One Shepherd

. . . for there is one God and one Shepherd over all the earth.
1 Nephi 13:41

Partisan the Earth may be,

full of loud diversity;

but below this seething throng

there is only one good song.

One song only that all sing:

Christ the Lord is our true King.

When arrives the quiet day,

when all pride is stripped away,

when the world lays chastened so --

then Jesus Christ we all will know.

Misabo

Misabo, a gloomy boar with a mountain on his head who wears whale overalls hiked up to his snout, has the daunting job of promoting the village as a tourism destination. He waddled into the world in 2013, as a mascot craze swept Japan and hundreds of the country’s graying and shrinking towns turned to colorful, often wacky characters to lure visitors and investment.

Now, as their tax bases dwindle along with their populations, communities like Misato are increasingly questioning whether the whimsy is worth the cost in public spending. In the absence of much evidence that the characters are delivering economic benefits, the answer for many towns in the grip of Japan’s demographic crisis has been to quietly mothball them.

Ben Dooley. NYT. 

First of all, I'm not a boar. I'm an aardvark, for the cats sake.

Second, there is no truth to the rumor I'm being mothballed, downsized, warehoused, superannuated, or in any other way losing my status and position.

And third, I don't know who is spewing out these so-called 'demographics,' but they are absolutely talking through their hats when they say our cities our 'graying' or becoming 'elderful.' 

Bosh, I say. It's just the opposite. On my mascot rounds I find an increasing number of adorable little babies in hovels and condos -- in fact, most elderly couples now have four or five infants crawling around the house, and you have to wonder where they all come from. At least I wonder about it. 

I asked one elderly matron, who was nursing twins, where these little children were coming from. She didn't want to tell me at first, but the power of a mascot is awfully strong -- you can't look into my bouncing button eyes for very long before falling under my spell, so she finally spilled the beans.

"We pay to have them kidnapped from various slums around the world and brought to us in the middle of the night" she told me, grimacing as one of the twins suddenly clamped down on a nipple. "We raise them as our own, until we die, and then they get all our savings -- because our first set of children have abandoned us and want nothing to do with us. They are afraid of senility and death."

I was stunned by this brutal revelation -- but I had to admit the truth of it. I hadn't been in contact with my own elderly parents in over ten years; I didn't want to find out if they had died or had become gibbering bed-ridden zombies. I wasn't even sure where they lived, and told my sister that if she knew where they were she was not to tell me their location or tell them my location. Or what I did for a living.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a mascot. Some great figures in history started out as mascots, like Charles Dickens and Bismarck. The pay is good and you get a good physical workout each day -- it's the equivalent of running a five mile marathon. Wrapped in burlap. 

A lot of it is photos with tourists, sure; but there's more to it than that. I visit hospitals and prisons, shaking hands and bobbling my eyes around to give the unfortunate hope and giggles. I also deliver ice to hockey arenas on weekends.

And there's national policy involved, as well. Most people don't know this, but the Premier bases many of his decisions on the input of the dozens of mascots that roam the countryside talking to high and low. The people open up to us in a way that they never do to glad-handing office seekers or pettifogging pen pushers. We take the pulse of the public, so to speak, and pass the results on to the highest circles. The police also use us extensively to monitor criminal activity, especially in rural communities. I personally have helped put away at least a dozen high binders with my testimony in the past twelve years. I have a photographic memory, because a mascot never forgets.

So you can see that when some snub-nosed reporter writes that we're only good for 'whimsy' and don't contribute anything of worth to the community or the national infrastructure, he or she is dead wrong. A good mascot not only pulls his or her own weight, but helps communities to flourish. And as soon as all those kidnapped babies begin to grow up and read newspapers, those scandal-mongering journalists will be hoisted with their pants on their own petard! 

But with righteousness shall he judge the poor

But with righteousness shall he judge the poor, and reprove with equity for the meek of the earth: and he shall smite the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked.
Isaiah 11:4

Judge not the poor or view the meek

as burdens with a prospect bleak.

In humbleness a child was born

without a home and doomed to scorn,

who rose redeeming in the air

and soon will smite the earth with care

so that the greedy and purse proud

are slain, but others stay unbowed.

May I, O Lord, be of that throng

who shelter 'neath thy wing span strong! 

Cas Mudde is a no good stinker. (Prose Poem)

But experts in the brain injury field said the delayed response and confusion were primarily caused by a problem both the military and civilian world have struggled with for more than a decade: There is no reliable way to determine who has a brain injury and who does not.

Dave Philipps & Thomas Gibbons-Neff.  NYT.

Does anybody really know anything?

I mean, they can't tell if your brain is damaged or not

until you keel over in a coma.

There could be nematodes in my brain right now, and I

wouldn't have a clue right up to the moment they erupted from my ear drums like steel wool.

That's why I carry shiny pebbles with me.

Always.

Not just any ordinary shiny pebbles, but the kind

you pick up off the beach. Which are really sea glass.

Pieces of broken glass bottles that have rolled around

the ocean floor for centuries until they become smooth

shiny pebbles, which are then cast up on the seashore.

Like ambergris.

These shiny pebbles have had long years to absorb the

mysteries of the ocean -- its healing powers and 

deep wisdom.

So some of that inevitably must rub off on me if I carry 

around enough of them.

It stands to reason.

But I don't stop there. Not by any means.

I mail bits of sea glass to politicians, philosophers, and celebrities, asking them to rub the sea glass in the palm of their hands for a few seconds and then mail them back to me. 

I figure it can't hurt, 

and maybe it'll do me some good.

But one time I sent a particularly translucent piece of green sea glass to Cas Mudde, a big shot professor in Holland.

And he never sent it back.

