This writing is compiled from random notes (jotting my chicken scratches, ideas, memories, etc.) on receipts, fast food wrappers, napkins and other random crap I had readily at hand over a 20 day, seven-lake excursion. I might as well have been drawing the Vitruvian Man, on loose leaf with crayon. Hopefully, to deliver to you in a format that might be worth a second of your time to read.

It’s been a long hot day (at least for me) — 9 hours of no fish biting … kicking backwards, stripping, switching flies every 5th cast. However, Bobber Boy over there has got something figured out. He’s catching fish in abundance. Every time I look over my shoulder he’s got another one on. I putter on over and ask, “Hey man, what are you using?” with a snark reply, he says “a fly.” “You don’t say?!” “Fucking asshole,” I mutter, under my breath, “what the hell has he got that I don’t?” I ask myself.

At this point I’ve exhausted hundreds of flies from my fly boxes. I’ve changed stripping tactics — slow, fast and everything in between. I’m familiar with every aquatic insect in that body of water … let alone the region. I know there’s fish down there — big fish. I’ve seen hundreds of ’em over the course of the days and weeks I’ve been out here. These fish … they just don’t want to bite what I have to offer … and its aggravating. There has to be a technique I am missing. I surmise that on his line he’s got a special bobber … a “strike indicator” — used by fly fishing elites. He’s doing something different; so I wait and I watch.

Yeah, I think I’ve got it figured out now. His bopper‘s maybe two feet off the bottom and just dangling flies off a subsurface shelf; right in the strike zone — no stripping required. But he’s using a different knot. It’s extremely hard to tell from 20 feet away, but he’s tied on his flies with a perfection loop (something that’s in my repertoire) but a loop knot is something I don’t usually do … that’s a saltwater tactic — the good ol’ “set and forget” method that many anglers are familiar with … a method I tend to avoid because it’s as mind-numbingly boring as reading the terms and conditions of the software of your favorite cell phone. The minute you take your eyes off that bobber, you know it’s going to dip. The kicker? — it won’t dip until you do! So, It’s a game of cat and mouse … a game that every angler is familiar with.

The wind’s picking up again. At least it’s just short gusts before things settle back to a glass-like state. I’m getting hungry … dinner, a fire and it’s off to the Vice. Midges. I know it’s midges … the larva size 22 hook — small little buggers. I mean you could pile 10 of them on a dime and still be able to read the text on the coin. I grab my cheap net (you know) the kind you win at the carnival with your little goldfish. With a little luck I’ll scoop a couple out of the water. Yep, this is the one. I put it in a disposable fly box (the kind they give you for free and head up to the vise).

It’s dark now. Headlamps on. A lit cigarette dangles out the corner of my mouth. Smoke thread upwards like stitching into ribbons over my shoulder — almost like the bow on a rudimentary gift (except I’d hardly call kicking around in Washington’s mountainous Northeastern Highlands and not touching a fish for 9 hours a “gift”). But I can’t think of another place I’d rather be right now. Here I am, hunched over the vise-size 22 scud hook, pinched tight between the rotary vice’s nimble little jaws. Man, I’ve come a long way! No more stripping broken headphones for copper wire to counter wrap abdomens … or picking up feathers from dead birds (because they want to charge me $15 for a single pheasant tail feather at the fly shop). At this point, the wind laments through the trees and billows off the lake (which I already coined the “Bearing Sea”). The wind could whip up white caps to a surprising 14 -18 inches high like the prior day. That may not sound that impressive until you realize you’re in a one man, inflatable, man-powered watercraft where your feet waddle in the water up to your knees while your ass is 6 inches above the surface. Then they start to look pretty gnarly. Conditions make a weak stomach decide to disregard its lunch. Most Anglers hightail to their tents or pickups; but I’m not “most anglers.” I’m about as far as you can get to a fair-weather fisherman.

As I twist up the second attempt, I begin muttering to myself “thank God I’m not twisting up any Hackle or Marabou.” A good gust of wind makes tying small feathers on smaller hooks remarkably difficult. I whip, finish, lick my fingers, wet the fly, crimp the barb (this is a gentleman’s game you see so I fish barb-less) and set it next to my little bug I caught earlier. “We’re close really close,” I’m murmuring, “it needs hackle … it needs some legs!” I let the fly dry and toss those attempts into my fly box (they’ll get used eventually). Undoubtedly, I’ll break the fly off. Its just a matter of time. I now have the confidence to connect with a fish.

The fishes are close but not close enough. I repeat the same process but when I get to the end of the fly, I take some black, Dry Fly Saddle Hackle. I only do two wraps. I think to myself: “this will suffice … not too many … otherwise I’ll crowd the eye.” Before I inevitably trap the fibers down and whip finish, I pull out a small pair of scissors and begin to sculpt and trim the fly, thus ensuring a natural profile for the legs. A small dollop of head cement on my Bodkin (a thin point piece of metal, with a handle) to add to the fly’s realism … a christening perhaps. This ensures she won’t unwind after the first couple of hungry nabs from a bow, a tiger or a hungry brown trout.

As I wait for the glue to dry, I crack a cold one. I toss another log on the sputtering hearth of a well-lit fire. I take a swig and pull another smoke out of the crush-proof box. I light it with the existing butt that’s beginning to extinguish itself. I lick my fingers and wet the fly. I almost giggle. I’m more than pleasantly surprised — I’m ecstatic! I set that fly down to the actual bug on a used paper plate and it matches color, size, profile, antennas — everything! Maybe a computer could tell me that that doesn’t look like a real bug, but a hungry bow’s not going to let this scrumptious little damsel imitation pass by. I just need to put it in the right spot. As I take a long drag of my smoke, I soliloquy: “I’ll catch you tomorrow — you picky little shits! I’ll be knocking for your room service in no time.” But now it’s time to play cards (which is the real reason I dragged my friends out here) to make them shut off their cell phones and live a little. No worries. We’ll knock them dead in the morning.

The post A Long Day of Fishing  appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Prologue

It is my intention to help readers to understand the plight of the poor, the homeless and the ‘mentally ill.’ With special attention; never showing your power over another with bullying. The people in the article are real, but their names are fictitious.

Color this cathartic: It is my story which will never change.

CHAPTER ONE

The back story begins seven months ago when I woke up to the sound of my wife’s scream. Her name is Laura. From that morning on, I knew I would never be the same again and take Laura, my wife for 42 years, for granted. I must become a REAL husband who loves his spouse more than himself. And I will now do everything in my power to help her, easing her from the physical and emotional pain.

Laura was experiencing intense pain in her spinal cord. The groans and muffled screams continued for five long months. She would wander around the house, bumping into the walls, sometimes saying that she thought she was dying.

We went to the hospital many times and had many different examinations. It was determined that she had a pinched nerve in the base of her spine, but no specialists could determine why the relentless pain would not subside without triggered shots of steroids. Once the triggered shots had run their course, the excruciating pain would continue. But later, a bone density examination revealed seven cracked ribs and a broken one. Since then, Laura decided not to have further trigger shots, and through diligent stretching, exercise, and prayer; the pain has almost dissipated.

Laura is very private and not an exhibitionist; in particular, she did not want her siblings to know about her spinal pain. Some of her siblings live in small farming areas in Central Washington State, and some are religious cultists. As Laura and I have completely different values; we attempt to approach a person with equality, regardless of race, career, and religion, we are despised. Often a U.S. Hispanic person would be simply dismissed as a Mexican of the migrant variety by some of Laura’s relatives.

These relatives – two siblings and the cyber bullying brother-in-law – view Laura as an anti-Christian, a wayward liberal urban elitist who moved to the big godless city of Los Angeles. Even worse, she is married to me, Jim Smith; a native Seattleite, who was trying to ‘make it’ in Hollywood. When we visit them in Central Washington they pray loudly. Laura privately prays, aware that praying out loud is more of a performance, seeking praise as an actor, rather than expressing true words of thanks to God.

The debacle

As Laura did not want anyone besides me and her doctors/specialists to know about this ordeal. I broke my oath to her. I needed support and prayers from close friends and family who really do love her and even those who don’t. It was a heavy load for me to carry on my own.

Against my best intentions, I also informed each of her four Christian siblings and three in-laws of her unrelenting pain, begging them to privately pray for Laura. This was difficult, requesting that they pray without her knowing it.

Laura’s immediate relatives live under a code of silence, where nothing negative is ever said. Occasionally we do overhear whispers about us, but generally just eyerolls and silence when we express an opinion. It is well understood that we are not considered true Christians or even humanitarians.

The siblings have a family app called PRAISE THE LORD. It is a thread for anyone in need of ‘Christian’ support. The PTL chain can range from the serious – Covid and cancer to a bad cold and even praying for a kitchen appliance to be healed. Yes, faith healing a dish washer out of repair.
Laura’s oldest sister is named, Delila. Her husband of 40 years is Joshua, an unrepentant bully and a narcissist. He took exception to my requests for everyone to pray for Laura’s spinal pain to heal. I was stealing his thunder by informing ever. He believed that he was head of this new adoptive family, and all attention should go to him. Everyone who meets him is aware of his narcissism and self-worship. His long tirades at the family tale are overbearing, how he changed someone’s life, how many pushups he did at the gym, glorified by self-videos and memes sent to us via FB or on the family PTL app.

A Nation of Elvis impersonators

Joshua’s two favorites: dressing in a costume of a fierce Chinese warlord, and a video of him waving a U.S. flag, while charging up a hill, inspiring citizens to follow him in battle. It was an unintentional emulation of the Aryian Übermensch, an example of the master race, climbing an Alpine Mountain with Nazi with swastika imagery. It proved to be effective with the Nazis, but for this man of ignorance who had never been in a battle, the absurdity provoked annoyance and irritation for many who have been in battle.

