Philosophy - Different Kinds of Guesses

There are my own views after studying the basics of epistemology (the study of Knowledge.)

In epistemology, guesses can be labelled and classified.

1. A Priori guesses.

It seems slightly counterintuitive that there can be A Priori guesses because the definition of A Priori is knowledge that we are certain of and don't have to add additional thought to. However, the example of picking between two cards can illustrate how guessing can also be a form of knowing. There are two cards face down. One is the Ace of Spades and the other the Ace of Diamonds. We know this because we are told this. We are then asked to pick one and guess which one we will pick. We know the cards, we know the situation. We don't need to blindly guess what we'll see and we don't need to search for further information to make an educated guess. We know it will be either the Spade or the Diamond. It's a simple matter of flipping the card. The competence factor is 100%. We know what's going on absolutely. This is the most basic criteria for a guess. It's a simple matter of either/or.

2. Limited A Posteriori guesses. We need more information to make our choices but there is a limited, small, absolute amount of data we can learn. Blackjack is an example. Two cards aren't in play for our guess; all 52 in the deck are. If we play the game, we need to know how many cards are in a standard deck, the suits and the numbers before we can play competently (and, of course, the rules of the game.) We can make our guesses even more competently if there are several different players at the table. Whatever their up cards are, we can eliminate from our betting consideration. With the two card example, we have complete knowledge. With blackjack, we need to know a little more to be successful but JUST a little bit more.

3. Broader A Posteriori guesses. These fall more into the category of what we consider a guess and stretches the boundaries of what educated guesses are. Criminal profilers are a good example. A serial killer is loose. The killer has killed ten white female prostitutes by strangulation, has posed the bodies and left them unburied in the woods. No fingerprints or other forensic evidence has been found at any of the murder scenes. Firstly, the demand to catch the killer makes educated guesswork necessary. There's a killer loose. We can't wait until the killer makes a mistake because someone else might get killed. The idea that inferences should not even be attempted without data/evidence is irrelevant in this instance. If we don't have forensic evidence to identify the killer, profilers need to go on their previous knowledge of serial killers to get a basic idea and make their best guesses on how to proceed. The investigation then moves on from those guesses. That serial killers usually kill close to home makes searching for certain criminals, notably local registered sex offenders, where police work usually begins.

4. Shot in the dark guesses. A guess made with almost no data. We're told a human being has died and we're asked to guess what they died of. We don't know the age, sex or any other data about this dead individual. We can only go on our overall knowledge of conditions that lead to death. The leading cause of death is heart disease which leads to heart attacks and strokes. This is the best guess we could make. We don't have any real data. The previous example of a serial killer holds that profilers, based on their knowledge of serial killer behavior, can make firm guesses based on the simple data that the victims are strangled white female prostitutes. As serial killers nearly always kill in their own racial grouping and strangled prostitutes are pretty much always the work of men, an educated guess can be that the killer is a white man. With our shot in the dark guess, we don't even have that much. If we're knowledgeable and sensible, our best guess is to say our dead person has died of a heart attack. Cancer also ranks high on the list of what people die of so that would also be a solid guess.

5. Pure guesses. This is the absolute form of guess. You're told someone walks into a Panera in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. You're not told whether they're male or female or given any other data. You live in Utah and have never been to Kentucky or that part of the country. You're asked what the person's name is. "Uh, Bob Smith" is as good an answer as any. This pure guess is so completely improbable to get correct that it's impossible. You've never been to Kentucky and you don't know anything about people considered Southern. Other than a human being walked into a Panera, you have no information. You literally have to make something up that has no real chance of being correct.

I may add to this list as more examples of guesswork come to mind. Thank you for reading.

A line from my book: "Intake."

I like this line so I'm going to post it. A man and a woman are having sex in a hotel.

The hotel clock read 1:14 PM as the man and woman on the bed had sex. The man, 30 years old, large, lean, muscular and shaved bald, gritted his teeth hard as the naked young woman on top of him, thin to almost bony, long, dark brown hair riddled with sweat, buried her fingers, fronted by her long, carefully filed red coated fingernails, into his chest, the red paint mixing with the man’s blood and seeming to crawl up her left hand and arm sheathed in a sleeve tattoo of twisted, thorny green vines, bits of tattooed blood oozing from thorn tips like artistic violence.

Batman: A Dark Knight in the Life - A short story.

(I obviously lay no claim to Batman or the characters in his world and I do not own their rights in any way. I also lay no claim to any other DC characters I mention in the story and have no intention whatsoever of profiting in any way from what I've written. I'm just a dumb cluck that loves superhero stuff and wanted to write a Batman short story.)


Batman: A Dark Knight in the Life


Just past midnight, three stories up, nestled in a recess near a shattered window of the former Gotham City East End Lumber and Steel Co., the bat roosted, rabid, not by condition but by ferociously disciplined choice; rabid for blood, the blood of criminals, the diseased blood that perpetually infested the city, his city, the diseased blood of Gotham only he and a small few others could consume without shriveling into nothingness. He roosted in the abandoned warehouse he knew well in Gotham's filthy, crime infested East End, invisible in the pitch black building in the near pitch black area he had, in the recent past, tried to save, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. He stayed alert, repeatedly scanning the area with his night vision tech and waited. Three years earlier, he had, as Bruce Wayne, founded the business he greatly hoped would help end poverty in the East End, a business that began with such promise, attracting new workers and their families to the area and providing an instant boost to Gotham's economy in that sector. But crime had won out, despite Bruce Wayne's best efforts. The local street gangs grew instead of faltered, the violence increased instead of abated, and the recently arrived families left the area in droves. All that remained were a lot of young, single, predominately male workers who were easily eaten up by the gangs, joining in bunches, swelling their ranks to new levels and driving away all of Bruce Wayne’s partners until he remained, alone, forced to scrap the idea he had so greatly hoped would succeed, the idea he hoped would make Batman less necessary.

He had been too ambitious; too much too soon. That was his positive view of the situation, even though, in truth, it had come way too late. That was Bruce Wayne's view. But Bruce Wayne had failed and now it was Batman's responsibility to pick up the pieces. Not only had he inadvertently swelled the ranks of the local gangs, he had provided them with a meeting place, this cleared out, partially demolished warehouse complex. Most street lamps busted and lightless, the poorly lit area had seen covert business transactions from local gangs rise dramatically in the last few months. Busy with the Justice League, Batman had left the matter largely to Gordon but was recently informed by the Commissioner that a new gang element, a group boldly calling themselves the Young Dictators, had arrived in Gotham and were looking to make a big mark, a big bang, in their new environment. Through Gotham PD infiltration, they had learned that the newcomers were being recruited by Roman Sionis's False Face Society and that an arms deal with some of the strongest muscle not associated with Black Mask or the Falcone Crime Family, the Gotham City Killers, was in the works. Expecting fireworks beyond the average meetup, Gordon and the Dark Knight agreed it was time for the Batman to get involved and that's why we was there, just past midnight, roosted three stories up in one of the old warehouses, warehouses he had built with such hope, waiting, the predator of predators, the dictator of dictators, the killer of killers, for his quarry to arrive.

Twenty minutes later, pulling up in a large, no doubt bullet proof black Hummer, the Gotham City Killer's contingent arrived, regurgitating five men, three conspicuously armed with AK-47 assault rifles, two with no visible weapons but with a few certainly tucked away. The Killers had been around for a few years and Batman, knowing them well, recognized their leader, a man named Joe Argento, a tough Italian-American not above getting into fistfights or even the occasional gunfight. He had been arrested several times but no major charges had stuck. The Killers also knew the Batman well, well enough that it was odd they would meet in Gotham at night, anywhere in Gotham at night. Some of the gangs were so punchy about Batman they planned and carried out business in the daytime, much preferring to face Gordon and an army of cops rather face even the possibility of coming up against the Dark Knight. Batman loved that, loved the fear he instilled in the gangs. It was better for Gotham PD that any gang hits, drug or weapons transactions, or any other organized crime business was carried out in the daytime because Gordon and his men were more than up to the challenge and most of the gangs with less influence and power had taken major hits with high arrest rates, mostly foot soldiers but some in higher ranking positions, as well. That left Batman to his JLA duties in matters of national and worldwide importance. These lower level gangs didn't have the umbrella of protection of Falcone or Sionis and it showed. However, they weren't groups without that strange code of honor certain gangs, seemingly as a matter of pride, preferred to operate under. It had become so cliché that the local gangs had mindlessly taken it on as a duty, like something they’d seen on TV. It’s what gangs did so they did it, too. At various times, Batman had stepped in to collect information from the Killers as only he could, information that Gordon and the cops couldn’t get. They gave Batman information; he didn't crush them into the pavement. That the only deal the Dark Knight had ever agreed to.

Joe Argento was the Killer’s go to man when it came to weapons transactions and Batman was sure that was the business, at least the agreed upon business, that he was to see that night. Joe was an asset to the Killers but also somewhat expendable because he was mostly a foot solider uninvolved in the gang’s decision making circle. A night deal…this was no doubt insisted upon by the Young Dictators, the fresh blood he longed to taste, to sink his sharp teeth into. That told him they were an arrogant bunch; no other gang would risk a major arms deal at night unless absolutely necessary or only agreed upon because one side demanded it. No, the Dictators pushed it and the Killers, probably selling to the newcomers, in all likelihood needed the money.

Two of the three men armed with the AK-47s took up positions on either side of the Hummer with the third gunman in front. Joe Argento and the fifth man, a probable foot soldier Batman didn’t recognize, stood about ten steps ahead of the third gunman and waited. Ten minutes later, a beat up Mustang entered the compound from the opposite side; five men, two with ancient looking assault rifles that resembled old WWII, obsolete, German produced StG 45s, and two with less than trustworthy AMT AutoMag handguns climbed out. No wonder they wanted to buy weapons. The two men with the 45s took up positions on either side of the Mustang while the two men with the handguns gravitated to the back near the trunk. Five to a side was no doubt agreed upon by the two gangs. Obviously, the Killers, no doubt with some intel on the Dictators, had no problems with the arrangement. If a gunfight ensued, the Dictators would be routed. Batman also deduced that the warehouse was partially agreed upon because of the space and opposite entrances. It was an excellent place to make a deal and get out. He could have punched himself in the face. The whole meeting place was his fault. All of it.

