No Smoking, Please!

***This is not an original by me. This is a traditional poem recited by my Great-Grandfather, Papa B, the original Storyteller in my life. ***

One of my bygone recollections,
As I recall the days of yore
Is the little house, behind the house,
With the crescent over the door.

'Twas a place to sit and ponder
With your bowed down low;
Knowing that you wouldn't be there,
If you didn't have to go.

Ours was a three-holer,
With a size for every one
You left there feeling better,
After your usual job was done.

You had to make these frequent trips
Whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog--
To the little house where you usually 
Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Oft times in dead of winter,
The seat was covered with snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance,
To the little house you'd go.

With a swish you'd clear the seat,
Bend low, with dreadful fear.
You'd blink your eyes and grit your teeth
As you settled on your rear.

I recall the day Granddad,
Who stayed with us one summer,
Made a trip to the shanty
Which proved to be a hummer.

'Twas the same day my Dad
Finished painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess he's made
With rags and gasoline.

He tossed the rags in the shanty hole
And went on his usual way
Not knowing that by doing so
He would eventually rue the day.

Now Granddad had an urgent call,
I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house
Lingers in my memory yet.

He sat down on the shanty seat,
With both feet on the floor
Then filled his pipe with tobacco
And struck a match on the outhouse door.

After the tobacco began to glow,
He slowly raised his rear;
Tossed the flaming match in the open hole,
With no sign of fear.

The blast that followed, I am sure,
Was heard for miles around;
And there was poor ol' Granddad
Just sitting on the ground.

The smoldering pipe was still in his mouth,
His suspenders he held tight;
The celebrated three-holer
Was blown clear out of sight.

When we asked him what had happened,
His answer I'll never forget,
He thought it must be something
That he had recently et!

Next way we had a new one
Which my Dad built with ease,
With a sign on the entrance door
Which reads: No Smoking, Please!

Now that's the end of the story,
With memories of long ago,
Of the little house, behind the house,
Where we went 'cause we had to go!

Belief and Doubt

Once upon a time there was a young man named Vadik. Vadik had gone to all of the best schools growing up and ended up attending the highest accredited university. He received the highest grades and was a great source of pride for his parents. The problem was, Vadik knew nothing.

In his early years he found out that what he thought was true, was false; justice is not always fair and balanced, people are not always nice, sometimes it is okay to steal, the sky isn't actually blue it's just how it looks, etc. This began Vadik on a journey of doubt. He read the works of Descartes and Plato as well as the Tao Te Ching. He began to wonder if there was anything in his perception of the world that was as it seemed to be. Since he could find nothing that survived his own trials of reality, he ultimately decided that there was nothing real, therefore he truly knew nothing because there was nothing to know.

One day he discussed his observations with his colleagues Esprit, Manota and and Tanuja. Each had their own take on what was real and decided to try to convince Vadik to their line of thinking. For Esprit, one had to start with the axiom that God exists. Manota believed that whatever existed, did so only in her mind and that life was just the perception of the brain. Tanuja argued that if you can see it, touch it, sense it, it was real to him. Not wanting to create an argument, Vadik agreed to listen to them one at a time and whoever had the floor was not to be interrupted except by Vadik's questions. The group agreed to the terms.

Vadik turned to Esprit and said, "prove to me that God exists and I will follow the rest of your logic."

Esprit took a drink, looked at his friend and said, "Do you believe in chance?"

Vadik replied, "I believe in nothing."

Esprit sighed, "that's a start, I suppose."

Esprit argued that only those who believe in chance could believe that there is no god. Only those people could look at the astronomical odds that life on Earth, or even the big bang could have happened, and think "wow, lucky us!" He claimed that if you truly took a look at the odds, and how often things have happened in our favor that never should have happened, you could not believe in chance. Thus, you have the idea that maybe someone or something is tweaking things to make the laws of nature work in our favor. Whatever or whoever it is, must be god. The problem comes in trying to define this god entity.

"Your explanation still leaves room for doubt," replied Vadik. "After all, there is still the possibility that it is all chance. I am sorry, but I cannot accept your belief that there is something real."

Next he turned to Manota who talked of her belief that really we are just minds. There is nothing physical or spiritual, it is just mental. Everything we think of as physical is a result of stimulus of the brain. Even pain we think we feel in other parts of our body, we actually feel in our mind. And don't pay attention to the idea that the mind is physical, she added, these are just our minds' way of reconciling all of the stimulus it receives. We can't know beyond a doubt that we are just minds because we have been programmed for so long to believe that we are physical beings. However, with enough practice and disbelief, you can start to treat your life as if it is just a dream, and your responding to stimuli.

Vadik shook his head, "your explanation still leaves room for doubt because we do not know where the stimuli come from that create our perception of the world. Is it internal? External? If it is internal, how did our brain come up with the composite that it did without a source or original sense to base it off of? If it is external, how can a mind interact with another mind? We have no proof of this ever happening, I have no proof that you are another mind and we are interacting mind to mind, so I still have doubts about your theory."

