yard.

I could mow the lawn, or rake some leaves.

I could plant a flower, or plant a tree.

I could fix the fence, or paint the shed

or dig up the ground for a flower bed.

There are a thousand things that I could do

and that is just around the house -- it’s true”

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

“But what,” I thought, “If I took the time,

and had a day trip to a place sublime?

I could have a picnic in the local park

or go to the gallery to see some art.

I could go shopping in a fancy mall

or spend the day in an old pool hall.

There are limitless opportunities I see

If only I didn’t have a career to feed.”

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

Newly energized with exciting tasks

I prepared the tub to take my bath.

I got my bread and made some tea

and pondered over the possibilities

A fierce debate was in my head

of whether I should work, or play instead

“I need a day that’s free from work

And today is the day I’ll tell those jerks.”

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

“But just in case I change my heart

I’ll bring my briefcase to the park.”

So I got in my car, and left the drive

And started for the old wild side.

But, lost in thought of what to do

I missed the street I thought I knew

And then somehow to my dismay

I ended up at work anyway.

                “I don’t want to work today.

                I just want to go and play.”

I just sat there for a minute or two

and then I knew what I must do.

So, filled with resolve, and bursting with pride

I strode to the door and walked inside.

But, once through the door and in the lobby

I experienced a change that left me wobbly.

I lost my resolve and walked to my desk,

“Maybe a day off tomorrow, is what would be best!”

                                                                                                                                                               

April 11, 2003

Copyright©2003, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

Happy Birth Day, Where were we?

Happy Birthday -- way to go!

May another year come and go

without you having to sell your soul.

Enjoy your luck, while you can.

Savor the fruits of all the land.

Soon, we pay the ferry man.

Life is short and death is certain.

Who can say with true discernment

What's behind that final curtain?

Do what you will, say what you may.

Postulate in the most amazing way.

Soon, we face that final day.

So, eat and drink, sing and laugh.

Pour yourself another carafe

and contemplate this cosmic gaff.

We hope to cheat the final end

with words, or riches, or even friends.

But always, it seems, we will pretend.

So, hoping for peace and love and worth,

We cling with certainty to this earth --

But where were we before our birth?

Wm Schaeffer 2005 2014 copyright(c)

Little Bug

          Little Bug

          Run away

          Little bug.

          Hide and seek

          Under rug.

                Copyright © 2005, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

The Boss is Drinking Again

The Boss is Drinking Again (sung to the tune of Back in the Saddle Again)


The Boss is drinking again
He reeks of Whisky and Gin
He's telling some stories
Of bygone glories
And I'm dreading the punchline again.

The Boss is drinking again
He swears he is everyone's friend
I wish he would leave
and go brush his teeth
and leave me to clean up again.

The Boss is drinking again
Now, I know  I cannot win
when he checks my work
and acts like a jerk
and  takes all the credit again.

copyright(c) 2006, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

(R.I.P:)

Poem for Emi

Poem for Emi

Because life is tough

And living is hard,

I thought I’d send

This little card.

Keep on struggling

And fight the fight

To accomplish what

You know is right.

Pursue your goals

Each and every day

And don’t give up.

It’s the only way.

Though the world is many

And you are one,

You too can have

Your place in the sun.

Copyright 2006 Wm Schaeffer

For Emi Ichihara

Respect

Respect

You talk of Respect, brother.

And how you demand you get what is yours.

Respect.

How an old friend was dissin' you and you cut him loose because he wasn't showin' you no respect and that is what it's all about.

Respect.

Well, my brother -- in My Book, Respect is earned. And if you want My Respect you have to earn it like everyone else. And one way you can start to earn it is by being true to your word and honoring your commitments.

Respect.

If memory serves, brother, Tonight you were going to pay back Sixty Bucks I loaned you Saturday.   And, I haven't heard from you yet.  Your phone just rings.

What’s up, brother?

Sixty bucks. 

Sixty bucks.  That’s Chump change, fool.  But, if you don't respect me enough to honor your word in small things, how do you expect me to honor you in anything?

Respect?

Your phone is ringing.

Respect?

Hello?

Brother, you don't deserve No Respect.

copyright(c) 2003, 2014 Wm Schaeffer 

The Bipolar Bear

The Bipolar Bear

By Bill Schaeffer

10-09-03

What a depressive episode feels like:

Imagine being under attack from the inside of your thoughts.  And there is no where to run and it feels like something will come crashing down upon your head, but you realize that it is already inside your head, but you still expect it to come crashing down anyway.

Imagine that there is a churning in your brain like storm clouds made of jello.

Imagine kneading a lump of bread dough in your hands. Imagine the
circular motion of the dough folding back upon itself. Now imagine that
imaginary hands are taking your brain and kneading it like that bread
dough, except it is thoughts that are folding back upon themselves in
your brain and you are powerless to stop it.

Imagine that your body is an empty shell. Your chest and skull are
totally empty, but what is gone is not your guts and brains; but your
hope, your joy, your love, your mirth, your belief in tomorrow, your
future, your laughter, and your life. And now imagine that the shell
that remains weighs 1000 pounds and you can barely move it.