The fifth Dictator was an unkempt punk oozing arrogance and, probably, a major stench, wearing a wide, toothy grin and with both hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket. It was the kind of smile Batman had seen hundreds of times. It revolted him the first time he'd seen it and every time since. The Joker had that look right before Joker venom or some other death dealing threat came his way. Barbara Gordon and Jason Todd had no doubt seen that look, too…

The Young Dictators were, literally, young, none of the five looking older than 25 years old; each of the Killers each had at least a decade on them. Batman used the ear microphone in his cowl to listen in as Joe Argento and the unkempt leader of the Dictators, a man Batman would come to know as Brian Brannon, joined each other almost exactly in the middle between the two cars, the gun men on both sides confidently eyeing each other. Joe Argento spoke first. It made sense that the more experienced gang in town would speak first.

"Okay, this is how it's going down," he said. Brian Brannon had closed his mouth, though it still wore the kind of grin you'd love to smack off someone's face. He had bent slightly forward with his head a few inches lower than Argento's, implying he was receptive to the commentary.

"Two of your boys are going to come take the weapons out of our car," he said, “in multiple trips if necessary, and move them to yours. Your other boys can keep their guns ready if they choose. My four men will be ready to use their guns at a moment's notice without command. You’re outgunned if you start anything. Now let’s see the money.”

The details made perfect sense. The Killers, the more experienced group, were the prime moves and had the advantages. The leader of the Dictators whistled to one of his men, who produced a large envelope which he tossed to the unkempt thug. Joe Argento recoiled at the lack of professionalism.

"You know, it can go much quicker if you let me use all four of my guys,” Brian Brannon said as he handed Joe Argento the envelope. Argento handed it to the soldier Batman hadn’t seen before and told him to count it. After doing so and informing Joe Argento it was all there, he took it casually back to the Hummer and put it in the front seat. He pulled out a Walther P99 semi-automatic handgun, held it against his chest and took up a position in front of the car next to the third gunman.

"Two of your men. That was the deal. We have tenure here and we’re pulling rank. Now hurry up. We do these deals as fast as possible, doubly so at night.”

Brian Brannon smiled his toothiest smile yet. "You mean 'him'?" the Young Dictator asked with a laugh. "Yeah, we've heard plenty. We ain't afraid of him or no one else. Even if he's as tough as they say, what are the odds he'd catch onto this deal? It's a big city. Besides, we hear he’s out of town. We have feelers, too.”

Joe Argento flinched like remembering a hard shot to his jaw, one that Batman had indeed delivered a few years ago when Argento had gotten overly comfortable during an impromptu questioning from the Dark Knight.

“He’s never out of town,” Joe Argento said hauntingly. That was what Batman had done to the established criminal element. Creeping movements, even occasional business paralysis. Argento started looking left and right at the empty warehouses. "He may be here right now, waiting to pounce on us. He comes out of nowhere, no matter where you are. He's like poisoned wind. Blows in and makes you regret you're breathing." Joe Argento kept looking around, not like he saw a ghost but like he knew one, a living wraith, a solid specter over his shoulder.

"You're fucking punchy," the Young Dictator said with a laugh. "We got ten guys here and all armed. He shoots down two or three of us and the rest take him out."

"He doesn't use guns," Joe Argento said.

he Young Dictator laughed. "And you're afraid of this guy?! A guy with no gun? It’s lucky we’re here. Gotham needs some new blood." Joe Argento looked at the man with a look of sympathy. If they lasted in Gotham, they'd learn. They all learned, even Falcone and Sionis. He'd learn, too.

Brian Brannon turned and waved his right hand towards the men by the trunk, who nodded, opened the trunk up and began to walk towards the Hummer, their AutoMag handguns visible in their hands.

“Guns away,” Joe Argento told Brian Brannon sternly. “Even if they’re crap.”

The leader of the Dictators seemed to be playing Joe Argento for all he could get, a little game of push/pull between newly meeting gang representatives. Nodding pleasantly, he motioned again to the two men who put their guns in their weather beaten jacket pockets. The Dictators seemed like homeless men at a shelter in desperate need of everything. It took the two men several trips, gingerly carrying two guns at a time. It was an impressive array of rifles and handguns, not as up to date as the Killers’ weapons but a drastic upgrade from the Dictator’s own mess. No machine guns were included.

Upon the first passing, the Dictator’s leader asked, “Can I inspect them?”

“No,” Joe Argento said dourly.

Yes, he was in a big hurry. Batman watched and listened to all this with a mixture of pride and disinterest. Perhaps the recent JLA business had spoiled him to the kind of low level thuggery he was witnessing. No. He was as hungry as ever. Even when physically burned out, his mission burned deeper, that burning in his gut that would never die, that had him out every night, even if not in Gotham. He’d forgotten about what a bed was at night, what a sleep cycle was. In the end, national problems, worldwide problems, universal problems…none compared to his city, none were as important as his city. No, his disinterest came from the routine flavor of the deal. No fireworks, possibly none coming, either. He was going to wait for the guns to be loaded, for the deal to be completely transacted, before striking. He was armed with his usual array of weaponry for situations like this: Multiple batarangs, two loaded with tear gas, one resonating an ear shattering sonic pulse when activated, two programmable batarangs capable of locking onto whatever heat signatures Batman chose, two ninja throwing star batarangs and two hard plastic ones for concussive actions. At the Hall of Justice, he had recently been working on a revolutionary cutting fluid and electrical delivery system that could shrink and expand metal instantly. Among other uses, such technology would greatly affect his weaponry, making it possible to store more material on his utility belt. That was for the near future, though. Tonight, he had his usual array including his grappling gun and Batline. He did opt for one deviance from the usual: Due to the decent sized distance between warehouses, he opted to use a heavy weighted drone he had stored in the nearby Batmobile. The programmable drone could link up with the Bathook from his grappling gun, allowing him to use the Batline to swing down in areas where nothing to connect the Bathook to like a rooftop or fire escape was available. The drone also allowed for much greater freedom of movement with his aerial attacks and, utilizing 3-D visual technology, could instantly adapt and camouflage itself in any environment. Using the coordinating touchpad on his left gauntlet, he activated and steered the black drone, perfectly camouflaged in the night, over the area, close enough for his own use but out of sight of the two gang contingents.

As he readied himself, one of the Dictators loading the weapons dropped a handgun on his last trip. Though no damage was done, it got under the skin of Joe Argento.

"Hurry it up!" the leader of the Killers shouted at him. Irritated, the leader of the Young Dictators moved within a foot of Argento's face.

"You don't say shit to my men,” Brian Brannon snarled. “I talk to my men. Understand?"

Unwilling to get into it with this young punk and still edgy and nervous about unseen potentialities, Joe Argento smirked impatiently. However, his comment had had its desired result and the two men with the last load of weapons shuffled towards their Mustang with more alacrity than before. Soon, they were finished and both groups stood at strength again by their respective vehicles.

"We'll be paying attention to you," Joe Argento firmly told Brian Brannon. We're always open to deal if it fits our purpose. If you fuck with us, you’ll wish you never left Central City and you don’t have the muscle to stop us. Understand?”

Brian Brannon smiled, shrugged his shoulders and walked back towards the Dictator’s car, sitting calmly on the edge of the hood, hands in his pockets. Taking that as a ‘yes,’ Joe Argento turned and walked back towards the Killer’s Hummer. His men made motions that they were ready to get in the car and leave.

"One more thing, Joe!” Brian Brannon shouted at Joe Argento, who turned towards him with irritation. more. "I forgot to tell you something!”

The instant his last word was uttered, machine gunfire from the first floors of both warehouses sprayed like horizontal rain in the direction of Joe Argento and his men, joined immediately by gunfire from all four armed members by the Dictator's car. Caught unaware, Joe and his men were finished in seconds. Batman tensed, right hand on a tear gas batarang, but it was over before he could intervene. Once it was clear all the Killers were dead, two men, members of the Young Dictators, came out from each warehouse's first floor on either side. Batman had been there for two hours. The Dictators had planned this well, both ambushers planted silently, undetectably, before he got there. He felt a little sorry for Joe Argento. Though part of the trash polluting his city, Joe had been one of the easier thugs to work with and was nearly always forthcoming with any information he needed, though once a right hand had been needed to set him straight.

Brian Brannon had watched it all smiling, his rear end never leaving the hood of the car, his hands never leaving his jacket pockets. That look of joy at men being killed in bunches…Batman had seen that look so many times. Brian Brannon wore it, not with pride, but with excitement. Batman now believed the rumors of the False Face Society’s recruitment of the Dictators. Brian Brannon’s face told the story. These guys weren’t interested in business. They were interested in killing. That attitude paid big dividends for Roman Sionis. He ruled by terror and here, clearly, were more monsters for his flock.

Brian Brannon coolly detached from the Mustang and walked casually towards the dead men. One of the thugs by the trunk, his just fired AutoMag in his right hand, pulled a large burlap sack from the back seat with his left hand and joined Brian Brannon by the bullet riddled corpse of Joe Argento while one of the warehouse gunmen relieved the Hummer of the envelope stuffed with cash and took it back to the Mustang where he put it in the passenger seat. He then joined the other warehouse gunman in between both vehicles. The mood was light now, the two gunmen joking and congratulating each other on how easy and efficient the attack had been. Batman sat tight, waiting for what Brian Brannon would do next, a final drama to play out. Squatting down next to Joe Argento’s body, Brian Brannon reached out his hand. Receiving a large butcher knife from his lackey, he stared into Joe Argento’s dead eyes, eerily chatting with him like he was still alive.