Tanuja gave Vadik a smile and said, "I guess it's my turn then?" Vadik nodded in agreement and Tanuja began his explanation of what was real. For Tanuja, whatever could be sensed was real. We don't live in the Matrix, he explained, there is no giant computer controlling us. Even if it was, the computer would have to be physical and thus, be real. It is true that our senses can get out of control at times, our brains unable to comprehend what we have sensed. But the brain is a physical entity responds to the same rules of nature that apply to everything else. We can mathematically prove plenty of things that seem contrary to nature; the world revolves around the sun, there are billions of stars that are billions of light years away from us, all from observing the physical world on our own level. The physical world has to be real because it can be explained through math and science while the others cannot.

"But not everything has a physical explanation, despite your obvious belief that it does," Vadik disagreed. "If everything were in accordance with math and science then, as Esprit pointed out, we probably would not be here because the laws of nature were not on our side."

"I say the trouble lies with you," Manota responded bitterly. "You just can't commit to one view or another, so you're staying a wish-washy coward."

"Agreed," Esprit sighed, shaking his head. "You lack the ability to believe anything without solid proof, but that is not how the world works."

"There are some things," Tanuja continued, "that don't need proof, they need belief."

"And how am I supposed to believe in something that there is no proof for?"

"That would be my field of expertise," replied a stranger from the next table. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation and I hope you don't mind if I put in my two cents' worth." The group agreed to hear out the stranger.

"My name is Tumelo and I have been on a similar journey as you, sir. I too doubted until there was nothing left but doubt. Then I realized a great truth that only those who doubt everything can find, experience and know to be true; everything requires a bit of faith and/or belief to be real."

"Ah," Esprit chimed in, "I see you are among the believers in God."

"Only insofar as even the idea of any god requires faith and belief."

"Then you are of my kind," Manota interjected, "for to know that everything is in one's head requires the belief that it is so."

"I acknowledge that your belief requires belief, but I do not feel the truth of what you say."

"Then what are you trying to say," asked Tanuja, growing frustrated with the stranger.

"What I am trying to say," Tumelo smiled, "is that the only truth we can be sure of is that faith and belief run the world. It is the faith that there is a god. It is the belief that everything is in our heads. It is the belief, hope and faith that an experiment performed precisely the same way 100 times will return the same results every time. So I ascribe to the one truth of faith and belief, two words that have become somewhat tainted over the years because of their correlations with religions, but are, nevertheless, all powerful words that create our world, or worlds as the case may be."

Vadik's friends tried to argue with the stranger, but Vadik remained lost in thought. He asked the stranger "how did you come to this truth?"

"As I told you before, through doubting everything for so long and looking for something that was true."

"So your logic is tainted as well," Vadik replied. "You were looking for the truth, so you picked up on the first possible one you came across and stuck with it because you needed something to believe. So, you believe in belief."

"As do you," Tumelo nodded. "Otherwise you would have never had this conversation with your friends asking what was real. You too are looking for something real to believe in. Whatever that is, be it my truth or your friends', you too will believe it, have faith in it, and know it to be real."

The Quest for the Truth

There once was an Old Man who was raised in a world at war with itself. There were many factions in this war, but it ultimately came down to two groups, those who believed The Stories were true and those who did not. Many had died in this war who had forgotten what it was about. After centuries of fighting, there were no great debates anymore. The Council of each group no longer studies The Stories themselves or consulted with others about them. No one even read The Stories anymore.

Those that did not believe The Stories to be true never read The Stories, yet they believed with all of their being that The Stories were falsehoods created to mold the minds of the populous into mindless slaves of those more able to manipulate The Stories to serve their own purposes. They avoided reading The Stories out of fear that they would become subject to those who ruled the believers.

Those that did believe The Stories to be true no longer read them because an edict long ago outlawed the translation of The Stories into languages that everyone spoke. Unfortunately, this resulted in the separation of the truth of The Stories from those that believed them. Eventually, even those that taught of The Stories were in the dark regarding what they were truly about.

The Old Man asked what The Stories were. He asked The Council of both sides and the councils of the smaller factions that made up the two sides. As it was, no one knew The Stories anymore, and yet their accuracy was still fought over. So the man started to search for any existing copies of the stories. He demanded of The Council of believers to be granted access to them. Each time he presented his case, he was turned down. The Council told him, "Things are fine as they are. There is no need for change." When he inquired of the non-believers, he was presented with the same frame of mind. Things had been the way they were for too long. No one even knew how to change them anymore.

There were those who heard the story of The Old Man. Some took pity on his apparent lack of knowledge about the books. Some were angered that he questioned The Council. But there was one group that found his search refreshing and a sign of hope.