I waited and I waited and I waited.

One whole year I waited. Then I wrote him asking for my

shinny pebble back. 

There was no reply.

So I flew to Holland, at my own expense, to look him up

and ask for my sea glass back.

I found him eating raw herring on a shale beach, with a storm coming in.  

The turbulent waves made the idea of civilization laughable.

He spoke excellent English.

He remembered my bit of sea glass.

He refused to give it back to me.

It was bringing him much luck in his academic pursuits.

 He had also never felt healthier in his life.

And he was a heavy smoker and beer drinker.

Since the age of sixteen.

So no -- I couldn't have it back.

Possession is nine tenths of the law, and all that.

Goaded by the lusty smell of bruised kelp, 

I yelled "You're nothin' but a big fat stinker!"

And I lunged at him.

For a heavy smoker, he ran pretty fast.

I chased him down the beach for ten minutes.

Then he stumbled and fell, rolling over and over

until a large breaker snatched him up and pulled

him out to sea.

I read later that a Japanese trawler had picked him up but refused to take him back to Holland. He had to go all the way to Yokohama with them. 

Serves him right.

That plane ticket to Holland was expensive. 

When I got home all my succulents were dead.

They had been overwatered by my sister during my absence.

Plus she had thrown away my collection of sea glass -- the stuff I wasn't carrying with me in Holland, which was only about two pounds worth.

"It attracts corvids" she told me. "You don't want a crow poking your eye out some morning, do you?"

She refused to sell her car to reimburse me.

Does anybody really care about anything?

Be comforted.

And it came to pass that the Lord did visit them with his Spirit, and said unto them: Be comforted. And they were comforted.
Alma 17:10

When I'm riled or full of stress

I know the Lord will kindly bless

me with His spirit, if I ask --

and yet it seems a heavy task

to bow my head before the Lord

and seek for some assured accord.

O foolish man, why do you balk

and at His side refuse to walk?

Just drop your pride, let meekness bloom,

and for the Lord make lots of room!

The Gamelan.

Mount Hemenhaw. Poughkepsie Range. The Krindle Republic.

As brick-and-mortar stores scramble to justify their continued existence, they’re trying to be all things to all customers, to blend instant gratification and infinite selection. And it falls upon the workers on the front lines to make it all happen.

Andy Newman. NYT.

It was early spring, a feeling of untrammeled longing in the air, and the swifts wheeled overhead in their immemorial mating ritual -- swooping down and circling the tall buildings until they smashed into one another and fell to the sidewalk, where hungry panhandlers made quick work of them. It's a grisly and disturbing annual spectacle, which I avoided that day by hurrying into the nearest store. 

A woman in a very stylish red dress immediately pounced on me from behind a counter, nearly groveling as she welcomed me to the store and asked how she could help me.

"I dunno" I mumbled, slightly embarrassed. "What sort of stuff do you sell in here?"

"Oh sir!" her eyes lit up like flambeaux on a winter night. "We can get you anything you want -- anything at all."

I decided to be facetious. 

"Can you get me a bottle of powdered helium?" I asked lightly. "Organic, of course."

"Let me check -- I'll be right back!" she said to me as she straddled a moped and raced off into the dim bowels of the store.

While she was gone a trio of children sidled up to me to sing the Whiffenpoof Song a cappella. They then offered to reblock my necktie. I politely declined. Watered silk is not a material you let strangers handle, no matter how well-intentioned and innocent they might be.

The woman in the elegant red dress reappeared on her moped. She dismissed the children with the wave of a palm frond. She looked very downcast. She also looked increasingly desirable in that silky red dress.

"I'm so sorry, sir" she said quietly. "But powdered helium is a product that will have many industrial uses but hasn't been invented yet. I consulted with our overseas agent at the Encyclopedia Britannica for confirmation -- here's his report, if you'd like to look it over."

"Uh, no, thank you" I replied. "That won't be necessary." I craned my neck to look out the window, hoping the panhandlers were done with their gory feasting. But now they were chasing plastic bags blowing around the streets, laughing maniacally, so I decided to stay put. 

"I can always use another pair of socks" I told the woman in red, in order to comfort her. She really did look ravaged. I thought she might start crying. She had no name tag, but wore a large, gaudy, plastic sunflower on her blouse. It started to make me nervous. "Does that thing squirt water?" I asked her.

"Do you want it to, sir?" she asked earnestly.

"No, not really" I said. 

"Then it doesn't" she said quickly. "What kind of socks are you looking for?"

Suddenly a sharp bitterness welled up in me. I wore socks every day, everywhere -- even to bed. They symbolized conformity and oppression. Right then and there I decided to discard my old way of life, like a thoroughly read newspaper, and start all over again.

"On second thought" I told the lady in the red dress, "forget the socks -- I need flip flops and a backpack. And will you go with me to explore the Gomantong Caves in Kalimantan?"

There was a heavy silence. I could hear apps clicking on and off from her smartphone.

"That's in Borneo, right?" she finally asked.

"Yes" I said simply.

"Will we drink wine under the stalactites?" she asked moodily.

"Anything you want, my dear" I cooed. I could tell her resistance was weakening. This was good, because I had just decided that I couldn't live without her in my life, and would go chase plastic bags myself if she turned down my wild offer.

Then she was in my arms.

Then she was in my wallet.

"Doesn't look like you have a lot of money" she said as she rifled through my credit cards and cash. 

"Trust fund" was my only response.

We flew to Samarinda the next day. I never asked her name. She never asked for mine. We were two untamed lovers, reveling amid an overripe tropical splendor. When she was eaten by a clouded leopard I went back to my old life at the gypsum board factory in Waukegan, and never played the gamelan again.