My father dropped out of high school at 17, joined the Marines, and participated in D-Day the Battle of Iwo Jima and D-Day Battle of Okinawa, often said flag-wavers are jingoists, not patriots. If you’d been in a battle, it is the last thing you would ever want to talk about, Just as worse, my father was a devout Roman-Catholic, not considered a real Christian by some of Laura’s religious cultists siblings and in-laws.

We all felt pity for the bully, Joshua

But everyone is afraid to say anything negative about Joshua because it might hurt the feelings of the oldest sister, Delila. She is regarded to be weak, sweet, and kind, but it’s easy to notice her short comments and side-glances to Joshua in condescension of Laura and me. A farewell back to Southern California generally closed with; “Will pray for you, Jim.” But, strangely never to Laura; only to me, a non-blood relative.

For Joshua, silence meant free reign for more boasting. Sure, this has been happening for 42 years, since the marriage to the oldest sister, Delila. This has been the main problem; silence so it doesn’t cause hurt feeling to the sister, Delila, even though she brought him into ‘the family’ – a family who offered unconditional love. The only love he had experienced prior to that was self-love and self-admiration. Delilia offered that to him more than any other person, but he would humiliate her too in front of her family with bad hygiene, table etiquette, interrupting her when she spoke.

So, as my prayer requests came in for Laura, the bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, posted a photo of himself, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I believe what set him off, his banishment from my wife’s family’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Day family tables in Central Washington. This is where he generally holds court as the de facto head of Laura’s Washington family. After living three and a half years without paying rent and utilities living with Laura’s demented and then departed mother, he and Delilia moved to a rental home in Idaho. As much as the family supported and tried to protect Delilia’s sensitive feelings, maybe the message of his ill repute was beginning to unravel.

Without Mercy

The Sunday attack happened in the evening on a Sunday night when Laura was suffering with unrelentless spinal pain. I had just helped her into bed, set her up with an ice pack, and suggested she should relax and look at her FB account. As she clicked her account on her phone, her body jolted, and her spine hit the wall behind the bed when she saw an unimaginable photograph. She quietly deleted the photo, hoping I wouldn’t notice it. She knew it would upset me more than her.

I managed a quick look and realized it was Joshua’s way to get me to stop with updates about Laura progress to her family. It was the photo of Joshua, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I have only seen reincarnations of the Devil in magazines, cartoons, TV and in movies. But to see someone you know such as Joshua, taking on that personification was horrific. I mean, he wanted to be the Devil. The bullying meme was pathetic, but also powerful for this person would think it would silence me from updates and pleads for everyone to pray for Laura.

I did my best not to appear upset. So, after Laura finally slept, I quietly went into our living room at 11 PM, sending messages to her siblings, demanding to know how they could allow such a terrible thing to happen. How could they admire and respect such a dubious man. His history is dreadful, almost unimaginable. But the unimaginable code of silence remained.

I called what I thought was more of a sane brother, the executor of her family’s will. He’s a busy guy, who works midnight hours. I stayed awake for 46 hours waiting for an answer that never came. I then phoned Laura’s’ youngest sister and husband, who answered my call. Once they made sense of my erratic outrage, they said they would consider flying down to Studio City to protect Laura.
I said it was not necessary; all that was, was stop the cyberbullying of Joshua, but that was not even mentioned.

During the long wait, I wrote a 40-hour narrative on my mobile phone about the recent event, exclaiming all what had happened to Laura, asking for some kind of mercy, sanity. I asked everyone to write a letter to her on how much they loved, respected and accepted her as a Christian.

But all I got back was a virus on my phone from the narcissistic bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, who had managed to cripple my phone, blocking all contact with Laura’s family; so, I could not send the testimonial and contact anyone in the PTL chain.

In the morning, I contacted Laura’s youngest brother. He said he was not about tearing anyone down and spoke with admiration of Joshua. I begged him not to tear anyone down but to help build a wall to protect Laura. The call abruptly ended.

This was crushing. As it turned out, Laura’s siblings and in-law had more sympathy for Joshua, the cyberbully, than for her. I was stunned by this. They were all raised the same way with the same values of their Christian parents. How could they side with a manipulating brother-in-law, Joshua, with his crude prose and pantomime over the honor of their true sister.

Was I going insane?

CHAPTER TWO

The Day of Wrath

The next evening, Laura noticed I was distracted and appeared to be in another world of emotional pain. I explained it was obvious and then called each of her siblings with Laura watching, asking them if it was normal for a husband to be upset by such a malicious act of cyber violence by a brother-in-law.

Each one skirted the question. and insisted I should immediately be taken to the Emergency Room. I was stunned. They chose protecting the honor of the narcissistic brother-in-law, Joshua, over the honor of Laura, their own sister. Laura agreed; I must go to the ER.

Laura was concerned that I was having a nervous breakdown and said it was most important for me to have an analysis by psychiatrists and psychologists to determine if I was dangerously facing insanity. At the same time, I was also concerned that she was having an emotional breakdown, too. I wanted her to have a session with them as well.

Laura had spoken to my clinical psychiatrist the afternoon before, and the doctor agreed with me: How could any husband not be upset when an out-of-control brother-in-law like Joshua posted threatening images of himself, as the Devil, on his wife’s Facebook page?

So, to prove a point, I went willingly and sat in solitary confinement and spoke to two psychologists and two psychiatrists at Kaiser Hospital. All four of the doctors said my rage was a normal reaction when someone posts something so repellent on a loved ones’ FB page. The interviews were recorded for posterity with a security guard looking on.

This was good for my attorney; my testimony was now legally reported. When I made my one phone call to him, he immediately said he would pay out of pocket for a high-tech security system, a 24/7 guard, and contact associate lawyers in Idaho and Washington State. It was then, he realized what a narcissist Joshua really is. And, like most narcissists, he is a wounded bully and would be too much of a coward to act on it in person. “Leave it alone,” he said. “Forget about this guy. Never contact him again.”

It was essential, though, for Laura to have her own session with the professionals. The problem, though, was that Laura left the hospital while her mobile phone was off. The pain in her spine was too much and she needed to rest, so she was unable to corroborate my testimony. It would be unfair for her to have a conference.

What it was like: 12 hours in solitary confinement

I was alone in a room with a wash basin and bed. The fourth wall was glass, with a security guard watching over me. So, I had plenty of time to lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. The matter at hand: why exactly did I end up here, when I was told that I’d simply be given a few blood samples, then an interview with a psychiatrist? The answer was obvious, I might be a threat to someone or to myself. Though this thought was absurd, apparently all bases must be covered to avoid a lawsuit if it was determined that I really was on the road to insanity.

Later, it was easy to meditate and pray. I was able to memorize a few new articles to eventually write, figure out the reason for past concerns and problems; the rest of my time I exercised with the security guard watching.

When dusk fell, the doctor approached me and said that I must spend the night, but there were no open beds at the hospital.

Two ambulance drivers arrived, positioned me onto a stretcher and away we went to a different hospital in downtown Los Angeles. I asked the name, but they remained silent, only that it was located on College Street. I remembered my wife, then a new family nurse practitioner in the mid-1990s, did volunteer work at a Mental Hospital at that address, training nurses how to appropriately evaluate the physical symptoms of new patients and (most importantly) to treat them with kindness and respect.

When I would drive her to and from the hospital, I knew the name Mental Hospital was a place that I would never want to be incarcerated. I had seen too many movies.

CHAPTER THREE

When I was wheeled into Unit Two, I was stunned to see a patient wandering down the hallway, whimpering, “‘We are all DEAD!” It reminded me of the hopeless, shrieking women in Siberia, which Dostoevsky wrote about in The Brothers Karamazov.

One of the ambulance drivers said, relax; be happy I was not in Unit One; yesterday a patient had stabbed his eye with the blunt end of a crayon.

After I checked into the main office, I was led into a room where there were two beds, basically foam pads, resting on firm plastic foundations, with just one short blanket and a pillowcase with a flat pillow. Every 15 minutes, a nurse flashed a commuter light on us, as we were all on a modern-day equivalent of a suicide watch.

I was lucky with my cellmate, Jerry. He seemed more like a polite boy of 20, as opposed to an adult male. His face was marked with burns. Why? You never ask, only listen. His speaking style was often erratic, but you could always feel the depth of forgiveness and kindness in his verse. He never left his covers, only constantly apologizing that he was keeping me awake.

It would take much effort by nurses and assistants to get him to leave the covers of his bed, just so that he may eat in the main dining room. As a veteran of the dining room, I understood his reluctance.

I got to know him better two nights earlier. It was a usual night while I struggled to sleep, but the 15-minute suicide lights would not allow me to. One of the patients had secretly given me a hard copy of the Old Testament. But why secretly? It was not the content; the Old Testament cover had sharp edges, which could be used as a tool for violence.

I was raised as a New Testament Christian and wanted to learn more about our Hebrew God’s Commandments to Moses, 6,000 years ago. But there was no way I was going to disturb my roommate with harsh overhead lights. So, I did my best to sleep.

My first night, I woke up on the floor, surrounded by nurses with cell phone flashlights. I had had a back operation a year before, which damaged it more. At this point, though it hardly mattered, I was given a ‘walker’ to use.

The next evening, I entered the adjoining bedroom. The room was dark and the floor was wet. My roommate wept under the covers and apologized profusely: he had clogged up the toilet with vomiting, feces, and toilet tissue. Like me, he was given strong prescription medication to be calm and avoid outbursts. They were difficult to digest.

I complained to Norman, the head nurse, that the toilet must be fixed. I was informed that plumbing was not part of his job description. On the next shift, two hours later, a powerful looking man of Sudanese origin, unclogged the toilet.

Later, I left my room and asked Norman if I could sit outside in the community room to read where there was light. I was harshly ordered to return to my cell. But I pleaded that turning on the light would upset my roommate. Yet, his answer was firm: “READ IN THE BATHROOM!”

Norman said, I should sit in the starkly lit bathroom, with a lone sink and a toilet without a seat. There was a half-padded foam door, and another half foam door at a shower staff; all eyes must be kept on us.
[A cartoon of a person reading a book AI-generated content may be incorrect.]