"What I forgot to tell you, Joe, was we don't bend over for nobody. Yeah, we're new in town but we got connections. Unlike you, we're hungry. We're out to make a name. Ain’t nobody going to get in our way. Nobody. See, we got a special request from a special person to fuck you up and bring back proof, Joe, so that's what we're going to do. Our special person is going to be one happy mother fucker when I show him what he wants."

With that, using the butcher knife, Brian Brannon quickly and savagely sawed off the right hand of Joe Argento, easily identifiable by a large, crooked scar on the palm, and put it casually in the bag. That was all the Dark Knight needed to see. Quickly readying the two programmable batarangs, he attached both on either side of his utility belt then moved the drone silently to the position he wanted it, high up almost exactly between the two vehicles, the drone partly shading black for the night and soft yellow from where the few street lamps hit it. Ready for his assault, he withdrew his sonic batarang and hurled it at Brian Brannon and his man holding the burlap sack, a sharp corner sticking firm in the impacted dirt. Upon contact, an earsplitting audio wave sounded that froze both men as well as the two warehouse gunmen, holding their ears in agonized paralysis. A thrown tear gas batarang slammed into the hood of the Mustang and exploded, spraying the vehicle and the three gunmen surrounding it with the noxious powder, sending them to their knees in coughing fits. Shooting his grappling gun, the Bathook connected with the drone. Batman then connected the grappling gun to the front of his utility belt, leaving both arms free and, with one massive movement, swooped down onto the two warehouse gunmen, felling the first with a left boot to the face and the second with a right boot to the face. Working the touchpad while in midair with his free hands, Batman maneuvered it sharply over the Dictator’s car, creating a whiplash effect that propelled him in that direction. Swinging towards the Mustang, he disconnected himself from the grappling gun and Batline while lifting his legs, landing back first on the car’s top and sliding smoothly, feet first, from the top to the back while ejecting the programmable batarangs from his utility belt, sending them hurtling into the foreheads of the two side gunmen still staggered by the tear gas, knocking both men down and out. Sliding down the trunk, he planted his feet on the end of the car and snapped his body forward head over heels into a perfect somersault, the weighted bottom of his cape slamming into the face of the final gunman, also knocking him out flat. The Dark Knight completed the somersault perfectly and landed on his feet. The whole thing had taken less than 30 seconds. Brian Brannon, still shocked by the pain of the sonic batarang and holding his ears, managed to rise and look towards the action, greeted by the awesome sight of Batman stomping over the top and hood of the Mustang towards him in small plumes of tear gas, his cape spread and flowing like a nightmarish vampire. The two warehouse gunmen Batman had kicked had risen shakily, still influenced by the sonic batarang. Batman, impervious to the pulse because of his cowl’s ability to mute sound, knocked one silly with an uppercut then hurled him into the second gunman, putting them both down. Batman then put the lackey that had held the burlap sack down with a hard batarang to the forehead, a strong metal base in the batarang instantly recoiling it back into the magnetized hand of the Dark Knight, who reattached it to his utility belt. Six down and only Brian Brannon tenuously on his feet. Batman picked up the sonic batarang and disarmed it, putting it also back onto his utility belt. Free of the paralyzing sound, Brian Brannon immediately went for and grabbed his unconscious lackey’s fallen AutoMag from where the man had dropped it and tried aiming it at his adversary, who smacked it out of the gang leader’s hands with ease. Grabbing him by the jacket collar, Batman yanked him into the air and carried him to the Gotham City Killer’s Hummer, Brian Brannon’s feet never touching the ground the whole way. Slamming the now freshly educated gang leader’s back into the car’s grill sent him to the ground on his ass. Batman, towering over him, spoke, his voice a little more threatening and aggressive than usual as this was the first time he’d had the displeasure of meeting the man.

“I want all information you know about your gang; who’s in charge, how many men you have, and why you’ve come to Gotham. Then I want all information and contacts you’ve had with Black Mask and his False Face Society.”

“What the fuck is a Black Mask?” Brian Brannon said with defiance, a broad smile on his face.

“How about the False Face Society?” Batman asked.

“Man, you’re fucked in the head!” Brian Brannon cracked with that smile, that smile was now finished. Batman slowly positioned his right index finger level with the man’s mouth and pointed it at that intolerable smile. Brian Brannon seemed to hypnotically enjoy the motion, like Batman was some weirdo who liked pointless hand gestures. That was his last enjoyment. Suddenly, the Dark Knight’s finger jabbed into Brian Brannon’s front teeth like a lightning bolt, knocking one of them out and into his throat, sending the man into a coughing fit that eventually regurgitated the tooth in a spew of blood, easily swatted out of the way by the Dark Knight. Rabid for blood, he had drawn it, the diseased blood of Gotham’s freshest disease, the Young Dictators. Blood began to spurt from the wound onto Brian Brannon’s lips and chin. Shocked into insensibility, he had a look of stunned disbelief. Batman cocked his index finger again like he was aiming a missile.

“Care for an eyeball?” he asked casually. Brian Brannon broke like a cardboard dam and babbled like a terrified child.

“We’re new, man! We’ve only got 12 guys right now, man! We’re just doing what we need to do, you know?! We’re from Central City. We started in Central City. We just…we did some shit, you know, then we came here. We’re just here for some business, man!”

“You ‘came’ from Central City? You mean the Flash ran you out of town,” Batman said coolly. “He’s a good friend of mine. Nice guy. Has compassion.” Batman gripped Brian Brannon’s collar hard at the neck, almost cutting off his breathing. “I’m not a nice guy.”

“Yeah, whatever the fuck!” the thug sputtered. “Whatever! Yeah, we had a run in with the guy. We got a few guys in jail there but who gives a shit?! We were approached by this guy saying he was a member of a False Face gang or whatever the fuck. Said they’d been watching us and we had potential and his boss liked our style and would we want to come to Gotham. Anything was better than having that Flash guy around so we took him up on it. Hey, it’s a fucking job, right? You’d do it if you were in our place.”

Batman ignored the man’s attempt to gain his empathy or sympathy.

“So Black Mask wants a bloodbath and you bring him back Joe Argento’s hand as proof,” Batman said. Not being able to fit seven guys in the Mustang, Batman also concluded they planned on stealing the Killer’s Hummer, too.

“They wanted proof that we rolled these fuckers, yeah. They wanted us to show we could be vicious. Fuckers are dead, right?! Who cares if we take trophies?! It’s what Black Mask wanted. We arrange a deal and jack the guys and roll them. Bring back trophies and work your way into a better gang. That’s business.”

Brian Brannon was whimpering now, the pain of his dislodged tooth clearly agonizing. Batman let that pain sink in more and more as the conversation continued. More pain meant more revelation.

“Now who runs the show?” Batman asked.

Words choked in Brian Brannon’s throat, though not for physical reasons, as if saying the bosses’ name meant an automatic death sentence. Batman raised his index finger again.

“His name is Slobodon Jovick, alright?!” Brian Brannon spit out, his mind already seeming to leave town like his feet needed to. Batman knew the name. It was from a relatively respected, though smaller time, crime family from Eastern Europe. Slobodon was the family scion. He’d cast off his family ties to go on his own, earning his infamous family’s enmity. So this was where he’d ended up. This was a greater haul than expected. Information about a new gang, their connections to the False Face Society, the arrest of at least one that knew the gang’s activities AND finding the whereabouts of Slobodon Jovick.

“Where and when were you supposed to meet the representative of the False Face Society?”

“Tomorrow at 1 PM in the Brookville building. We’re supposed to meet the guy in a back entrance and into some kind of board room.”

So Sionis and his slime had infiltrated the prestigious Gotham Brookville building. The contact much be someone in a high place because everyone in the Brookville building was a high roller. More high end corruption in his city. Bold, too, considering this punk was going to show up in broad daylight with someone’s severed hand. Now he knew and Gordon would soon know, too.

“Is that all you have to offer?” Batman sneered. “You better tell me everything or I’ll visit you in your soon to be jail cell and leave your mouth to where you’ll have to gum everything you eat for the rest of your life.”

“That’s it man, I swear!” Bob Smith didn’t fear anything in Gotham a half hour before. Now he would be cowed everywhere he went from then on. “I just know a few things but that’s it! I’m just a soldier, man. I ain’t the boss.”

Satisfied the man had sung the whole song, Batman cuffed Brian Brannon to the grill of the Killer’s car and cuffed the other unconscious gang members to the nearest vehicle. They weren’t going anywhere under their own power. He activated the two way radio in his cowl and connected with Gotham PD. The contact was private between he and James Gordon.

“What have you got?” Gordon asked.

“Arms deal gone bad. Five men killed. Seven gang members ages 20 to 30 apprehended and secured. Location is between the two largest warehouses of the old Gotham East End Lumber and Steel Co.” Saying the name of one of Bruce Wayne’s biggest failures again tugged at his heart.

“What’s their condition?” Gordon asked.

“Poor,” was the reply. A slight chuckle from Gordon was audible through the connection.

“I’ll have some men over shortly with the appropriate measures. About ten minutes,” Gordon said. “Are you going to stay out longer?”

Batman looked at all the dead and apprehended bodies. He wasn’t satisfied. He was never satisfied.

“Yeah. Think I’ll be out all night tonight. Do you have anything interesting?”

“Possible drug deal going down in an hour between the All-Americans and the Free Men in the Bowery near the old football stadium in Crown Point. Doesn’t sound suspicious like you’ve had. We were going to send a team down there but we’ll pull out if you want to take care of it. There are two missing persons reports and a sighting of John Lennon down by the Riverfront Center so that may mean Cornelius Stirk is back. Ask around and I’m sure you’ll get plenty of information. We’ve also found a greenhouse on the West Side of Robinson Park with some wild plant experiments that reek of Poison Ivy. We’ve done the usual work but I’m sure you’d like a look at it. It’s near the intersection of 5th and Mason. We have it blocked off so it’s contained. That’s all we have right now.”

