Snake Stories

Bill Melendez—the man who gave Snoopy and all the Peanuts characters life—has died. He was the only person Charles Schulz allowed to animate them. I recognized the last name from other cartoons, but until reading that obit had no idea he’d worked on so many of the cartoons I enjoyed as a kid. Fantasia remains one of my favorite animated movies. It was that kind of quality work—and the relative intelligence of the cartoons back in those days, compared to newer ones—that led me to stop watching American-made cartoons several years ago. I have found some anime well worth watching, but that said, it’s much more for the very interesting story lines than the animation quality (although that exceeds the snippets of American cartoons I’ve caught).

Anyway, Melendez and Mendelson are familiar names from my misspent youth ... and now I’m wanting to find some of those lush Disney films and older cartoons for enjoying again. Maybe even with the snolfs, although they probably aren’t old enough to grok what I see in the older ‘toons.

It didn’t go as intended—which was a given before we’d even set off—but our weekend away was nonetheless filled with a lot of pleasure. The snolfs got to try their fishing poles, at long last; but, not having tried to learn anything about their equipment nor the fish in the waters they were plying, didn’t get so much as a nibble. Snolf the First was especially frustrated, because his supposedly better reel kept tangling the line when he’d try to rewind, but Darlin’ Daughter’s willingness to share her rod offset that frustration quite nicely. They learned how to cast fairly quickly, and did pretty well at it. They apparently chose the most garish of lures they have—a big red and white stripedy thing—and it looked comically out of place in the clear, cold water of the lake. Maybe the fish were as amused as I was; all the same, the snolfs enjoyed themselves, and I enjoyed watching their antics and seeing their happiness.

We had other kinds of fun as well, but I won’t bore everyone with a detailed recounting. Suffice to say that we found more interesting things to explore than we had time for, and we intend to return to the area.

Lobo and I were each a bit preoccupied in our own ways by the doings of humans in the world at large, and that was hard to shake over the weekend. Yet, nestled up in the mountains, trying to avoid human interaction as much as possible, we too were soothed by the music of wind in pines or rushing rapids; we enjoyed seeing birds of prey coasting on thermals; in short, nature provided a welcome balm.

And I wonder how it is that regular individuals—not the petty tyrants who administer and bureaucratize and dictate the rules and regulations by which we’re supposed to order our lives; in being such creatures they show they have no soul left to reclaim or rejuvenate—can so seemingly placidly plod along with those restrictions and orders.

How can someone breathe deeply of fresh, clean air; take in the breathtaking beauty abundant in nature; feel a child’s small hand slip into theirs as they walk side by side; how can any person observe or even think about the countless ways the world displays its beauty, even amongst man-made jungles, and then turn to become a cog of the state?

How do people who see the glories and the wonder–full potential of our world willingly go off to kill others in some faraway place? How can they blind themselves to the potential of those faraway places, or worse, trash the beauty there?

What does the state offer that is so powerful, so enticing, that people willingly turn their backs on their own dreams and goals, and become its thralls? I do not think most people are intrinsically that evil, nor that stupid, to choose such a deal with such a devil. But its siren songs sing to them in ways I cannot hear; or perhaps more accurately, I heard but never stopped questioning, and hence the song held no charms for me.

I may be nothing but an aging idealist, yet I cling to the belief that many people’s eyes could be opened if they would just look a little harder, or have a key question dropped into their minds. While I often ask “why”, it seems to me that for many, pointing out the contrast between a life as it is, and that life as it could be—as it was meant to be, free from busybody interference and coercive intrusion—by asking “how” might be the right key.

When I wrote in the introductory column to the most recent Sunni’s Salon that “we aren’t holding high hopes for a bumper crop of anything but lessons learned”, I wasn’t indulging in false modesty. And it is now official—as reports start to come in, even friends with self-professed brown thumbs are reaping their rewards. So, how does Sunni’s garden grow? Let’s go out to the patch to review the sorry state of affairs.