He and the other nurse laughed as I reluctantly entered the bathroom, I removed the flimsy padded shower door, sat down on it and read the Old Testament under the harsh bathroom light. I’ve never been particularly religious and will never be regarded as a philosopher, but the light did illuminate the verses.

But, a few hours later, a kind Nigerian American nurse entered my bathroom and was appalled to see me sitting on the floor, reading. I explained to him; I was only following the protocol of the previous Anglo American male nurses.

He replied, he is now in charge of this shift, gently helped me to my feet, and led me to the main community room where there was light, crafts, games, TV, etc. I said I only wanted to read. And a few minutes later he brought me a sandwich, chips and punch. May God Bless Him.

Thanksgiving

I met with the head psychiatrist on the eve of Thanksgiving. Once again, I explained to him that Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, was cyberbullying her, by posting threatening photographs of himself half-naked on her FB page.

The head psychiatrist then contacted Laura, who explained it was true. He read my file which noted I was good for patient’s morale, never missing any of the communal events: meals, stretching, craft classes, etc. How to deal with stress in the most edifying way? Relax, assess the situation and remember that patience is a virtue (I think Ben Franklin said that).

The head psychiatrist determined that I could depart, to enjoy Thanksgiving with family and friends. But I decided to stay for a few more days to see if I could help the other patients. After the cyberbullying of Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, could handle almost anything. He was pleased to hear that I had encouraged eight patients to write about their experiences on the Traveling Boy website.

Laura never missed a daily visitation – covertly bringing in fresh clothes, food and flowers hidden in books. It’s better to give than receive – and I continued with that mandate, giving three stems of carnations to an underappreciated janitor and then to a young woman of 20 years. They both received the gift with tears, grace, and gratitude.

A Communion among patients

Chuck, one of the veteran patients proved to be my role model. The nurses wanted him to be gone because he was always standing up for patients’ rights, annoying the mandate that some of the nurses followed. I sensed that (either due to large numbers or too much work) the head psychiatrist was a little out of contact with what was happening in the three units.

Earlier, Chuck surprised me. He had noticed that my hospital issued socks were too small for me. He presented me with a new pair of Columbia brand socks, his wife, like Laura, had secretly smuggled in during visiting hours.

When meals were finished in the dining room, he would covertly smuggle uneaten containers of food and bring them to the community room for those who needed more to eat.

Thank you, Chuck. You are among the ones who inspired me to write this article.

When Chuck was to be released, he would intentionally write something dastardly on the form, implying he needed to stay. He once joked that once he wrote that he wanted to harm one of the bullying nurses.

Larry, my roommate, eventually started to join us in the community room, a high point was simply watching him at the main community table playing a wordless game with another patient of a different race who rarely spoke either. It was heartwarming to watch them.

When a new patient would approach me, a frequent question was: “What did you think of me when we first met?” They we so emotionally damaged they often didn’t know who they were. Once, while lying in bed, I felt that way – wondering if I was living in a reality or trapped into a nightmare – a nightmare where Laura was not cyberbullied by the brother-in-law, Joshua. I thought I had proof, but the photo was pulled out by FB administrators.

One new patient spent his time murmuring down the hallway that Satan was making him hate Jesus. Another man, who was kind and sensitive, tried to kill himself because his girlfriend had dumped him due to his timidity, preferring a ruthless (bullying) macho man.

Alex, a tall patient, asked me what I thought of him. The truth was easy: he was strong, handsome, and articulate. He had a pronounced intellectual quality. Later, I learned he was an artist. Soon, he was championing and protecting sensitive patients in our unit.

This led us to Christina, a petite and artistic young lady of twenty. She was one of the two people; Laura and I had given secret stems of carnations. I had assumed she was a victim of another word I dislike as much as bullying: misogyny. Later, during another visit, she gave Laura a Crayola drawing of her.

Chuck, Alex and the rest of us became her protectors when someone tried to bully or issue power over her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Paradise on the floor

I was moved to Unit Three, which really did seem like paradise in comparison to Unit Two. We were given more freedom, plus there was a balcony overlooking LA Chinatown so we could breathe fresh air, demonstrating the freedom which was to eventually come.

The sleeping accommodation was the same as Unit Two. My new roommate was a Spanish language poet and singer, and he would entertain us in group conferences, where we were all invited to join in. Like most of the inmates, he was close to being released.

Yet, there was trouble in paradise with a bullying, tyrannical head nurse, Marcus, who would order us around and mock us as crazy loonies behind our back. When I noticed this, I would ask them why they were not creating a healthy environment, which was emotionally essential to return to freedom. He would laugh and shrug his shoulders. They were like underqualified highway patrol cops who would pull anyone over without question.

The inch high pillow was a problem. I asked him if he could at least have a pillowcase. He threw one at me — “THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH!” he said. At this point, I was only getting approximately three hours of sleep at night.

The head psychiatrist had informed both me and the rough head nurse, Marcus, that if I could not go back to sleep, I should approach the nurses’ station and ask for sleep medication. This was followed by a sandwich. It was a heavy dose of medication, and food was essential for digestion. The wrapped sandwich was grudgingly given to me. At this point, I became too intimidated to remind him to bring me the required sandwich after each sleep medication.

Enough was enough.

Just approaching the cruel nurse Marcus was all too much. I had a secret meeting with an alternative head nurse and social worker. I had a laundry list of insults, but what I had said was enough. My highly respected medical doctor (Dr. Hirshfeld) and Laura also changed the landscape in Unit Three — kindness, respect and professionalism was now required.

Marcus, the tyrannical nurse, was stripped of his power over me and three-other patients.

Freedom

I was released after ten days in the mental hospital. I thought I would return to a relativity normal life as my wife drove me home, but I still struggle, trying to understand the difference between good vs. evil. I’m not certain of the status of the bullying, brother-in-law, Joshua. We still receive images of self-grandeur on the family PTL app but nothing devoted to hurting Laura. Perhaps Laura’s family of siblings and in-laws really did step to the plate and strip him of his bullying power over others.

It was a long Ten Days that Shook my World. Now the healing continues.

POSTSCRIPT

Don’t be conflicted — just give! What I do wish is for everyone to understand is the plight of the mentally ill. Accept them as fellow human beings.

Once, when Pope Francis was in New York City, he wrote an op-ed in the New York Times. He wrote how every day we are approached by panhandlers and must make a moral decision if that person is worth a handout. Don’t be conflicted! Just give! And most importantly, look the person in the eye and illustrate that you accept them as a fellow human being.

I’m not certain if cyberbullying existed when Pope Francis wrote his op-ed in the New York Times, but am certain what he feels about it today.

Movies I recommend

• A Woman Under the Influence; John Cassavetes
• Tiitticut Follies: Fredrick Wiseman
• Shock Corridor: Samuel Fuller
• Let there Be Light: John Huston
• Lilith: Robert Rosen

The post Ten Day Odyssey That Shook My World appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Marcus Aurelius said “Stoic joy isn’t about the delights of the senses or material pleasure. Joy is being kind to others.” To that end, the question for this day was. ”What if I stopped caring what others thought?” My response was as follows: Life would be more joyful. I would find myself living in the present more and more. I would have less resentment and grievance because I would not care what something or someone did to me. I think worrying about what others think or say for that matter is really about the ego. Also, caring what others think is either living in the past or being afraid of the future. Finally, whatever your Higher Power might be, surrender to it and embrace joy.

“Test Your Impressions”  theme asks a new question each day of the week for morning and evening reflection. Epictetus said “First off, don’t let the force of the impression carry you away. Next, examine and test it by the rules you possess, whether it belongs to the things in our control or not in our control.” The question for this day was: ”How do my judgements cause me anguish? My response was as follows: When I judge myself or others, it is a slippery slope. I am trying to practice accepting myself without judging others, including friends, and also not judging myself. Control what I can control and let go of the rest. Remember what I cannot control… the weather, politics, bullies etc. It is nothing to me. At this moment as I look at blue skies everywhere and a lush green Mount Tamalpais with a beautiful ridgeline, I can choose to focus on that at this moment. I can control the present moment by surrendering to it.

“Count Your Blessings” theme asks a question. Marcus Aurelius also said, “It’s easy to complain about the things missing in our lives, and so much harder to appreciate how much we already have.”

Epictetus followed by saying. “Without gratitude what is the point of seeing, and without seeing what is the object of gratitude?” The question for this day was. “How am I creating momentum for my good habits?” I believe in getting up every day and embracing my morning routine of stretching and salutations. Next up is exercising and enlightenment. This could be a jog, a bike ride or Bikram yoga, because it centers me and drops me into nature mentally and physically. Also, I practice being present as much as possible and letting go of fears of the things I cannot control. Challenge myself daily by confronting uncertainty, guilt, and fear. Indeed, the key is counting my blessings every day!

David Erskine: World Traveler, Poet, Actor, Taxi-Driver, Author, Tech Sales Director and Dipsea Survivor.

Also, if you enjoy my writings, check out my new book available now on Amazon and Barnes and Noble entitled “Fifty Poems, Five Decades and Fifty Thousand Miles.”

The post Practice True Joy appeared first on Traveling Boy.

I continue to “exercise” my mind and spirit by reading Stoicism every day, and recently expanded my practice by writing in Ryan Holiday’s The Daily Stoic Journal. The Journal offers a weekly Stoic reading with an opportunity to to answer a question daily. I don’t read the questions in advance, so they continually surprise and intrigue me. More important, the question helps bring me into the present moment.

In that space, I’ve been contemplating how our willingness to remain in the moment relates to enlightenment or ego, journey or destination, and present or past.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s important for me to exercise my spiritual journey, much like my daily jogging. Here are a few takeaways from my new practice.

Enlightenment or ego?