The Piedad sent a message to The Old Man saying that they had the answers he was looking for. He only had to meet them at the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seventh month, for that was the only time they could appear and have the blessing of The Storyteller and her ilk. The Old Man waited for months for the approved time, trying to stave off bringing war into his own home; Trying to keep his children and grandchildren from fighting in the wars. He begged them to let him get to the truth of the matter and then they could decide for themselves if they wanted to join the fights. Only his grandson, Hidetaka, listened and stayed out of the fighting, though it brought much pain and teasing from his former comrades.

Two months later, the Piedad approached The Old Man and led him to an abandoned city that seemed as old as time itself.

"There is no way these were built by our kind," The Old Man marveled. "They are far too grand for our current technology, let alone ancient."

"Shh," one of the Piedad responded. "We are entering the sacred place of knowledge. The resting place for the tomes of the ancients."

They led the Old Man to a building that was covered in a writing he could not understand. The doors were guarded by stone animals he did not know, but would not like to meet in the flesh. They climbed the stairs into the building and opened the twenty foot doors.

Inside of the building were the Piedad, taking care of the tomes by keeping them clean, transferring the knowledge of the tattered tomes to newer, fresher pieces of paper, using long lost technologies to preserve the tomes as best they could.

The Old Man was led to a woman who seemed to be ageless. She seemed forever stuck in her forties. She was dressed in royal garbs and had a circle of bodyguards around her at all times. She motioned to her men that The Old Man was safe.

"I understand," she began in a soft, grandmotherly voice, "that you are looking for The Stories that started the never ending war. Why are you looking for them?"

"I wish to make sense of my world," replied The Old Man. "If people are to die over a bunch of stories, should we not at least know what the stories are about?"

"At last," she replied with a smile. "At last someone has the initiative to question. We have been the Keepers of Knowledge for ages. We were to encourage thought, discussions, new ideas, questioning of the status quo. Unfortunately we were banished and forgotten centuries ago. I am a direct descendant of The Storyteller of old. To her children and grandchildren, she bequeathed the original copies of The Stories. We have worked for a long time, developing new technologies, preserving techniques that worked, in our attempts to preserve them. The Storyteller warned us that the day would come when these works would save the world."

"May I see them," asked The Old Man.

The woman smiled, "of course you may. We encourage the seeking of knowledge here."

The Old Man followed her and her guards deep into the building's underground area. There was no light here, but the Piedad had no problems finding their way around. They had traversed this path many times. The Old Man, however, kept stubbing his toes, tripping and eventually had to grab onto one of the Piedad guards to lead him.

Finally they stopped. The woman made some motions with her hands and a door opened to a room, softly lighted by what The Old Man assumed to be magic. The woman motioned for him to step forward and he did so. When he stepped into the room, the lights brightened so suddenly and so fully that it hurt his eyes. He trembled in fear at this unknown technology.

"Go forth," the woman encouraged. "The truth you seek is just ahead of you."

The Old Man looked and saw a tiny object made from paper that he had never seen before, but had heard of. It was a book, which were usually reserved for the members of The Council, but he doubted that theirs had as much detail work put into them as this book, no bigger than a deck of cards, held. He reached out to touch the book but withdrew his hand, fearing he was in violation of some rule.

"Go on," the woman told him. "The book has been waiting for someone like you to read it."

With her blessing, The Old Man picked up the book and gently pulled open the cover. Inside of it, written in the language of his ancestors, were The Stories, in their original form.

"But," he protested, "I cannot read this. I do not recognize the language. And I am far too old and too close to my days to learn this ancient writing."

"Then we shall have to send you forth with the means for someone younger than you to learn and to translate," the woman smiled. "To be honest, we all thought you would be younger, but I trust there is someone to whom you can entrust the task of being the Revealer of Truth for your world."

"Yes," he replied. "My grandson will be happy to engage in this work. He is the only one who would listen to my requests to stay out of the fighting, now he shall be rewarded with the knowing of the truth."

"Be careful Old Man," the woman said, "The Revealer of Truth is a position of great responsibility. If you give this task to your grandson, he will hated, hunted, and quite likely tortured for bringing the truth to the people. Would you truly want him to go through this?"

The Old Man considered, "No. But I also cannot let him live in a placid state of emotionless acceptance. I want my grandson to grow to challenge The Council when they are wrong, to bring peace to those who war over what they do not know. May he forgive me for charging him with this responsibility."

The Old Man was escorted to his home where he found his grandson waiting for him. "Hidetaka, the burden has been passed to you. Translate The Stories using the books the Piedad have given us, and tell the world the truth about them as best as you see fit. Whether you think they are true or not, whether you interpret them one way or another, just make sure people are allowed to know what they are fighting about and can choose whether they truly want to fight for it or not."

With that, The Old Man passed out from exhaustion and died. Hidetaka buried his grandfather and spent his life wandering, knowing that the books would get him in trouble with any council that found them. Even before he was finished translating, he was already spreading the word to the people about the importance of knowing what you are fighting for, the importance of questioning the status quo, and, most importantly, the importance of thinking for yourself. The people who heard of his works gave him a new name, Dankward.