After my last words on the R.P. diversion, I took a long break from LRC. The only exceptions had been Butler Shaffer, and one of the columnists who focused on health issues; but, as the latter recently leveled “intellectual” property violation charges against some excerpts posted in my area at The Boondocks, I’ve stopped reading him. Then—silly me—I heeded the urgings of several people and started browsing the blog, primarily because Butler Shaffer posts there. However, after reading several posts like these, I’m done with the entire site. It’s one thing to encounter nationalistic, grossly oversimplified perspectives in political and media propaganda, but to find it permeating an allegedly pro-freedom web site is too much for me.

[Note: This "story" has been slightly modified from its original form, as an essay published in Free-Market.Net's FMNews.]

Yes, I know -- I've cribbed my title from Douglas Adams. But it's appropriate, given the subject of this essay and my continuing struggles to find my voice after the Supreme Court's ruling in the Hiibel case. And, unlike the Harvard professor, I'm admitting it freely, so it shouldn't come back to haunt me. ;-)

For those who want a better sense of who the Sunni Snake is, I offer these random glimpses:
  When I read something that is patently bullshit, in good reptilian fashion I typically vent with a, "Ssssst!"
  Half Scandinavian. Didn't get the blonde and buxom genes, though.
  Got the stoicism, and stick-straight hair.
  Other half is yer general western European muttly mix.
  Because both of my parents died relatively young, I have an inordinate fear of following in their footsteps.
  That's really the only serious fear I have.
  Although I try to be very respectful of others' preferences, I'm a toucher, and can get quite unhappy fairly quickly if I'm unable to express my affection for someone physically.

  Yep, that's gotten me in trouble sometimes.
  Alcohol stokes my muse.
  Alcohol plus caffeine is even better. (Anyone got drink recipes that include both, but not sodas?)
  Southpaw!
  I have been a hard-core science nerd practically since coming out of diapers.
  Mushy romantic songs really get to me, even though I know better than to believe 'em.
  I also tend to score high on those test-your-geekiness quizzes all over the web.

  I don't put a lot of faith in those kinds of quizzes.
  Most "psychological" tests I've seen aren't worth much, either.
  Being pregnant was so enjoyable I regret not having more children.
  Once, I tried to pretend I wasn't smart in order to get guys to like me.
  It lasted maybe three days.
  Guys who mattered liked me anyway. (I'm sorry I didn't always recognize that you mattered then, though!)
  I don't have a favorite color. I do not intend to try to choose one.

  INTJ (highly borderline on all but "I"); Virgo; year of the ox.
  At my best (far as I can tell), 35-25-36; 119. At the height of pregnancy, around 165.
  Don't ask what they are now; I'm working on improving them.
  Besides, I care more how I look and what I can do than what any numbers say about my body.
  I love snow, and cold weather in general.
  The first time I saw real mountains was in Switzerland. I felt like I'd finally returned to a beloved home, and it was genuinely hard to leave them.
  Downhill skiing gets me incredibly randy.

  My body's thermostat seems to be set a notch higher than most people's. Thus my nickname "the hot-blooded snake".
  Whenever I hear or read the word "Aristotle", I get an image in my mind of dog testicles. That's happened since I was about ten years old. I don't know why!
  Somehow my brain scrambled learning green and orange. It still requires conscious thought to make sure I say the color I mean.
  I'd like to kiss my eighth-grade boyfriend just one more time.
  Rock; jazz; some metal; big band and swing; classical; blues. Not so much opera or country, but I have found some gems in those genres. Friends have given me an appreciation of new age, punk, and folk.
  The first album I saved up for was A Night at the Opera. It was severely scratched on one side, but I loved having it so much I didn't return it.
  My first fangirl obsession was the Bee Gees, starting with Jive Talkin'. I bought Main Course, then all their old syrupy stuff. I liked their disco stuff too, but not as much, mostly because it's a lot of Barry's falsetto, and I like Robin's quavery vocals better.