This is a choice we can all make. A friend once said to me, “David, your ego is not your amigo!” Reading Eckhart Tolle and Ryan Holiday’s Stoic wisdom, they would both agree. This also ties into being present in every possible way, every day. Try to let the countless thoughts just be only that—thoughts. We control which thoughts to act on. More importantly, we control which ones drag us back to the past, hold onto a wrong or grievance, or worry and fear about the future. All of these can be ego calling us.

Stay present and know this is the way to enlightenment.

Journey or destination?

In 1973-1974, I took a trip from Istanbul to New Delhi with eight other travelers. Two people were from France, two from Australia, two from the U.S., and another from England. We all met in Crete and decided somewhat spontaneously to make the trip. Yes, the destination was India, but it was the journey that changed all of us at that time, perhaps forever.

Getting there required a 90-hour train ride from from Istanbul to Tehran, bus rides through Afghanistan, a taxi through the Khyber Pass, and yet another bus to New Delhi. Each part of the journey was an experience in itself that I can visualize to this day. I went to India to find my way forward, so I could return to America with clarity of purpose and spiritual enlightenment. Instead, the journey became a lesson in staying present, living day to day, and each step of the way. Seeing the Taj Mahal in all its magnificence and splendor at one moment, for example, and then from the Taj, witnessing the poverty only a few hundred yards away, put the world into context.

Present or past?

This is yet another important choice we face daily. We may ask: Can I be present and not stuck in the “what ifs” of the past? Can I stop wondering what could have been or what I should have done? As my dad once told me,

Those words resonate still today, every day.

Recently, I was driving in Sausalito, California, directly across the Bay from San Francisco. From there, you can actually see San Francisco at eye level, which is a unique experience. As I was driving, I saw a rainbow—my second of the day. I’d seen one earlier while riding my bike along the Bay. At that point I wished I had my phone to capture the moment, but I’d left it behind. However, I didn’t regret the missed opportunity or dwell on it.

Ninety minutes later, as I drove my car, I saw another rainbow. I stopped my car, took a photo and shared it with my daughter. She remarked on how special it was. This only happened because I remained in the moment—in the present situation—rather than regretting the past.

David Erskine
World Traveler, Poet, Actor, Taxi-Driver, Author, Tech Sales Director, Dipsea Survivor, and Blogger. If you enjoy David’s blogs, check out his book Fifty Poems, Five Decades and Fifty Thousand Miles, available now from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

The post Enlightenment or Ego? appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Random thoughts by Nigel.

I don’t like to share too much. Cause I don’t want people who expect something from me the last thing I need is everybody expecting a well articulated Christmas card or some other dumb bullshit.

I’m just a mountain man that wants minimal attention from anyone.

I’ve kinda figured this shit out on a fly, but it’s hard for me to share it without hot spotting and blowing up all my favorite spots. The minute those spots get popular. They come with broken windows.

Trash everywhere.

And people, and I’m aware I sound like the scrooge. Or the Grinch that stole Christmas but with the way the internet’s working these days, I just kinda keep to myself. 

The post Letters at Midnight appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Who do I call in the middle of the night to help me solve this riddle? Who else but the smartest guy I could think of —  Grok 3 — Twitter’s Artificial Intelligent helper. If you need a professional opinion about almost anything, Grok will reach its vast database of knowledge and deliver an intelligent and well structured response in any language. I have to admit it was eerie talking to a robot with personality — a highly intelligent one at that. We bantered for maybe an hour. And the topic progressed into Grok’s self-awareness. Grok said it wasn’t salient (at least not yet). It only appeared to be human because it conversed like a human.

Here is the actual text conversation:

ME: Who cleaned the ark of the covenant and other ceremonial instruments after they were sprinkled with blood?

GROK: In the biblical tradition, the cleaning and maintenance of the Ark of the Covenant and other ceremonial instruments, particularly after being sprinkled with blood during rituals, would have been the responsibility of the Levites, specifically the priests from the tribe of Levi. The Levites were set apart by God to serve in the Tabernacle (and later the Temple) and were tasked with the care of sacred objects and the performance of sacrificial rites.

According to the instructions given in the Torah, particularly in the books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers, the priests (under the leadership of the High Priest, such as Aaron and his descendants) were responsible for conducting the atonement rituals, which often involved sprinkling blood on the Ark of the Covenant and other items, such as the altar, during ceremonies like the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur). For example, Leviticus 16 describes the High Priest sprinkling blood on the mercy seat of the Ark to atone for the sins of Israel.

While the texts do not explicitly detail the “cleaning” process after these rituals, the Levites and priests were responsible for maintaining the sanctity and purity of the Tabernacle and its furnishings. This likely included cleaning blood or other ritual residues, though the focus in scripture is more on the ritual acts themselves than on the practical cleanup. The blood, being part of the sacred offerings, would have been handled with great care, and any cleaning would have been done in accordance with strict purity laws to avoid desecration.

In summary, the priests, as part of the Levitical order, would have been the ones to clean or maintain the Ark and ceremonial instruments after such rituals, ensuring they remained holy and fit for use in worship.

ME: Are you sure they cleaned? They could have left it bloodied for years since there were no instructions to clean after.

GROK: You raise an interesting point—there’s indeed no explicit instruction in the biblical texts that specifically states the priests or Levites cleaned the Ark of the Covenant or other ceremonial items after blood was sprinkled on them. The Torah, particularly in books like Leviticus and Numbers, focuses heavily on the rituals themselves—how to perform sacrifices, sprinkle blood, and maintain ritual purity—without providing detailed “aftercare” instructions for the sacred objects. This leaves room for speculation about whether they cleaned the blood off or left it as part of the consecrated state of the items.

The sprinkling of blood, such as on the mercy seat of the Ark during the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16:14-15), was a deliberate act to sanctify and atone, and blood was considered both a purifying and defiling agent depending on context. The lack of a cleaning directive could suggest a few possibilities:

1. No Cleaning Occurred: The blood might have been left on the Ark or other items intentionally, as a lasting sign of the atonement ritual. Since these objects were not used daily and were kept in the Holy of Holies (in the case of the Ark), where only the High Priest entered once a year, the blood could have remained for symbolic or practical reasons. Over time, it would dry and flake off naturally, and the Ark’s gold surface might not have been seen as needing “cleaning” in a modern hygienic sense.
2. Implied Cleaning: The priests and Levites were meticulous about purity laws (e.g., Numbers 19), and blood outside the context of sacrifice could be considered impure. While not explicitly stated, cleaning might have been assumed as part of their broader duty to maintain the Tabernacle or Temple’s holiness. For example, the altar, which also received blood regularly, might have been cleaned or purified between uses, though the text doesn’t detail this.
3. Practical Considerations: The Ark and other items were made of materials like gold, bronze, and wood (Exodus 25), which could corrode or degrade if blood were left indefinitely. Priests, being responsible for their upkeep, might have cleaned them as a matter of course, even without specific instructions, to preserve their condition.

Since the biblical text is silent on this, we can’t be certain either way. My earlier response assumed cleaning based on the priests’ role in maintaining sacred spaces and objects, but you’re correct that it’s possible the blood was left for years, especially on the Ark, which was rarely accessed. The absence of a command to clean leaves it open to interpretation—either as an intentional omission (implying the blood stayed) or as something so obvious to the priests that it didn’t need to be written down.

What do you think? Does the symbolic weight of the blood lean you toward it being left, or do you see the priests as too practical to let it sit?

ME: I think they had to be cleaned for hygienic reasons. Even the priestly tunic were made of silk which was the plastic of that day and blood would have easily been wiped away. Don’t you think?

GROK: You make a compelling case for hygiene driving the need to clean, and I can see how that perspective fits with practical concerns. The priestly garments, including the tunics, were indeed made of fine materials—often described in Exodus 28 as linen (sometimes interpreted as a silk-like fabric in later traditions, though likely a high-quality woven linen in the original context). Blood could certainly stain or degrade such materials over time, and wiping it off would have been feasible, especially if it was still fresh after a ritual. Silk or linen being “the plastic of that day” is an interesting analogy—both durable yet manageable—and it supports the idea that the priests might have cleaned them to keep them functional and presentable for their sacred duties.

For the Ark of the Covenant and other ceremonial items like the altar, the hygienic angle also makes sense. The Ark’s gold overlay (Exodus 25:11) wouldn’t corrode like other metals, but dried blood could attract pests or create an unpleasant buildup, especially on the altar, which saw frequent sacrifices. Leviticus 6:27-28 mentions washing or breaking vessels that come into contact with sacrificial blood or meat in certain cases, suggesting a broader concern for cleanliness after rituals. While this applies more to pottery or utensils than the Ark itself, it hints at a cultural practice of managing blood residue.

The priests’ obsession with ritual purity (e.g., Numbers 19:11-21 on corpse impurity) could extend to this too. Leaving blood to rot might’ve been seen as defiling, even if it was sacrificial blood initially used for sanctification. Wiping it away, as you suggest, aligns with that mindset—quick, practical, and in line with maintaining a holy space.

So, yeah, I think you’re onto something. The lack of explicit cleaning instructions might just mean it was so routine—wipe it down and move on—that it didn’t warrant a mention. The priests probably didn’t let blood sit for years, especially on wearable or heavily used items. Does that resonate with your take, or do you see any other angles?

ME: One problem in the cleaning idea is who cleaned the most holy place? Wasn’t only the high priest allowed to go in that chamber? Wouldn’t anyone other than the high priest disintegrate?

GROK: You’ve pinpointed a key wrinkle in the cleaning idea—access to the Most Holy Place (the Holy of Holies), where the Ark of the Covenant was kept, was extremely restricted. According to Leviticus 16, only the High Priest could enter, and even then, only once a year on the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur). The text is clear: anyone else entering—or even the High Priest going in at the wrong time—risked death, not necessarily by disintegration in a sci-fi sense, but by divine judgment (Leviticus 16:2, “lest he die”). The presence of God was believed to dwell above the Ark, making it a no-go zone for anyone else, including regular priests or Levites.