Imagine being in a crowd of people. They are all laughing and talking
about the common cares of the day.   You hear what they are saying, but they are all very far away and distant and nothing they say has any relevance to anything -- especially to the thoughts that are burning in your mind.   You want them to go away and leave you alone.  You tell people, “Don’t talk to me.  Go away and leave me alone.”

Imagine being seized with an anger that has no limit. Imagine the most
grievous violation of your person and imagine how that would make you
feel. Now take that feeling of rage and magnify it 1000 times, but have it be
detached from any real outside event. Now imagine interacting with some
stranger who makes some innocent mistake and you feel compelled to set
the record straight.

Imagine that you know that you are angry, but you cannot help it.  You tell people that you are not mad at them in a very angry tone of voice.  And all the time you really are mad at them but you know that there is no rational reason for it so you try to pretend that you are not angry because that is what you would do if you weren’t already super-irrationally angry.

Imagine being the only person in an empty world where there is no one to
talk to, and no one to touch, and no one to share anything with ever
through all eternity. Like being in solitary confinement in a giant
entertainment prison on an asteroid floating through deep space; and
there is no music, or sound effects on any of the games.

Imagine being at the bottom of a shaft dug into the earth. You only
walk around a little and there isn't room to sit down. You can't climb
out and you can only look up sixty feet to the little spot of sky and
hope no one kicks a stone down the hole.

Imagine thinking the same thought over and over again; knowing that you
are thinking it over and over, and it must stop; but being absolutely unable to stop
the thought from repeating itself over and over again.

Imagine the low grinding sound of an old electric motor with bad
bearings being operated at a low R.P.M. Now imagine that electric
motor is mounted on the inside top of your skull with the axis of
rotation running from temple to temple. The imaginary shaft is pointing
out of your left temple and it is rotating counter clockwise.

Imagine being trapped in a maze of hallways with doors. And no matter
which door you choose, in which hallway, it always leads back to the
same room, which is the one that you were originally trying to leave in
the first place.  And every time you find the same room you get a little more angry and you slam the door a little harder, until soon you are slamming the doors so hard that the whole building is shaking and you aren’t even trying to get out any more.  You are just trying to slam the door as hard and loud as you can.

Imagine the most empty, hollow, lifeless feeling you can.  Now imagine having no idea how to make it stop.

And eventually, if you are lucky, it does stop, or at least it lets up tremendously.    And it feels like a total relief, like 500 pounds are taken off your back. Like you just went through a long physical ordeal and you are now recuperating. You say *whew* a lot and try and take things slow and easy like you are learning to walk again.  You try to not ruffle any feathers or cause any excitement. You apologize to those that you can and mend the breaks that you can and get on with things as best you can. You take a lot of deep breaths and say *whew* a few more times.   Then you sit back, take a deep breath, and brace yourself for the next one...

copyright(c) 2003, 2004, 2014 Wm Schaeffer

The End of Patriotism

The End of Patriotism

 by Bill Schaeffer

I wonder when people will take the flags off of their cars.

How will they know that it is time?

When will it no longer be important?

Will there be a public announcement?

Or just, the sober realization that the danger has gone?

And, the banner is tattered and worn.

Will it be, one by one, in lonely contemplation that the world

will return to normal again and the flags will disappear?

Or will it happen in a flash?

Who can say?

But somehow it is all kind of sad,

because,

the world never will

really ever

be normal

ever

again.

copyright(c)2001, 2004, 2014

Wm Schaeffer

zippity doo dah

"zippity doo dah.
 zippity day,
 wonderful feeling,
 wonderful day,"

- popular song

Why I Chose Engineering

Why I Chose Engineering
by Bill Schaeffer


    One afternoon during my Senior year my mother came to me and said, "If you do not study Science or Engineering in college, we are not going to pay for your college.   And if you don't go to college, we are going to take all the money we would have spent and take the rest of the family on vacation to Hawaii; and leave you at home."

If you really think about that statement for a moment and all it implies, you cannot really blame me for choosing to study Engineering; just to get out of that house.

I also chose Engineering because I wouldn't have to study a foreign language.

Although Engineering is a valuable and honorable profession, I never had any interest in the material.   None.

I actually didn't even want to go to college.  I wanted to take a year off and work and travel.

Thanks Ma.









copyright(c) 2014
Wm Schaeffer

What else do you have to do?

At some point you realize

No one is ever going to rescue you.

No one else will do the hard work for you.

No one will ever be in your corner rooting for you.

Anything you do you will have to do alone.

And the same people who said that you couldn’t do it

Will say, “I knew you could,” when it is all over.

There will be no applause, no handshake.

You won‘t be carried into the clubhouse on the shoulders of your team mates,

Because you don’t have any teammates.

You don’t even belong to a team.

You don’t belong to anything, anywhere.

And yet, you are alive.