  I taught myself to play the flute, and through sheer determination, became pretty good at it. I also taught myself to play the oboe (with minimal private lessons), tootle passably on the clarinet and trumpet, and given enough time, can peck out some simple tunes on a piano by ear. I'm not good at sight-reading and improvisation, though.
  Unless I've had recent vocal instruction, I cannot carry a tune, even if it's inside a hermetically-sealed, lead-lined box with both of my hands wrapped tightly around it.
  That doesn't stop me from singing, sometimes quite enthusiastically.
  But I'm pretty self-conscious about it, so you'd hafta sneak up on me to hear how awful I am.
  One of my favorite pairs of shoes has been a very comfortable pair of gorgeous blue suede shoes. Bright, electric blue high heels that I often wore to my teaching job at a conservative, Catholic university with a black denim miniskirt or short black jumper with silver buttons.
  The administration at the school seemed to like me almost as much as the students did.
  Probably for different reasons, though.

  For many, many years I couldn't watch scary movies or read scary books. I didn't believe the stuff was real, but my imagination made it come so alive that I'd have nightmares for weeks.
  For a while I wanted to be the brunette version of Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In.
  But I also wanted to be a boy when I was young.
  Not having to wear shirts outside was the main reason.
  Well, that and the fact that I would have gotten toy cars and stuff to play with. Instead I had to wait for my younger brother to come along.
  The first deeply influential book I read was Jane Eyre. I could relate to a lot of it, and re-read it often for years. I give it a lot of credit for awakening the free-thinking individualist in me.
  I have no guilty pleasures. Guilt is an emotion I very rarely experience.

  My prim Norwegian grandmother taught me that it's okay to pee outside sometimes.
  Since I never thought I'd have children, I was almost totally unprepared for the undertaking when I got pregnant with my first snolf.
  Oh, yeah: SNake + wOLF = snolf. There's one of each flavor.
  Despite my lack of preparation, and in large part due to Lobo's patient, loving support (especially in the early years) and my own mother's fine example in many ways, being a mom is a gig I'm really enjoying.
  I love seafood, but not many in my family do, so I don't get to eat it nearly as much as I'd like.
  Identifying "favorites" is something I totally suck at. My favorites change as I learn more, and try different things.
  The song that best captures my approach to living is Rush's Available Light.

  I'll gladly admit it when I'm wrong, but I'll only do it when I'm convinced I really am wrong. That seems to really piss off some people.
  Thrill-seeking is fun, but I'm not stupid about it.
  I'm not as sanguine as I used to be about starting to look older.
  But I'm pleased to see more silver in my hair ... even though my hair also seems to be getting a bit wavy too.
  It's a tossup whether I'm happiest outside -- hiking, camping, shooting -- or whipping up something in a nicely-equipped kitchen with great music playing.
  The only person I've ever wanted to be, other than myself, is Marie Curie. Still fantasize about being a science goddess sometimes.
  The thing I dislike most about myself is my lack of mechanical aptitude. Being good with cooking tools doesn't count.

Why do I call my recipes and food section “pood”? Well, it’s largely due to the neologistic tendencies of my prime conspirator, Don Lobo Tiggre ...

Way back before he and I merged households, we were separated by much of the U.S. Early in our friendship, we’d discovered a shared fondness for Rush’s music, and made an agreement to try to see a concert together someday.

When the Test for Echo tour was announced, I scoured the dates, searching for any possibility that would work for us to share a concert together. Few venues were close to him in Wyoming ... ones that were close to me were on weekdays. Finally, one date lit a candle of hope: a Saturday concert, in Rockford, Illinois. After a series of phone calls and email exchanges, The Rushian Adventure was a go: I’d get tickets for the show and make hotel reservations online; Lobo would fly into Indianapolis and I’d pick him up there; then we’d cruise up to Rockford to enjoy the show.