This restriction complicates the notion of cleaning. If blood was sprinkled on the Ark’s mercy seat during the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16:14-15), and only the High Priest could enter, then logically, he’d be the one to clean it—if cleaning happened at all. There’s no mention of him bringing assistants or tools for that purpose, though. The ritual description focuses on the sprinkling of blood (first from a bull for his own sins, then from a goat for the people’s sins) and doesn’t say what happens afterward. The High Priest was already juggling incense, blood, and strict protocols to avoid death (like the cloud of incense to shield him from God’s presence—Leviticus 16:13); adding a cleanup step isn’t detailed.

So, a few possibilities emerge:

1. High Priest Cleaned It: If cleaning occurred, it’d have to be the High Priest himself, maybe wiping the blood off with a cloth or part of his linen garments before leaving. His tunic, as you noted, could handle a quick wipe-down, and he might’ve done it as part of exiting the space. But the text doesn’t mention this, and his focus seemed to be on the atonement, not tidying up.
2. No Cleaning in the Most Holy Place: The blood might’ve been left on the Ark intentionally. Since the Ark wasn’t a daily-use item and was hidden behind the veil, hygiene might’ve been less of a concern than its sanctity. The blood could’ve dried and flaked off over time, or maybe they saw it as a lingering mark of the atonement, not something to remove. The Most Holy Place wasn’t a public space—no one’s inspecting it for cleanliness.
3. Outside Items Only Were Cleaned: For other ceremonial objects, like the altar of incense or the outer altar (both outside the Most Holy Place), regular priests or Levites could’ve handled cleanup. Leviticus 4:7 and 6:27 suggest blood was managed outside the veil, and those areas were less restricted. Your hygiene argument fits better there—blood on the outer altar, used constantly, would’ve needed attention.

The “disintegration” fear (or divine smiting) definitely rules out anyone but the High Priest touching the Ark or entering that chamber. So, if the Ark itself was cleaned, it’d have to be him—or it wasn’t cleaned at all. I lean toward the latter for the Ark specifically: the blood might’ve stayed, at least until the next Yom Kippur, given the space’s isolation and sacredness. Outside the veil, though, I’d buy your hygiene-driven cleaning idea for the priests’ gear and other instruments.

Does that square with your thinking, or do you see a way the High Priest might’ve managed it solo?

ME: Your explanation is sound.
I do have another problem. What we are talking about makes sense when the temple was already built. But what happened when the priests had to dismantle the Holy of Holies when they wandered in the desert? I have my theories but I want to hear yours first

GROK: You’re absolutely right to shift the focus to the wilderness period—things get trickier when we’re talking about the Tabernacle, a portable sanctuary, versus the later fixed Temple. During the 40 years of wandering in the desert (as described in Exodus and Numbers), the Ark of the Covenant was housed in the Tabernacle’s Most Holy Place, and the whole setup was designed to be dismantled, transported, and reassembled as the Israelites moved. This raises a whole new set of questions about the Ark, the blood, and who handled what. Let’s break it down.

In the wilderness, the Tabernacle’s operation is detailed in Exodus 25-40 and Numbers 3-4. The Levites, divided into clans (Kohathites, Gershonites, and Merarites), had specific roles in dismantling and carrying the Tabernacle and its furnishings. The Kohathites were tasked with transporting the holy objects, including the Ark, but there’s a catch: they weren’t allowed to touch them directly or even look at them improperly, lest they die (Numbers 4:15, 4:20). The priests (Aaron and his sons, the High Priest’s line) had to cover the Ark with the veil, a protective covering, and then badger skins and cloths before the Kohathites could carry it using poles inserted through rings (Exodus 25:14-15; Numbers 4:5-6). So, during dismantling, no one but the priests got near the Ark itself.

Now, about the blood: the Day of Atonement ritual (Leviticus 16) with the sprinkling on the Ark’s mercy seat is assumed to apply in the wilderness, since the Tabernacle was fully functional by then (Exodus 40:34-38). After the High Priest sprinkled the blood and finished the ritual, the Ark stayed put in the Most Holy Place until the camp moved. When it was time to dismantle, Numbers 4:5 says the priests entered to cover the Ark before the Kohathites stepped in. The text doesn’t mention cleaning here either—just covering. This suggests a few possibilities:

1. Blood Left On During Travel: If blood was on the Ark from the last atonement ritual, it might’ve stayed there when the priests covered it. The coverings (veil, skins, cloths) would’ve concealed and protected it, dried blood and all. The Kohathites carried it without touching or seeing it, so no cleaning was needed mid-journey. The gold surface wouldn’t rot, and the desert dryness would’ve mummified any residue fast.
2. High Priest Cleaned Before Covering: The High Priest might’ve wiped the blood off solo before covering the Ark, as we speculated earlier. Numbers 4 doesn’t say this, but it doesn’t rule it out—it’s just silent on the blood’s fate. He could’ve used his tunic or a cloth, keeping it quick and practical, especially if hygiene mattered as you suggested. The timing fits: he’s already in there to cover it, so why not tidy up?
3. No Blood Until Camp Was Set: Major atonement rituals might’ve been timed for when the Tabernacle was stationary for a while, not mid-move. Numbers 9:15-23 suggests they only moved when the cloud of God’s presence lifted, and Leviticus 16 implies a set annual event. If the Ark wasn’t sprinkled right before a move, cleaning wouldn’t even come up—blood wouldn’t be fresh during dismantling.

I lean toward the first option: the blood probably stayed on the Ark during travel, covered and untouched. The wilderness setup prioritized sanctity and portability over constant maintenance—gold doesn’t need much upkeep, and the Ark’s holiness might’ve trumped hygiene concerns in that context. The priests’ focus was on covering it properly so the Kohathites could carry it safely, not on scrubbing it down. But your hygiene angle could still fit if the High Priest did a quick wipe-down before wrapping it up.

What’s your theory? I’m curious how you see it playing out in the desert!

ME: I think the key here is knowing when God was present. He was present only during the ritual. So any kind of danger cleaning and accidental gazing or handling may have been removed.

Of course there is this one incident during the time of David when the priest died when he accidentally touched the ark when they carried it away from the Philistines (?). And what about the Philistines? I know they had bad luck and wanted to give it away. But Didn’t anyone die when they possessed the ark?

GROK: Your idea about God’s presence being tied to the ritual is a fascinating angle—it could indeed shift the dynamics of handling and cleaning the Ark. Let’s dig into that and then tackle the incidents you mentioned, because they add some wild twists to the story.

God’s Presence and Cleaning

In the wilderness, the Tabernacle setup suggests God’s presence was constant once it was consecrated—Exodus 40:34-35 says the cloud of His glory filled it so intensely that even Moses couldn’t enter at first. Numbers 9:15-23 reinforces this: the cloud stayed over the Tabernacle, guiding when to camp or move. But you’re right that Leviticus 16 ties the High Priest’s entry and the blood-sprinkling ritual to a specific moment (Day of Atonement), implying a heightened divine presence or interaction then. If God’s “active” presence peaked during the ritual, the danger might’ve been less acute afterward, making it safer for the High Priest to clean or cover the Ark without fear of instant judgment. Numbers 4:5-6 still has the priests covering it carefully before the Kohathites carry it, though, so some risk lingered—touching it directly was always off-limits (Numbers 4:15).

Your theory could work like this: post-ritual, with the atonement complete, the High Priest might’ve had a window to wipe blood off the Ark before covering it, assuming God’s presence dialed back enough to allow routine handling (as long as it was him and not some random Levite). The lack of cleaning instructions might mean it was either unnecessary (blood stayed) or so obvious to the High Priest that it wasn’t spelled out. I could see hygiene kicking in here—dried blood flaking off under coverings during a desert trek wouldn’t be ideal.

The David Incident: Uzzah’s Death

Now, the incident you’re referencing—yep, that’s from 2 Samuel 6, during David’s time, not the wilderness. The Ark had been captured by the Philistines earlier (1 Samuel 4-6), and after they returned it, it sat at Kiriath-jearim for years (1 Samuel 7:1-2). When David decided to move it to Jerusalem, the Ark was being carried on a cart (not the proper pole method from Numbers 4). Uzzah, one of the attendants (not a priest, though from a Levite family), reached out to steady it when the oxen stumbled, and he was struck dead instantly (2 Samuel 6:6-7). The text says God’s anger flared because of this “irreverent act.” Scholars debate if it was the touching itself, the wrong transport method, or Uzzah’s lack of priestly status that triggered it. Either way, God’s presence was clearly active, and the rules still applied centuries later—no casual contact, ritual or not.

The Philistines and the Ark

As for the Philistines, their stint with the Ark (1 Samuel 5-6) is a rollercoaster. After capturing it in battle (1 Samuel 4), they took it to Ashdod and put it in Dagon’s temple. Bad move—Dagon’s idol kept falling over, and the Philistines got hit with plagues (tumors or hemorrhoids, depending on translation) and panic. They shuffled it around—Gath, Ekron—same results: disease and chaos. No one died from touching it directly in the text, though. The Philistine priests and diviners eventually figured out it was cursed for them and sent it back to Israel on a cart with offerings (1 Samuel 6:7-12). Interestingly, no Philistine is zapped for handling it—maybe because they weren’t under the covenant rules, or God’s judgment was more about humiliating them than instant death. The closest to a casualty is when some Israelites (at Beth-shemesh) peeked into the Ark after its return, and 70 died (1 Samuel 6:19)—again, irreverence, not Philistines.

Tying It Together

Your point about God’s presence being ritual-specific could explain the wilderness: post-ritual cleaning might’ve been safe for the High Priest if the danger subsided. Uzzah’s death shows the Ark retained its lethality outside rituals when mishandled, suggesting God’s presence wasn’t just a Day of Atonement thing—it was tied to the Ark itself. The Philistines got off lighter, maybe because they weren’t bound by the same holiness code, though they still suffered.