“I’ll handle the drug deal and the missing persons reports,” Batman replied. “I may not make it to the greenhouse until tomorrow night.”

Gordon responded affirmatively. “No problem. It seems clear that Ivy hasn’t been to that greenhouse in at least a month so I doubt it’s pressing. Drop a line if you need us. Good hunting.”

The Dark Knight turned off his radio and headed for the handcuffed Brian Brannon. The separation from Batman as he contacted Gordon had provided the Dictator with a heavenly respite. His young bravado having returned somewhat in the moment, even one tooth less and blood on his face, he decided to talk tough again, the intention of overcoming his freshly created fear being the reason.

“You can’t be everywhere at once,” Brannon said, using the obvious common sense that had no relevance in Gotham City. Yes, Batman was everywhere at once. He filled every atom of the night and every crevice of every building, street and alleyway. The Dictators would soon learn all about that. Right now, he had a final message to send.

“What you going to do now?” Brannon asked defiantly. The Dark Knight leaned down to within two inches of the thug’s face.

“I forgot to tell you something,” Batman whispered. “I’m in your way.” With that, a right cross smashed hard into Brian Brannon’s jaw, knocking him out upon impact, putting all seven members of the Dictators in dreamland. Once he’d detached from it, the grappling gun and Batline had recoiled up and attached to the drone. Now, utilizing the touch pad on his left gauntlet, Batman maneuvered the hovering drone down to his level and detached the grappling gun into his right hand. Maneuvering the drone back overhead, Batman shot the grappling gun’s Bathook into it, secured the gun to his utility belt as before and, steering with the touch pad, shot into the air and flew towards where he had left the Batmobile. Landing safely, the drone once more stored away, the Batmobile and the Dark Knight sped towards the Bowery and the soon to be drug deal. A very productive evening so far but always more on the plate. More hunting to be done, always more hunting in the big city. His city. His time. His life.

Small snippet of my book: "Intake."

I'm writing three books with the overall name "Imbalanced." The story is a fictionalized saga (based on several real events) of four young people, three men and one woman ages 15-20, in the mental health system. The first book is called "Intake" because it concerns our foursome having breakdowns, three of whom aggressively experience such breakdowns for the first time, and my fourth being more experienced in the mental health system.

This snippet concerns one of my characters who is bipolar with very manifested OCD. He's a freshman in college. It's December. He's drunk off his ass and has just had a horrible experience with an unfaithful female friend in an on campus dance club. He's stumbled outside in the cold and it suicidal.

(Pardon the ill looking format but you can't tab or properly organize a manuscript in these blogs. Inner monologue lines are in italics but you can't do that in this blog, either. Thanks for your patience.)

The shock of the cold numbed his brain for a moment but the intensity made it liquid nitrogen, burning rather than relieving. It was snowing heavily now, a near blizzard, and was rapidly covering the landscape a thick, white layer. He managed to pull his jacket on and stared in a stupor at the small line of people still waiting to enter the club, their combined breaths coagulating into a smoky cloud, their expressions showing the fresh anticipation of the night ahead, like people waiting happily for an amusement park ride he had already taken and thrown up on. He stumbled past the line towards his car, looking into the eyes of everyone he passed, before making a small misstep and falling to his knees. He tried to smile, tried to seem cool and nonchalant, and tried not to think about how many of them thought him ill or drunk or sad or broken or finished or just stupid. A harsh word would have shattered him but none spoke. He creaked to his feet.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah!!!! His thoughts were more intense and out of control with each passing second. Instead of making him feel better, they flew completely out of his control into space. He shivered and wobbled, not from being drunk but from a kind of instability and exhaustion that staggered him he’d been hit on the head. He couldn't stop his runaway train of thought.

Die you have to die you have to die it’s gone it’s too late it’s over die die you have to die you have to die it’s over it’s the only way it’s the only way you can’t go one now you can’t have it back it’s too late you have to go you have to leave.

He zipped up his jacket, put his hands in his pockets and tried to achieve equilibrium, his stomach now boiling and churning uncontrollably. Wandering the parking lot, he walked in the wrong direction, finally got going the right way and, Just short of his car, his nerves agitated by his footfalls in the crusted ice there from previous bad weather, he threw up, drowning the snow in putrid vomit. The music he had just heard thudded loudly in his head and drowned him in thunderous bass.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. The car’s door handle was freezing; he opened it. The car seat was freezing; he sat on it. The interior was freezing; he shrank in it. Everything outside himself was freezing, everything inside himself burned with darkness. He sat for a several moments feeling the cold, thinking of the cold, thinking of the burning, thinking of the darkness, his breath cloudy, his body shivering, his mind searing. Slowly, with great difficulty, he pulled his keys out of his pocket, turned the car on, activated the front and rear window defrosters and turned on the heater to its highest setting. His head was destroying him. As the car thawed, he began to cry. There would be no shady lanes, no private gardens, no private liaisons, no pinks and greens, no romance. None of the things that he wanted, and needed, badly. Only death could save him now. Only death could stop the pain that spread like a forest fire through his entire body. He squeezed the steering wheel hard, released it, made fists, shook them in the air then slammed them down onto the wheel. He would never be good enough for anyone. Crying uncontrollably, he gently put his head onto the steering wheel. Tears came hot and hard, falling noiselessly, dripping onto the steering wheel then onto the soft, velvet material of the car floor; he took his hands off the wheel and wrapped them around his stomach. The crying continued and he felt drained and empty but his brain gave him no solace.

The only way to be free is to end this. It doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t matter. You’ll never matter.

He hated himself. He loathed himself with the most violent energy of this life. The crying eased slightly then ended completely. He felt the strange sense of peace many feel when they become resigned to death. He put the car in drive, maneuvered it out onto the treacherously slick road and drove off into the face of the intensely driving snow. He was fixated on only one thing. All he wanted to find was a nice place to die.

Why a Gonzaga NCAA basketball championship is bad for college basketball

I'm writing this right around the time the national championship game is going to start. Unimaginative (and pervasive) sports media writers have simplistically put this game between Gonzaga and North Carolina as the "Little Guy vs the Blue Blood." This is, of course, based solely on college basketball history. The team with one Final Four appearance (which is as many as Jacksonville, George Mason and St. Bonaventure have), Gonzaga, vs. perhaps the greatest college basketball program of all-time in North Carolina. And, in terms of history, this is a valid comparison. By April 3, 2017, it's completely ridiculous. Here's why:

One very common thing I've noticed in sports media is that the sports media doesn't exactly know how to take Gonzaga. Are they the "Little Engine that Could" or are they a legitimate bad ass contender for national championships? I've seen multiple articles with multiple perspectives. Some say they're the little engine that could, a small conference program that has to greatly overachieve to be competitive against the "Big Boys." Others see them as a small conference Goliath on par with the top programs in college basketball. Before their Final Four breakthrough, most saw them as a team and program under Mark Few that really didn't need to make a Final Four. That wasn't the point. How such a small program became so good was their point. All real college basketball fans knew the truth: These guys had a LOT to prove in the postseason. Many media people want to have it both ways. They say the Zags are one of the best programs in basketball BUT they don't need to go to Final Fours to prove it. Uh, no. Now I'll go to my experience.

I was born in Louisville and have been a Cardinals fan since I was 12 in 1985. We've been in several different conferences but there was always at least some top NCAA competition where we went, whether the Metro or Conference USA or the Big East and now the ACC. Like all passionate fans, I suffer when my team suffers. As we're one of the top programs in college ball, that means I suffer a lot. We usually win but that makes the losses that much more hard to take. As we all know, Gonzaga plays in the WCC. For those not enlightened, that's the West Coast Conference. Teams currently in the WCC have had some pretty impressive moment in college basketball history. San Francisco was led by guys named Russell and Jones in late 50s, early 60s. Loyola Marymount was an absolute blast in the late 80s, early 90s when they had NBA talent and routinely put 125+ scoring outings with their near constant barrage of shots. That said, those eras are long past. It's now Gonzaga and everyone else. That includes an excellent St. Mary's program that was beaten three times by the Zags this year. Therein lies the problem.

While fans with teams in the major conferences suffer with their teams nearly all year, Gonzaga's teams get an emotional joyride. Wichita St. has been like that a bit, too, especially in their undefeated regular season in 2014, and all fans of teams in major conferences noticed. While we were trying to get over punishing losses that would effect our tournament seedings (if we were good enough to make the tournament that year), we saw the players and fans in programs like the Zags laugh and dance and have fun. While we were losing on the road to North Carolina, they were storming through Pepperdine and Portland and every other cupcake they played. We were playing real teams and suffering. They were playing nobody and dancing. And guess what? Gonzaga isn't a little guy. They're A BULLY. Yes, they bully the much lesser programs in their conference unmercifully. They're not a little guy standing up to the bullying big boys. They're a bully bullying lesser teams and programs.

Admittedly, these are terrific Gonzaga teams but the fact can't be ignored that they have four or five quality wins ALL YEAR and, because they don't lose to anyone else, they get 1 seeds and easier matchups early on. They've strangely become the exception to the college basketball rule that it's about teams that perform the best against the toughest schedule. Gonzaga doesn't play even remotely play the toughest schedule yet are often in 1 seed territory. While other small conference teams are getting nailed for only a few quality wins and are firmly on the bubble, not only is Gonzaga not in that discussion but they're up for ONE seeds. THAT is a big reason why a Gonzaga national championship is bad for college basketball because it shows you can play four or five tough games all year, coast in your conference and still get 1 seeds and favorable draws because they're always seeded out West and that's almost always the easiest region. In 2014, my Cardinals went through a moderately tough AAC (we stomped eventual national champion UConn THREE times.) Our reward? A 4 seed. A FOUR SEED! We had more quality wins than Gonzaga has this year, played in a tougher conference yet the Zags get one seeds. This is unfair, it's an unfair elevation of "the little guy," even though, like I said, Gonzaga is not a little guy anymore.