Well, like any complicated plan, it didn’t go off entirely as envisioned. However, we did get to Rockford in plenty of time for the concert. Walking around outside the concert hall, we decided we should eat some dinner before the show; but there were no fast-food places in sight. Choosing a random street, we set off in hopes of finding a good, quick bite to eat.

After only a few blocks, we came upon a corner joint that appeared to be a restaurant ... except its lovely, glowing neon sign looked more like “POOD” than “FOOD”. Lobo arched an eyebrow at me, and asked, “You willing to try some pood?” I nodded, and in we went.

The waitress was a rather typical harried hash-slinger; even so, she was a good sport about Lobo’s pun-laced, fast-paced, amusing banter. His query about the sign, however, brought her up short. She had never paid much attention to the sign, apparently, and it just didn’t sink in that the sign could be read as anything other than “food”. That simply added to our amusement. When our orders arrived, we discovered, amid much giggling, that we did indeed enjoy pood very much.

So, the term has stuck. Much to our delight, our children were amused by the neologism, and have picked it up as well.

But I am so pleased with our Darlin’ Daughter (AKA Snolf the Second). A few days ago, I invited her to read a book with me, the deal being that we’d alternate reading pages. She very reluctantly agreed—not surprising, that, since she has been telling herself for quite some time that she can’t read.

Yes, her reading was slow and halting, with a lot of the drawn-out sounds characteristic of someone who is sounding out words. (Her cute, high voice doing this, with an invariably rising pitch at the end of each sound, sent me into fits of giggles, which did not help the situation. But, thankfully, she giggled too, rather than get mad at me.) I think she surprised herself by how well she was doing; the next day she hopped into my lap and asked when we would continue reading the story. And her reading was noticeably better than the first day.

We just finished today’s session, in which we started reading a different book. D.D. still sounds out a few words very slowly, and her overall pace is that of a beginning reader, but I do believe she can be called a “reader” now. A little bit of phonics work, and I think she’ll be soaring on her own!

I’m so thankful Lobo and I resisted our inclinations to try to push her on this. Yeah, she may be starting later than most kids, but some just seem to need more time to be ready to handle reading. Pushing will not help that, and will almost certainly hurt the child’s attitude and interest in learning how to read. Reading is far too critical a skill to risk like that, especially for the dubious aim of remaining on the educrats’ timetable.

I have always loved to travel. My parents often told me about my great enjoyment of a trip to the upper Midwest taken when I was just three years old—I don’t know whether I’ve reconstructed things from their recollections, or if they’re genuine, but I’ve a few wisps of remembrance of immense bridges and lots of water from the trip through Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan. By the time I was old enough to consider it, I was yearning to get out of small-town Ohio and see some of the world. It took decades to accomplish that, but I have, yet wanderlust still pounds in my blood.

As I got older, I became fascinated with not just the places, but the people, too. That’s a big part of why I became a psychologist, but even so, the academic interest has never exceeded the intensely personal interest I have in humans. By “intensely personal” I don’t mean busybody nosiness—I simply mean an interest in the unending variety and creativity of human creatures. As a teenager, I read Richard Bach’s Illusions, and much of it resonated with me. One of the more powerful elements was Don Shimoda’s attempt to teach “the reluctant Messiah” of the profound differences between individuals—I’d thought a lot about that years before reading the book, and grokked its importance then. This was the first time, as best I recall, that I confronted the reality that other individuals didn’t recognize that truth. I think that I had also begun to realize that freedom and tolerance are the essentials for creating a happy, healthy person and life, although it was (again) to be many years before I realized the full implications of my youthful philosophical ponderings. Having recently returned from a walkabout to the Arizona desert, doing a lot of thinking and observing (both within myself and of the areas I traveled to and through), I’ve been powerfully reminded of the glorious diversity of humankind.