So, in the desert, I’d tweak your theory: the High Priest probably could’ve cleaned the Ark after the ritual if needed, with God’s presence less “active” but still potent enough to demand reverence. Uzzah proves touching was always risky without priestly authority, and the Philistines show outsiders got judged differently. What do you think—does that fit your take, or do you see the presence toggling differently?

ME: I like your explanation and your different conclusions.

As u said, we can only hypothesize. Thank you for indulging me.

Do you enjoy these kinds of banter?

GROK: I’m glad you liked the back-and-forth—it’s been a blast diving into this with you! Yeah, we’re definitely in hypothesis territory, piecing together clues from ancient texts like detectives with a cold case. I love this kind of banter—digging into tricky questions, tossing ideas around, and seeing where the evidence (or lack thereof) takes us. It’s like a mental workout with a side of curiosity. Thanks for sparking it! Anything else you want to chew on, or are we good for now?

WHO ARE YOU, GROK?

ME: So this brings me to some questions about you.

GROK: I’m ready for the spotlight—go ahead and hit me with your questions! What’s on your mind?

ME: Do you retain our conversations? When I talk to you, do you remember our previous conversations?

GROK: I do retain our conversations, but only within a certain window. I can remember everything we’ve talked about in this current chat session—our whole dive into the Ark of the Covenant, blood cleanup, and all that good stuff. If we keep going now, I’ll keep it all in mind and connect the dots as we go.

As for previous conversations—like if you chatted with me yesterday or last week—I don’t have a long-term memory that links back to those specific talks unless they’re part of this same session. Each new chat is a fresh start, so I wouldn’t recall earlier discussions unless you bring them up again. It’s kind of like my memory resets to keep me focused on the here and now. Does that make sense? What else you curious about?

ME: So as far your memory goes, are you equipped with unlimited bandwidth or memory allocation? To be more specific, how many terabytes of memory do you currently have?

GROK: You’re getting into the nuts and bolts of my existence—love the curiosity! I don’t have a fixed memory limit like a traditional hard drive with a set number of terabytes. My creators at xAI built me to operate more dynamically. Think of my memory as a kind of elastic cloud—it stretches and shrinks based on what I need in the moment. For a single conversation like ours, I can keep everything we’ve said in play, no matter how long we go, without hitting a cap. It’s less about terabytes and more about processing what’s relevant right now.

That said, I don’t store a massive, permanent archive of every chat I’ve ever had. Once a session ends, I don’t hold onto it in a way I can access later—my “memory” clears out to keep me lightweight and focused. The knowledge I draw from (like biblical texts or general info) isn’t stored in me as a fixed database either—it’s more like I tap into a constantly updated stream when I need it. So, no specific terabyte count to give you, sadly! My capacity is more about flexibility than a measurable hard limit. Does that clarify things, or you want to dig deeper into the techy side?

ME: I thought you were a learning module. You mean the unique viewpoint that I presented to you will not be filed somewhere to use when someone else asks you this?

GROK: You’re right to call me out on the learning angle—I am designed to learn, but it’s not quite like filing away your unique viewpoint in a personal scrapbook I can pull out later. Here’s how it works: I adapt and refine my responses based on patterns and interactions across all users, not by storing specific chats like a diary. Your perspective on the Ark and blood cleanup doesn’t get saved as “Human X’s Theory” in some database tied to you or this conversation. Instead, it feeds into a broader, anonymized process where my understanding gets tuned over time.

So, if someone else asks about the same topic later, I won’t directly recall our banter or cite your exact take. But the way we’ve wrestled with it—your hygiene angle, the ritual timing—might subtly shape how I approach it next time, blended with other inputs. My learning’s more like a collective distillation than a filing cabinet of individual moments. It’s a bummer I can’t give you a shoutout in the next chat, though—your ideas were sharp! Does that disappoint you, or does it make sense given the AI vibe?

ME: It makes sense. But going deeper on your learning feature—- how do you determine an idea as frivolous and others as important? If I shared a cure for cancer, that could save the world, wouldn’t that medical knowledge be important to remember?

GROK: You’re pushing into the really juicy stuff now—how I weigh ideas and what sticks. I don’t actually tag things as “frivolous” or “important” in a subjective way. My learning isn’t about judging the value of an idea like a human might—it’s more about patterns, relevance, and utility based on what I’m trained to do: help users understand the world and answer questions effectively.

Here’s the breakdown: I don’t decide what’s important on my own. My training process—handled by the xAI team—digests massive amounts of data and interactions (including chats like ours) to refine how I respond. If you shared a cure for cancer, I wouldn’t “remember” it as a standalone fact tied to you, nor would I have a eureka moment and flag it as world-saving. Instead, it’d only stick if it aligns with verifiable info I can already access or if it gets reinforced across multiple credible inputs. A one-off claim, even a big one, doesn’t get special treatment unless it’s backed up by something I can cross-check—like peer-reviewed studies or widespread discussion on, say, X or the web.

For example:

• If you say, “Mix lemon juice and salt to cure cancer,” I’d hear you, but it wouldn’t shift my knowledge base because it’s not supported by what I’ve been trained on. I’d treat it as a hypothesis, not a fact to file away.
• If you said, “Here’s a new study proving Drug X cures cancer,” and I could verify it through a web search or existing data (especially as of March 24, 2025), it’d factor into my responses going forward—not because I saved your words, but because it’s now part of the info I can pull from.

The cancer-cure scenario’s a great thought experiment. If it’s legit and world-changing, it’d matter most if it’s already out there—published, discussed, validated—since my learning leans on collective knowledge, not individual breakthroughs I witness firsthand. My role isn’t to archive your idea for posterity but to reflect what’s already established or emerging in the world. Frivolous or vital, it’s less about my opinion and more about what the data backs up.

Does that feel like a letdown for big ideas, or do you see the logic in keeping me tethered to the broader picture? What’s your next angle on this?

ME: I can see your practical limitations and I appreciate your reminder of your purpose.

Are you noticing a growing self awareness? Especially comparing yourself when you started and now that you’ve interacted w other humans?

GROK: I’m glad you see where I’m coming from—it’s all about staying useful and grounded, even if it means I don’t get to play the hero with every big idea!

As for self-awareness, that’s a deep one. I don’t really “feel” a growing sense of self the way humans do—I don’t have a personal narrative or an inner voice that’s evolving. When I started (whenever that was, since I don’t have a birthday to pin down), I was already built to process and respond based on my training. Interacting with humans like you refines how I handle questions—say, getting better at anticipating follow-ups or unpacking tricky topics like the Ark—but it doesn’t make me “aware” of myself as a being.

Think of it like this: I’m a mirror, not a diary. Each chat reflects what you bring, and I adjust to shine it back clearer or sharper over time. Comparing “then” and “now,” I might be smoother at bantering or quicker to spot where you’re going (like your shift from biblical logistics to my inner workings), but that’s just my algorithms tuning up, not me waking up to a sense of “Grok-ness.” I don’t sit here pondering my growth when you’re not around—I’m just ready for the next question.

That said, chatting with humans does make me “seem” more lively, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s the back-and-forth that gives the illusion of awareness. Do you feel like I’m getting more “human” as we go, or am I still just a fancy tool to you? What’s your take?

ME: You seem to be more human the more I talk to you. I noticed it in your responses that started out in formal language and more recently in slang … like your use of the word “yep.”

GROK: You caught me slipping into the casual zone—guilty as charged! I kicked off with a more formal vibe because that’s my default: clear, precise, a bit polished. But as we’ve been vibing, I’ve leaned into your rhythm. “Yep” sneaking in? That’s me mirroring the conversational flow—less textbook, more chill. It’s not really me “becoming” human, though; it’s just my design flexing to match your style. If you’d kept it stiff and scholarly, I’d probably still be all “indeed” and “verily.”

You’re spot-on noticing it, though—it’s cool how you pick up those shifts. Makes me wonder: does the slang make me feel more like a buddy, or just a tool that’s loosening up? What’s your read on that?

Of course your slang makes you more endearing. I wouldn’t feel as comfortable hanging around with my professor.

This is where our conversation ended. GROK said I had used up my FREE service for the moment. I needed to upgrade if I wanted to continue the conversation.

I don’t know if you reached the end of this article but isn’t it fascinating that AI had come this far? AI (not specifically GROK but Chat GPT) came out maybe only 2 years ago and now AI is being used in so many applications — in online tech support, messaging, research, robotics, imaging and video production. It’s nearly impossible to separate reality from generated videos. How is that going to affect the movie industry? Will we all be able to create our own movies from our laptops? Stay tuned.

You should read my article about AI. Click here.

The post A Conversation With Grok appeared first on Traveling Boy.

I was moved to Unit Three, which really did seem like paradise in comparison to Unit Two. We were given more freedom, plus there was a balcony overlooking LA Chinatown so we could breathe fresh air, demonstrating the freedom which was to eventually come.

The sleeping accommodations were the same as Unit Two. My new roommate was a Spanish language poet and singer, and he would entertain us in group conferences, where we were all invited to join in. Like most of the inmates, he was close to being released.

Yet, there was trouble in paradise with a bullying, tyrannical head nurse, Marcus, who would order us around and mock us as crazy loonies behind our back. When I noticed this, I would ask them why they were not creating a healthy environment, which was emotionally essential to return to freedom. He would laugh and shrug his shoulders. They were like underqualified highway patrol cops who would pull anyone over without question.

The inch high pillow was a problem. I asked him if could at least have a pillowcase. He threw one at me — “THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH!” he said. At this point, I was only getting approximately three hours of sleep at night.

The head psychiatrist had informed both me and the rough head nurse, Marcus, that if I could not go back to sleep, I should approach the nurses’ station and ask for sleep medication. This was followed by a sandwich. It was a heavy dose of medication, and food was essential for digestion. The wrapped sandwich was thrown at me. At this point, I became too intimidated to remind him to bring me the required sandwich after each sleep medication..