The only solution is for the Zags to move up into a tougher conference. Programs like Butler did it and WSU is on the way, too. That said, a 2017 national championship win by Gonzaga is bad for the sport, not good for it. It shows you can have four or five quality wins and somehow get a one seed because the committee and sports media feel they need to protect Gonzaga for some reason. I have an oft used term that I won't say because I don't want to get heat but there it is. Are they a little guy? Are they a Goliath? Because they can't be both. If they're a national championship contender and stay in that conference, it's proof that you can have the easiest route and still play for national championships. That's a slap in the face to the programs and fans that live an die with nearly every game in their conference season and that is BAD for college basketball. If I were some of these power conference contenders, I would try to leave for a small conference, play four or five tough games all year, and beat up on a terrible conference. We'd get 1 seeds, right?! Why not?

Pardon all typos in this article. I did it very quickly.

Depression- A human, non-chemical viewpoint

I say non-chemical because depression is about so much more than genes and neurotransmitters. Those are the root causes of depression but I feel we're so much more than the chemical discharges in our brains. Depression is a physical brain illness. That's true to anyone that knows anything about it but it also affects us so much more intimately and pervasively as human beings.

Warning- Some of my comments are pretty intense and I don't want anyone with depression feeling triggered by them.

Depression is a place in the mind like a secret compartment. It's a real, solid, physical place in the brain that becomes a physical place in reality when we are affected by it. It becomes a place of sullenness and isolation, an alternate reality, a dystopian world of nightmares, dark streets and corners and horrible, life upsetting disruptions. It is a life, itself, and it becomes our life when we are experiencing it. We live it, not as a "brain disease," but as a living horror movie. To the brain, it's science. To us, it's abstract, palpable and often fully manifested. It's being trapped in a slasher film with the killer never truly defeated, only dormant for a time before returning to destroy our happiness and contentment with another round of murderous assaults.

Depression is the brain committing suicide. It's the brain dying. It's like a moment in Aliens when it's surrounded by evil monsters and breaks down choosing to die rather than be tormented and attacked. Such a brain in our heads makes it seems sensible, perhaps even logical, to end the suffering by ending ourselves rather than be consumed. Death isn't just seen as a release. It's seen as being smart. It can seem the "right thing" to do for ourselves and to not be a burden on those we love.

Depression is a bad time. It's not fun. It's going out with friends and being miserable, of having a crush of the opposite sex choose anyone besides you and laughing at you at the same time. It's being bullied in school while others are smiling, happy, fulfilled and contented. It's trying to be cool and falling on your face in front of everyone. It's being hurt and never seeming to get better. It's failure to the achiever, rejection for the lover, defeat for the athlete, a broken voice for the singer, cut off hands for the painter, separation for those that thrive on being involved.

Depression is winter in the summertime. It's dark clouds and freezing cold while others are wearing bathing suits basking in the hot sun. It's gray and dark clouds full of acid rain, terrifying us with their presence before scalding us with their contents. It's being snowed in while life is taking place outside. It's being buried in a blizzard while others around you move freely.

Depression is hell because it's living while dead. It's not over like death because it's still physical, still there, still real, and still suffered by us. It's a violent abuser, a brutal parent that we never completely escape. It's a cancer we never completely carve out. It's a demon we never completely exorcise. It's not freedom. It's being forced to live with a monster for the rest of our lives.

I'll end on a positive note (because I have to.) We won't always feel depressed. There is hope because there are times when we will feel hope. The rays of the sun will shine through the clouds because they will. It's poetic but it's also true. Personally, for me, seeing that a sun is still there is sometimes enough. I may not be seeing it now but I know I'll see it again.

Short story - "Friends to the End: A War Story."

Here's a short story I wrote a few months ago. As my book is about psychological fiction, I wanted to write a story that's simpler and a change of pace. This story is short even for a short story, only 2942 words. It's about two soldiers on a reconnaissance mission in World War II.

Friends to the End: A War Story

“Friends to the end!” the two soldiers sang less than melodically, briefly clasping sweaty hands as ridiculously as possible as they trudged wearingly through humid jungle that weighed on the heavily uniformed men like they were wrapped in tortillas and thrown in a steamer. It was the middle of World War II, January 1943, at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, summertime in the Southern Hemisphere, the jungle laden island scorched with boiling temperatures and sopped with withering humidity that seemed too strong for any man to withstand, much less men in full fatigues. They were on a reconnaissance mission, both members of the American Army’s XIV Corp’s Reconnaissance Platoon, there largely for mop up duty after the Marines had retaken the island from the Japanese by vicious and bitter fighting in the previous six months. Accompanied by three assault vehicles, their party of ten had started in late afternoon when the sun would be slightly less oppressive yet with enough daylight to finish their mission, which was collecting data from the last small pocket of territory on the island, an area considered either free or virtually free of the enemy but too heavily canopied by the thick jungle foliage for aerial reconnaissance to be sure. The assault vehicles had run out of dirt road and the ten men platoon had moved on without them, only intending to move forward about a quarter mile in case they came under fire, though this was not expected.

Our two soldiers, Bob Smith and Dave Jones, as generically and ordinarily named as could be, had been fast friends since joining the Reconnaissance Platoon in early 1942, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. They clicked instantly, somewhat resembling two of their favorite stars, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. They had been on several missions, a few involving heavy fire, in the South Pacific up until that point, always performing admirably and without a scratch. They had been so fortunate in avoiding ordinance that they regarded themselves with tongue in cheek invincibility, the kind where you know a truck will easily kill you yet you’re able to walk in the middle of the road without incident anyway. They weren’t godlike by any stretch. They had just been so fortunate, like dashing Hollywood leading men in movies doing their dangerous jobs and always making it through the picture unharmed. In between assignments, they were near constant attendees of whatever USO camp was in their area. They never missed a Hope and Crosby Road movie or an Abbott and Costello GI picture and, though they loved Bud and Lou, they preferred to be the GI version of Hope and Crosby, Bob Smith as, interestingly, not Hope but Crosby and Dave Jones as Hope. Bob, the slightly better looking one, was the kind in the movie that got the girl while Dave, as Hope, looked on understandably, always there with a zinger to lighten the mood. They both treasured each other’s company in this cluttered yet lonely war where family and sweethearts remained behind at home, all GIs hoping to avoid a dreaded “Dear John” letter from their perceived one and only while being ensnared in the surreal world of war, forced to kill or be killed. On this latest mission, they were particularly talkative on the way to their destination, not expecting action of any consequence.

“I’ve got a hang nail,” Bob said, biting it irritatingly.

“Well, stop having a hang nail!” Dave replied. “We have to keep our perfect record alive!”

“I’ll do the best I can for your majesty,” Bob smiled with mild sarcasm. “You do realize there is a war going on, don’t you? Besides, what does a hangnail have to do with our record?”

“If we’re going to blow our record, let’s at least have a finger or toe blown off, something particularly gruesome,” Dave said.

“Okay,” Bob replied. “It doesn’t count unless one of us is maimed. Deal?”

“Deal. Although for your own good, having your nose blown off your face may improve your looks.” Aware of his friend’s good looks, he was always making cracks like that.

“How about you get your nose shot off and I’ll have my eyes gouged out so I won’t have to look at your skeleton head,” Bob said with a chuckle.

“We’ll make a deal,” Dave said. “You get your nose shot off and your eyes gouged out and I’ll get my very own hangnail just for you, okay?”

Bob laughed loudly. “Deal.” His friend cracked him up so much. It was the only thing that made him laugh in the whole war.

The safety of their assault vehicle escort left behind, the ten men platoon began to spread moderate distances apart as they creeped into the unknown territory of that small pocket on the island, the jungle getting thicker and thicker as they progressed. Bob and Dave were the last two to separate. With their “Friends to the end” send off, Bob moved slowly to his left and Dave moved slowly to his right. The sun’s greatly respected presence had moved from a moderately high, almost violent yellow to a much lower, slightly more benign yet almost frighteningly ominous blood red. They thanked the Lord it hadn’t rained for the last three days, possibly a record for the Solomon Islands that time of year, because it would have made their activities nearly impossible to endure. It was oppressive yet tolerably so, the humorous equivalent of playing a baseball game in 97 as opposed to 105 degree heat. Their mission now required intense focus and sensitive ears ready to trigger rapid, lethal action if necessary. Bob and Dave, despite their clowning, were all business when it was called for.

Moving through the jungle was a wondrous experience, like exploring a foreign planet in an HG Wells novel. Enormous emergent evergreens towered over the vast, smaller evergreens of the jungle canopy, so packed with foliage they cut off nearly all sunlight and acted like a roof over an understory level and, just below it, the nearly barren forest floor. The platoon was moving through an area so thick and dark that only shafts of sunlight broke through making nearly all plant life on the forest floor non-existent, which made the landscape seem even more alien and imaginary, like the forest equivalent of the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The sparse terrain denied them cover but also allowed them to see greater distances and no enemy or enemy activity had been visible to that point.

After a few hundred feet, the canopy opened and they were in a large clearing laden with evergreens barnacled with strangler figs juxtaposed by dozens of King Ferns and flowering plants of all colors filling in the spaces between the trees. As cluttered as the last was barren, the area marked a perfect place for an ambush. All ten men in the platoon were instantly aware of it. Though not expecting a firefight, the set up made all ten men so nervous ten rifles were instantly up and ready.

Suddenly, gunfire exploded from multiple directions. Two men from the platoon were hit immediately. Dick Reynolds, a nice guy that Dave knew better than Bob, took a bullet in the head and died instantly. James Patrick Henry, a passionate, hot headed soldier who was a fiercely proud direct descendent of the firebrand legend of the American Revolution, was hit in the left arm, left leg and upper right chest. He slammed violently into a mix of leaves and dirt and succumbed one agonizing minute after being hit.

