For example some cultures in reaction polish the lie and call it truth; while other cultures in reaction polish the fantasy and call it truth. But the truth underlying the reaction is that in being (or having become) conceptual creatures we all literally need to believe truth can be known.

Although the truth is it cannot per se be known, as if observed, since it is in effect a living dynamic, or process, which includes in human or conceptual creatures the literal (biological) need for belief.

So we are paradoxical creatures by nature or by mother Nature in that regard NEEDING biologically for our development to believe in the possibilities preculuded by nature. How well that dynamic itself is considered by those who write history probably reflects both on how wise as well as on how accurate is the story or history they tell.

Probably the most fascinating aspect of nature herself is that she is paradoxical too in having apparently permitted the possibility for one of her creatures to literally pause in the process of unconscious thought - in the limbo of the conceptual (i.e. at first the imaginary) - and thus squeezing the thought process up into the newer area of consciousness or awareness of it. That results in the double or paradoxical reality in human beings of not only being aware like the other creatures but in being aware of being aware.

That literal pause and ensuing paradoxical reality is the platform so to speak (language) for the telling of history. Which includes the varying degrees of wisdom and accuracy the different authors include depending on their own lights, as it were.

This has been a [brief] description of the history of history; as opposed to [boxerShorts.] ... Thus began humor.

Soon we had to get fully dressed and go to work. UGH.
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Actually, New York City - I kid you not. I once left my pocketbook on the subway and a few days later someone mailed it to me with a note "I found your pocketbook. There was no phone number, so I mail it to you." Fortunately, I had no credit cards and only about $3 in money in the bag. The money was gone, but I doubt that the person who mailed me the bag was the one who stole it.

There - on a hill which to the southwest slopes down into a now-cleared dale and which is on three sides circled by Madden Mill Creek which eventually finds its way to the Gulf of Mexico some two-hundred-fifty miles to the south by way of Black Lake Bayou, Black Lake, Saline Bayou, the Red River and the Achafalaya River - lie in repose, surrounded by a grove of at least three varieties of hickory trees and a guard of their distant cousins, the red oaks - lie ancestors, forbear and those who have pilgrimmed before, facing eastward toward Jerusalem, having apprehended the Faith in their time and awaiting with anticipation the Second Advent.

There, too, do we living gather, counting it as a blessing to have known, to have known of and to have been known by this host who bequeathed to us life itself as well as the Faith and the Hope which srpings from that Faith. Each year, as we return, some of the afore-living who had gathered with us at the last working have themselves been gathered in. It is therefore not with sadness but with anticipation that we look into the faces of the oldest each year and take note which ones will likely pass through the separating veil which at this time, when the first of fall is in the air, seems ever so thin. Sometimes, we are supprised. My second cousin, once removed, a mere twenty-two, died of an stroke just this past summer, a stroke the origins of which remain unknown. As Mama and I pause to consider his yourth gone, Mama shifts to the story of "Little Max" to whose grave she points with her cane. It seems that he, a twin, at the age of four in 1922, went to the post office at Fryeburg, where my great aunt was post mistress and store clerk, and took an innocent swig of his delight - Coca Cola - from a bottle so labeled at the counter; except that it was creosote which my great uncle had placed there for dipping cattle and dogs. Max died, having never known his father who had died in the Great Flu of 1918. (Thats how different stories get threaded together into a history.)

Seeking brevity, I'll simply walk Mama and myself back to the old pavilion where dinner (We're in the South now!), to which Mama and I have contributed, pineapple-upsidedown cake, slaw with homemade dressing and deviled eggs. As the years go by, we note that peas, collards and fried chicken have been replaced by casseroles. (Post-modernity encroaches all along the cultural battleline!) On our way back, we pass near the slave graves, where my great-great grandfather, Reed Madden had buried the slaves under his stewardship. All of his offspring are buried here as well, including his daughters - Alabama, Tennesse, Georgia, Virginia and Caroline (two for one). Alabama was Mama's grandmother. Some called her Aunt Bam and others called her Aunt Al. The slaves had the common family name of Shepherd. Ol' Reed gave them all land and some common land on which they built a little settlement called Shepherdtown. I am currently struggling to write a stroy entitled "My Master's Shepherd" which is anchored in the fact that one of my cousins - one of the Patriarch's great-great grand's was shot by two teenages -Bonnie and Clyde style - and was paralyzed from the waist down. (Bonnie and Cyde were themselves shot a mere two miles from the Mzdden Cemetery near Sails, Louisiana, in which my mother was born. (Ain't history connected.) One of the Shepheds, a slave descendant, who had maintained relations with the family, came to live with and care for my cousin, on of the master's descendants, hence the title.

Our history, has been from time to time interrupted by floods, the flu or somebody's war; but we have gone on and changed but little. Now, change is taking down our ranks. Culture, whatever it is, is no longer made locally. It is made by Madison Avenue and Hollywood. The old have been estranged from the young; and the coming of alien people out of the southwest is scattering and diluting us. In my formative years, the graveyard working was awash with kids - infants, adolescents, teenagers and young adults. This year, I was among the very youngest; and I am fifty-eight. Perhaps with this entry, a tiny piece of "our" history will be archived in "Chronicles" and therein chronicled.

"History is more or less bunk. It's tradition. We don't want tradition."

Henry Ford, 1916, Chicago Tribune

I was born in Biloxi, Mississippi and due to the fear of a saddlebloc medical technique my dear mother brought me into this world before the delivery room was even a consideration.

It was during a hurricane.

One of my favorite studies was/is about problem solving. A certain ordinary man who was into self growth (personal evolution), absolutely loved problems. He said it gave him the glorious opportunity to celebrate the brain/mind and all its wonder - goal seeking and problem solving.

I found the owner of a wallet, once, and turned it in. That was at a university and it was a long time ago. The fellow's tuition money was in it, hundreds of dollars of US $$$.

But of course return a wallet to its rightful owner, it belongs to them and the do unto others "idea" is most certainly a good enough one - past, present and future - forever and ever ... whatever that means.

"Professional Human Being." A great American genius coined this phraseology. Simply, it means someone who keeps their word.

Now this could be dangerous: It appears certain humans have chosen to take their vision/s of how the world should be, and they're clearly keeping their word to those ("elitists") who believe gods on Earth exist and they're them ... or, at the very least it's the destiny of certain families to own the Earth and all its "commodities" (livestock is a commodity regardless of what species of mammals/animals).

We have, yet another problem to solve.

And so our poor little gray matter - named brain - shivers and quivers into blubbering piles of protoplasm because it can't seem to think beyond 7 to 10 percent.

We have, yet another problem to solve.

Are we evolving or devolving? We don't know, yet. It does appear that history isn't much of a guide dog for the blind who choose not to see.

Does the brain connect to the brain and to the brains and how do we get inside those brains that are distorted and corrupted, delusional illusions of grandeur when simplicity is the key ...

Is this a historical or rhetorical question ...

electromagnetic waves of ideas/thoughts?