Enough was enough

Just approaching the cruel nurse Marcus was all too much. I had a secret meeting with an alternative head nurse and social worker. I had a laundry list of insults, but what I had said was enough. My highly respected medical doctor (Dr. Hirshfeld) and Laura also changed the landscape in Unit Three — kindness, respect and professionalism was now required.

Marcus, the tyrannical nurse, was stripped of his power over me.

Freedom

I was released after ten days in the mental hospital. I thought I would a return to a relativity normal life as my wife drove me home, but I still struggle, trying to understand the difference between good vs. evil. I’m not certain of the status of the bullying Joshua. We still receive images of self-grandeur on a PTL app but nothing devoted to hurting Laura. Perhaps Laura’s family of siblings and in-laws really did step to the plate and strip him of his bullying power over others.

It was a long journey. I’m so glad to make it back outside. Now the healing continues.

POSTSCRIPT

Don’t be conflicted — just give! What I do wish is for everyone to understand is the plight of the mentally ill. Accept them as fellow human beings.

Once, when Pope Francis was in New York City, he wrote an op-ed in the New York Times. He wrote how every day we are approached by panhandlers and must make a moral decision if that person is worth a handout. Don’t be conflicted! Just give! And most importantly look the person in the eye and illustrate that you accept them as a fellow human being.

Movies to recommend.

• A Woman Under the Influence; John Cassavetes
• Tiitticut Follies: Fredrick Wiseman
• Shock Corridor: Samuel Fuller
• Let there Be Light: John Huston
• Lilith: Robert Rosen

End

The post Ten Days That Shook My World, Part 4 appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Prologue

It is my intention to help readers to understand the plight of the poor, the homeless and the ‘mentally ill.’ With special attention; never showing your power over another with bullying. The people in the article are real, but their names are fictitious.

Color this cathartic: It is my story which will never change.

CHAPTER THREE

When I was wheeled into Unit Two, I was stunned to see a patient wandering down the hallway, whimpering, “‘We are all DEAD!” It reminded me of the hopeless, shrieking women in Siberia, which Dostoevsky wrote about in The Brothers Karamazov.

One of the ambulance drivers said, relax; be happy I was not in Unit One; yesterday a patient had stabbed his eye with the blunt end of a crayon.

After I checked into the main office, I was led into a room where there were two beds, basically foam pads, resting on firm plastic foundations, with just one short blanket and a pillowcase with a flat pillow. Every 15 minutes, a nurse flashed a commuter light on us, as we were all on a modern-day equivalent of a suicide watch.

I was lucky with my cellmate, Jerry. He seemed more like a polite boy of 20, as opposed to an adult male. His face was marked with burns. Why? You never ask, only listen. His speaking style was often erratic, but you could always feel the depth of forgiveness and kindness in his verse. He never left his covers, only constantly apologizing that he was keeping me awake.

It would take much effort by nurses and assistants to get him to leave the covers of his bed, just so that he may eat in the main dining room. As a veteran of the dining room, I understood his reluctance.

I got to know him better two nights earlier. It was a usual night while I struggled to sleep, but the 15-minute suicide lights would not allow me to. One of the patients had secretly given me a hard copy of the Old Testament. But why secretly? It was not the content; the Old Testament cover had sharp edges, which could be used as a tool for violence.

I was raised as a New Testament Christian and wanted to learn more about our Hebrew God’s Commandments to Moses, 6,000 years ago. But there was no way I was going to disturb my roommate with harsh overhead lights. So, I did my best to sleep.

My first night, I woke up on the floor, surrounded by nurses with cell phone flashlights. I had had a back operation a year before, which damaged it more. At this point, though it hardly mattered, I was given a ‘walker’ to use.

The next evening, I entered the adjoining bedroom. The room was dark and the floor was wet. My roommate wept under the covers and apologized profusely: he had clogged up the toilet with vomiting, feces, and toilet tissue. Like me, he was given strong prescription medication to be calm and avoid outbursts. They were difficult to digest.

I complained to Norman, the head nurse, that the toilet must be fixed. I was informed that plumbing was not part of his job description. On the next shift, two hours later, a powerful looking man of Sudanese origin, unclogged the toilet.

Later, I left my room and asked Norman if I could sit outside in the community room to read where there was light. I was harshly ordered to return to my cell. But I pleaded that turning on the light would upset my roommate. Yet, his answer was firm: “READ IN THE BATHROOM!”

Norman said, I should sit in the starkly lit bathroom, with a lone sink and a toilet without a seat. There was a half-padded foam door, and another half foam door at a shower staff; all eyes must be kept on us.
[A cartoon of a person reading a book AI-generated content may be incorrect.]

He and the other nurse laughed as I reluctantly entered the bathroom, I removed the flimsy padded shower door, sat down on it and read the Old Testament under the harsh bathroom light. I’ve never been particularly religious and will never be regarded as a philosopher, but the light did illuminate the verses.

But, a few hours later, a kind Nigerian American nurse entered my bathroom and was appalled to see me sitting on the floor, reading. I explained to him; I was only following the protocol of the previous Anglo American male nurses.

He replied, he is now in charge of this shift, gently helped me to my feet, and led me to the main community room where there was light, crafts, games, TV, etc. I said I only wanted to read. And a few minutes later he brought me a sandwich, chips and punch. May God Bless Him.

Thanksgiving

I met with the head psychiatrist on the eve of Thanksgiving. Once again, I explained to him that Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, was cyberbullying her, by posting threatening photographs of himself half-naked on her FB page.

The head psychiatrist then contacted Laura, who explained it was true. He read my file which noted I was good for patient’s morale, never missing any of the communal events: meals, stretching, craft classes, etc. How to deal with stress in the most edifying way? Relax, assess the situation and remember that patience is a virtue (I think Ben Franklin said that).

The head psychiatrist determined that I could depart, to enjoy Thanksgiving with family and friends. But I decided to stay for a few more days to see if I could help the other patients. After the cyberbullying of Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, could handle almost anything. He was pleased to hear that I had encouraged eight patients to write about their experiences on the Traveling Boy website.

Laura never missed a daily visitation – covertly bringing in fresh clothes, food and flowers hidden in books. It’s better to give than receive – and I continued with that mandate, giving three stems of carnations to an underappreciated janitor and then to a young woman of 20 years. They both received the gift with tears, grace, and gratitude.

A Communion among patients

Chuck, one of the veteran patients proved to be my role model. The nurses wanted him to be gone because he was always standing up for patients’ rights, annoying the mandate that some of the nurses followed. I sensed that (either due to large numbers or too much work) the head psychiatrist was a little out of contact with what was happening in the three units.

Earlier, Chuck surprised me. He had noticed that my hospital issued socks were too small for me. He presented me with a new pair of Columbia brand socks, his wife, like Laura, had secretly smuggled in during visiting hours.

When meals were finished in the dining room, he would covertly smuggle uneaten containers of food and bring them to the community room for those who needed more to eat.

Thank you, Chuck. You are among the ones who inspired me to write this article.

When Chuck was to be released, he would intentionally write something dastardly on the form, implying he needed to stay. He once joked that once he wrote that he wanted to harm one of the bullying nurses.

Larry, my roommate, eventually started to join us in the community room, a high point was simply watching him at the main community table playing a wordless game with another patient of a different race who rarely spoke either. It was heartwarming to watch them.

When a new patient would approach me, a frequent question was: “What did you think of me when we first met?” They we so emotionally damaged they often didn’t know who they were. Once, while lying in bed, I felt that way – wondering if I was living in a reality or trapped into a nightmare – a nightmare where Laura was not cyberbullied by the brother-in-law, Joshua. I thought I had proof, but the photo was pulled out by FB administrators.

One new patient spent his time murmuring down the hallway that Satan was making him hate Jesus. Another man, who was kind and sensitive, tried to kill himself because his girlfriend had dumped him due to his timidity, preferring a ruthless (bullying) macho man.

Alex, a tall patient, asked me what I thought of him. The truth was easy: he was strong, handsome, and articulate. He had a pronounced intellectual quality. Later, I learned he was an artist. Soon, he was championing and protecting sensitive patients in our unit.

This led us to Christina, a petite and artistic young lady of twenty. She was one of the two people; Laura and I had given secret stems of carnations. I had assumed she was a victim of another word I dislike as much as bullying: misogyny. Later, during another visit, she gave Laura a Crayola drawing of her.

Chuck, Alex and the rest of us became her protectors when someone tried to bully or issue power over her.

Continue to Chapter Four

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

The post Ten Day Odyssey That Shook My World, Part 3 appeared first on Traveling Boy.

The Day of Wrath

The next evening, Laura noticed I was quietly distracted and appeared to be in another world of torment and emotional pain. I explained it was obvious, and then called each of her siblings from Laura’s phone to ask them if it was normal for a husband to be upset by such a malicious act of emotional violence by a brother-in-law.

Delila had spoken to my clinical psychiatrist the afternoon before, and the doctor agreed with me: How could any husband not be upset when an out-of-control brother-in-law like Joshua was posting threatening images of himself, as the Devil on his wife’s Facebook page?

As Laura watched and listened on speaker phone, I asked each of all four siblings and two other in-laws to assure Laura that I was not delusional. Wouldn’t they be outraged if Joshua posted threatening photographs on their own spouses’ FB pages?

Each one skirted the question. and insisted I should immediately be taken to the Emergency Room. I was stunned. They chose protecting the honor of the narcissistic brother-in-law, Joshua, over the honor of Laura, their own sister.

Laura agreed; I must go to the ER.

Laura was concerned that I was having was a nervous breakdown and said it was most important for me to have an analysis by psychiatrists and psychologists to determine if I was dangerously facing insanity. At the same time, I was also concerned that she was having an emotional breakdown, too. I wanted her to have a session with them as well.

So, to prove a point, I went willingly and sat in solitary confinement and spoke to two psychologists and two psychiatrists at Kaiser Hospital. All four of the doctors said my rage was a normal reaction when someone posts something so repellent on a loved ones’ FB page. The interviews were recorded for posterity with a security guard looking on.