“Get back! Get back!” the platoon leader roared, trying to make himself heard over the shattering noise that had been added to by the return fire of the eight remaining soldiers. Though as coldly efficient as it gets, the platoon leader was a good guy that cared strongly for the safety of his men.

Bob felt two bullets whiz by on the initial volley and had hit the ground moments later. He rolled for cover behind a nearby bush that wasn’t much protection but was all he had. Clearly, they had stumbled upon a larger than expected Japanese unit that not only existed but was ready for action. Bullets flew by the bush, one even glancing off the top of Bob’s helmet jarringly before bouncing away. He waited for several minutes until the shooting seemed to shift to his right a little. Sensing an opportunity, he crawled backwards with alacrity, got to his knees then his feet bent over in a crouch and stumbled as quickly as he could away from the enemy fire before diving behind a thicker bush laden with blue and yellow flowers, one of which was blasted off a split second after he took cover. He saw three members of the platoon likewise retreating while three others laid down cover fire, including the platoon leader.

“Everybody out! Everybody out!” the platoon leader shouted. The orders were unnecessary but had to be made anyway in that situation. The three providing random cover fire joined their brothers in retreat with the unstated goal of reaching the safety of the assault vehicle escort. Bob, bringing up the rear of the fleeing troops, looked around, his eyes darting to get the logistics of the situation and, specifically, the presence of his friend, the only platoon member besides the dead he hadn’t accounted for. Like a mother looking for a lost child, he anxiously slowed his retreat when he couldn’t find Dave, bullets roaring and clipping the jungle trees intermittently around him like kids throwing pebbles his way. He crouched and scanned the area where he had last seen his friend. The sun was low but there was still enough light to see a moderate distance. He made out the prone body of Dick Reynolds with a bullet squarely in his forehead on a small rise a hundred feet away. His next sight was of a leg and boot jutting from behind a thick King Fern near a large Tualang tree with enormous buttress roots protruding above ground like the tentacles of a giant octopus.

“Dave!” he shouted. “Dave!” Upon the leg not moving, Bob moved hurriedly in the same crouched position towards it. Moments before, the gunfire had lessened a bit but, seeing a US soldier coming back into the fray, picked up again. Bob reached the leg of what turned out to be his good friend, not moving, body sprawled face down on the jungle floor. In one motion, Bob grabbed the back of Dave’s uniform at the neck and hauled him behind the Tualang tree’s massive roots, the biological wonder providing amble protection. Dave began to move as Bob turned him over, his body bucking in pain from what Bob saw was a gruesome gut shot, blood spewing forth mixed with dirt from where Dave had been lying face down. Frantically, Bob instinctively put his hand over his friend’s wound, eliciting a loud cry from the injured man. Whipping his head around, more to get his brain working than to see anything, Bob, remembering the towel he had stuffed in his belt, ripped it out and put it over the wound, blood filling it up almost immediately as if it had been placed under a steady flowing faucet. Dave cried out loudly again, then seemed to melt as his cry ebbed and ended.

“It’s going to be okay,” Bob lied. “We’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Dave coughed uncontrollably, his body seeming to shrivel with each passing second. His eyes shot open and he stared into his friend’s face. Laboring to speak, he forced words out through gritted teeth.

“You…have to go,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”
The words grabbed hold of Bob’s emotions and squeezed, nearly sending tears exploding from his face. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was never supposed to happen like this but he knew it was true. Hemmed in by enemy fire with a wound that was all but fatal even with immediate medical care, it was clear Dave Jones would never make it out of that jungle alive. Dave slumped his head on the ground and forced a smile.

“It’s my fault,” he said, his body seizing up. “I guess my luck just…I blew it. Sorry. That’s one on me. Looks like I let you down.” His eyes opened and he looked directly into Bob’s face without comprehension.

“I…can’t see,” he gasped. His smile slowly faded into a neutral calm and he was still. Tears in his eyes, Bob nudged his friend gently but there was no sign. His friend was gone.

“Smith!” the platoon leader, continuing to fire blindly in the direction of the Japanese, roared in Bob’s direction. The rest of the platoon had evacuated and, other than Bob and Dave, the platoon leader was the only one left at the scene. “Get out now! Now!”

For Bob, it was now or never. He snapped to his feet with explosive energy then froze. No. No. He wasn’t going to leave. He couldn’t leave. He wasn’t going to allow his friend’s body to be hauled out by the Japanese like a dead rat and dumped in some burial pit. Didn’t Bob owe him that? Unquestionably. They were friends to the end. Bob realized that meant his end, too.

“Go! Go! Go!” Bob shouted at his superior, gesturing wildly for the man to leave. The platoon leader, stuck between moving forwards and backwards for a few seconds was also stuck between yelling at Bob Smith and staying silent. Heavier fire came like a rain shower becoming a deluge as the Japanese, aware of their advantage, began to press forward. The platoon leader took a few steps back then angrily turned and ran for safety, secure that he had done all he could and not happy about the results one bit. Upon seeing him flee, believing the area secure, the Japanese gunfire stopped. Readying his rifle, Bob took a deep breath and came out from behind the buttress roots firing at will. The first two bullets missed, the next two bullets struck one Japanese soldier in the leg and another in the chest, killing the man instantly. Aware of the presence of another American, they opened fire in a murderous volley. A bullet whizzed past Bob’s nose as he dove behind the roots once more.

“Hey, Dave,” he laughed. “I almost got my nose shot off! My luck is still holding up!”
He patted his friend’s dead body on the leg. Lost in the moment, he wasn’t concerned for his own safety. He was only concerned with protecting his friend, even if it was only his friend’s body. He couldn’t let it fall into the hands of the enemy without a fight. Dave was still Dave and he deserved all Bob had. Bullets ripped and tore at the buttress roots as Bob bit his hangnail.

“It doesn’t count unless one of us gets maimed. Those were the rules, right?” Bob laughed, peering at the serene calm of Dave’s inanimate face. “Well, you took a shot. It’s the least I can do to make us equal, buddy.”

Bob came out from behind the Tualang tree again and got off one errant shot before taking bullets in the left leg and left cheek. His leg collapsed under the first bullet an instant before the second one knocked him flat on his back. Blood flooded his mouth; he spat it out reflexively. His immediate senses became intoxicated, not with pain, but with the sweet honeysuckle smell of dozens of flowers from a nearby plant as he rolled over onto his knees and slowly crept behind the buttress roots. Assessing his injuries, he nodded in his mind at the realization that the second one would cost him his life. He leaned up against the roots, blood pouring from both wounds. He took his final view of the sun which happened, fittingly, to be at sunset. He looked at his friend.

“We’re even, pal,” Bob gasped, determined to speak even if only in a garble. “I couldn’t let you…have all the fun. After all, we’re friends to the end and…” he gasped shallowly several times and closed his eyes. “…this is the end. It’s okay, though. It will be okay.”

A minute later, two Japanese soldiers, guns raised, cautiously came from around the buttress roots. Seeing the dead and mortally wounded men, they looked down with a sense of satisfaction but also pity. Dead men were still soldiers like them and they were more than aware that the roles could be reversed with American GIs staring down at them dead or mortally wounded. With the American occupation in full swing, the Japanese, almost fanatic in fighting to the end, knew it was probable they would go the same way, possibly in the next few days. In the end, perhaps the only real honor was not in fighting for country but for each other. Hearing the shuffling of feet, Bob opened his eyes and stared in the direction of the two soldiers.

“Hey, Dave,” he said with a smile. “Guess what? I can’t see anything, either.” Moments later, he was dead. The two Japanese soldiers scanned the area as the sun disappeared. Two more dead men, two more stories whose finales would never be known to their family and friends, a sad ending for them but not for the two men for, in death as well as in life, there will always be glory in friends true to each other. Friends to the end.

Free Will Exercise - If you were being forced to kill, would you?

I was thinking on the concept of free will and whether it truly exists for us or not. Various philosophers have made arguments both ways so I started thinking of a situation where a free will argument could be made both ways. Conditions will change in the scenario as it goes along.

You and another person have been kidnapped by a gang. The other person is tied to a chair. You're given a gun by the gang leader and told to either shoot the man or be killed yourself. If you kill the person, you'll be let free and clear and the gang will take credit for the person's murder (yes, it's a dubious situation but stranger things have happened so humor me.) I know it doesn't sound like a situation where free will is on the table but bear with me.

You're handed the gun. First hypothetical condition: You're a devout religious person and you believe killing is so terrible that you'd choose to die yourself rather than risk your immortal soul. This is your choice aka your free will. You're under duress but you are given two options and are free to choose either. You're shot in the head instead of the other person. End of situation. You had a choice but your religious upbringing prevented you from choosing anything other than death. Because you've been religiously programmed, did you have the capability to make a fair choice that could lead to your own survival? This is murky.

Next hypothetical: You're handed the gun. You have a strict reverence for life that is empathetic and compassionate but not religious. You feel for this poor person you're supposed to kill. Your survival senses tell you to kill but you can't. You're too good a person inside. Is this free will? Because of your innate compassion and feeling, you literally can't kill. There's something from deep inside preventing it. Being killed happens because the opposite situation is impossible. Free will is devoid in this situation because a choice of one or the other is impossible. This is the very definition of not being able to make a choice under duress.

Next hypothetical: You're a borderline sociopath and have no problem killing the person. You choose to blow their brains out and do. You're free to go. This is a choice but is it 100% free will? A sociopath lacks empathy because they just do. It's not really a choice for them. However, even if they want to kill, they have the choice not to kill so I see this one as being an argument for us having free will, even if it's a little more complicated. It's not a no win situation for you so it's an easy choice. You're free to make a decision that is beneficial to you.