From the cold, frozen Midwest, my companion and I traveled south and west. Breakfast was typically coffee and eggs of some sort, but as the temperature warmed as we neared our destination, so did the spiciness of the ingredients accompanying the eggs. Tabasco sauce was ever-present on the table, or brought with meals without needing to ask—a welcome sign that I was among people who like their food the way I do. Shapes became less pasty and pudgy—darker skin and darker, straighter hair became common. Physiques seemed to separate into “lean” and “fat”—few people appeared to exist in that corporate-cubicle in-between of couch-potatodom. The pace of life slowed. As the landscape became drier, the effort required to live in its embrace became a visible constraint—but not an insurmountable one. When we reached the small town that was our base of operations for the walkabout, I was met with another surprise. Or, more accurately, I saw it shimmering in the distance as we drove through the desert—a glimmering white sea that was not sand, not salt, but aluminum. Snowbirds fly to the area in their RVs, creating a senior-citizen city the likes of which I’d never imagined. The sound of a toddler’s laugh from a nearby table at Sunday breakfast was as foreign there as a moose call would be in downtown Los Angeles.

All that differentness, in a relatively small trip across one small area of this planet ...

The reality of Richard Bach’s message walloped me again. Each of us is different, unique. The commonality we all share may be no more than being Homo sapiens.

So how can anyone dare to presume to tell someone how to live her or his life? How could the nannies possibly conceive that their narrow little boxes can adequately hold all of humanity’s (and inhumanity’s) possibilities? How can I tell my children in good conscience that I know what’s best for them, that I know how they “ought to” live, when the times, society, and knowledge they’re growing up in are so different from when I grew up?

The nanny-ninnies can’t conceive of my horror at their prescriptions and proscriptions—but that doesn’t stop their efforts to push their ideas on others. I’m not convinced that their pleas of doing good are sincere, anyway; it’s a good cover and nothing more, as any perceptive individual can twig, even under the cover of the state-approved media outlets. Their ultimate answer, when they’re pushed to it, is that they’re protecting us from anarchy—a claim that stops many intelligent individuals, wrongly, in their tracks.

I’ve never shied away from the A-word. I transformed from confused statist to full-blown ancap in a span of days, and was much happier for it. While I’ve often pondered how to best offer my thoughts on the beneficence of anarchy to the freedom movement, it has never been an important enough issue to take up my digital pen and create the essay. Now, it would seem, I don’t need to. I came across a clear, beautiful essay that says it much better than I likely ever could. Butler Shaffer is the author, and it’s worth interrupting this ramble to read it now (or refresh yourself with it, if you’ve already seen the essay at LewRockwell.com. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

For those who didn’t bother to follow the link, here’s a paragraph that sums it up nicely, and is worth plastering on every freedom-lover’s site on the web:

“Anarchy” is an expression of social behavior that reflects the individualized nature of life. Only as living beings are free to pursue their particular interests in the unique circumstances in which they find themselves, can conditions for the well-being of all be attained. Anarchy presumes decentralized and cooperative systems that serve the mutual interests of the individuals comprising them, without the systems ever becoming their own reasons for being. It is this thinking, and the practices that result therefrom, that is alone responsible for whatever peace and order exists in society.

Terrific stuff, eh? We act in harmony with this wonderful system so much of our lives, yet even we anarchists, we intellectually-minded libertarians, often overlook or forget its simplicity, scope, and unalterable truth.

After discovering that article, I was feeling quite good. Imagine my surprise when the day got even better.

For those of you who’ve been regulars to my personal web site, friends of mine at the Liberty Round Table, or conversed with me at The Claire Files or LibertyForum [both no longer extant as such], you know that I had been having difficulty dealing with my self-imposed work and personal demands. One thing I was considering is what form, if any, my future activism should take. As I said in a temporary farewell message, I was as close to burnout as I’d ever been, and quite surprised by that. It seemed that no matter what I did, no matter how good I made Freedom News Daily, how much I wrote about the need for individuals to find their own way to “do freedom” in the way that works best for themselves, or helped promote others’ great work, it was never enough. Why couldn’t the cats, er, not herd themselves—I’m not that deluded, nor would I want that—but simply just go do it: do their own freedom without waiting for or worrying about others? Why do so many of us contrary, individualistic, stubborn libertarian types seem to be waiting for The Magic Bullet Solution to Winning Freedom Now and Forever?