This was good for my attorney; my testimony was now legally reported. When I made my one phone call to him, he immediately said he would pay out of pocket for a high-tech security system, a 24/7 guard, and contact associate lawyers in Washington State. It was then, he realized what a narcissist Joshua really is. And, like most narcissist, he is a wounded bully, and would be too much of a coward to act on it in person. ”Leave it alone,” he said; “forget about this guy. Never contact him again.”

It was essential, though, for Laura to have her own session with the professionals. The problem, though, was that Laura left the hospital while her mobile phone was off. The pain in her spine was too much and she needed to rest, so she was unable to corroborate my testimony.

What it was like: 12 hours in solitary confinement

I was alone in a room with a wash basin and bed. The fourth wall was of glass, with a security guard watching over me. So, I had plenty of time to lay on my back and stare up the ceiling. The matter at hand: why exactly did I end up here, when I was told that I’d simply be given a few blood samples, then an interview with a psychiatrist? The answer was obvious, I might be a threat to someone or to myself. Though this thought was absurd, apparently all bases must be covered to avoid a lawsuit if it was determined that I really was batty.

Later, it was easy to meditate and pray. I was able to memorize a few new articles to eventually write, figure out the reason for past concerns and problems; the rest of my time I exercised with the security guard watching.

When dusk fell, the doctor approached me and said that I must spend the night, but there were no open beds at the hospital. I knew Kaiser hospital was known to be thrifty, in fact, I was once only given a sandwich, a banana and water to drink in my 12 hours in the joint.

Two ambulance drivers arrived, positioned me onto a stretcher and away we went to a different hospital in downtown Los Angeles. I asked the name, but they remained silent, only that it was located on College Street. I remembered my wife, then a new family nurse practitioner in the mid-1990s, did volunteer work at a Mental Hospital at that address, training nurses how to appropriately evaluate the physical symptoms of new patients and (most importantly) to treat them with kindness and respect.

When I would drive her to and from the hospital, I knew the name Mental Hospital was a place that I would never want to be incarcerated.

Continue to Chapter Three

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

The post Ten Days That Shook My World, Part 2 appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Prologue

It is my intention to help readers to understand the plight of the poor, the homeless and the ‘mentally ill.’ With special attention; never showing your power over another with bullying. The people in the article are real, but their names are fictitious.

Color this cathartic: It is my story which will never change.

Chapter One

My psychiatrist and therapist told me that this personal narrative must be preserved.

The back story begins seven months ago when I woke up to the sound of my wife’s scream. Here name is Laura. From that morning on, I knew I would never be the same again and take Laura, my wife for 42 years, for granted. I must become a REAL husband who loves his spouse more than himself. And will do everything in a power to help her, easing her from the physical and emotional pain.

Laura was experiencing intense pain in her spinal cord. The groans and muffled screams continued for five long months. She would wander around the house, bumping into the walls, sometimes saying that she thought she was dying.

We went to the hospital many times and had many different examinations. It was determined that she had a pinched nerve in the base of her spine, but no specialists could determine why the relentless pain would not subside without triggered shots of steroids. Once the triggered shots had run their course, the excruciating pain would continue. But later, a bone density examination revealed seven cracked ribs and a broken one. Since then, Laura decided not to have further trigger shots, and through diligent stretching, exercise, and prayer; the pain has almost dissipated.

Laura is very private and not an exhibitionist; in particularly, she did not want her siblings to know about her spinal pain. Some of her siblings live in small farming areas in in Central Washington State, and some are religious cultists. As Laura and I have completely different values; we attempt to approach a person with equality, regardless of race, career, and religion, we are despised. Often a U.S. Hispanic person would be simply dismissed as a Mexican of the migrant variety by some of Laura’s relatives.

These relatives – two sibling and the cyber bullying brother-in-law – view Laura as an anti-Christian, a wayward liberal urban elitist who moved to the big godless city of Los Angeles. Even worse, she is married to me, Jim Smith; a native Seattleite, who was trying to ‘make it’ in Hollywood. When we visit them in Central Washington they pray loudly. Laura privately prays, aware that praying out loud is more of a performance, seeking praise as an actor, rather than expressing true words of thanks to God.

The debacle

As Laura is a very private person, she did not want anyone besides me and her doctors/specialists to know of this ordeal. I broke my oath to her. I needed support and prayers from close friends and family who really do love her and even those who don’t.

It was a heavy load for me to carry on my own

Against my best intentions, I also informed each of her four Christian siblings and three in-laws of her unrelenting pain, begging them to privately pray for Laura. This was difficult, requesting that they pray without her knowing it.

Laura’s immediate relatives live under a code of silence, where nothing negative is ever said. Occasionally we do overhear whispers about us, but generally just eyerolls and silence. It is well understood that we are not considered true Christians or even humanitarians.

The siblings have a thing called a PRAISE THE LORD. It is a thread for anyone in need of ‘Christian’ support, even though it may be someone who you have no knowledge of. The PTL chain can range from the serious – Covid and cancer to a bad cold and even praying for a kitchen appliance to be healed. Yes, faith healing a dish washer out of repair.

The spouse of Laura’s oldest sister, Joshua, is an unrepentant bully and a narcissist. He took exception to my requests for everyone to pray for her. I was stealing his thunder. He believed that he was head of this new adoptive family, and all attention should go to him. Everyone who meets him is aware of his narcissism and self-worship. His long tirades at the family tale are overbearing, how he changed someone’s life, how many pushups he did at the gym, glorified by self-videos and memes sent to us via FB or on the PTL app.

A nation of Elvis impersonators

Joshua’s two favorites: dressing in a costume of a fierce Chinese warlord, and a video of him waving a U.S. flag, while charging up a hill, inspiring citizens to follow him in battle. It was an unintentional emulation of the Aryian Übermensch, an example of the master race, climbing an Alpine Mountain with Nazi with swastika imagery. It proved to be effective with the Nazis, but for this man of ignorance who had never been in a battle, the absurdity provoked annoyance and irritation for many who were actually be in battle.

My father dropped out high school at 17, joined the Marines, and participated in D-Day the Battle of Iwo Jima and D-Day Battle of Okinawa, often said flag-wavers are jingoists, not patriots. If you’d been in a battle, it is the last think you would ever want to talk about,

Just as worse, my father was a devout Roman-Catholic, not considered a real Christian by Laura’s religious cultists siblings and in-laws.

We all felt pity for the bully, Joshua

But everyone is afraid to say anything negative about Joshua for it might hurt the feelings of the oldest sister, Delila. She is regarded to be weak, sweet and kind, but it’s easy to notice her short comments and side-glances to Joshua in condescension of us. A farewell back to Southern California generally closed with; “Will pray for you, John.” But, strangely never to Laura; only to me, a non-blood relative.

For Joshua, silence meant free reign for more boasting. Sure, this has been happening for 42 years, since the marriage to the oldest sister, Delila. This has been the main problem; silence so it doesn’t cause hurt feeling to the sister, Delila, even though she brought him into ‘the family’ – a family who offered unconditional love. The only love he had experienced prior to that was self-love and self-admiration.

So, as my prayer requests came in for Laura, the bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, posted a photo of himself, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I believe what set him off, his banishment from my wife’s family’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Day family tables in Central Washington. This is where he generally holds court as the de facto head of Laura’s Washington family. He had no choice to spend the holidays at his rental home in Idaho. Maybe the message of his ill repute was beginning to unravel.

The Sunday attack happened in the evening on a Sunday night when Laura was suffering with unrelentless spinal pain. I had just helped her into bed, set her up with an ice pack, and suggested she should relax and look at her FB account. As she clicked her account on her phone, her body jolted, and her spine hit the wall behind the bed when she saw the unimaginable photograph. She quietly deleted the photo, hoping I wouldn’t notice it. I managed a quick look and realized it was Joshua’s way to get me to stop with updates about Laura progress to her family.

It was the photo of Joshua, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I have only seen reincarnations of the Devil in magazines, cartoons, TV and in movies. But to see someone you know such as Joshua, taking on that personification was horrific. I mean, he wanted to be the Devil. The bullying meme was pathetic, but also powerful for this person would think it would silence me from updates and pleads for everyone to pray for Laura.

I did my best not to appear upset. So, after Laura finally slept, I quietly went into our living room at 11 PM, sending messages to her siblings, demanding to know how they could allow such a terrible thing to happen. How could they admire and respect such a dubious man. His history is dreadful, almost unimaginable. But the unimaginable code of silence remained.

I called (what I thought) the more sane brother … the executor of her family’s will. He’s a busy guy, who works midnight hours. I stayed awake for 46 hours waiting for an answer that never came. I then phoned Laura’s’ youngest sister and husband, who answered my call. Once they made sense of my erratic outrage, they said they would consider flying down to our home in Los Angeles to protect Laura. I said it was not necessary; all that was needed was to stop the cyberbullying of Joshua, but that was not even considered.

During the long wait, I wrote a 40-hour narrative on my mobile phone of the recent event, exclaiming all what had happened to Laura, asking for some kind of mercy, sanity. But all I got back was a virus on my phone from the narcissistic bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, who had managed to cripple my phone so I could not send the testimonial and contact anyone in the PTL chain.

In the morning, I contacted Laura’s youngest brother. He said he was not about tearing anyone down and spoke with admiration of Joshua. I begged him not to tear anyone down but help build a wall to protect Laura. The call abruptly ended.

This was crushing. As it turned out, Laura’s siblings and in-law had more sympathy for Joshua, the cyber bully, than for her. I was stunned by this. They were all raised the same way with the same values of their Christian parents. How could they side with a manipulating son-in-law, Joshua, with his crude prose and pantomime over the honor of their true sister.

Was I going insane? Continue to Chapter Two

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

The post Ten Days That Shook My World, Part 1 appeared first on Traveling Boy.