Next hypothetical: Both the religious character and the empathetic character face a new wrinkle. You won't just be killed if you refuse to kill the other person, you'll be tortured and disemboweled before you die slowly in agony. Would the religious person still be guided by faith not to kill? Would the compassionate, feeling person shoot the other, knowing they'll die instantly, if they choose that option? The threat of torture has created panic in many a person and a choice to kill in that case is much more understandable as being out of character of a normally good human being. The survival instinct is also very strong and can be overwhelming. In such a situation, I think many people would implode, unable to make a choice at all. If so, I think free will is highly compromised. Could a choice be made? Yes. Is the person 100% responsible under threat of torture? I say no.

Next hypothetical: You're presented with the kill scenario again but you'll only be tortured if you refuse but not killed. You're also told that the person you're told to kill is a serial pedophile and child murderer. You're not a killer but presented with either torture or killing an evil person, would it be so bad if you killed that person? In this case, death is off the table but terrible pain is not. Many in a situation where they knew nothing of the other person would choose not to kill because no deaths would occur if you refuse. But knowing you're dealing with an evil person, would you feel it's a moral responsibility to execute the person by choice, even if nothing were on the line? If you chose to kill, would it be so bad? I think we'd all understand if you killed the person. And the fact that the person is a child murderer is a strong incentive to WANT to kill the person. You choose to kill out of free will and being tortured isn't even a major factor. You feel forced to make a decision but it's an easier choice and arrived at more willfully.

Final hypothetical: The other person is a beloved family member. Your options are killing the family member or being tortured and disemboweled while alive. I think free will is completely off the table here. You won't be able to kill the person and will therefore be tortured by default. There's no real choice here.

If any of this had to do with the law, none of it would be considered a free will issue because forced coercion would be the understandable stance. We obviously have free will in many aspects of our lives. We can choose Coke over Pepsi or a football game over a baseball game. We have free will in these ways. Oddly, in these exercises, the sociopathic character may be the only one that truly faces a choice of free will because killing would not be a problem for him. There would be no guilt feelings that would torment him as in the other hypotheticals. So, in such situations, do the normal people have free will to make certain choices? To kill or be killed? It could depend on the person and the situation, if these situations have any possibility for freedom of choice at all. They'll be forced to make a choice but they'll have the freedom to make that choice. Is any free will involved there? I think an argument could be made either way.

Can Ethics Be Rejected Completely as a Human Endeavor?

The following is an intellectual exercise of probably nothing new yet, as one with a different perspective, I feel the need to pursue.

Essentially, mankind has a dual nature. The animal, which is the physical, and the intellectual, which is the higher mind. The animal, of course, seeks to satisfy our physical needs and wants. The intellectual goes beyond; it contemplates life, the nature of man and anything potentially metaphysical perpetually beyond what we know or possibly ever can know. It's the lower mind and the higher mind, the Id and the Superego. The ego, our individual personality, can be rejected in an argument about ethics. Our personality is the rudder between our base instincts and our power to wonder, ponder and create. It's the marriage counselor but it's not a prime mover. "I wish we had peace on Earth" is a nice hope but it's one of personality, namely an individual that greatly wants peace. However, this basic belief is personality, not the superego because it doesn't think about HOW to make such a dream a reality. It just wants peace as a matter of temperament but doesn't argue how peace can happen or if peace is even desired. Those are deeper matters. Some like conflict and some like peace. It's a matter of how we think as individuals, not as we see things in a broader, greater, more profound sense.

As stated, we're driven by our passions and our intellect. Our passion are, quite frankly, stupid, yet we all indulge them with some frequency, some more than others. Some are driven solely by instinct and desire. They fuck, eat, drink and that's about it. In this reality, ethics can be described by our base behaviors. We're dogs and cats. It's just what we do. We live, we die and there's no reason to think about anything else. If we choose to look at this as the meaning of life, we can either call it ethics or reject even the concept of ethics because the behavior isn't ethical or unethical. It just is.

The higher mind, the intellect, must reject this view in any proper abstract argument about how we SHOULD live and behave. The higher mind is our only advantage over the animal kingdom. Our ability to reason and think makes us special. To me, a life solely based on hedonistic indulgence is de-evolved. We've grown the ability to reason, therefore it must be important. If it's important, we should use it and that means speculating and analyzing ourselves and the world around us soberly and dispassionately, something we've been working on since man truly evolved into man from our animal pasts.

So we have these brains that can think so let's ponder about the concept of ethics. Many brilliant philosophers, both religious and scientific, have created moral philosophies. How best can we process ourselves and our world? Men like Aristotle put forth and trusted in the five senses as our primary means of accumulating data. Men like Plato put forth the idea of intuition and perception because our five senses can be faulty and we can misperceive. Since then, great thinkers have become more refined as society has grown. In this time, the idea of ethics has become an enormous subject. What is ethical? From the simpler ideas of Hammurabi's moral code of "An eye for an eye" to the Jewish idea of the Ten Commandments to Kant's Categorial Imperative of Universal Morality, we've always strived to rein in our potentially destructive nature. This is, of course, necessary to create an interdependent society where we work together to achieve our goals and live the age old dream of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Laws are created to help guide us and to keep us from tearing each other apart. Laws are all that bind us in this way. As animalistic as we can be, laws must be created and maintained. It would be wonderful is we could always control ourselves and act as disciplined, rational beings all the time but that's impossible. We feel and we have desires. Sometimes, we're going to lose our sense of order and decency and last out. An absence of laws would mean anarchy and, in all likelihood, the destruction of ourselves as a species.

Law and order are our practical solutions to problems of basic animal behavior. Now it's necessary to consider the beyond, namely the idea of a God or Prime Mover, as Aristotle believed. Since Day 1 of human society, man has strived to understand the world around him. Ancient civilizations built ziggurats, the ancient form of churches, and put them in the center of towns as a foundation of whatever city and society used them. Since Day 1, we've reasoned and speculated on the idea of a God, something beyond, a higher power that we are subject to, a basis for behavior that goes beyond our rules and laws for each other. The idea of divine law, codified mostly by the different religions, is this representation. We have rules to keep us from killing each other but is that it? Do we have a greater purpose? It's easy to pick on religion and many people in our society (and we know who they are) have a field day with attacking religious people as simpletons and morons across the board. I feel that this misses the point. It is our very ABILITY to create religious ideologies that makes us special. Those that believe try to live according to those beliefs. Why? Not because of anything practical but because of POSSIBILITIES. In this way, we are truly being intellectually creative. Often crude, such as in the simple belief of a heaven or hell, but we're thinking of something that could be and that's vital. We're working our minds and we're trying to define and develop a soul, even if only rudimentarily.

I honestly have tried to just present the usual arguments and perceptions of how we as humans try to explain and justify our behaviors as a means of setting up my premise (I apologize if I've been overly wordy.) Now comes my argument of the possibility that the higher mind definition of ethics can largely, if not completely, be thrown out. This argument also rejects animal behaviors. There's nothing truly ethical about animal behaviors IMO because they take no effort to accomplish. Though we all do them at times, animal behaviors are instinctive and cheap. They're hardwired into us and involve no evolutionary process whatsoever. So, if ethics isn't driven by our higher mind or our animal passions, what is it driven by or is it even something we can disregard altogether?

My perspective comes from a mentally ill one. I'm bipolar and have had severe bouts of psychosis, very severe hallucinations and delusions at various times in my life. Driven by a hypersensitive idea of moral obligation, I have strived for much of my life to behave in a way that is a credit to myself and my community, to try to help mankind in as many ways as I can. As any bipolar person can tell you, at times it becomes incredibly difficult to control behaviors, be they high or low. We take medication to try and control symptoms. However, there are times when we're overwhelmed and will act out, occasionally driven by our delusions and hallucinations. This doesn't usually involve violence but will occasionally lead to violence against the self or others, usually for a reason considered valid by the mentally ill person. To put it bluntly, it's "crazy," not evil though it seems evil.

I'm a big fan of "spirit in which it's intended" as a moral compass. If we mean well yet do evil, we can't be blamed in a moral sense because we didn't intend for anything bad to happen. This is a common moral rule that humans have lived by, at least to some extent, for a long time. In an ethical sense, therefore, because mentally ill people are human and this is an argument of the complete human experience, ethics cannot be completely defined by effect. Violence, destruction and death cannot always be viewed as unethical because there are those that commit violence UNDER THE DELUSION that they are not doing evil. Some philosophers, like Sartre, argue that there are, essentially, no excuses for what is considered bad behavior. As a bipolar person, I do not present excuses. I present REASONS.

My conclusion is that ethics are not for human beings as biological creatures because we are flawed by nature and our behaviors are occasionally, also very flawed without evil intent. We sometimes do damage and not even know it. However, ethics IS a subject for the pure intellect, one that is capable of reason and thought on a very high level. In that way, ethics is an intellectual past time, one that we spend our time thinking about in the romantic hope that, one day, we will be able to live up to the standards we set. Like any ideology, it's based on POTENTIAL and a loose ethical set of standards often keeps us from destroying each other. I'm comfortable with intellect being linked to a spiritual sense because what is spirit but we concoct as being important and timeless, the same as ethics? It's not in our best interests to kill each other, unless we consider it necessary (moral?) in a war capacity. Our humanity leads us to these disasters all too frequently. The thought and the hope of the CONCEPT of ethics as a set of ideas, does us credit as creatures with the ability to think. We have potential. If we can ever learn to practice what we think, we'll have as close to comprehensive peace as possible, the very definition of morality. Will we grow in an intellectual sense and meet our concepts and dreams halfway or de-evolve back into mindless animals bent on killing each other? Time will tell. Some have attained, and will attain, such intellectual enlightenment. Sadly, I don't like our chances much as an overall society.

One stanza poem to a special girl

The other girls, in large amount, are as pretty as can be.
And even if it doesn't count, you're still beautiful to me.