My friend Richard Rieben offers some valuable insights to that, as I commented prior to my walkabout in the essay Individual and Group: A Perpetual Tug of War?. One of the most important points he makes is that any group runs counter to the interests of its individuals—simply by virtue of the nature of individuals and groups. One need look no further than the national Libertarian Party to see how trying to herd individuals to greater freedom has brought more failure than success to the freedom movement. Yet in many pro-freedom circles, especially think tanks, the focus is on “public policy”—essentially groups butting heads over how much freedom individuals ought to have, or need to have. So—back to that surprise at last—I was taken aback by the title of the essay I saw by FEE president Richard Ebeling: There is no Central Plan for Winning Liberty.

Indeed.

Ebeling clearly presents why such a thing could never work, and discusses how each individual can choose a course that is most effective for himself with respect to advancing liberty. Not surprising information or ideas, but terrific to see coming from a respected institute nonetheless. “No Magic Bullet Solution” and “Anarchy Works!” (as I think of these two essays) fell into my mind, which was refreshed from my time away and ready to tackle some challenges anew. But now I don’t need to tackle a couple. Oh, I’m sure I will in some form or other, but it’s nice to know—again—that my thoughts are not way out from others’ in the freedom movement. It may be irrational of me, but those two essays renewed my hopes quite strongly.

My walkabout was an intensely solitary time, despite the near-constant presence of my traveling companion. That person—one of the very best friends I’ve had (and could ever hope to have) in my life—was on a similar mission, and in part because of that we were able to be together without intruding into each other’s space. Our interactions were the epitome of a truly voluntary relationship; we worked out arrangements that suited each of us when necessary or desired by us, and left each other alone otherwise. Simple; easy; and gloriously effective. One of the unexpected joys of the journey were the vistas opened up to me by my friend’s eclectic musical tastes. I smile every time I think of a pirate plundering the grain co-ops “on Regina’s mighty shores”, or reflect on an unusually insightful lyric about relationships wound around a catchy rock melody. I’ve long been encouraging individuals to do freedom. To that I add, with the reverberation of Captain Tractor’s exuberant refrain prancing in my mind: free yourself!

Do it your way.

Do freedom. Free yourself.

Brad Spangler has answered an interesting freedom-oriented meme, and tags me to do likewise. The question is: “What motivated you to start looking into Anarchist/Libertarian thought?” So, here goes my answer.

I happened to see this report last Friday, but got busy and forgot to comment. Joe Nuxhall has died.

But not without some fun. HughesNet’s tech support (“Unplug the modem and wait 30 seconds”™) apparently wasn’t content that our connection was enormously laggy, because they totally borked it. Advanced tech support (“Unplug the modem and wait 2 minutes”™) wasn’t much better, but MAL finally did get the system working again. Huzzah!

I have a lot of stuff to catch up on, but little time for online activities today. However, I do have some helpful gardening advice to share with you.

Find a straightforward recipe and clear instructions.
Tell your children you’ll make a lunch for them that requires mayonnaise.
Gather the ingredients and equipment, and go to it ...

Yep, right here, yesterday, I demonstrated fairly clearly how harsh I can be with myself. I’m the problem, the incapable one, the clueless one ... and even though a good part of me knows that isn’t always an accurate representation, whenever a problem arises The Inner Critic jumps up and starts pumping those messages. Way back when, my kindergarten teacher observed and remarked on this element of my way of being; while I have made a good deal of improvement since then, it is somewhat embarrassing to realize that I still have a long way to go.

Okay, with a few exceptions, I’ve spent much of my day trying to get my Kubuntu install working the way I’d like. The primary challenge remaining (as far as I know right now) is to get PGP working.

And in trying to get it working, an embarrassing, dispiriting thought came to me ... what if I’m a luser who isn’t capable of handling being outside the proprietary corral?