You are not in any particular pain and don’t have any debilitating fears,

So why not work hard anyway?

What else do you have to do?

copyright(c)2002, 2004, 2014

September 2002

September 2002

My neighbors in the next building have moved out.

A man and a woman.

Their apartment was about the same height as mine.

I could see their balcony from the bathroom window.

I could hear her coughing in the morning and

I could hear their phone ringing.

They moved out in the night and

left a huge pile of garbage in the dumpster.

I never really met them,

and don’t even know what they look like.

But somehow I miss them

and am sad that they are gone.

copyright(c)2014

Wm Schaeffer

The Four Doughnuts of the Apocalypse

The Four Doughnuts of the Apocalypse
from the Book of Fat, Chapter 7


1) White Powdered Sugar Doughnut causes heartburn and indigestion.

2) Cinnamon Jelly-filled Doughnut causes gum disease and bad breath.

3) Chocolate Fudge Doughnut (with chocolate icing and brown sprinkles) causes
irritable bowel syndrome and intestinal gas.

4) Butter Crunch Doughnut causes diarrhea, sickness, and death. In
some mythologies this Doughnut has pink icing with the many colored
sprinkles. The effect is the same.




copyright(c) 2014
Wm Schaeffer

To say, "Amen."

To say, “Amen”

By Bill Schaeffer

2003

I was reading a book on “Understanding Hieroglyphs - a complete introductory guide” by Hilary Wilson and  during a moment of reflection came across this curious observation.

Apparently, one’s name was very important to the ancient Egyptians.  People often had several names and god’s also had multiple names.  To know another’s “secret name” was to have special power and influence over that person. 

To have one’s name survive and be remembered, after death, was also very important.  This is how one prospered in the afterlife.  People would go to great lengths to insure that their name was remembered.  It was considered an important family obligation to recite the names of your ancestors at special rites.  Occasionally priests were hired to perform these functions for large or influential families.  Inscriptions and statues also helped the name of the deceased to survive.   

Names were also important to the gods.  The more powerful the god, the more names and titles he carried.  Reciting the name of the god gave him power and gave you favor. 
It was always essential to recite the names of the gods correctly.  An error would nullify the action or worse bring bad luck.  Another method honoring the gods was to inscribe their names on walls and monuments.  This is why there are so many names to be found among the hieroglyphic inscriptions.

The chief god of all the Egyptian gods was identified with the sun and the solar disk was his symbol.  One of his names was Ra.  Another of his names was Amon, or “Amen.”  The Greeks identified him with Zeus and the Romans identified him with Jupiter. 

It strikes me as interesting that, in English speaking countries at least, every Christian prayer is ended by repeating the name of this king of the Egyptian Gods, “Amen.” 

So, in the old Egyptian worldview, you might say that Christian prayers are helping to keep the greatest of all the Egyptian gods alive by repeating his name in supplication at the end of every prayer, “Amen.”

***

Addendum

2014

It is entirely possible that this practice of saying, “Amen” actually is traceable back to Egypt.   The “twelve tribes” that left Egypt could have adopted the practice during their stay in Egypt.   There are several scenarios where this could have happened during those centuries, and I leave that discussion for a later time.  

In any event, the practice of saying “Amen” became ritual in ancient Israel and the origins of the practice were long lost to common memory.   When the Christians formed as a sect of Judiasm, they could have continued the practice of saying, “Amen” since they all considered themselves to be Jews.   As the Christian Church grew and spread, the practice of saying, “Amen” was continued as the natural part of ritual.   This practice of saying, “Amen” has continued to the present modern times.

In the nineteenth century when European explorers first translated the Egyptian hieroglyphics, linguists were troubled that the proper spelling and pronunciation of the name of the chief of the Egyptian Gods is “Amen.”   They used several diversionary spellings like Amon, or Amun, and even hyphenated the name as Jupiter-Amon, or Amon-Ra to further obscure the association.

Nevertheless, to me, it seems an intriguing coincidence and further evidence that the spiritual quest of man and the common ritual behaviors we perpetuate have ancient historical roots that stretch back to our earliest common beginnings.

Copyright ©2014

William A Schaeffer

1st 35 Fibonacci Numbers

The First 35 Fibonacci Numbers

F(0) = 0

F(1) = 1

F(2) = 1

F(3) = 2

F(4) = 3

F(5) = 5

F(6) = 8

F(7) = 13

F(8) = 21

F(9) = 34

F(10) = 55

F(11) = 89

F(12) = 144

F(13) = 233

F(14) = 377

F(15) = 610

F(16) = 987

F(17) = 1597

F(18) = 2584

F(19) = 4181

F(20) = 6765

F(21) = 10946

F(22) = 17711

F(23) = 28657

F(24) = 46368

F(25) = 75025

F(26) = 121393

F(27) = 196418

F(28) = 317811

F(29) = 514229

F(30) = 832040

F(31) = 1346269

F(32) = 2178309

F(33) = 3524578

F(34) = 5702887

F(35) = 9227465