5th Grade - Welcome to Hell - Part II

I've never recovered emotionally. The fear that I felt everyday still floods me like a hurricane when I think of it. Every second of everyday was terror. When was the insult or attack going to come? It became impossible to have a positive attitude. I imagine WWI soldiers didn't feel overly positive in their trenches everyday but at least they had each other. The worst times were on the bus in the morning, where I often had someone already sitting in a seat move to the edge to keep me from sitting down. "Don't you know you're social garbage, fucker?" was what the move said every time. In class, I was at least a little safe, though I dreaded the classes where the bullies were close to me because they liked whispering insults to each other about me. The breaks in the hall between classes were horrible because I was vulnerable. There were occasional insults and the occasional physical attack at me. I remember the fear and am reliving it even as I'm typing this now. Break outside was another terror because of vulnerability. Girls would be disgusted if I came by. The boys would throw a football to me because they could gang up and tackle me on the ice cold turf. People would kick me out of their lunch room tables until I had to eat by myself or insult me as I sat there. One girl, supposedly the nicest one in school, attacked me in gym class and almost tore my shirt off. Stunned, I just sat down on the bleachers with my head in my hands. The gym teacher did nothing. It was like they were all in it together. Another time we played dodgeball. One of my bullies crossed the line, tapped me on the shoulder and threw a dodgeball in my face when I turned around. Everyone laughed. I laughed, too. Doesn't everyone laugh at the joke? Emotionally, this was devastating and I am still suffering today. I tried to fit in many times, basically a Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing. Then there were the attempts try and mitigate the damage. My Mom was my emotional support and I tried to learn things from her about what they were saying. I tried to learn jokes to impress them. My family told me it was my fault because I got upset at the insults. They were trying to help. They didn't know they were giving the bullies a free pass. My mother told me to try laughing myself. So there was me being bullied and I laughed at getting hurt. I've since felt and learned the dysfunction in my family and how crappy their advice was. Finally, after coming home on the verge of tears many times, Mom just told me to go punch one of them in the nose. As a Catholic kid, their previous advice had been to turn the other cheek. Now I'm supposed to hit someone! I wasn't like that at the time. It took me years of abuse before I got the point where I would fight if I had to. That wasn't me then at all. Everyday after school and before the next day became my heaven. That's when I tried to be happy. As the time came closer for sleep, I'd check the clock every five minutes. I tried to live every second of my life in those hours before I had to get beaten up again the next day. The shame and guilt and fear and embarrassment and depression and feelings of utter worthlessness return when I relive these memories. I have to get to the point where they don't destroy me anymore. I have to get to the point where that traumatized little boy feels safe and happy and worthwhile again.

5th Grade - Welcome to Hell - Part 1

I did the set up a bit to let you know a bit of who I was. I was also a Catholic, and a decent sized believer, at that age and grew up in Catholic school. I had had no social problems in Kentucky and had several friends. Now it gets very tough for me. I have wanted to journal about this for a long time but I haven't been able to face the pain for any length of time. I don't literally remember the first day of school. I remember that first term. The weather was freezing, much worse than anything we'd had in Kentucky. I'm not sure if it was early chemical problems but I remember feeling depressed for the first time in my life. At school, the kids hated me. I suppose I was the picture of being uncool. It was a classic case of doing everything differently than they did. I made jokes which made people laugh at me. People hated my voice, hated my walk, hated my expressions. I rapidly became a social pariah, the bottom of the totem pole. There was only one kid more unpopular than me. Sad to say, I was glad of it. It gave me a chance to insult someone, to be part of the group. Of course, now I look back at it and loathe myself for that kind of behavior. That was my reality. I was not a good person. I was an emotionally floundering, socially desperate person. Girls would laugh at me because they considered me some yokel joke. I was minimized. There was an instance where they did something called "Secret Santa" in Wisconsin. People would draw lots in pairs and gave each other Christmas cards. The girl that got me said: "Not him!" in disgust when she drew me. This was in front of her girlfriends. This wasn't a funny, teasing thing. This just sent a message that I was garbage. I was a social leper. Being near me was like being forced to hug a skunk. The boys would make fun of me because I didn't know all the sexual slang terms. I was a Catholic school kid. What the hell did I know? You know the sensitive young person in the slasher films that has the cruel trick played on him by the "cool" kids? That was me. And if I saw any of those poeple again now, it would be very hard for me not to break their bones.

My Apocalypse - Age 10 - The Move

When I was 10, my family and I moved from Louisville, KY, to just outside Milwaukee, WI. At that age, I didn't understand, in a social sense, what moving from one part of the country to another meant. My Dad got transferred and asked my sister and I if we wanted to go. My parents wanted to go and it was a done deal so we agreed, of course. My sister Shannon was two years older and I think the move hurt her more than me. I had friends but the lure of moving to Milwaukee, namely because of the Brewers, became tremendous. We were huge baseball fans and had been frequent attendees to Louisville Redbird minor league games so the thought of having a local major league team to see was very exciting. The Brewers had been to their first World Series the year before (and lost to Louisville's offiliate, St. Louis, who we were cheering for. The idea of players and a town associated with beer was a major turn off for me but they were a major league team. We were the kind of family that didn't cheer for a team or city like Milwaukee yet we were on our way. I must also admit that we considered ourselves "Southern." I had no idea about the Civil War at that time but my family was a Dukes of Hazzard, Hee Haw kind of family though I also loved shows like Knight Rider, Sanford and Son and pretty much anything on TV. I was a culture sponge at a very young age. So it's 1983 and we move to Wisconsin in the summer.

Stalker's blood?

This is a very difficult post I feel I need to write so don't hate me. I need to get it into the open. I have OCD and Bipolar Disorder. As a symptom of my bipolar, I have what is called "erotomania." This is a delusion that someone I want very much to be in love with me is in love with me. It often takes the form of a "celebrity crush," where I can easily delude myself that the person really loves me via destiny or cosmic karma or some such crap. It's usually wishful thinking but I have deluded myself that certain people of higher social status in my reality are in love with me when that is not the case. Combine erotomania with an obsessive mentality and that leads to a potentially very dangerous mix as I can become fixated and angry. I can then adopt a "So she thinks she's better than me?!" attitude towards someone who either barely knows me or doesn't know me. I'm a lover. I'm not an angry, crazy obsessive but I can be that way. I'm always gauging my motives to prevent such a thing from becoming dangerous but I can be creepy and wear out my welcome, I suppose. I could engage in "stalker behavior" and not always be consciously aware of it. This can be a sick expression of "love," a dark side of delusion, anger, fear and personal emotional vapidness. I hope this post will help me (and you) understand my deep, deep need for love and how a disordered brain can darkly twist a treasured goal into an all-around nightmare. Thank you. Don't hate me. Please.

The Mentally Ill Code: How to treat each other

I wanted to call this something cool and profound like Manifesto or Commandment to show how smart I am but that's overdoing it. This is a classic IN MY OPINION post. IMO this is how mentally ill people should treat each other. My experience is being bipolar and OCD and chatting with many mentally ill people, both online and in the real world, as well as mental health professionals.

1. No mentally ill person is greater or better than another. We're all equal.

This doesn't have to do with wellness. In this context, "better" means thinking you're superior. There is no caste system in the mentally ill community. I've talked with people before (and I've felt this myself) that think people with less severe mental illnesses than others are somehow superior, more "normal," and thus more like the masses. I've heard "I'm not as bad as that schizophrenic guy. I just have depression" before. My family, especially my mother and aunt, are and have been very much hung up on social status. When I was diagnosed with depression in 1992, I felt that that was going to lower me in the eyes of society. Why? Because I had a bigoted view of the mentally ill as lower life forms. I still considered myself perfectly normal and not mentally ill. I was able to function some on this denial. Then I was diagnosed bipolar and it devastated me. Now, I was going to be forced to take a lower status as a persecuted minority. See how big a jerk I was when I was considered "normal?" and thought I was at a superior level of health? We don't do that in the mentally ill community. A depressed person isn't superior to a schizophrenic person just because their illness isn't as severe.

2. Mentally ill people communicate with each other.
There's great importance in our community on sharing our thoughts and feelings with each other. Often, that means sharing what kind of day we've had or asking for support because we've had a tough time lately. We share our stories and our time with each other to show that we're not alone in our suffering. Part of my thinking on making this blog post has to do with someone that's a supposed mentally ill person who is a public mental health advocate. I've asked this person what his/her illness is and I've shared a few details of mine. No response. I tried again a few more times. No response. Now either this person feels he/she is too good for our community or is just a phony in terms of mental illness. We don't have to share everything with each other. In fact, as people with different social, political, religious, etc views, we don't have to share much at all. What we do need to share is just a little bit with each other. If another mentally ill person asks you about your illness, you should answer, even if only giving the barest details. This is a community mentality. I know some reading this will say this person has the right to not tell me jack and that is true. However, we don't live in a perfect world and our own social groupings do matter. Mentally ill people don't rebuff each other.

3. Mentally ill people support each other no matter what.

My meaning in this is that we unconditionally support each other on matters of mental illness and mental health. If one in our community commits an act of violence, it doesn't mean that we support that action. If a person in our community believes Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton is evil, that doesn't mean we have to support them in that belief. What it means is that, on matters of mental health, on symptoms, on episodes, etc, we support and help each other in trying to get and stay healthy, offer moral support in each other's fight and feel compassion for each other in our sufferings. I'll use an eternal symbol, Hitler, as an example. I, and most everyone else, deplore is beliefs and actions. However, if it's revealed he was bipolar, I would have compassion for his suffering from that illness as I know what it can do. If he were alive, I would support him in getting help and feeling better. No, this wouldn't give aid and comfort to a monster. It would be providing advice that he work on his mental and emotional health and that our community is there if he needs us. This would have clearly been a win-win if he'd had these things taken care of early in his life. That's what I mean by support. Support each other to attack illness and give each other strength and support to carry on with life and pursue happiness.

Those are the three major facets of behavior that I and my friends in the mentally ill community should strive for. If I think of more, I'll add them to the list as "amendments." And, as stated earlier, these are my opinions. We have a social grouping and need to acknowledge and live with it.